Terror cell March 6, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
I hereby declare my intention to become a fully paid-up terrorist. Though paid-up is something of a misnomer. Indeed, it’s not being paid-up – in fact I’m very down on the payment front – that has compelled me to throw in my lot with the terrorists. Luckily, as I have stated on here many a time, I have no convictions about anything whatsoever, so I can’t really become a terrorist with a cause, and I can’t majorly be bothered with all that hating folk because of their nationality, skin-colour or meat-eating habits.
I’m not properly a lefty or a righty, so I can’t become a one-man terror cell with ‘red’ in its name or cut all my locks off and wear Fred Perry and be in a terror cell with a capital N (though I’d probably have a better chance of meeting my gay brethren in that terror cell than in one with Red/Rouge/Rot in its title. A rather dim Russian gent the Russian and I have met on our sojourns in homosexual establishments here is only a neo-Nazi – so say his friends – because the social aspect of wanting to kill your fellow man provides the best rodding opportunities in town. Too queer). Anyway, red isn’t my colour. And I like having hair.
I don’t hate Jews, blacks, Asians, Muslims, gays. I don’t hate Zoroastrians. I don’t hate women. Or the ordinary man. I don’t hate MacDonald’s. Or Starbucks. The state. The church.
I do slightly hate smoked salmon but it would be embarrassing to blow up fish.
So I’m going to have to become the translation terrorist. This will entail pernicious acts of microterrorism which might well bring about the downfall of western civilisation with the odd misplaced comma but also some wanton acts of violence like sending rude e-mails, playing knock-down-ginger on translation agencies’ front doors and making the odd threatening phone call where I either hang up after an ominous three-second pause or, as Russian school-children do when they want to be naughty, tell them that their premises are mined.
But the translation world is a niche market ripe for a drop of terrorisation. The fact that people ask you to translate anything in the first place is almost reason enough to want them dead. But the fact that people ask you to translate something, even about grid-powered pencil-sharpeners, and want you to starve while doing it by paying you half a florin per year’s work AND THEN PROCEED NOT EVEN TO BOTHER PAYING THAT… well, what can I say? I’m afraid that’s poo through the letter-box, night-time knock-down-ginger and anonymous e-mails saying that their translation software has been hacked and will insert the word ‘jiz’ at random intervals.
I’m going to be the happiest terror cell in town. Don’t try to get me enrolled on some Terrorists Anonymous programme. Or make me try to see the good in my fellow translator. I know it’s a world peopled almost exclusively by the wickedest, dreariest specimens ever to disgrace non-god’s unclean earth. If ever there was a just cause for a bit of a terror campaign, this is it. I’m willing to sacrifice visas to foreign lands. I’ll even go and live in a cave, as long as it’s got high-speed internet access. And I look forward to the day when a war on terror starts against me. I’ll put up a fight. I’ll send mocking videos to the translating powers-that-be. If I go down, it’ll be keyboard blazin’ and the highest deliberate typo-count in history.
Um, anyone wanna join me? All applications (no attachments) indicating price per word depressedly considered.