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MPAA Cracking Down on TV Torrent Sites
sallgeud writes "It appears the other shoe has dropped and the MPAA is now going after sites which link to torrents of TV shows. The beef with redistributing copyrighted material seems to make sense... but I'm wondering if it makes a difference in the world of DVR. The vast majority of downloads appeared to be of content that is broadcast free over the airwaves. I'm wondering how much different this is than going after Tivo? Would these sites have been hit with lawsuits if they had stuck to purely over-the-air broadcasts?"
Read your own fucking site.
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a Eurofag. He was lying on his bony, as it were effeminate, back and when he lifted his head a little he could see that he was wearing designer silk Prada G-string underwear which was slippery due to the fact that he was covered in K-Y jelly and Baby Oil, and was so uncomfortable that he was about to slide off the bed completely.
What has happened to me? he thought. It was no dream. His early-20th-century Central European bedroom was authentically minimalist, perhaps too much so. Above the simple minimalist table on which a collection of cloth samples was unpacked and spread out -- Samsa was a commercial traveler -- hung the picture of a lady with a fur cap on.
"Fur is murder!" Gregor heard himself blurt out, but he did not even understand its meaning. And again: "Fur is beautiful on animals but ugly on humans!" and "Would you wear your dog?" and "Give fur the cold shoulder!" The voice was his, as were the thoughts -- only the meaning escaped him.
Gregor's eyes turned next to the window, and the overcast sky -- one could hear rain drops beating on the window gutter -- made him think only of getting back to southern Portugal, or to Greece, or to Majorca, all beach vacation destinations which Gregor had no immediate recollection of ever visiting, precisely because he had never been to any of them. And yet the urge to "return" to the beach, and to "catch up on his tan" so that his body would attain the color of burnt pork knuckle, was overpowering, and this cast him into a gloom. "I'm so pale," he heard himself moan.
What about sleeping a little longer and forgetting all this nonsense, he thought, but it could not be done, for he was accustomed to sleeping in his nightgown and in his present costume, wearing only a tight silk Prada G-string, sexually aroused and imagining, to his own horror, what a joy it would be if a gypsy man were to urinate into his mouth, Gregor simply could not relax. However violently he forced himself towards his right side he always felt the pinch of his G-string and the slipperiness from the lubricants, and he rolled onto his back again. He tried it at least a dozen times, shutting his eyes to keep from seeing his shaven white legs, and only desisted when he began to feel a faint sense of irritation and depression which he had never experienced before, along with twitching in his spine, and a sore sinus and a sore nose with dried blood. He was terribly thirsty, and at the same time he felt fatigue and a profound sense of angst.
Oh God, he thought, what an exhausting job I've picked! Traveling about day in, day out. Although it's better than being stuck in an office, which is so alienating and oppressive, with its bourgeois dictatorial rules and spatial techno-totalitarianism. At least as a traveling salesman he was able to constantly move, take the train, see the beautiful countryside, meet so many interesting people, including students, activists, artists, and minorities.
He felt a slight itching on his pubic area; slowly lifted his head so that he could see more easily; identified the itching place, which came as a result of shaving all of his pubic hair, including his scrotum and the tuft which usually lined his anus, and he made to touch it with a hand, but he drew the hand back immediately, for the contact made him want to visit Thailand, where there are many friendly young boys.
He slid down again into his former position. This getting up early, he thought, makes one quite queer. A man needs his sleep. Otherwise I will look awful when I meet my clients, and who knows what interesting, unique Europeans I will meet along the way. Besides, the union I belong to has won concessions reducing the workweek to only 35 hours, while our pay was increased, so what's the point of waking up early? In fact, I am tired of working. It's only because of my overbearing parents that I continue this job. If it wasn't for my respect for their authority and my
Umm say, you've got an UID in the 73xxxx range. For how long have you been here? A year? Who allowed you fucking noob to talk to me or make comments about "Slashdot's this and that"?
Lurk more!
the sick man of europe when it comes to broadband? i'm a brit. i can walk out of my house for twenty miles in any direction and neither see a house without a broadband connection, nor be outside the range of wlans plugged into such [unless i catch the tube, in which case i am underground, and only get wlan access half the time]
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But you have to admit, you are the sick man of Europe when it comes to capital letters.
Here, I'll loan you a few spares I have sitting around.
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Les Miserables Volume 1 now up with my reading of
It's just entertainment, you self-important douchebag!
Find a constructive hobby.