Tue’s day: I just realized I forgot to do the “alarm” color overlays as I did last time. Eh.
This one features some of the worst inking I’ve ever done. I’m really not getting any better at it. However, I am getting very good at wasting time/ink adding needless black shadow-lines that I have to remove after I scan the deal because it makes everything look burnt once it is converted from gray to black-and-white and actual color gradations are added. Whoopth.
The dimensions of that room and its relationship with the hallway continue to change. I grow weary of its rebellious ways and will tolerate them not much longer.
My scanner needs to be fixed/replaced, but this sort of thing hardly seems worth the trouble.
Why does the Red Robin need to ride around in a dirigible? Birds can fly on their own. Get to work, bird! More importantly, why is the passenger chamber an enormous, hollowed out hamburger? What is keeping the pieces together? Not a sense of unity inspired by strong leadership, definitely. I’ve seen that facial expression on an incompetent aviator before.
Here is a clearer view I found on the website for the crooked masterminds supposedly [ir]responsible. First of all, COKE BOTTLE PROPELLERS! More importantly, what business has this confessed commie flying the stars and stripes? American robins are not robins at all. They are thrushes. Therefore, one way or another this lofty Leninist is a feathery fraud. How could anybody trust it?
It’s bad enough that this treasonous pteranodon advocates factory bred livestock meat consumption, but using its product to construct your personal chariot is just decadent and probably more than a little bit gross.
Even the person who ordered that this television box be installed in the FLOOR thinks you’ve gone too far. I reckon.
Additionally, beef is one thing (or rather, many, many things whose constant production dooms our planet), but this egomaniacal erithacus has, in a move that surprises me less and less these days, sold out some of its other feathren…
“Clucks!” The chicken fingers are called “clucks!” They were good tasting chicken fingers, but if I at any point heard one CLUCK I might have felt the need to CHUCK. See also: actual chicken fingers.
But hey, what ho*: free refills on so. Da. I will deliberately abstain from soft drinks when I know I will be attending an appropriate dining facility so that I can better make use of such unlimited imbibement potential. Of course, for 2.39 I could probably buy half a case of the stuff and drink it at my leisure rather than all at once, and spare myself the carbonation sickness for the remainder of the evening, but this is one of few areas in which I am capable of “showing off” to others, and so I will take it, because I have a sad and empty life. This and eating the pickle chips that come with my french fries. In fact, if I don’t get any I will ask for some. I like pickles with my french fries. What I don’t like: morally mishapping plumed passerine poltroons.
You agree with me, don’t you?
*I am no ho.
Ha, I finally get people to look at this page and then I disappear for a week and a harf. Ha, I laugh at my own remarks that aren’t even jokes. You will believe there are still moderately expensive hotel rooms in this country without easily accessible internet. You will also believe that I never needed an excuse that good. Here, have a fox at war. Nevermind why, for the moment.
You may be pleased to know I actually had this done last Tuesday but couldn’t be bothered to make even as lazy an update as this out of it. Also, I only realized now after printing this out and giving it to a fellow that there was a big pink streak from where I had moved the edge of the tank bullet (that’s what the large shiny thing is) and forgot to fill in the vacated space. And then I fixed it and for the first time ever saved the little internet version COMPLETELY over the big version that I make prints from right just now. I can restore it from my flash drive duplicate, but it’s the botch that counts. Thankfully, that is not the most disgraceful thing I allowed to happen over the week-end and surrounding territories. That would have been a disappointment, I think. I always bring enough gaffes for everyone.
Some people insist on enjoying themselves anyway.
I will be going to Chicago on Friday and returning to Not-Chicago on Monday. I suppose I should have told you sooner.
Now, I’m sure this is a GOOD can opener, but one accomplishes that merely by carrying out its stated, titular function of opening cans. Once the cantents have been exposed to our cruel, food spoiling air, there isn’t a whole lot to distinguish the very best there ever can be throughout all time from the merely adequate for right now. For all I know THIS is the best can opener ever. It provides every bit as much evidence to support the claim.
My old can opener was not as good. Do you know why? You will in a moment, unless you stop reading right around here, and I can’t blame you since I’m talking about can openers. My old can opener was bad because one of its gears and the plastic coverings for its handles broke off. Thus, it could not be used to open cans. This new one passes that basic test. Therefore it is an engineering miracle?
That sounds like a yes. And so, even if this wonder can-opening can opener ceases to exist and another inherits the position of best in the world, there will never, can never be another best ever. Why don’t you think about that.
Nevermind. You don’t need to answer. Unless you were going to, in which event I am curious as to how you might respond, but I suspect you weren’t going to, and so you need not even bother not minding. You need not even submit to the brain wave-eating machine.
Does anybody actually do this? Or does my lack of a left side right hand indicate that I am not meant to understand?
I gather that it also helps to carry a stove burner on one’s head. Perhaps this is a heat-off/bacony squiggle-off, a challenge at last to our foul robotic overlords’ claim that they can do everything better than us. I lament that my head cannot attempt such acts of valiance. Maybe in its earlier days, but now it has a torso and limbs to support. The one in the example is young and reckless, with, it thinks, nothing to lose. An all too common and all too tragic situation. But there is hope! Do not curse your condition! It is only natural! Do not make the mistakes so many others have!
The full story is that Regis Philbin doesn’t think he has enough money yet despite nearly fifty years of paid television appearances, supposedly having been filmed more than any other person, as certified by an Irish beer brewing company that is one of few enduring cultural presences older than Regis. As for Kelly Ripa, she also has a funny name.
Much like last month, I soon will go somewhere that I need to prepare for and am horrible at preparing for. As far as I know I have no such place to travel to next month, which means I will be very unprepared.
Evidently Stop & Shop has further to go on its journey to not be Brand X than I thought. This doesn’t even come with RIP.
I say, what a GYP. Gyp, incidentally, I was surprised to learn does not have its origin in racism or prejudice.
The Guaranteed Value squad I thought for certain would win the blandness war. It found a way to make carrots less exciting. Isn’t it kind of neat that they come from the GROUND, growing out of a tiny little SEED? It would be if it didn’t take months to happen. Yef, that’s right, I’m on to you, CARROTs. Somebody finally had the courage to stand up to root vegetables. I know you’re in this with the beets. Soon I shall send my champions to destroy your stronghold.
We really are in trouble, aren’t we.
I thought this entry was longer than this. Whoopth. Does anyone have suggestions for lengthening it?
Nobody? Goodnight, then.
I should make another site update soon. I can’t wait to see if I do! I am physically incapable of waiting for that. And so I will do something else. I can’t wait to find out what that is. And so I must do something else. This system could be a problem.
Gouache is a sort of paint that I thought about recently. I misspelled its name in a google box, though. For that I was punished with a page from “urbandictionary.com” which I would rather have not glimpsed the excerpt from. Why don’t the stupid BING.com ads latch on to that? The people in those ads say stuff about raccoons and Venice that are interesting or at the least informative, not gross-sounding names for gross-sounding body parts which as far as I can tell and am grateful for nobody actually refers to in such a way. Oh!
Dearest Microsoft: Me making fun of google does not mean I’m looking for a replacement. You of all respectable businesses should realize and be grateful that I won’t be swayed by a flashy bit of dumbed down competition over a few moments of weakness. And isn’t it enough, besides, that I use your dopey hard drive index search in Windows?
I don’t want a “decision engine.” I make my own decisions. Like when I decided not to use BING oh ho ho. I’m too tired to make this interesting but I want to complain about it today. I also want a quesadilla.
ME ROBOT. ME GIVE LIGHT. CLOCK NOT GIVE LIGHT. ONLY ME GIVE LIGHT. I PROTECT YOU FROM BUY CLOCK.
I don’t know that I would want this lamp. It has an interesting look to it, but if I imagine that the light source itself is the head of some being, staring downward, constantly. I’ll always feel like it’s judging me. You do not control my life, lamp!
Its arms seem capable of grasping things, such as pencils and receipt size pieces of paper, which fully justifies giving it arms. Despite these astounding innovations, the makers of robot desk lamp wisely assumed that might not be enough for some people and that they would soon be awash in lawsuits if they did not point out that paper and pencils are not included.
HEY, I bought this because I needed a lamp and a pencil AND a receipt size piece of paper like the picture on the box but now I only have a lamp! What the gives!
Certainly, I reckon it can hold things besides pencils and small pieces of paper. I reckon it could also hold a crayon and an envelope if that was the sort of thing you were into. At least that is what I reckon. I reckon you did not reckon on my championship reckoning skills.
I also just noticed that the description on the back of the box refers to the lamp with masculine pronouns like “him” and “his.” That amuses me, and I see no value in griping about it.
The Three Men and a Baby cast reunion held more surprises than anyone could have anticipated.