If reincarnation is real, I want to come back as the word “lugubrious”.
One of the good things about the inside of your house being 51 degrees is that if you accidentally leave out the crackers they don’t get stale.
The villagers were so pleased that they would be able to build much taller buildings with the help of the giants that they rushed to sign a five-year contract with the Giant Erections Company.
I stick my hands in the toilet out of love and devotion and start scrubbing.
Shaking her head, Sharon couldn’t believe the odorous nature, almost equal to that of a Golgothan shit demon, that the local mayoral race had taken on in recent weeks.
Her superpowers consisted of reversing her own blood flow and breathing her own air backwards.
I thought the Black Hole of Hobos would smell like urine and stale beer, but it didn’t at all, at least not the place I popped out.
You can tell people that you don’t answer your phone, but they won’t really believe you.
One of the good things about the inside of your house being 51 degrees is that if you accidentally leave out the crackers they don’t get stale.
And so predictably, at the Annual Demons and Angels Ball, as had happened since the dawn of time, a fight broke out and equally predictably, as had happened since the dawn of public relations consultants, it was blamed on cultural differences not the serving of full strength beer.
It’s amazing how better the world appears after a full night of uninterrupted sleep (that includes going through all four or whatever sleep stages that my Psych prof talks of).
“Arxbelgggoyn, herrrrreeee, Arxbelgggoyn,” called the betentacled, scaly and many-antlered behemoth as he searched for his faithful pile of curly, happy, big-eyed fidoness.
The jar of pimentos in your cupboard is only there to serve as a reminder that you need to shop, and soon.
A fabulous parking space and friends who pay the bill can make a night good, but to make a night great…truely memorable…all you need is a psychic troubador.
I’d be lying if I told you size doesn’t matter.
All the potpourri in the world won’t ever beat a morning’s baking.
The music collector discovered several hundred songs were left in the iTunes directory of the old hard drive that had come into his possession through a long and unimportant chain of circumstances; unfortunately, they were nearly all hip/hop, heavy metal and alternative/punk/electronica of the kind he found most grating/horrible, and thus, with a final sad shake of his head, he hit the ‘delete’ key.
I fear weblogs may be taking away my ability to read, because now, sometimes, this tiny feeling that I’m lost creeps into my thoughts as I’m reading, and I’m unsure whether to scroll my eyes down the page or jump back up to the top; and surely this is the fault of the diary-style weblog, with its insistence of always appearing new and fresh, a feat it accomplishes through the rearrangement of time, putting first last and last first, and forcing us to constantly read in reverse.
It shouldn’t irritate me how fast the cat moves into my chair whenever I stand up, but it does.
There is undoubtedly a special place reserved in heaven for mothers who offer to take your children off your hands for playdates with their own kids, especially during finals.
At last, the rest of the car’s passengers were either napping or deep into their iPods; in the padded silence, Jerry was finally able to slide into a comfortable zen-driving mode that kept him from running the whole damn lot of them off a bridge.
I’m wondering if once you fall behind schedule more than a year it’s not called something else, because that’s where I’m at.
The Duke of Wilcherford’s second cousin’s wife invited me over for tea this afternoon, but I was forced to decline on account of my recent affair with the neice of Mary Throppleton, whom I’ve been told is also distantly related to the Duke’s second cousin’s wife, although in what exact manner is entirely unclear; plus, I don’t like tea.
It shouldn’t irritate me that the fog from my own breath makes it so I can’t see the dog shitting somewhere out there in the dark while I stand on the back porch in the cold, but it does.
Bronwyn had known for years that it had been a long time since she was the youngest person in the room, and she recognized this as the right and proper course of things, particularly since the only alternative was dying young, something in which she had never been interested; nevertheless, it was still something of a shock to stand in a large room with literally hundreds of other adults, and to realize that each and every one of them had been born after she was already old enough to vote.
Bronwyn took one last look at her reflection in the mirror, checked her makeup (Urban Decay glitter eyeshadow and Du-Wop Lip Venom) and her outfit, quickly exchanged her White Stripes t-shirt for her old Descendents/Milo Goes to College t-shirt, laced up her Fluevogs, arranged her hair tidily in a snood, grabbed her granny cart, snarled at her reflection, “All right…let’s do some f&?@ing groceries,” and went out to buy a tin of meat for the cat.
Stuart quickly learned that getting his foot in the door was not necessarily the way to handle his new sales territory.
Sometimes I get to feelin’ so good that I think Jimi Hendrix’s “Crosstown Traffic” ought to play every time I walk into a room.
Finishing a three-hour final in two hours is acceptable (see: carrot), but finishing in one hour is just asking for it.
Patsy watched daily as her eyebrows disappeared but her chin hairs grew more pronounced.
Thanks to my desk troubles, I was able to enjoy 15 minutes of my day.
Why not?
As the fashion model traversed the runway in the floor length mink coat, a look of utter disdain washed across Alexander’s hairless cat.
Why do adults tell kids not to play with their food but will sign up for Jell-O wrestling in a heartbeat?
If your laptop’s battery needs to be replaced, the best thing to do is buy a whole new computer, right?
The Duke of Wilcherford called me himself, demanding to know why I had declined tea with his second cousin’s wife, and I, being a gentleman and not wishing to divulge the details of my recent affair with Miss Throppleton’s neice, choose instead to lie, and told the Duke that I was previously engaged in the cleaning of my shotguns, which I confess I do not own; now, unfortunately, I have a date with the Duke to hunt doves, and will no doubt waste the better part of this day shopping for a shotgun.
I just know that by the time I’m ready to start my Xmas shopping in earnest, it’ll be too late to order by mail, and all the good geegaws and doohickeys will be gone from the stores.
“Hey, Monty,” yelled the gorilla from our upstairs tenement window, “catch!”
Poor George tried to warn the man in the big yellow hat about the Mongolian Death Worm, but even he didn’t know how attracted it was to the color yellow, or that it could spit poison so far.
I’ve never been very good at seducing women, so I’m probably not a selkie.
The old men with metal detectors went slowly crazy, for even when they did locate a coin or long lost ring, their little hand trowels were useless against the much tougher artificial turf.
There was a hush over the would-be combat zone as one defensive line formed and eyed off holes in the other until, finally, the little man changed to green, everyone walked and the battle to cross the road had been joined.
As she passed each chain-everything’s-the-damn-same-store, her anger increased as rapidly as the once loved quirky corner mutated into yet another any-street-any-town, until suddenly Miss Jane and her flamethrower stepped forward, took control and began the burning.
Miss Jane was thoughtful enough to turn off the flamethrower in between each machine-stamped store, this was a delicate situation and, unusually, innocent bystanders would not be appropriate.
As inspired by: darksteve's Modern day medieval battle
The noodle gnomes collected in the middle of the street, repeatedly shouting their war cries of “oh, no I’ve overcooked it!” and “I hate it when the pasta sticks like that!” until they whipped each other into a gnocchi-frenzy in readiness for their street-crossing foe.
As she walked clear through everything in her path - the post-box, the street-lights, the people, the occasional poodle, a small, startled pigeon - the harlequin left a gelatinous and shimmering trail of perturbations and sherbert.
Life is disturbing when you realise that your online personality may know more people than you do.
Peter learned the hard way that you should always double-knot the laces of your flying shoes.
Hah, hah, hah, wheeeee!
If I ever find out that I’m a superfecundational twin, I sure hope my secret brother’s name is Heracles.
When she was three, her favorite toy was a car which I had made from two paper bags with handles (you’d have to see it to understand its construction); however, at age nine, odds are against me that she’d accept a paper bag Nintendo for Christmas.
Florissa briefly pondered a career in pope-dom before settling instead on sports medicine.
“To survive the rush-hour footpath folks, you have to first understand your opponents - we’re not talking about ambling shoppers or oldies with their grandchildren here, the suits mean business – and you’re going to need and be able to apply an entire gamut of skills which include, but are by no means limited to, boring, weaving, a well-honed technique for avoiding the umbrella brigade, and perhaps most importantly in a tight situation, a good offensive shoulder,” outlined the instructor passionately.
As unlikely as it seemed, with a playroom full of expensive toys, the grocery bag car was a hit with the three year-olds.
unconditional surrrender had never been part of lucy’s agenda; anarchy reigned as she medicated the pain of the years of melancholia spent on unreciprocated echolalia.
On dark and dreary days, Keith would dream of the grocery sack car he would soon own.
The watered-down boredom of Sunday afternoons never dampened the breathless anticipation that infused his Friday nights.
I think I’ll laminate my grocery bags first, so the car will take the rain better.
We never had these lovely, soft, modern paper bag cars like the kids of today, we had to make do with cardboard.
Henry’s life felt like the flapping sound of his car’s retreads - that moment just as the rubber pulls free and all hell breaks loose.
It’s all well and good to go about “grabbing life by the horns” but experiences with wildebeest and buffalo suggest it’s best to sedate it first.
i’m trying to figure out how to teach the paper bag car design to 1st graders wihout getting a) paperbags with handles, which don’t exist in this world; and b) fired.
There’s too much change and progress in Oregon to be the romanicized country life I see in my dreams, so I must be drifting off someplace else in my sleep.
Why does the perfect life cost so much money and time, when the imperfect one stretches out so easily?
Of course I’m not invincible when I wear my robot underwear, but darn close.
Someone has put 127 stepladders inside my head, and with my eyes closed, I can see they didn’t even bother to fold them up.
Apparently, the 00s are the decade that the geckos rose up and burnt their … ah… thing.
Atop the tiny hill the crowd of ants cheered and rose their glasses to toast the completion of their very first jam and crumb helicopter.
The ducks, with a slightly mad glint in their eyes, marched onward not looking to the left, not looking to the right - and not daring to look at Becky or the Tall Man who both, in their own ways made strange things happen - however, as they went by, I saw one sneak a peek at Henry.
Only one word came to mind when I woke up and discovered my robot underwear were missing - Henry!
The saying should not be “herding cats,” since “teaching six-year-olds to knit” is far more appropriate.
As he dodged and jumped around the room, Jake didn’t think “throes of passion” had anything to do with throwing steak knives, but now was probably not the time to point it out to her.
so unflaggingly introspective, thought Muriel, I don’t understand myself one damn bit.
I hope you like rocks, said God, because Lord knows I made enough of ‘em to go around.
So, what would you recommend as a penalty for someone who plays Christmas jingles on their work computer (sans headphones)?
from molly : 33 names of things
“I say again your honour, that this woman can not, nay must not be held responsible for the actions of her own words.”
The gracken beast was never very sharp, and quickly became tangled in the simple string trap.
For someone so unflaggingly introspective, thought the computer, I don’t understand myself one damn bit.
And I thought to myself, “What the heck is Figgy Pudding and why the hell are we demanding it?”
I must be lost in the desert and seeing things because I could swear I just saw a preview for a new Rocky movie, and I know that can’t be right.
As inspired by: e's a useful list
Riley looked at the plate of food (which, incidentally, was piled quite high) and plopped his head sulkily into his hands before rolling his eyes and whining ‘chanking’ in tones that were both accusing and questioning as though, somehow, the futile protest would magically transform the content of his dinner plate.
Grudknows ran about the house like a crazed chicken, cursing the gods and frightening her pets, having given into the urge (a very unwise urge, it turns out) to check google and see if Keith really was lost in the desert - turns out - he’s not and we’re all doomed.
I’ve never told anyone this before, but I think my glass eye is my best feature.
Why walleye but not glasseye?
When news got out about my glass eye, there was really nothing I could do but return the trophies.
They called him “Glasseye Keith” and his reputation as a burglar was unsurpassed, until they caught him bumping into his last fateful door frame.
As she babbled, his glassy stare went on, and on, and on …
I was decorating the Christmas tree the other day, bemused, as always, by the large number of snow related items I have, and the very next day I happened upon a book featuring the song Six White Boomers - a much more Australian Christmas.
“Rolf Harris — number of legs, variable”
The brightly colored pages are really great for six-year-olds learning how to read and men who never grew up.
As inspired by: darksteve's The ‘Wilduffalo’ Philosophy
Sedating life is one thing, keeping it going whilst it’s under then waking it up again is quite another.
“Vapid entity” and “unmitigated farce”.
Henry was a sensible man, and as far as he was concerned, the word quiver referred to archery, and nothing else.
“You can’t afford a lifestyle, Moley, only a life.”
“You are the most parenthetical speaker I have ever met, but at least you return to your original point, eventually.”
coming in this evening in the just-twilight, i was confronted, perched on the edge of the dry cement birdbath but facing outward instead of where the water wasn’t, with a smallish, grey, birdish shape—not a fuzzbaby, but then again not more than an adolescent, perhaps half a foot tall, more the height of a squirrel, really—that looked full at me with round, dilated eyes, arresting my progress as i quietly exclaimed “why, small owl!” but he, apparently, had imbibed enough of me by then to decide i was indeed a people there in the gloaming, just as i had needed a moment to decide indeed he was an owl, and so he raised his smallish wings and flew sideways into a bush.
What would Jesus blog?
sometimes i find little gifts, like this one on the back of one of my third graders’ drawings: definitely me, hopefully embracing, not strangling, a child.
We remember our days in trees - treehouses, tree forts, tree lookout posts - as a halcyon time when our parents could never find us, and our Keds never showed any wear.
I think having a fork for a leg would come in awful handy for picking up litter in the park, but Pete insists the fork-leg would be better suited to feeding lions.
My tummy’s filled with teeth that grind, my head is filled with butter-