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Denmark has a problem with its DONG
http://bluntandcranky.wordpress.com/2014/01/30/denmark-has-a-problem-with-its-dong/"DONG is the quasi-public Danish oil and natural gas company. And the country is in an uproar because Goldman Sachs is about to get part ownership. In fact, the Danish government is near collapse over the issue.
The people really feel violated by those Wall Street pricks messing with their Dong. First Goldman tried to slip it in, now they are pushing hard, and the people of Denmark are afraid of a financial cock-up, as often happens when people start dicking around where they shouldn’t. Indeed, they fear they will get the shaft if this deal doesn’t have a barrier erected.
Sounds like the morning after could be pretty ugly."
Source info at the link. This is actually a serious issue involving privatization of a heretofore public entity.
21 replies
= new reply since forum marked as read
= new reply since forum marked as read
I'm in the "abstinence" camp on this one. 
MODERN LOVE
There was no exchange of body fluids on the first date, and that suited both of us just fine. I picked her up at seven, took her to Mee Grop, where she meticulously separated each sliver of meat from her Phat Thai, watched her down four bottles of Singha at three dollars per, and then gently stroked her balsam-smelling hair while she snoozed through The Terminator at the Circle Shopping Center theater. We had a late-night drink at Rigoletto's Pizza Bar (and two slices, plain cheese), and I dropped her off. The moment we pulled up in front of her apartment she had the door open. She turned to me with the long, elegant, mournful face of her Puritan ancestors and held out her hand.
"It's been fun," she said.
"Yes," I said, taking her hand.
She was wearing gloves.
"I'll call you," she said.
"Good," I said, giving her my richest smile. "And I'll call you."
<snip - several dates later>
She met me at the door in a silk kimono that featured a plunging neckline and a pair of dragons with intertwined tails. Her hair was pinned up as if she'd just stepped out of the bath and she smelled of Noxzema and pHisoHex. She pecked my cheek, took the bottle of Vouvray I held out in offering, and led me into the front room. "Chagas' disease," she said, grinning wide to show off her perfect, outsized teeth.
"Chagas' disease?" I echoed, not quite knowing what to do with myself. The room was as spare as a monk's cell. Two chairs, a loveseat, and a coffee table, in glass, chrome, and hard black plastic. No plants ("God knows what sort of insects might live on them--and the dirt, the dirt has got to be crawling with bacteria, not to mention spiders and worms and things" and no rug ("A breeding ground for fleas and ticks and chiggers" .
Still grinning, she steered me to the hard black plastic loveseat and sat down beside me, the Vouvray cradled in her lap. "South America," she whispered, her eyes leaping with excitement. "In the jungle. These bugs--assassin bugs, they're called--isn't that wild? These bugs bite you and then, after they've sucked on you a while, they go potty next to the wound. When you scratch, it gets into your bloodstream, and anywhere from one to twenty years later you get a disease that's like a cross between malaria and AIDS."
"And then you die," I said.
"And then you die."
Her voice had turned somber. She wasn't grinning any longer. What could I say? I patted her hand and flashed a smile. "Yum," I said, mugging for her. "What's for dinner?"
<snip - after dinner>
She was still in her kimono, but her hair was pinned up more severely, wound in a tight coil to the crown of her head, as if she'd girded herself for battle. And she held something in her hand--a slim package, wrapped in plastic. It rustled as she crossed the room.
"When you're in love, you make love," she said, easing down beside me on the rocklike settee, "--it's only natural." She handed me the package. "I don't want to give you the wrong impression," she said, her voice throaty and raw, "just because I'm careful and modest and because there's so much, well, filth in the world, but I have my passionate side too. I do. And I love you, I think."
"Yes," I said, groping for her, the package all but forgotten.
We kissed. I rubbed the back of her neck, felt something strange, an odd sag and ripple, as if her skin had suddenly turned to Saran Wrap, and then she had her hand on my chest. "Wait," she breathed, "the, the thing."
I sat up. "Thing?"
The light was dim but I could see the blush invade her face now. She was sweet. Oh, she was sweet, my Little Em'ly, my Victorian princess. "It's Swedish," she said.
I looked down at the package in my lap. It was a clear, skin-like sheet of plastic, folded up in its transparent package like a heavy-duty garbage bag. I held it up to her huge, trembling eyes. A crazy idea darted in and out of my head. No, I thought.
"It's the newest thing," she said, the words coming in a rush, "the safest ... I mean, nothing could possibly--"
There was no exchange of body fluids on the first date, and that suited both of us just fine. I picked her up at seven, took her to Mee Grop, where she meticulously separated each sliver of meat from her Phat Thai, watched her down four bottles of Singha at three dollars per, and then gently stroked her balsam-smelling hair while she snoozed through The Terminator at the Circle Shopping Center theater. We had a late-night drink at Rigoletto's Pizza Bar (and two slices, plain cheese), and I dropped her off. The moment we pulled up in front of her apartment she had the door open. She turned to me with the long, elegant, mournful face of her Puritan ancestors and held out her hand.
"It's been fun," she said.
"Yes," I said, taking her hand.
She was wearing gloves.
"I'll call you," she said.
"Good," I said, giving her my richest smile. "And I'll call you."
<snip - several dates later>
She met me at the door in a silk kimono that featured a plunging neckline and a pair of dragons with intertwined tails. Her hair was pinned up as if she'd just stepped out of the bath and she smelled of Noxzema and pHisoHex. She pecked my cheek, took the bottle of Vouvray I held out in offering, and led me into the front room. "Chagas' disease," she said, grinning wide to show off her perfect, outsized teeth.
"Chagas' disease?" I echoed, not quite knowing what to do with myself. The room was as spare as a monk's cell. Two chairs, a loveseat, and a coffee table, in glass, chrome, and hard black plastic. No plants ("God knows what sort of insects might live on them--and the dirt, the dirt has got to be crawling with bacteria, not to mention spiders and worms and things"
and no rug ("A breeding ground for fleas and ticks and chiggers" .
Still grinning, she steered me to the hard black plastic loveseat and sat down beside me, the Vouvray cradled in her lap. "South America," she whispered, her eyes leaping with excitement. "In the jungle. These bugs--assassin bugs, they're called--isn't that wild? These bugs bite you and then, after they've sucked on you a while, they go potty next to the wound. When you scratch, it gets into your bloodstream, and anywhere from one to twenty years later you get a disease that's like a cross between malaria and AIDS."
"And then you die," I said.
"And then you die."
Her voice had turned somber. She wasn't grinning any longer. What could I say? I patted her hand and flashed a smile. "Yum," I said, mugging for her. "What's for dinner?"
<snip - after dinner>
She was still in her kimono, but her hair was pinned up more severely, wound in a tight coil to the crown of her head, as if she'd girded herself for battle. And she held something in her hand--a slim package, wrapped in plastic. It rustled as she crossed the room.
"When you're in love, you make love," she said, easing down beside me on the rocklike settee, "--it's only natural." She handed me the package. "I don't want to give you the wrong impression," she said, her voice throaty and raw, "just because I'm careful and modest and because there's so much, well, filth in the world, but I have my passionate side too. I do. And I love you, I think."
"Yes," I said, groping for her, the package all but forgotten.
We kissed. I rubbed the back of her neck, felt something strange, an odd sag and ripple, as if her skin had suddenly turned to Saran Wrap, and then she had her hand on my chest. "Wait," she breathed, "the, the thing."
I sat up. "Thing?"
The light was dim but I could see the blush invade her face now. She was sweet. Oh, she was sweet, my Little Em'ly, my Victorian princess. "It's Swedish," she said.
I looked down at the package in my lap. It was a clear, skin-like sheet of plastic, folded up in its transparent package like a heavy-duty garbage bag. I held it up to her huge, trembling eyes. A crazy idea darted in and out of my head. No, I thought.
"It's the newest thing," she said, the words coming in a rush, "the safest ... I mean, nothing could possibly--"
The whole short story is here Modern Love. Like all T.C. Boyle stories, it's weird, but it's very real.
Wish I had said that one!
Rimshot:
A stroke of genius...
I'll behave. 
