<3
The Internet: So, yeah, that <3? That’s a heart! It means love!
Me: Wait, what?
The Internet: You know, love! We love this thing that we found on the Internet!
Me: And it’s a heart, you say?
The Internet: Of course it’s a heart! It’s got the two curves, the pointy end thing …. Why? What did you think it was?
Me: … Oh, nothing.
The Internet: Come on, you can tell us.
Me: Well, it’s got this pointy thing and then two dangly round things, and ….
The Internet: And we thought we had a dirty mind.
Yeah, I’m sorry, but I really thought it meant “that’s so awesome I want it to have my babies.”
Terrible, horrible, no-good bad lyrics
So I was in a restaurant the other night and they had some satellite radio station playing some pretty terrible “modern rock.” (They did play Jane’s Addiction’s “Been Caught Stealing,” which was nice, though.)
Anyhow, one song was about drinking alcohol, and how drinking alcohol is awesome, and being drunk is super-awesome. And it contained such inspired gems as this line about whiskey: “That shit makes me batshit crazy.”
I, too, enjoy a glass of whiskey now and again. One now and one again shortly.
So, yeah. Perhaps less drinking and more hitting the thesaurus is in order?
KFC’s new ad campaign
Q. What does the clown-faced serial killer leaning over your bed in the middle of the night say when you ask him what happened to your pet Peke-a-Poo?
“Incidentally, I will also eat your bones. Because I am a serial killing clown.”
Bird feet should be attached to birds, always
So a thing I didn’t realize would be a new horror to trouble me is disembodied bird feet. First there was the chicken feet at that Halloween party I went to. Now there’s my neighbor, putting dead geese on his garage roof, and then pieces of the dead geese blow off into our yard so that when myself, my daughter and our dog are innocently playing in the yard, we come across a lone goose foot.
Our reactions were varied and as follows:
My daughter: “Cool, is that a bird foot?”
My dog: “I’m totally going to eat that when you’re not looking.”
Me: “OH GOD IT’S A FOOT THERE’S A FOOT IN THE YARD GAHHHHHH A FOOT SOMEONE GET ME LIKE TWELVE PLASTIC BAGS AND A SHOVEL WITH A REALLY LONG HANDLE TO GET THAT TO THE GARBAGE BECAUSE IT’S A FOOT IN OUR YARD GAHHHHH.”
Dear God, will the nightmare never END?
An open letter to the Community Band Conductor
Dear Community Band Conductor,
I realize that, like most modern composers, it’s difficult for conductors to remember that the E-flat Clarinet exists. Actually, I don’t really understand that at all, because, unlike modern composers who are safe in the luxury of the recording studio or one-room flat or wherever the hell modern symphonic band composers hang out, conductors are right there with the band, where it seems like it would be impossible to miss the shrill, often sharp, tones of the E-flat Clarinet.
The storage case is the only place where an E-Flat Clarinet could possibly be in tune.
(A side open letter to the Community Band second clarinets: Yes, I realize I was bloody well sharp when I was playing with the flutes on that one song. It’s nearly impossible to keep the E-flat Clarinet in tune as it is, and it certainly doesn’t help to have one of you stage-whisper “She’s sharp” to the other while I AM TRYING TO PLAY THAT VERY PART. In conclusion, I might be out-of-tune on the E-flat Clarinet on occasion, but you’re jerks.)
Anyway, Community Band Conductor, despite your best efforts to pretend you remembered an instrument such as the E-flat Clarinet exists, I could tell you had already forgotten from the way you announced (minutes after our conversation about how the E-Flat Clarinet exists) that the only instruments playing a certain passage included not the E-flat Clarinet.
I know it’s really tiny, but I swear to you, there is an E-Flat part in your score.
So here is a helpful way to help you remember that the E-Flat Clarinet is an actual thing: A photo!
The E-Flat Clarinet: Better than the regular clarinet, because it’s much cuter.
Look how cute! So wee and cute!
The worst gift ever?
As I was driving to work today, I noticed an advertisement on a sign for the new dental office in my end of town that read: “Give the gift of a smile! Gift certificates available!”
Just so you know, if you ever buy me a gift certificate to the dentist, then I consider you my enemy.
My life’s work shall remain unrealized, probably
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that one of my fondest dreams shall probably never come to fruition: That of making it with a hot Asian guy.
He wouldn’t even have to resemble Takeshi Kaneshiro. I’m not picky!
Lately, a trend in movies
So after happening to watch a trailer for Bullet to the Head, I remarked to my parents: “First, there was a Schwarzenegger movie and now a Stallone movie? What’s next, they’re going to give Dolph Lundgren a new film?”
“Who’s Dolph Lundgren?” said my parents.
I can’t decide whether they’re too old to have heard of him, or I’m just the right amount of too old and have heard of him.
I don’t care about the Superbowl at all: An apology
It’s true. I don’t care about the Superbowl at all. I know it’s probably unpatriotic. Feel free to confiscate my miniature American flag.
Just give me a few last minutes alone with it, please.
Everyone I know watches the Superbowl. Even my parents do, and they don’t watch sports on TV at all.
Unless Judge Judy is a sport?
Once, when I still worked at the newspaper, I got involved in the Superbowl pot at work. My friend in the sports department gave me a buck and chuckled a little when I turned in my form and explained my strategy: I picked the teams with the cooler names. For instance, if the Vikings were playing the Dolphins, I picked the Vikings. While Vikings are horrific bastards, dolphins are horrific-er bastards, so therein lies the logic.
See? Bastard.
And so, despite my rather illogical method, it came down to me and a photographer for the whole pot.
“You’ll have to watch the Superbowl now,” the sports department said.
“What, aren’t you guys going to have a headline about it tomorrow?” I wondered.
“Well, yes,” they said.
“Oh, good, because otherwise that would ruin my streak of not watching any sports except for the Olympics, which I really only watch for the patriotism in inspires in me.”
Wait! I take back that thing I said about confiscating my miniature flag! I need it for waving at the TV during the Olympics! Go, Team USA!
And later I won the pot.
The moral of the story is: If I don’t care about the Superbowl at all when there’s money on the line, what makes you think I can even remember who’s playing this year?
Anyway, I’m sorry or something.
Welp, that was a terrible apology. Whatever.
Logical thinking, my sack full of kittens!
So this is a reasoning puzzle that’s been bugging me lately:
- As I was going to St. Ives
- I met a man with seven wives
- Every wife had seven sacks
- Every sack had seven cats
- Every cat had seven kits
- Kits, cats, sacks, wives.
- How many were going to St Ives?
The correct answer is supposed to be one, because, obviously, if you met the man and his seven wives on your way to St. Ives, then clearly they were supposed to be returning from St. Ives.
And I say that reasoning is stupid, because if you’ve got a man who’s making his seven wives lug seven sacks that are full of cats and kittens, those people aren’t going to be moving very quickly, so isn’t it just as likely you passed them on the way to St. Ives?
And thus the answer would be math, math, math plus the narrator. Oh, but the answer could also be two, because maybe the man wasn’t bringing the wives, the sacks and the cats along with. Ooh, or it could be how many wives, cats and sacks were going to St. Ives. So, really, every answer is wrong.
Which is why I hate logical thinking puzzles.
Also, why were they carrying around kittens in sacks? I mean, who DOES that?
