Archive for category Humor
I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this or not (and quite frankly, I’m too lazy at the moment to open a web browser and type in a couple of search terms to find out, which seems like I’ve leveled into a whole new echelon of slothfulness, if you ask me), but I’ve been doing an absolutely miserable job of curating my Netflix queue lately. I mean, I believe I have some of the most recent releases somewhere in the basic vicinity of the top of the list for the disc-by-mail service. Then again, I once believed I could run so fast no one would see me. So, my personal faiths might not be the best thing to hang your hat on.
The worst thing is, I’m also not remembering to remove movies I don’t need to get anymore. Case in point, a few weeks ago, I watched The Hobbit via pay-per-view – because, I’m impatient like that sometimes – and then, just three short days later, received that very film by mail because I’d forgotten it was currently King of the Queue.
And nobody’s got time to watch three hours of the same first third of a book twice, knowutImean?
No time for a good, old fashioned ramble today. Kids to feed, words to make, yadda yadda yadda, etc, etc.
Instead, I offer you this seemingly random image.
A week ago today, I was in Wallingford, Connecticut for reasons. While I was there, I had dinner at the Old Dublin pub, which might just be the most awesome craft beer pub I’ve ever personally set foot in. But that’s a different — much longer — post. One I imagine you’ll see on Hoperatives before too long.
As for the image above, well, as is typical in most of your better beer-drinking establishments, there was a bounty of random things scrawled on the walls, etc. Normal I ignore all such nonsense because, believe it or not, I’m not ever really in need of knowing whom to call for the proverbial entertaining time.
For whatever reason, though, someone had taken a moment to leave their mark on the door of the Old Dublin by invoking the name of Aquaman, who I think we can all agree is the least super of the super heroes of our youth.
And if that isn’t the most ironically awesome piece of public bathroom graffiti ever, I don’t think I even know you any more.
Last November when I did NaNo, I temporarily put the
wildly mildly popular “Weekend Debate” feature here on the blog on hiatus. Because, well, time, you know? The thing is – and this will likely come as a surprise – it’s actually more difficult to fit in my daily writing quota during the weekends than it is during the week. I suppose that’s because we, at least, tend to push most things that need doing and aren’t four-alarm, hide-yo-children-hide-yo-wife, get-out-the-rain-slicks-and-the-rowboat-type of emergency events back onto the calendar days labeled Saturday and Sunday.
Case in point, I’ll likely be up earlier tomorrow morning than I usually am during the work week. There’s mulching and lawn work and…and…and, well, trust me, you don’t want to hear all the gory details. It’ll just make you tired. And headachey. And probably hateful. At least, that’s what it does to me.
Suffice it to say that I have much to do this weekend. And by checking out the rest of April and May, the next next five weeks are booked solid already and will only get solid-ier.
Which, you know, isn’t really a word, but I’m going with it.
So long, farewell,
Auf Weidersehen, goodbye!
Why in the name of the seven known worlds* would I begin a post with the lyrics to a song from The Sound of Music, you ask? Why, especially, would I pick lyrics so heavy with the threat of a looming separation? Am I quitting this whole blogging thing? Hanging it up? Throwing in the towel? Taking my football and going home, or packing up my stuff in to checkered cloth, tying it to a pole and throwing it over my back, mid-century hobo-style?
No, my friends, have no fear. I’m not sure I could do that, even if I wanted to.
I am, however, about to become a little less prolific around these here parts, if only temporarily.
Because, as I mentioned, the time has come to write another novel.
While I was off pretending that I can play hockey Sunday night, the Puddinette, for no reason other than because She. Is. Awesome, made a pan of brownies from scratch.
I’m going to say that again, because it’s important, she made brownies from scratch.
Which means they had actual cocoa and actual eggs and actual flour as opposed to some heavily processed equivalents and a health dose of the magic of modern chemistry.
To be completely and totally honest with you—and really, isn’t that both what we want in this relationship?—Tuesday’s Big. Exciting. News! wasn’t really “new” news anymore by the time it posted on Tuesday. Because, in fact, I’d gotten The Call, (yes, one of those calls all writers dream about as they toil the long, late hours in the obscurity of their writerly caves, grumbling and nit-picking their work like a curmudgeonly might make over his never-going-to-be-quite-perfect-lawn) a week ago today.
Trust me, no one had a harder time not saying anything for the whole weekend than I did. But often times in publishing, there are things, breathtaking, pulse-quickening things, that simply Cannot Be Spoken Of Yet. Henceforth, we’ll call them Temporarily Secret Things, and with luck there will be more on the horizon.
Anyway, the point is that Thursday, April 11th, was kind of a special night for me and the family.
But Thursday is a school night, and I had a hockey game, so it wasn’t quite the perfect time for a little in-home celebrating.
Friday, though, I had every intention of getting out the mirror ball, spinning up some records, and going full-blown wild.
Ten years ago, I generally thought it was cool when the time rolled around to get a new pair of glasses and update the ol’ vision prescription. In my case, I’ve been rumbling steadily down the road of deteriorating myopia since, um, third grade, which means new specs or contacts every couple years have been the name of the game.
What’s not to love about get new glasses? Few things can so fundamentally change the way people see your face as a new set of specs. And while I tend to wear my contacts more—because I have the light-sensitivity of a garden mole meaning Yay! Sunglasses!—I honestly think I like better with my glasses on. You know, more studious and less confused middle-aged beer drinker.
In case you’re curious, the script for my peepers at the moment puts me at –6, which is bad. To put that in perspective for you, without correction, I couldn’t tell the difference between my mobile phone and a ripe avocado sitting side by side on my desk, a mere 24 inches from my face.
Which is unfortunate, because avocados get worse reception than AT&T.
I’ve had too much on my mind all day today to produce a post that isn’t total, incessant, rambling drivel, although how that would differ from a typical post isn’t, um, completely clear. You know what? Quit asking so many questions. What is this, the Spanish Inquision? I don’t have to answer to you. I want my phone call.
Anyway, I spent all day at work trying to track down a memory leak (no, I’m not going senile; it’s something you get in software programs) large enough to float that nightmare Carnival cruise ship through. On top of that, I’m mulling a decision that’s been nipping at the back of my mind like a bored puppy for the better part of six months now.
In other words, I’ve used up all my brain today. If I tried to write a real post, it’d look something like:
Yarn, biscuit finger! PLllthalth. Been tango inta WOOP! Poop tangles seen a toad dolphin speak howzit? Ughhhhhh. *sigh* Pbbthlhtlhbbppbpbphtht. Eyewear, you know?
Thus, I give you instead the ultimate in filler blog posting: a haiku about filler blog posts (with a Bonus! Cute! Animal! Pic!)
A post should go here
But today was thinks, not words
Instead, here’s my dog.
Hope you had a great day! Tomorrow the words will make sense.
Well, or at least more sense.