SpaceSquid has wasted his lunch hour fighting with Durham County Council. He is displeased.
SS: I have wasted my lunch hour fighting with Durham County Council. I am displeased.
Bighead: I thought they were giving the council the chop this month?
J-Dog: Not the whole council. Just one layer.
Bighead: Like they did with Stockton?
SS: And the rest of Cleveland, back in the Nineties. That's why SpaceSquid Senior started working in the private sector. Made us all rich, 'til he decided he couldn't be arsed.
J-Dog: That selfish prick.
SS: I know! We could have had a yacht by now.
J-Dog: You wouldn't know what to do with a yacht. Well, other than fill a swimming pool with booze and floating it on top. Go for a swim every now and again.
SS: Nobody would be allowed to swim in it! Risk of contamination. It's hard balancing alcoholism with germophobia.
Bighead: You could sit on deck with a long straw.
J-Dog: Or buy a submarine.
SS: Now there's a plan. I could just drink from the ballast tanks whenever I got thirsty. I could try to drink them dry and bring the sub to the surface.
J-Dog: I don't think that's in line with the laws of physics.
SS: So I'm just a drunk guy in a submarine? I'm actually pretty much OK with that. We could take her for trips through Durham.
J-Dog: Along the Wear? I wouldn't advise it.
SS: Yeah, I suppose the decontamination procedure would need to be pretty thorough. What we really need is some kind of device that can convert the ocean to beer. Sure, all the fish would die, but we'd all be too drunk to care.
J-Dog: But if the ocean is made of beer, you wouldn't be able to sell it.
SS: I don't want to sell it. I want to drink it. I'm not a seller, I'm a buyer, and now I can buy it for zero pence. This is my favourite amount of pence.
Bighead: You could try and build the device so it only works on British territorial waters.
SS: I would suggest that that would be ludicrous, but I sense that ship has sailed.
Bighead: Or maybe an inland body of water, like the Caspian Sea.
SS: Isn't that drying up due to global warming. About which I was only slightly concerned, until it threatened my vast beer reservoir.
Bighead: We can alter the chemical composition of beer, to give it a lower heat level.
SS: Lower heat level? What the fuck is that? You're supposed to be a scientist!
Bighead: Fine. Lower boiling point.
J-Dog: It wouldn't boil, surely.
SS: It wouldn't need to. It's that triple-state-point-thing.
J-Dog: Fucking physics.
SS: I'm pretty sure it's chemistry.
J-Dog: Fucking chemistry.
SS: Damn right, fucking chemistry. Can we make sure we're bigoted towards the right science, please?
J-Dog: Fucking science.
Bighead: Even maths?
SS: Especially maths. And we should know. Besides, everyone hates maths. Or thinks they do, at least. What most people think is maths is just arithmetic. It is not maths if it can be performed by monkeys with an abacus in exchange for bananas.
Bighead: Apparently baby chicks can count.
J-Dog: Won't be long until we start hiring them for postdocs, then.
SS: Does that mean that the first chick can actually count its brother chicks before they've hatched?
J-Dog: I hope a chick gets your job.
SS: If she's hot, then so do I.
J-Dog: You are really off your game today.
SS: I wanted to use my lunch hour writing jokes, but I have wasted my lunch hour fighting with Durham County Council. I am displeased.
J-Dog: The Rule of Three is the last refuge of the twelfth-rate.
SS: Fucking Rule of Three.
J-Dog ...Point taken.