Like seat number 001, C. Montgomery Burns, I'm no fanatic of our life giver (though thanks for goosing amino acid sequences & preparing future [& current, a whole other metaphor] red giantism), but it's good for purty picture taking, one of the few creative arts along with caffeine-fueled snark actually enjoyable with a home slice or pal or whatever's the whipper snapper slang, but since synaptic pathways forgot that a certain ethnic comrade is shifting graveyard earth today & it's no fun poking fun at the un-fun free stamp or halls of power bunga bunga by one's lonesome, I could cry. Oh, the melodrama's a hoax, relax, I'll be happy processing periodicals.
Here's an oldie (not really) but a baddie (the shot, not the fuzzy & feathery little animals, though a middle finger to the other two squirrels that scampered out of shot just as I clicked don't make me hide your acorns, you li'l bastards):
Always warms my heart when there's a franchise out there even more dysfunctional* than recent Browns' vintages.
*for the record, the Cavs aren't dysfunctional. They merely suck.
P.S. I can't believe I missed this & although not quite on the level of Miami's LeBron James 'frightened' of Cleveland in NBA, it's still comical.
At least the attendees won't have this gazing down upon them.*
On a far, far, far less frightening, though sad, note, this development.
I think hiring the TSA would've made a sexier evening for everyone, don't you?
At least until our merciful death at the hands of a Jesus-helmed Quetzalcoatl.
Not all is doom & gloom, true believers. Obama's 72-dimensional chess mastery will now move into the 73rd, lulling a split nation to sleep through the soothing excuse drone of ♪ If I only had 60 senators ♫ a heart ♪ the noive which will now be the theme for not just every presser, but the next silly season cycle which begins now*; the Cavs got Mo Williams back, who was key in a thrilling victory; & there's a rumor that Spider-Man will be appearing at the local grocery store for pictures.
One last thing, before you start bagging on my state for Speaker Sunny Delight, consider the plethora of cheap laughs &/or low-grade snark he'll inspire over the next two years. You're welcome.
*wow, it is 72 73-D!
My entry this week is so bad, it's like the World Trade went down.
"Looking at it from your/their/his/her point of view, then yeah, I would be pissed also." Does anybody remember laughing at the Brundlefly/telepod mashup, no of course you youngins don't. Well hell that was only three, I quietly thought to myself at the time. A low-volume thought hides well from overly interested ears and, for the initiated, is a treasure easily found amidst the general cacophony of the addled mind, unaided by the dissonance of day-to-day shellshock. But it takes practice --
"Here he goes again."
"Johnny! Be nice to your grandpa!"
-- long hours of blood and sweat, metaphorical of course, because who bleeds when they're thinking unless they've been shot, blown to bits or worst of all, removed from the board? So get started now, kids. Where was I? Oh, yes.
Doesn't mean my fellow minion wasn't right.
"Is that what you told her at the time?"
I don't know. Even when I had the chance, I don't know.
I can't remember.
It was hard to discern her exact words so far back in the line. I crawled closer, crossing a square of surprisingly crater-free Yorkshire fog, sharing black quips of trench foot and our inevitable end. Momentarily safe behind its four walls, we didn't get even one, impatience continued creeping from the castle denizens -- we felt it, your/their/his/her waiting with baying, accusatory breath. My comrade spoke again, one last time, a short lull in the exchanging fusillades permitting her whisper to reach my tired ears.
"You know that feeling when you wake up sweating and think 'thank goodness it was only a dream'?" We longed for that feeling as an ecclesiastical enclave rushed past, soon followed by a whirling, feminine blur. Our eyes met, exhausted globes haphazardly streaked in crimson, soon led off to who-knows-where, prisoners-of-that-godforsaken-war.
In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was. As our conquerors, with a funereal sloth, marched us past the carnage, we saw, at last, we saw.
"Grandpa, what did you see?"
The king was dead. Long live the king.
It's not just for grade school mailers anymore.
Translate-O-Matic:
P.S. Hey Miami, our 4 through 12 can beat your 4 through 12!
P.P.S. The only offer I've received so far is a free beer from DC United's most furious fan -- that's 3 wins, 2 draws and 9 losses with a -14 goal differential DC United -- and given such Clevelandesque statistics, how can I refuse?
Branko!
No, no, certainly not because of systemic codification of various aspects of Chimpyism such as continuously blowing the fuck out of overseas brown folks nor his faux BP outrage on one hand while the other is held out in the shadows, ready to receive fat corporate cash. Heads of empires do these things, the sun rises in the East, sets in the West, I like onion rings.
But this outrageous tampering?
That's going too far!
