Scott responds to an emergency

Scott: I am on train

Rebecca: Yay train!  I am not on a train, I am on a wheely chair though... WHEEEE!

Scott: So speedy

Rebecca: *Crash* Oh noes, I am dying

Scott: Call the rescues, is helicopter mergency

Rebecca: Helotoptop! Calling Helotoptop!  This is a mergency of dying

Scott: Oh no, here comes the helotoptop with big rescue spoon, gonna do a carry to hopital

Rebecca: Whee!

Scott: Doctors do big splurgery, all better now. Yay!

Rebecca: Do I have bambages on my brain?

Scott: You have shiny new turbo brain with reinforced bumpers for safety

Rebecca: Oooh, I can finally be so smrt... and run into things without doing a serious owie

Scott is sick of annoying things

Scott: This dumb is annoying.

Me: Look, they've spent ages crafting that dumb. They've poured in thousands of dollars in development, it's gone through multiple review committees, it's been approved by management. It is the best dumb they can get you.

Scott: I don’t want the best dumbs, I want an absence of dumbs. Is like saying “here, have this bowel obstruction, it’s the finest most advanced bowel obstruction available, lovingly crafted by magical bowel dwarves and comes with a full suite of Android apps and wifi functions.” At the end of the day no one wants a bowel obstruction no matter how beautiful it is

Scott on the heatwave

The BBC Natural History unit presents an excerpt from its next epic production, Life in the Heater:

As the heat rises on the concrete plains of the Melbourne savannah we see the inhabitants struggling to cope.  Herds of the Common Australian Hipster, who rarely range outside the inner city boundary, now flock in large numbers to pop-up bars and artisanal cafes, vibrant oases of micro-brewed beer and fair trade coffee.  Generally a placid species, they now find themselves gathering in large numbers around limited resources and conflicts arise.  The males face off, flashing their vibrant facial hair at each other while making threat calls of emerging and obscure band names.  While physical conflict is rare, so much energy is expended in beard growth that the loser will often collapse onto the nearest ironic beanbag for days at a time.

On the outskirts of the plains, were resources are fewest, mobs of Greater Bogans suffer in the conditions.  The males suffer the most; their usual occupation of gathering around a V8 engine with beer in paw and grunting in appreciation is ill-suited for the heat.  As the temperatures peak they find themselves consuming more and more beer, rapidly consuming the available supply.  Once the beer is gone, the males stagger out to into the open with much belching and cries of “BLAARGHAAARGHYAAHFUUCKINPOOFARRGH”, randomly striking each other and, in some cases random objects.  Pre-occupied with the search for more beer, the become easy prey for hunting packs of Police, who descend on the mobs with much flailing of nightsticks.  Soon the sounds of the Bogan mobs are drowned out by the howling “You have the right to an attorney” calls of the Police packs.

Scott weasles a poem

There once was a weasel called Bruce

Who lived at the top of a spruce.

While derping around

He fell to the ground

And was trampled by a large Swedish moose

Scott channels Formula One

(After Vettel's car stopped during the Valencia Grand Prix 2012) 
 
Car: "I can haz nap time now?"
Vettel:  "No!  Cannot haz!  Must have fasterz!"
Car: "Shh.  Sleeping."
Vettel:  "Nooo! Do not want!"

Scott tries tech journalism

While reviewing some headphones:

Scott:
"My ears initially cowered before the sight of these mighty godzilla-like headphones, but it was when the music started and each clamshell-earpiece attempted to push my brain out through the opposite ear that I finally knew the true meaning of terror.  I am unable to recall the actually quality of the sound, however I can confirm that the performance of [company's]'s new headphone-monster is equivalent to having two mob enforcers beat your brain into submission with baseball bats."

James:
Scott, you need to get into tech journalism.

"The Spleenhauser XYZ-5BILLION headphones are almost comically expensive. While I will concede that listening to music through them is akin to having each eardrum massaged between the ample breasts of a pair of Teutonic contraltos, for their price I was also hoping for some kind of magically-induced priapism, trickling  down from earholes to groin like some kind of Reaganesque economic delusion."

Scott:
"Auralwombat's new Screaming Weasel XL platinum-plated ultra low impedance headphones produce sound so amazingly clear and vibrant that you will develop an enormous spontaneous erection, even if you lack a penis.  We know this because all the staff here at  Aurgasm Review that tried this set, male and female alike, found that their clothing immediately tore open at crotch level to reveal a rampantly engorged titanesque penis that would not be subdued until the headphones were eventually wrestled off the reluctant reviewer.  Our verdict: a must buy, but not to be used in public spaces."

Scott does not want a ride

Scott:

I should probably mention the *HUGE* huntsman that was sitting on the fence watching me put the washing on the line last night.  I am so not taking the washing off the line when we get home.

James:

You should have tossed a saddle onto it and broken it in. It could have become your trusty steed.

Scott:

I don't know if I want a trusty steed the freaks me the fuck out.  I'd be like a sheriff of the wild west that screams like a little girl every time he has to mount up

James:

"Howdy, I'm Marshall Brennan, and this is my trusty steed, Nightmare Fuel."

Scott:

"Marshall, we're here, you can get off your horse."
"No.  I'll be staying right here thanks."
"But Marshall, you gotta get down from there, you ain't gonna help anyone in the Johnson homestead if ya can't come inside."
"Listen, right now I know exactly where my ride is.  The minute I get off it could end up anywhere.  I ain't movin'."

James:

"Let's head 'em off at the pass! Marshall, saddle up!"
"Uh... can't we walk?"
"What? No, we'll never catch 'em on foot."
"Well, why don't I stay here while you do the heading off and the pass and we-hey...?"
"We need your gun, Marshall! We'll be outnumbered! You gotta come!"
"OH GOD DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!!!"

Scott:

"You know what the worst bit is?"
"Uh...what's that, Marshall?" 
"I mean, you'd think the worst bit was that its a giant hairy eight legged fanged poison dripping multiple eyed monstrosity, but that ain't the worst bit." 
"Uh...no?  You ok Marshall, you're lookin' like you got some kind o' fever." 
"No, I'll tell you what the worst bit is.  The worst bit is when it decides it wants to climb or down some cliff hundreds of feet high.  I mean, all I got is a saddle and a bridle.  When it does that I...I...I gotta wrap my arms around it and hold on for dear life.  I...I have to touch it.  I have to press myself against it.  That's the worst bit."

James:

"You okay Marshall?"
"Uh... no, not really?"
"Yer lookin' a bit green around the gills there."
"Yeah... my, uh... _horse_... got hungry while I was boundary riding..."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. The sound of a whole sheep getting its guts liquefied and sucked out is not something I'm going to forget in a hurry."

Scott mourns the death of his special spreadsheet

Scott:
I am in love with a tentacled starbeast called G'runtleth'up that compels me to worship it and offer sacrifices to it of my own free will and has nothing to do with the ethereal ichor tentacle it has plunged into my brain. All will love G'runtleth'up and die!

Michelle:
you're still all cut up about the tragic death of your spreadsheet, aren't you?

Scott:
Its clone just doesn't feel the same. Oh sure, it looks the same and does the same things and works just as well....but it doesn't feel the same. Its a Midwich cuckoo spreadsheet.

Scott explains Moron

After discussing James's ability to speak Moron...

James: "Hi, yes, its about the email you just sent out, can you explain it a bit more clearly please?"
IT Support: "Whut?"
James: "*sighs* Email sending you me has no smart. Means whut whut?"
IT Support: "Ugh. Email says you no have magic thinking box gogo. Me fix!"
James: "Why magic thinking box has no gogo?"
IT Support: "Baaaad juju. Sacrifice for magic thinking box sky god! Must have squiggle!"
James: "Whut whut squiggle?"
IT Support: "Squiggle! On paper! Say 'you for have magic thinking box working now, is ok!'"
James: "Oh, so if I sign the form then I can get access to the software?"
IT Support: "Whut?"

Scott wants his colleagues to go away

Ok, enough of this. If you're an investigator and you can't investigate our own systems to get the information you need then its probably time you looked for a job more suited to your skills. Like maybe as a street light.

Investigator: "I can't find any records for this business!"
Me: "Really? I searched [records management system] and there's over a hundred records in there."
Investigaor: "I can't find any of them! You're lying!"
Me: *sends screendump* "Look. 134 records found just using a simple name search. Could be more if you do some more complex searches."
Investigator: "Oh. Well. I can't find the person linked to the business in [client management system]! It doesn't exist!"
Me: *sighs* "Run an address search on the business. Have a look at the names that turn up linked to that address."
Investigator: "I don't really know how to do address searches."
Me: "Oh look, they're replacing a street light outside. Why don't you go down and pretend to be one?"
Investigator: "Yaaay! I'm a street light! Woowoowoo!"

Scott's work email gets to be too much

Tempted to put the following automated reply on my work email to cope with the huge torrent of incoming emails. Perhaps it will reduce the flood:
"Your email has been waylaid by pirate marmosets who are demanding a ransom before they release it. I consider their price too steep. Negotiations are expected to be long. Do not expect a quick reply to your email. Do not try calling me to obtain progress regarding the pirate marmoset negotiations as they have seized that as well and have figured out how to throw faeces down the phone line. Do you want phone faeces? I didn't think so. Do not attempt come to my desk either, for they watch it constantly with their beady little marmoset eyes and will react with extreme violence. Do not anger the marmosets. We live in dangerous times. Fear the wrath of the pirate marmoset."

Scott writes a job ad

"The weasel uprising has begun; do you have the elite cheese skills to compete and win in a world overrun by weasels? We are looking for an experienced mustelid wrangler, with at least 5 years experience as a pasta burgler and with knowledge of IT systems such as Spork+, WangMountain, and Unix BeardOS. We are offering an enticing remuneration package with target-based bonuses of peculiar proportions. If you fit the bill (note: weasels do not have bills) forward your CV to our automated response bot for consideration."

Scott is having a bad day

Rebecca: I'm certainly not going to spend my time at work until just before Nigel's birthday dinner... so thought it'd be nice to go to a pub or cafe somewhere... and have a drink or two before dinner. Elephant and Wheelbarrow at 5pm good for people?

Scott: I may be there as early as 3:30 depending how the rest of this day goes. You can drag me to dinner if I've drunk myself under the table by then.

Rebecca: So, having a fun day then Scott darling?

Scott: It started as a barrel of monkeys. Then the monkeys died. Then the barrel started to smell. Then the dead monkey residue leaked from the barrel into the water supply for the nearby orphanage and all the orphans died rather horribly.

Scott does not has

Excitable employee: "Look! Look! We has found a frauds! Yay! We can has investigate!"
Me: "Hmmmm....no, you cannot has."
Excitable employee: "Cannot has?? But, but....is frauds!"
Me: "Cannot has. Is lame frauds. Is unimportant frauds. Has better things to do."
Excitable employee: *pouty face*

Scott writes a letter

Dear Ms Arse-Marmot,

Thank you for your ignorant screed of 08/02/2011. Had you chosen a boyfriend without a criminal history longer than Shane Warne's love letters to himself and the intelligence of a festering arse boil, you wouldn't be facing the prospect of the love of your wasted life having his arse kicked all the way back to Ireland, but you did so sucks be to you. Seriously, did he honestly think he could get away with it? Have you drunken goat fondlers not heard of facial recognition software? Pah. Get off my damn rug and take your noxious oozings with you.

Love and cheeriness
Mr F&$k You With Goats
Dept of Monkeys

Scott and text fields

After a discussion about text fields in Access:

Scott:
A text field is where letters are grown. When they eventualy ripen they're harvested by the farmers, stored in letter silos and eventually shipped to publishing houses for distribution.