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Today I learned that although my phone will turn itself on to sound an alarm — a pretty cool function, so you needn’t leave your phone on overnight just so it can wake you in the morning — iCal events with alarms on them don’t wake the phone. This normally wouldn’t bother me, but I learned this the hard way. After setting alarms for all my morning classes and syncing with my mobile, I assumed I’d be woken with all the usual fanfare that a loud, vibrating, flashing phone can muster. No such luck 5 minutes isn’t what I’d call “adequate” time to finish the phone call I’d just received (from the house phone… which thankfully did wake me before class), eat something, get dressed, collect my gear and go. But hey, a hot-cross-bun and a bottle of coke is everything a busy student needs for breakfast, right?

It’s really a lot

In preparing my fantastic new Garlic Bread recipe, I’ve stumbled upon something grand… the fucktonne. Forget metric, forget imperial, the fucktonne is the measurement system of the future. It applies to such an array of measurable amounts (fluid or otherwise) that it can only be described as “amazing”.

I’m thinking that the general gist of the fucktonne is that if you’re utilizing any amount of any substance so great that passersby may say “Hey. Slow down there, <insert appropriate derogatory remark>!”, that is a fucktonne. For example, a fucktonne of…

“Hey. Slow down there, fatty”
“Hey. Slow down there, turbo”
“Hey. Slow down there, psycho”

In preparation for the widespread adoption of the fucktonne in common language and scientific texts, I am patenting the word and close variants of the word. In future, every time you say “fucktonne”, “fuck tonne”, or “fucked one”, you will be required to mail me a cheque for seven cents. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, chumps.