I've always been fond of the intermission song from the movies... you know, "Let's go out to the lobby, let's go out to the lobby, let's go out to the lobby, and have ourselves a snack." Never really cared much for the intro music, though.
Over at Hammer's, he's posted a great intro song that I'd love to see in theatres. Unfortunately, we probably never will.
A Sunday passage about baptism, passed along to me via email, by Carmen's ma, and Tammi.
You know it's gotta be serious.
A man is stumbling through the woods, totally drunk, when he comes upon a preacher baptizing people in the river. The drunk walks into the water and subsequently bumps into the preacher. The preacher turns around and is almost overcome by the smell of booze. Whereupon he asks the drunk, "Are you ready to find Jesus?"
"Yes I am" replies the drunk, so the preacher grabs him and dunks him in the river. He pulls him up and asks the drunk, "Brother have you found Jesus?"
The drunk replies, "No, I haven't." The preacher, shocked at the answer, dunks him into the water again, but for a bit longer this time. He pulls him out of the water and asks again, "Have you found Jesus, my brother?"
The drunk again answers, "Nope. I have not found Jesus."
By this time the preacher is at his wits end so he dunks the drunk in the water again, but this time he holds him down for about 30 seconds.
When the drunk begins kicking his arms and legs, the preacher pulls him up. The preacher asks the drunk again, "For the love of God, man! Have you found Jesus?"
The drunk wipes his eyes and catches his breath and says to the preacher,
Awhile back, I was sent a video that could have contained some classified info. I was going to do a post on it, but I thought that perhaps I was pushing my luck, so it was shelved, so to speak. But recently, with a comment from Mink and a conversation with Tammi, I've reconsidered.
Mink made reference to MCMAP. In case you didn't know, or didn't click the link, MCMAP stands for Marine Corps Martial Arts Program. This was started in 2001, and is required that all Marines go through the first level, a tan belt, while all infantry Marines need a green belt, or third level. Though some Army units teach jujitsu, and martial arts are part of training for elite forces, the Corps is the only branch of service that requires that all of their members go through this training. At least, for now.
The Air Farce has jealously looked on, and is interested in implementing their own version, the Air Force Lethal Operations Program, also know as AFLOP. Through Tree Hugging Sister, I was able to get some footage of the experts hired to put together this program.
Allegedly, this program is yet to be implemented, but I've got a couple of friends who've been in the Farce, and it's pretty clear that they've learned some of these deadly techniques.
RSM just graduated from boot camp, and is now a member of the National Guard. I'm pretty damn proud of the little whiner.
He also just had a birthday this past Saturday. I sent him a gift, for which he was very thankful, but he made it pretty damn clear what he'd really been hoping for... a flak jacket and first aid kit from here.
Yesterday, I mentioned that Harvey was looking for his family as a celebration of his birthday. Well, the way he phrased it, he was looking for boobs. I didn't really have time to spare to lend a hand in the search for his kin, so I just wished him a happy birthday. I kinda felt bad...
But thank the Lawd above, today I found someone who may just be related to the ole perv...Irina Boobagovich, professional ball wrangler.
Anyway, I got to exploring some of the other spoofs and parodies of this particular song, and I ran across one that caused me to blow a snot bubble of epic proportions. Not so much from being funny, though it is, but from surprise... I'd forgotten about the particular spoof that they spoofed along with their spoof. Check it out:
I know it's old, but it still cracks me up. Then again, I am fairly easily amused...
For those who don't know what the hell is going on, explanation do be found below.
Back in April, Saturday Night Live did a short called "Dear Sister," which was a spoof on a scene from the OC's season finale, second season. Not so much a spoof of the events in the scene, it spoofed the direction of the scene... the slow motion turns and looks. It was one of the funniest SNL skits in quite awhile.
I ran across something, just before Ogfest, that I just needed to post... had to do it, because it reminded me of something that you'd see posted by the P.T. Barnum of the Internet, the Grady Stiles of the Blogosphere... the Velociman of the Velociworld. Just seemed to be velociworthy. However, I didn't do it, being the busy bastard that I am. I did save it, though...
Yesterday, I noticed that Leslie had a post up about something that squicked her out... essentially, the same thing I'd seen, but there was no video included. "Ah," says I. "This I can provide!"
Uh... if you've just eaten or have a weak stomach, you may not want to watch. (I linked a different removal... the other no longer works.)
Funny how the English language works... we've got many words that sound similar, and have meanings that are nothing alike. It's no wonder foreigners get confused... we confuse ourselves.
True shit, folks. This day that is fast dawning was NOT called Lent when it first came about. And while it did involve the Church, it wasn't as it is now. No.
It was a time where a deep belly button was valued above all else. Folks had only wool for blankets. Wool, coarse and uncomfortable. It was discovered that lint from the navel, in large quantities, could be woven into soft, comfortable (and slightly smelly) blankets. Folks worked all year around to save their lint and make these blankies.
However, when Oktoberfest came around, people would trade their blankets (also called "lints") to the monks for dopplebock. Thus it came to be that the Church owned all of the comfortable blankets.
In the cold stretch of winter that is known as February, people would be freezing their asses off. So they did as they do now... run to the Church for charity.
The priests had their shit together, though. Their own supplies would be dwindling at the mid point of winter, so they used this to supplement their caches. Having ownership of the blankets, they would offer blankets to those who would give them food or drink as a rent payment. After Easter, they would again take possession of the blankets to use for the next years winter.
So there you have it... Lent was actually derived from Renting stinky ass Linten blankets from the Church.
Christ our Lord... I am so out of touch with style. Looks like leggings for men will be the new thing. Seriously... read it.
Long johns are now acceptable in public. The "in" thing.
I think about all of the guys I know, and I can't think of any who'd wear these damn things... at least not out in public. Well, other than maybe Harvey... or Grau. Hell... maybe even Blackfive might be willing to wear a fly mint green set for an interview. You never know...
But you hate to imagine. Speaking of that... (and I may have just gotten a contract put out on me) for those of you who have met Og...? Heheheh... no, I can't imagine, either.
Well, the little "cold snap" that we had is officially over. Temps are back in the 80's. And believe it or not, I'm actually glad for it.
No... I've not lost my mind. I'm still sweating towards death, and miserable hot. But when it warms up, the whining stops. Jeebus, these people down here... give them cool temps in the low 70's and 60's, with lows at night in the 50's, and they shiver and shake. Their kids are dressed in parkas and heavy sweatshirts, as are the adults. It's ridiculous. They say it's a matter of acclimation, but I really think it's just a matter of them being jealous of the Northerners, and their wearing of winter gear. Hell... 60 degrees? Bust out that new down jacket and those heavy mittens. And don't forget that Mad Bomber hat with the rabbit fur lining. You don't want to stop sweating... that would be bad.
Saturday, we were able to head out on the boat for a couple of hours. We stopped on the island, and as usual, I went swimming. When I got back on the beach, an old timer called me over.
"Hey, Cap'n! How's the water?"
"Not too bad, sir. The first couple of seconds are a bit rough, but then it's fine."
"You know, I brought my nephew and his kids out here last week. Little ones headed straight for the water, swimming and splashing... not a care in the world. Ah, but that's kids... they don't know any better. It's normal. Look at you, though. Someone like you? Something ain't right. When the water temps are 66 degrees, no one goes swimming. NO ONE." Then he grinned at me.
I laughed and told him that colder temps appeal to me.
Perhaps its just a matter of hardiness. They just don't make'em as rugged as they do in the states further north. This ain't a North vs. South thing... it's a Florida thing. I'm not saying that they can't be tough, but they sure are a whiney bunch when the temps drop to civilized levels.
Of course, I think about them not being able to take the cold, and Bou immediately comes to mind. That woman can't take the cold weather. At. All. But it wasn't always so...
I asked Hubba (Bou's ma) if Bou had always been such a baby about the cold, and she told me, "No way... she used to love it. As a matter of fact, I'll scan and send you a couple of pics. You won't believe them."
Turns out, Bou used to love shovelling snow, and she'd do it in her shorts!!! She had her favorite shovel, and used to shovel whenever and where ever she could. She used to go out to Pike's Peak, long ago, and help shovel out the cog railway. She was a shovelling fool.
What happened to her, that she starts shaking to death when the temps hit the 60's? Well, it happens that her aversion to cold happened after her last trip to Antarctica. The other members of the expedition got tired of her leaning on her shovel, mocking them, and they locked her outside for the evening. She's been cold ever since.
Photographic proof lies below the fold.
This pic is of Bou and an unidentified friend shovelling on the cog railway. (Bou is the one with the great big shovel.)
And here's Bou on the fateful expedition. This was just before she got locked outside.
Heheheh... it's true. That's why I don't really give her too much crap. I think I might be a little cold if I were locked outside all night. In Antarctica, that is.
And if you think the Pike's Peak crap was mean; Hey... she's the one who'd have you believe that she's old.
Yeah... Bou's old. And I'm Steve Urkel's identical twin.
Yeah, there was something similar that came out before, but Sissy found another one... one that I think Bou had a hand in. (She's convinced that I've got an accent, and if you've ever heard me talk, you know that's a crock.) Anyway, here's the results of my "test:"
What American accent do you have?
Your Result: The Inland North
You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
There are times when one must do what shouldn't really be done. This, my thought on this fine Sunday morning.
Fresh from the shower, I decided to trim my back claws. They weren't too bad, yet, but when you've got heels that demolish the backs of your shoes and socks like mine do, why give them reinforcement from their brothers on the front, the toenails? I grabbed my shears, and set to work.
Have you ever stopped and looked at the funk underneath your toenails? I mean, gotten right down there, or examined a clipping, and given it careful consideration. There is some nasty looking shit going on, and I'm fungus free on the ol' hooves... another advantage of not eating mushrooms. (I know it's got nothing to do with it, but it sounds convincing...) Cleaned or not, funk abides. It draws a shudder... you've really got to wonder about folks with foot fetishes.
Now, it may seem a bit off for me to say that, but then to consider Quentin Tarantino to be one of the luckiest bastards alive... because he got to suck on Salma Hayek's toes in "From Dusk 'Til Dawn." That's a damn fine leg to be looking up, but most importantly, there was alcohol involved. Yes, alcohol, killer of germs and possible funks, was being poured down that incredible leg, over her beautiful foot and toes, and down Tarantino's throat. Purification by alcohol.
But I'm kind of drifting away from the point... some things must be done, no matter what. Someone needed to suck on Salma's toes, and Quentin stepped up. I salute the lucky son of a bitch brave soul. That took something special, to be able to do that. (I'd have switched places with him if it were mud... mud cleanses, too, you know.)
These are my all important, albiet muddled and sleep deprived, thoughts, on this fine November morning that doesn't seem a bit like November but actually June, or early July... maybe even late May.
Anyway, happy Sunday. Don't forget to thank Gott for inventing alcohol.
How's it goin', brother? Hope all is well with you, and continues that way. I hear you're going to be working on a football movie, "We Are Marshall," and you recently auctioned off your 'Vette, and built a playground with the money from it. 'Tis a cool thing. What have I been doing? Nothing that would compare, but like you, it's all cool.
I've got a favor to ask. It's been rumored that Jen has asked Kate to hook you two up. I know... it's just a rumor. Shoot, they even called you shy. Heheheh... what the hell are they talking about? You, shy. C'mon. We all know that the "shy" play draws the women. Look at all of the women who are lining up for me you.
I'm thinking that Jen thought I was taken, or unobtainable. Hey... it happens. I don't hold it against her, if she actually is chasing after you. But you and I know that if she knew that I was available, she'd be mine in a heart beat. Just the way it is, bro. Maybe I should get ahold of Kate, and tell her to let Jen know.
And I don't blame you, if you're hoping to hook up with her. She's a fine, fine woman. But I'm just asking that you back off. Dude, you've got tons of women wanting you. (Um... so do I..?) Hell, I know of a bunch of women bloggers that would be all over you, given the opportunity. Hell, I'll even post a pic of you, and let them leave their comments for you. Check'em out, man... there's some very cool women there.
Do it for Jen.
Stay cool, peace out, and good luck with the new flick, brother. And just for you, I'll say, "Hook'em Horns." Damn, that hurt. Heheheheh...
Guys, don't even bother clicking on the extended entry...
Today is the 45th birthday of one of the biggest Bear Fans I know... Contagion Swerski, one of the original super fans. "I tell ya... in a fight between Lombardi and Ditka, Da Coach would spank da Packer guy like a little girl."
Contagion acts like he hates birthdays, but it would mean the world to him if you stopped by and did the birthday dance for him.
A few years ago, I went to the theatre to catch Jackass: The Movie. While some of the stunts and bits pissed me off, my inner six year old (who's really in command) loved most of it. Hell... even some of the stunts that pissed me off had me laughing later.
The new one is coming out, and I'm afraid that I'm going to have to see it... cartoons being a major inspiration for some of the stunts. Check out this interview:
Damn, it was nice to be out on the bike yesterday. A beautiful day for riding, though a bit warm. Hey, at least it wasn't humid like Florida has been. I thought it dry, but was told otherwise...
I got home on Wednesday, and each day has been awesome. Wednesday night, I even had to sleeping under a blanket... it got down to 55. Perfect! First time that I've been able to sleep under covers all summer, except for when I've travelled. And I'm one of those folks that needs to have something draped over them, a sheet at the least, in order to sleep well.
Anyway, like I said, each day has been just beautiful. I'm seriously beginning to think that the rumoured "flooding" was some kind of hoax. A ploy to pull national sympathy (and maybe even money) to our little communist state. I've seen no rain... not hardly even a cloud in the sky. At least, until this morning. It looks as if there may be a small chance of some precipitation. Hopefully, I'll be able to push it off until tomorrow. I've got that wedding that I need to go to this afternoon... don't want to muss my long locks. Heheheh...
Okay, I'm drifting a little bit, like I've a tendency to do. At times. Heheheh... a fine example is the "Giving Birth" post. That was originally supposed to be about a guy sitting across from me, hammering away on his Blackberry, or Treo... it reminded me of the early hand held electronic games by Mattel. Especially, the footballgames. You had to be quick as hell with your thumbs to do well on those games. Man, they were a blast! Not really sure how I ended up writing about some poor bastard's pooping problems. Oops... drifted again. I must be a bit tired.
So it was great being out in the open, enjoying the sun and the sights of home. And, like the post below, the smells of home. The smell of fall is already in the air. In Florida, there is no such thing as fall, unless you're talking about what happens after one drinks too much. Up here, it's still early yet, but you can smell the grains as you drive past the fields, the last crop of hay that's been cut. Occasionally, you can catch the smell of burning brush and leaves, though I doubt that many of those leaves are from this year. This year's colors haven't fallen, yet. Hell, they haven't even turned, though you can see that it's not too far off. Not far at all.
I took backroads when I had the time and chances, and got to smell the rural scents... fresh cut hay, corn cut for silage, the smell of the woods as I rode beneath a canopy of trees. All those scents, mixed with the scent of exhaust and unburned fuel... it was heavenly. I don't know for sure if I should say it, but what the hell. I was so damn excited that my nipples were hard. I mean, I could have found employ as a diamond cutter. It was so damn good to be out on the Green Beast.
I rode up to Janesville, and hooked up with my youngest brother. We visited for awhile, but he was on his lunch hour, so he had to bolt. So from there, I rode on up to see Richmond... we had a nice visit out on the patio. Well, until the German yellowjackets started hanging out... Richmond got stung. I was proud of her... no blubbering, or crying at all. Just one crazy woman. She chased them all away, swinging a citronella bucket, screaming epithets, and laughing maniacally. It was exciting. Not quite jeweler grade exciting, but exciting nonetheless.
I'd also tried to get ahold of a certain bearded freak, and his wife, but they were wisely screening their calls. Ah, well... next time I won't give them warning.
I did hook up with some more family, and managed to get home just before dark. Which was good... I didn't have a jacket, and it can get a bit cool riding through some areas. It could go without saying, but it makes your nipples hard. Again, not quite jeweler grade.... And after riding around in an excited state for much of the day, and the chafing, the nipples do become a bit sensitive. Which throws you into a Catch 22 that I shouldn't need to describe...
You can see alot of strange things at the airport. There's alot of nice scenery, yes, but some of these peeps are strange folk. Just another reason that I like to travel.
Sometimes it's not just the things you see, but the things you hear.
A trip to the restroom leaves me with confused feelings. Yeah... I know that sounds weird. Ah, well. It ain't what it sounds like. Or maybe it is... I don't know. I'm confused, as I said.
I'm standing there, obeying all men's room rules and etiquette, taking care of my business, when I hear a muffled noise. It grows steadily louder.
Now, I know it's probably considered a bit immature, but I couldn't help but start grinning. This poor guy was making all kinds of agonized noises, but when he started whimpering, that's when the confusion set in. I was still laughing, but I so wanted to kick the stall door open and knock the poor bastard in the head. Put him out of his misery.
But alas, restroom etiquette requires that one be able to shit in peace. He lives to shit another day.
Not being used to actually working, much like my brother in unemployment, I injured myself Saturday. It is quite the disgusting injury, but I took it in good humor. Between sobs, I was actually laughing. Or crying so hard I was laughing. I even made the comment to my 'boss,' "This is pretty damn sad... check it out."
The injury is in the extened entry. I'm warning you folks... this is NOT for the faint of heart.
Click to view carnage up close
Sweeping can be a very dangerous job. Leave it for the professionals.
While I do not discount the possiblitly of miracles, I find these instances almost pathetic. Mary manifests herself in your sustenance... who made her god to do that? And why do people worship her? She carried a miracle, but she sure as hell wasn't the one who originated it. I thought Christianity and Catholicism were about Gott, not worshipping His servants.
Still... you can't help but wonder; Is this for real? Is Mary trying to tell us something? What does it mean?
Do you really need to ask? If it's real, it should be obvious.
I think it's time the Garden gnome joins the battle. Here's the rules: Take any alleged "real" photograph from one of the propaganda news agencies and then add the gnome.
I don't know how many more entries are out there, but there were a few. One each from Ogre, Murray, and Team Swap. (Oh yeah... it's not about spoofing the war, it's about spoofing the photographers.) Some pretty damn funny stuff, if you ask me. Even if you don't ask me, it's funny.
Granted, you can tell that some of these were photoshopped. Murray's entry points out our flaws. But we've staged no pics. And I'm going to expose some photoshopped AND staged photos. These photos can be seen as published at the zombie time site. When this imagined expert took a second look, he discovered that gnomes actually were at work behind the scenes.
Remember awhile back, when I wrote about the undercover cat? Well, guess what? He found out what happens to stoolies. Sure, they're saying it was an accident, but that's pretty dubious. Although... he did get a new job teaching kids how to care fir animals. I guess that was an example of how not to do it.
"They" offered to let him swim with the fishes, but he looked too happy when they did, so they simply ran him down.
Hezbollah has been training a group of elite fighters, which they revealed earlier this week. Infidel veggies best beware.
"We have gathered the best of the best, when it comes to garden fighting. By recruiting gnomes, the regulars in our division will have a keen insight into proper gardening and garden patrolling. They in turn will train the gnomes to fight viciously, and proudly, with no surrender but death. The western infidel vegetables will be destroyed without mercy," Hezgnomah spokesman, Ahipa Arugula.
Like it or not, and I don’t, I’ve got to go shopping soon. I’m in dire need of some new bungies, and, it appears, some new jeans. I blew out one pair in major league fashion, and I’ve got a second pair that would like to do the same. Since I’ve only got three pair, or had three pair, with me, I’m running low.
When my jeans wear out, they usually wear through just above the knees. The crotch gets thin, and sometimes will develop holes, but the knee does them in. Once they wear through, and a hole shows, it’s all over. While I’m working, my jeans will drag on my legs, and if I’ve got to do any bending, squatting, or stretching, that drag rips the crotch out.
A while back, a fellow blogger posted a picture of his jeans… they were on their last leg (no pun intended). Not trying to outdo the lad, but this pretty much spells the end of your jeans… (see extended entry)
Notice, I took care, as did Eric, to keep the boy hidden from view.
This is a pair of pants that can only be worn in a few places, now. They do provide great air flow, so that’s a plus, but not too many folks like seeing them. Especially when worn with the bungies posted below. Not the best ensemble…
My second pair of jeans has been going for a while now, but the hole above the knee just grew the other day. A good sweaty day, and that’s all she wrote. They’ll be in just the same shape as my church pants… check them out.
July 9, 1967... Northern Illinois' modern day equivalent of the stable in Bethlehem. A young farmer's wife has just given birth to her first child... a long haired little boy. No kidding, his hair is over his ears, and down on his shoulders. Years before his horrible accident requires a face transplant, he is a stunning figure right out of the chute. Literally, and figuratively.
The young woman watches nervously as the little one is being checked out. He seems to have been born with a smirk on his face, but that changes as soon as the doctor smacks his little ass.
Suddenly, the room is an explosion of tiny fists and obscenities. The doc catches a right to his left temple, and a left to his shnoz. The infant is screaming, but it's not the usual cries. "Son of a cross eyed monkey raping goat!!! Who the hell do you think you are, you heavy handed son of a bitch?!?!? You get your kicks from paddling the backsides of innocents? I'll kick your ass so high they've got to shoot you to keep ya from starving to death, ya friggin pervert!"
As the doc slumps to the floor, the infant walks over and kicks him in the groin, and then takes his wallet. Peeling out a Benjamin, he hands the C-note to his mother. "Thanks for the ride, lady." He then walks over to his father who is standing in dumbfounded silence. He grabs the White Owl from his father's pocket, and lights it up with a match struck on the doctor's face.
"I'm off to get a beer, folks... feel free to join me." With that, he strides off, bare ass naked, into the night.
And that, my friends, is the story of my first beer. It's true, too. Mostly.
Okay, let me just say this: "JEEBUS EFFIN' CARISTY!!!" Thank you, all of you, for your birthday wishes and gifts. Holy mother of gott... it's too damn cool. I will be stopping by and thanking each and every one of you folks later. Right now, I'm up visiting my mother, so I'm not going to have much computer time.
Until then, a toast to some of the coolest folks out there in the blogosphere. (yeah... that's you.) CHEERS, YOU BASTARDS!!!
This isn't a new thing, but I stumbled across it again, and I figured to have some fun with it. Army Wife and Jerry have both sent me the link to this, BTW. If you're offended, blame them, too. Heheheh...
Jesus Inspirational Sports Statues... or are they idols? I'm pretty sure that the Bible said something along the lines of: "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth." I'm thinking that this is a graven image, so I can legally make fun of it without Gott tossing a beatin' down on me. I'll toss one of the pics up every now and then, along with a caption. Feel free to toss your own in... or duck and cover.
"Oh, shit... the coppers! I'll show you how to beat the stuffin' out of a stoolie later!"
Since I asked Zonker and RSM to stop by and post when they've got a chance, I've received some strange Google hits. Which really should be no suprise, after the way they frolicked through here, spreading their seed. (For google bait, you pervs.) So, I thought that maybe I would try to help out those folks who were led here, thinking that they would find one thing, and finding another. It's only polite.
Take, for instance, the "horny female lemurs" that Zonker left as bait. Believe it or not, I did have a hit for a "horny lemur." Granted, it was probably one of the four or five regular readers looking to see how well Z-man's prank was working. But, while it's not the worst of the hit's I've gotten from his posts, I figured that I should do something for those freaks that truly are looking for a horny female lemur. Innocently , I might add. (Yeah... an "innocent" looking for horny animals. Right.)
Lemurs, in nature, are not horny. I discovered this, as I looked at various types of the animals. You won't find them horny... you have to make them horny. So I found a female that looked pretty easy to work on, and got busy on her.
Never having done this before, it took awhile. I'm not very good, I'll admit. About the time that I thought I was making headway, I'd make a wrong move and screw it all up. I tried over, and over, and over again. I about ruined her. But all at once, I figured it out. And once I did, I had her horny in no time.
Check it out...
It was easiest to make her horny this way... trying the obvious cross between a longhorn and a ruffed lemur resulted in a pile of dead lemurs.
Breeding for RSM's lesbian cat sisters is working just about as well, but there are less crushed animals...
I'm taking a tutorial in Anatomy & Physiology. The head of a local medical program and friend found out about it. He offered to bring me into the school and let me do my lab work not with computer simulations and cats or pigs but working alongside his students on human cadavers.
Talk about focusing your studies, not only is it fascinating to be working on the real thing, there is also the realization that these people gave their remains up to help you study. Out of respect for them, every moment in study is centered in concentration... and fascination. And I am not one for squeamishness after years in an ER and on an ambulance.
Some nights, the dreams of death get to be too much, so I'll get up and wander around the house in the dark, or I'll grab the laptop, and head outside. A great way to cool the sweats and enjoy the beautiful night. Well, that's done for the summer, I'm thinking... the junebugs are out, and in divebombing mode. I had a couple hovering around the light of the screen, bouncing off of it, and my face. I don't really need that...
They got me thinking. What the hell calendar do they follow? Is it Hebrew, Islamic, Indian, or Chinese? Maybe Julian. It sure isn't Gregorian... it's May, and the JUNEbugs are here. I'm thinking there's a market out there, untapped. Bugs need calendars, too. Otherwise, they'll show up too early, and throw everything off. A confused insect is not a good thing.
If you, or anyone you know, know how to speak or write Insectish, please get ahold of me. (The email addie is in the sidebar to the right.)
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