This may be the most awkward photo since that time Elvis shook hands with Hitler.

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More tax-dodging sea-steading nonsense

"Startup ship of dreams": libertarian fantasy hootenanny meets rusty, smelly "hackerspace" dorm room.

The biggest draw is seemingly not the fact that you don't need a visa to live and work on the ship, but rather entrepreneurs are coming for the "awesome startup and technology-oriented space." The second most critical element for startups was the close proximity to Silicon Valley's venture capital scene.

Rent to live on the ship is about as much as a single person living in San Francisco has to pay: around $1600 a month. That is, if you're willing to bunk up. The price includes both living and office space, but will range from $1200 for a shared cabin, and runs up to $3000 for a "top-tier single" cabin. Ferries will shuttle entrepreneurs from the ship to Silicon Valley daily, and Blueseed says it will help those from outside the US enter. Blueseed is also looking for incubators who are interested in helping the startups.

Previously, previously.

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"American Pain"

The deluge of cash became a problem.

Employees could be heard on the wiretaps complaining about cash drawers being stuffed to the top. It wasn't worth keeping dollar bills, so those were separated and then burned by the barrel. Bigger bills were stuffed into garbage bags, then hauled to a bank. Chris George's wife, Dianna, accepted the chore of making these rather suspicious deposits, although not without grousing that she'd become her husband's "money mule."

This would have been a "jump the shark" moment on just about any tv show.

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Pastafarianism in the military

Pastafarianism in the military

Drill Sergeant: "Are you fucking with me? Are you fucking with me at 0600, Private Griffith? Before I even get some goddamned breakfast?"

[I did my best to return the intensely humorless stone face.]

Me: "No, Drill Sergeant."

Drill Sergeant: "Flying Spaghetti Monster!? I don't fucking believe it!!!"

Me: "I believe it, Drill Sergeant."

Drill Sergeant: "What the hell is wrong with you, warrior?"

Me: "Drill Sergeant, I'm afraid I can't really talk to you about this any further unless I'm in my religious clothing. I need to be in full pirate regalia, or at the very least wearing an eye patch."

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Republicans Out Of My Scrotum!

I have a friend* who is about to get a vasectomy, and it turns out, it's a ridiculously involved process, presumably because of Religionists.

First, you have to get not one but two "mental health" exams, because the assumption is that if you are under 40, single, don't have kids, and don't want to have kids, you must be crazy.

Then, you can either spend many thousands of dollars at a private practice (apparently when you add up all the fees that insurance doesn't cover it gets absurd), or do Planned Parenthood. It turns out that San Francisco is some kind of mecca for men's health -- you can get your prostate examined on any street corner, and sometimes they'll pay you -- but not men's reproductive health, go figure.

So Planned Parenthood says, "Well, we only do this once a month, so let's find the next available date... how about eight months from now?" I guess this means there's only the one guy in the country who knows how to properly use the tiny scissors on his Swiss Army Knife, and he spends all his time traveling from town to town snipping nuts, like it's the Old West, or a Toshiro Mifune movie or something. Wait, no, it sounds more like Eversmile, New Jersey, that Daniel Day-Lewis movie where he plays an itinerant dentist traveling through South America on a motorcycle, dealing out the rough justice of fillings and extractions. (It's a great movie.)


* Honestly, these are not my nuts that are on the table here.

Previously, previously, previously, previously.

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