See that? Up there? That I circled? Yeah. Just look at all those marvelous degrees. Seriously, if you added them up, the highs would make TRIPLE DIGITS AND EVERYTHING!
A few weeks ago, you could add up the highs and not get positive numbers.
So, yeah, if that forecast there doesn’t give you a case of the happy dances, well, I fear you actually finally be dead inside. Or just dead. Or a wax statue. At any rate, you’re in a bad way. Best of luck with all that.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get out my flip-flops and my sun tan lotion. The weekend looks positively balmy.
What’s that gooey pan of deliciousness, you ask? I’ll tell you, my friend, it’s brownies. A big pan of yummy, just-baked-and-waiting-for-someone-likely-named-Puddin-to-come-embarrass-himself-in-gluttonous-joy, brownies.
Err, well, a partial pan of them, anyway. The kids obviously executed their right of first refusal.
Today started off a little rough.
Sweet. Work PC won’t even attempt to boot. I am NOT impressed thus far, Wednesday. Even Monday had better manners.
— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) February 26, 2014
Luckily, Wednesday seemed chastened by my hard talk and tough love.
PC back in working order with a new video card. Good job, IT. And that’s a little better, Wednesday. Maybe we can be pals after all.
— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) February 26, 2014
Later, though, I realized that I was being kind of silly. It didn’t matter whether my work computer was in working order or looked like C-3PO after a visit to the Ugnauts on Cloud City. Because today, my friends, baseball came back to us.
I apparently had the plague this weekend. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re all, Puddin, dood, I totally know what you mean when you say that. I mean, this one time, I went to Vegas/New Orleans/Tijuana/Buffalo** and I picked up this hangover so bad it was like fighting a nineteen-headed hell-beast from Greek mythology that ate gods, crapped fire, and laid eggs of darkness and soul-sucking torment more sinister than a 24 hour Keeping Up with The Kardashians marathon.
But, no. I wasn’t hungover. I’m, like, almost 41 years old (sixteen days and counting). Tying one on and attempting to keep up with The Wolf Pack as they degrade themselves through another OMG-why-didn’t-they-quit-while-they-were-ahead misadventure in mild altering substances, shame, and Ken Jeong, isn’t properly dignified behavior for a fellow of my increasing age. Which is to say, I used to be able to sleep until 1 in the afternoon when I was hungover and then spend the rest of the day on the couch, staring gape-mouthed at a golf-tournament I couldn’t possibly care about on television while contemplating ordering a large pizza with both kinds of toppings: meat and grease.
My current lifestyle doesn’t make allowances for this sort of hangover therapy. As a result, I do my best to avoid such foolishness.
Plus also, wicked reflux.
I was planning on writing a real post today. A 900 word job that would make you laugh and cry and want to watch Downton Abby. Something about books or dessert or, I don’t know, pie crust. Maybe about artisan bread or something? I dunno. I mean, who doesn’t love bread?
But then the Puddinette sent me this photo after she and The Attitude went out to play this afternoon. And between the breathtaking blue sky, the starkness of the airplane and the loneliness of the basketball goal, I couldn’t not post it with a this simple caption:
Take hope. Winter is ending.
With that in mind, have a great weekend.
And try not to set the place on fire.
I will probably never be able to qualify, rationalize, or otherwise explain the particular defect in my thought processing that leads me to make decisions that defy entertainment logic. For instance, how in the world did I reach the conclusion that I didn’t really want to watch Man of Steel again (even though I seemed to have enjoyed it the first time around) but was fine to sit through Escape Plan, a movie where aging versions of Sylvester Stallone and Ahhh-nahld Schwarzenegger attempt to break out of the most secure prison ever built.
Well, hip or not, whether a sound leisure-time decision or not, I did it anyway. I threw the Escape Plan Blu-Ray into the player one night last week, and hoped for the best.
So what did I think? Here, have somewhere in the ballpark of 100 words about it:
I was met this morning by a sky overtaken by the strange, unnatural color of clear, clean water. Cast away was its usual cloak of soul-suffocating grays and grays. And through the trees, a burst of light and piercing brightness from some foreign beacon from high above the frozen world seared my eye marbles and rendered my sight nearly worthless, as if I was just waking from a three-day vodka bender. And also a vampire.
And I didn’t even care.
The old ones call it the sun, and speak of it in hushed tones, reverent whispers. They say it will bring warmth and can chase away the cast of ice that covers everything.
Sure, the reflection of this “sun” off the blanket of whiteness all around us might make it nearly impossible to see, but by the Meeps of Holy Beaker, if it means I might once again see the actual yard in my front yard, well, I’m willing to spend a few days blinking back the watery tears and staring at my feet.
There’s a new shadow down there to keep me company, anyway.
It’s Presidents Day here in the United States, a day when we all good patriotic US citizens take a moment to celebrate, um, something. Possibly related to the office of the President? I think maybe it’s the day the current Chief Executive comes out of the Oval Office and orders another six weeks of winter and Bonus! unlawful NSA surveillance based on whether or not his Secret Service guys cast shadows?
Okay, so maybe not. The truth, though, is actually even stranger. Most elementary school kids will likely tell you that Presidents’ Day is intended to honor the birthdays of George Washington and (potentially also) Abraham Lincoln. At least, that’s true here in the Midwest. But that’s hardly universal. The part about Washington is universal, but kind of messed up in that George Washington’s birthday actually falls on February 22nd, and yet the holiday always falls between February 15th and 21. That’s right, it means the holiday never lands exactly on our first President’s actual birthday.
But, hey, does that really matter as much as getting a three-day weekend?
Depending on your level of dedication to/interest in all things Puddintopia (aka, stalker-like tendencies), you might have noticed something’s been missing from the usual list of topics here lately. Obviously, the subject in question hasn’t been Weather-Related Complaining, as I’ve got a veritable avalanche of bitching and moaning about the cold going back for almost a month.
In all honesty, I came this close to dropping “Whining About Winter” onto a permanent blacklist. But then, no. Because if you can’t write 900-word posts about how you have daydreams centered around setting fire to your desk furniture in the fruitless hopes the heat might draw some feeling back into your fingers, well, what’s the point in even having a blog? I might as well just get a tumblr exclusively for posting kitten pictures even though I like cats about as much as a good weekend-long bout of Montezuma’s Revenge.
Yeah, so I tentatively reserve the right to be pissy about winter still. For now.
Anyway, the point I intended to make is that I haven’t written a single “A Movie in 100 Words or Less” post in forever. And not just forever, but like, eons. Seriously, dinosaurs walked the Earth and I was a young man (according to my kids) the last time I spat out 100 words or less about a Thursday night movie. I mean, the last one was in October, for the love of all things oven fresh!