Random Question

I asked this site to give me a random question earlier, and it got uppity when I tried to answer it in more than 400 characters. So I'm sticking it here, because I feel like it.

Q. Sponges and tongues are frequently misspelled. Is it because both are thirsty?

A. It is indeed. But the question I think we should be asking is- why are both thirsty? This is because your tongue is not a muscle, but actually a fish, living in your mouth in a kind of symbiotic relationship. It can only breathe in water, hence your production of saliva to keep it going. However, occasionally the saliva in your mouth gets too alkaline, which annoys the tongue. It then tells its buddy the brain (actually a mollusc) to make the rest of the body drink either very fizzy, very sugary, or very alcoholic beverages, to foster its preferred slightly acidic environment. So if you're an alco, don't blame yourself; your tongue and brain are bastard fish.

Call Centres, and What They Drive You To

I s'pose this'd be my first blog entry then. And I s'pose hello's always a good place to start. I'm Jim Hutcheon, I'm a 21 year-old currently kicking up a stink as best I can in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and I have once again been ensnared by the slimy tedrils of call centre work.
Apparently the Northern Irish accent is one which the Enlgish, used of course as they are to being spoken to all day in that mangled, braying quack in which their compatriots communicate, will readily trust, and apparently buy things from, the Irish. I don't understand this. Surely if the world relates one thing to the Irish race, it's drunkenly trying to flog shoddy merchandise or labour? Who among you can say truthfully, that when someone says the word 'Irish', you don't immediately form a mental image of a red-haired, profoundly bladdered man, wearing a grubby overcoat with a pig under his arm? I know I do. But apparently there are enough people willing to trust a race who've spent the last century or two scamming our colonisers and the richer peoples of the world to warrant a burgeoning trade in outsourced call centres. It's so easy to get a job in one of these establishments, where one can do anything from broadband tech support to selling legal books that I, a self-confessed malingering bastard, have never had to actually try and get a job. I swanned into the interview for this one half-cut, and now sell holidays to the general population. No-one seems to have a problem with this.
There is, of course, a downside. The downside to this particular job, aside from having to listen to the English nyam at me all day, is that I have a little too much time on my hands. And being as the good people who run this joint don't let you read- heaven forfend - anything but The Sun's website, I might as well keep my hands occupied and tap some scribblings into a computer. This may even become a regular occurence if I could be arsed. You have been warned.
Fuckit, a manager approaches. Time to look busy. Although not too busy. That's how they know you're not working.

Anyways, all the best

-Jim