These videos were filmed by the crew of one of those fancy bow planes and VLS LOS ANGELES Class ships, which I don’t trust because I like to see my forward planes from the pier. They may or may not be a hoot to watch. I was tickled.
The Pirate Party has won a huge victory in the Swedish elections and is marching on to Brussels. After months of campaigning against well established parties, the Pirate Party has gathered enough votes to be guaranteed a seat in the European Parliament.
Apparently, the public relations wing of the Somali Pirate conglomeration is producing a livejournal blog of little value and less foresight. GNA Worldwide and, specifically, the good crew of the G.S. Patience stomached and ignored such pretension and comeuppance as inevitable in these unbridled internet days.
Many people don’t know this, but Bea Arthur was the provincial governor of southern Somalia for a few years earlier this decade. The western press calls our provincial governors “warlords” but they are just being biased assholes. Bea Arthur was a leader, a philosopher, a friend and a patriot.
Gen. Arthur ran her territory with an iron fist but a warm heart. I was down there, visiting family when she pulled into our village one day, riding in the back of a Jeep with a helmet, an AK-47, and a smile. There was a dispute about a stolen chicken, and she leapt out of the jeep and spoke with the concerned parties. As she spoke to Wendy, our town trollup, I could not help but remember her speaking to Blanche on the Golden Girls.
Anyway, she resolved the mess by shooting one of the women in the face. Her sense of justice had a certain understated elegance that I will carry with me in my heart always.
It was August 2002 and Gen. Bea Arthur of the Southern Somali Command was consolidating her power. She rode into town with her gang of marauders on a hot and hazy afternoon. She saw a man standing on the edge of a bridge, preparing to jump into the ravine below and take his own life.
She approached the man and told him to stop. She offered to show him what his town would have become if he had never lived. She then shot four nearby pedestrians and said “they would be dead, just like this.” The man realized how valuable his life was and got off of the bridge.
from jkama03@centrum.cz
to unlisted-recipients
date Sat, Apr 4, 2009 at 3:26 PM
subject I NEED YOUR HELP…
mailed-by centrum.cz
Hello,
Good Day and may God bless you with your family? I Know that my letter will come to you as a supprise as you know that we have not seen or meet each other before but My sources of your contact gave me the courage and confidence to rely and write to you you. My name is Joy Kamara, I am 22 years old now and I am the only Daughter of late chief GEORGE KAMARA from Sierra Leone. I am writing you in absolute confidence primarily to seek your assistance to transfer My Late Father’s cash of twenty one million eight hundred thousand dollars($21,800,000) now in the custody of a BANK here in Abidjan to your private account pending my arival to your country.
Please if you can assist me please write me back to my priavte email address to enable me to give you details.
Thanks and may GOF bless you.
Joy Kamara.
from Domain Admin
to jkama03@centrum.cz
date Mon, Apr 6, 2009 at 8:47 PM
subject Re: I NEED YOUR HELP…
mailed-by malum.org
Joy Kamara,
Splendid hearing from you again. Your late father’s passing fills me with sorrow, so it is with heavy heart that I agree to help you procure $28 million of the old lad’s filthy lucre. Please reply promptly with detailed instructions detailing how I may most promptly help you realize such assets. Depositing this money in my account does seem to be the most straightforward path to victory, in your case.
Promptness and detail are key here, Joy. Don’t be the stupid trollop GEORGE KAMARA always suspected you were!
A bold new experiment. Chapter 1 of TTFF as read by the author, a miserable wretch of a human being. Quality is low, as per the norm. The price, though, is better than right. More to follow, hopefully improved as we struggle toward understanding how this computer recording action works. (If anyone has any skill at reading and/or recording such reading and would like to assist in this effort, for much credit but absolutely no pay, please contact us.)
Cranston and Tom trudge off toward the crash site, a line of torn earth and trees three football fields long.What remains of the fuselage is crumpled, still smoldering and partially buried at its front end.They walk the length of the wreckage’s path, occasionally picking through the debris.They stay clear of the charred remains of their victims, some whole, some in pieces.
They make a good show of ignoring the other people there, who are performing their own investigation, albeit more professionally and with an apparently great deal more experience in these, or similar, matters.
These other people, though, are not ignoring Tom and Cranston.They are showing quite a bit of interest, forgetting their tasks for a time to watch, waiting for the inevitable authority figure to approach these two dirty, gangly, stumbling white men and decide how their presence will be greeted.Once this is done and the decision is made, they know these two will be taken away in an appropriate manner, and their work will continue.
The uniformed authority figure in question, Colonel Lu Buk of the Cambodian National Army, eventually does take notice of the pair.He approaches them trailed by two men, who are also in uniform but wearing dull green helmets instead of the sharp, shiny-billed hat the Colonel prefers.Colonel Lu Buk asks the two white men, in broken English, what they are doing there.
Cranston, of course, answers with a comment he considers witty, and is quickly beaten senseless with small clubs by the Colonel’s men before being bound and shoved in the back of a small pickup truck.Tom, ever more prudent then Cranston, holds his tongue, and is rewarded for his discretion by not being beaten senseless until after he’s bound and tossed in the back of the small pickup truck.There he lies, mostly unconscious, next to Cranston, who’s entirely unconscious.
Colonel Buk wonders, as his men drive off in the truck carrying the Americans, why he ordered the second man beaten.He decides, after some small contemplation, that it’s hard to stop beating white men once you’ve started.Satisfied, he returns his attention to the crash site, and those who are supposed to be investigating it but are instead watching him.After his stern, fresh-from-ordering-two-beatings gaze returns them to their tasks, he strides purposefully back to his air conditioned truck to enjoy his morning coffee.
The entire story is available as a single PDF download. At your leisure and pleasure, of course!
I’ve just quit smoking, and the last five hours have been a little edgy, so please forgive any shortness or expletives. That said, I’ve recently purchased Silent Hunter III (it’s been out for about four years) and am having a fantastic, while insanely frustrating, time playing it.
Fantastic, because you assume the role of a steely jawed, German speaking U-Boat skipper during WWII, wrath-handed and doom-leading. If you captain well, your wake will fill with oil, fire, and death.
Frustrating, because my particular captaining skills apparently lack. ‘ANGLE ON THE BOW? WHO GIVES A SHIT? SHOOT THE BASTARD!’ Well, sinking even huge, slow moving allied tankers, even from less than 3000 yards, isn’t that easy with unguided steam powered torpedoes if you don’t do the math and appropriately set all of your torpedo-computer-knob-things. Or just change the game settings so all of that’s automatic (I later found out).
The game requirements state Windows XP/2000 only, but the Steam version runs fine on our Vista box, so I imagine the other download versions would, also. YMMV.
There’s also a multiplayer option which I haven’t had a chance to try yet. The PATIENCE‘s damn internet mast is on the fritz (get it? Fritz!), preventing extended connectivity (I’ll be lucky to finish this post). I’ll try to herd up some of the guys for a LAN match (after I get better at the game), though, and will report out with a full review after we’ve beaten the game into submission.
Silent Hunter IV is also available, but it’s not $9.95, so piss on it.
Finally, GODDAMN DUD TORPEDOES – BOUNCE OFF OF THEIR HULL WHEN I FINALLY SCORE A HIT, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I THOUGHT THE GERMANS ALWAYS MAKE GOOD STUFF!
UPDATE: I cannot, with any integrity (as though there’s a lot of that laying about), provide a full review since I lack the patience to get into the full meat of the game. Some pros/cons from my limited experience, though:
U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder is sending strong signals that President Obama – who as a candidate said states should be allowed to make their own rules on medical marijuana – will end raids on pot dispensaries in California.
“I think it definitely signals that Obama is moving in a new direction, that it means what he said on the campaign trail that marijuana should be treated as a health issue rather than a criminal justice issue.”
We can’t say that we’re huge fans of the administration’s apparent ‘hands-off’ approach to this issue. Granted, we only infrequently include marijuana in our transportation operations due to the bulk required to reach profitability, but growth of this policy to allow state determination (thus possible decriminalization) of other, more profitable recreational pharmaceuticals could significantly impact margins.
There’s a recession on, brother. Why the hell are you trying to put honest private-enterprise submariners out of work?
Welcome all to malum.org! This is Warren Haustrumerda’s official home to the gentle story TALL TALES OF FELONY AND FAILURE, a cautionary tale of lost love and unrepentant generosity, ending (as always) in piracy and death. It’s available FREE for your perusal as an Adobe Acrobat download and in eBook formats (for those of you with too much disposable income and too little restraint) directly on this site.
22 April 2010 UPDATE: I sincerely and sorrowfully announce that free downloads of Tall Tales of Felony and Failure are no longer available. You see, TTFF has found a publisher! Wait, that’s good news! I’m not sorrowful at all – my sincerity must be questionable!
Some prime examples of the crew’s unquantifiable excellence:
Bridge lookout sighted float type plane; – close. Made quick dive to 120 feet. Bomb exploded as we passed 75 feet; – also close! The sub was thoroughly shaken and the event resulted in an early and prompt reveille for all hands but no damage of a serious nature was sustained.
At 3000 yards, both destroyers zigged 30 degrees to their right… and the picture became “just what the doctor ordered” for the HARDER. At a range of 1000 yards on the nearest target, both destroyers were overlapping, with a 100 degree port track showing. Gyros were near zero and torpedoes set for running at 6 feet.
Sighted aircraft… flying at a height of 100 feet, coming in off our starboard quarter and almost on top of us… He whizzed by the starboard beam at a range of about 100 yards!
Submerged to 150 feet.
First aerial bomb. Not close.
Second aerial bomb; – damned close. Increased depth to 200 feet.
And, in case you you think these events didn’t induce a pucker factor of at least 8 on the men experiencing them, a small, understated disclaimer is included in this report:
The above listed pandemonium may not be in exact chronological order but is as accurate as the happenings over that eventful few minutes can be remembered.
I can’t believe the amount of brass these WWII submariners carried onboard. Submarine piracy via the G.S. PATIENCE may have its small adventures, but there is no way in hell we’d face off against two destroyers. You can bank that promise.
At 0828 she (Japanese Patrol Boat No. 102) commenced a lethal series of depth charge runs, each charge set to detonate at a depth greater than the last. Somewhere below, the gallant HARDER was firmly bracketed, and the fifth salvo touched off explosions that finally ended the lives and career of HARDER and her entire crew.
The Trawlers seem to look on mines as more or less fairplay. But with the torpedo it is otherwise. A Yarmouth man lay on his hatch, his gear neatly stowed away below, and told me that another Yarmouth boat had “gone up,” with all hands except one. “‘Twas a submarine. Not a mine,” said he. “They never gave our boys no chance. Na! She was a Yarmouth boat -we knew ‘em all. They never gave the boys no chance.”
Apparently, the skimmers would rather have been blown up by a mine than torpedoed by a submarine. We’ve found that this ingrained fear still exists and has often worked to our benefit.
Admiral Sir Arthur Wilson VC, the Controller of the Royal Navy, stated in 1901 that, “Submarines are underhand, unfair and damned un-English. The crews of all submarines captured should be treated as pirates and hanged”.
Lieutenant Commander (later Admiral Sir) Max Horton first flew the Jolly Roger-two flags in fact- on return to harbour after sinking the German cruiser Hela and the destroyer S-116 in 1914; but the Black Flag of old-time pirates was not generally flown by submarines, to show their successes, until the Second World War.
The good crew of the G.S. PATIENCE, though, prefer to exemplify the lawless tradition of the flag, and concur with the good Admiral Sir Arthur Wilson’s impression of the submarine’s potential.
Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find this listing on the Australian Ebay, so it may have been pulled or sold since this article was originally posted on The Australian online newspaper. Still, we’re keeping our eyes open.
More info from the article (WARNING: sadness and shattered dreams ahead):
The story behind the bizarre firesale of this Cold War warrior, a prized piece of the nation’s military heritage, is far from festive. The forced sale of the Otama — the first RAN submarine offered on eBay — has broken the heart of the man who dreamed the vessel would one day restore the flagging fortunes of his home town of Hastings on Victoria’s Mornington Peninsula.
Max Bryant, president of the Western Port Oberon Association, said: “I’ve put 11 years of work into this, and all we have had is disappointment.”
Bought from the federal government in 2001 for $50,000, the decommissioned Otama was to take pride of place on the Hastings foreshore, providing an all-year tourist attraction for the small industrial town.
It was to be a noble end for the last of the Oberon Class boats, which spent much of its life from 1978 to 2000 conducting dangerous top-secret surveillance missions against Soviet targets off the coast of Vietnam.
Instead, Otama is fast rusting away in the waters of Western Port Bay, the victim of planning delays and false promises by Victorian government officials over seven years.
Update: Found the Ebay listing and it looks like it was either changed since The Australian story was published or the original story was factually deficient. The Ebay listing, now closed, seems to be requesting donations for the Hastings Cerberus Maritime Memorial Center.
Regardless, punishment for this miscommunication is in order. The guilty parties will be identified and indifferent calibrations performed.
In recent months at least 25 ships of British registry have been attacked in the Mediterranean, numerous Russian ships have been sunk, French merchantmen have been fired on. Last week the British destroyer Havock was also on Mediterranean patrol, off Alicante. Shooting past her went the long white wake of a submarine torpedo. Out crackled a message for help and whooshing overboard went a cylindrical depth charge, then another and another till seven had geysered salt water up into the air. The destroyer Hasty zipped at 38 knots to the rescue of her sister ship, but by the time she got there the surface of the sea was iridescent with oil. The mystery submarine had apparently been sunk. Two days later the British tanker Woodford was sunk by two torpedoes fired at point-blank range from a submarine whose identifying number had been crudely painted out.
The released Soviet sub heads for port and hard questions
The antiquated gray submarine was towed part of the way down the channel it had navigated on its own ten days before. Finally it cast off. Then, joining the flotilla of naval vessels hovering anxiously beyond the twelve-nautical-mi. limit, Soviet “Whiskey”-class submarine No. 137 headed for its home base at Baltiysk, near the port of Kaliningrad. So ended, peacefully enough, the diplomatic uproar that began when Sweden discovered the sub on a reef in a restricted military zone only nine miles from Karlskrona, an ultrasensitive naval base on the Baltic Sea.
