My Worries are Over!

Boy, am I ever glad I resisted the temptation to put word verification on my blogs! This morning I received a wonderful email from a nice lady in Australia who is about to expire and has selected me to send her total estate, knowing I will help charities with it. A whopping US$ 2.4 mill. Can you believe it? No strings attached - all I have to do is send her the bank account I want her to deposit the money. Yowza! I have already gone down an picked out a new car. I'll let you know when the money arrives!

You are such a cynics, Adullamite and Soubriquet. This could have been YOU. Suckas!

DEAR WALMART

DEAR WALMART
I BUY HP PRINTER FROM YOU FEW DAY. IT ARRIVE TODAY. FEDEX GUY THROW ON PORCH AND I FIND. I AM SO HAPPY WITH 97 CENTS SHIPPING CHARGE THAT I AM GOING TO NOW ORDER A (LARGE) BAG OF LAY'S FIERY HOT POTATO CHIPS THAT YOUR AD SHOWS FOR 3.99. I ASSUME THE SAME 97 CENT SHIPPING APPLIES AND IT IS WORTH IT NOT TO DRIVE TO STORE AND WAIT IN LINE.
I GIVE YOU 6 STARS ON THE  PRINTER EVEN THOUGH I JUST BARELY GOT IT OUT OF BOX. I COULDN'T WAIT. I WAS GOING TO SAY SOMETHING "ELSE" IN THIS REVIEW COMMENT, BUT THEN I SEE YOU MAKE ME SIGN IN. HA HA.

LOVE, MAX.

PS - WHY YOU HP INK PRICES SO HIGH?

& that why walmart love u 2

HP ink be cheap at walmart.



Do you also enjoy waiting in line for a half hour to pay for it?

This brute went to all stores first, too.


Wonder if still on sale 2 years later?

I wasn't going to say this, but I gotta say this: who the heck goes to the Walmart website to tell them how much you love shopping with them and how amazed you are at the printer ink prices? Some 35-44 year old male in NewYorkNewYork, that's who. Hope they sent him a gift card for some baby food or mayonaise. Or something. Secretly hope he puts the mayo in his printer after dropping a glob on his keyboard.

Why am I in such a sarcastic mood today? I think I will go to the Walmart site and write them a love letter. Unless it is moderated.

Somewhere Along the Line

Well it's a rainy night in Paris
And I'm sitting by the Seine
It's a pleasure to be soaking
In the European rain
Now my belly's full of fancy food and wine
But in the morning there'll be hell to pay
Somewhere along the line
Oh, but in the morning there'll be hell to pay
Somewhere along the line

Sweet Virginia Cigarette
Burning in my hand
Well you used to be a friend of mine
But now I understand
You've been eating up inside me for some time
Oh, and I know you're gonna get me
Somewhere along the line

Somewhere along the line
Well I know it's just a matter of time
When the fun falls through and the rent comes due
Somewhere along the line

Well you know I love my woman
And I would not let her down
And I did my share of lovin'
When I used to get around
Now I'm satisfied that she is lookin' fine
Oh, but you pay for your satisfaction
Somewhere along the line
Well you pay for your satisfaction
Somewhere along the line

Hey, it's good to be a young man
And to live the way you please
Yes, a young man is the king
Of every kingdom that he sees
There's an old and feeble man not far behind
Oh, but it surely will catch up to him
Somewhere along the line
But it surely will catch up to him
Somewhere along the line
Well you know it's gonna catch up to him
Somewhere along the line
—Billy Joel

Content Farms

Red Dirt Girl thinks I am uncomfortable around poetry. At least she said reading certain kinds of poetry is a bit out of my comfort zone. Or something like that. Terribly insulting, although she didn't mean to be. I determined to let it go, let it roll off my back like a duck something does, because I realize her mental image of me is some sort of god-like muscle-bursting superhero (too manly to be soft enough and insightful enough to read poetry, you see,) Most of my other readers have a MUCH different perception of me. To them I am, of course, still some sort of a god-like superhero - usually the god of intelligence, I fancy - bulging with muscles and brains, yet sensitive enough to actually read 18th century French poetry and bring flowers (as opposed to simply googling poetry and pretending one has pasted it in old scrapbooks from high school, like Soubriquet does.) “... et l'ennui, araignée silencieuse, filait sa toile dans l'ombre, à tous les coins de son coeur. I'm sure you agree.

That was from GF's "Madam's Ovary" and, though not poetry, per se, is, at least, semi-sensitive. What does it mean? Who knows? — French is meant to impress, not communicate. Gus went on to say, in the same above referenced ovarian classic work, though this time in English: “Human speech is like a crack'd tin kettle on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to move the stars.” Only I envision Soubriquet substituting "pottery" for "tin kettle." I would too. I also prefer the translation where "move" becomes "wring tears from the stars." So much more descriptive than 'moooooove.' Would you believe that, for years, I thought that little observation on life was written by Honoré de Balzac? It is true, whether you believe me so dull or not. (Though Mssr. de Balzac DOES put me out of my comfort zone, I freely admit.) My friend soubriquet, I hasten to add, knows INFINITELY more than I about de Balzac. Coffee and such. And more. So I defer.

I digress. Red Dirt Girl. A poem by a great Russian poetess with a noble nose. I don't question the quality of her poetry. I like some. I know what some means. I do question her decision to stay in Russia after the revolution. You can't blame me for that. Living her life so oppressed, a female Dr. Zhivago (to me.) One book published with Stalin's permission, then he changed his mind and had them shredded. Not allowed to write. Reduced to writing spontaneous poetry on scraps of paper for friends when they visited, never read aloud due to the bugging of her flat by the KGB, made them toss the scraps of paper in the fire after they had read them. What great lost poetry was on those furtively burned scraps of paper, the world will never know. Could have been more famous. Could have been rich. Could have gotten a nose job even. She used to go down to the train station to say goodbye to her intellectual friends as they were carted off to the concentration camps in the gulags. The situation was hopeless. Incontemplatable. A strange woman asked her if she could (poetically) explain all this. She said yes. Simply. No need for modesty now. Later she said a tear then rolled down what was once the woman's face. What the hell does THAT mean? Poetry admittedly too deep for this superhero.

But she was and is just fine in my book. So is Red Dirt Girl, though I keep it from her too much.

As I write this post, a crazy man is preparing to walk across a wire over Niagara Falls. It is still a half hour away - ABC is still shilling the audience showing how hard it is - so I still don't yet know if he will be dead in an hour or so. His great-great grandfather Karl Wallenda died in Puerto Rico on the high wire at age 73, many years ago. There is a huge crowd gathered at the falls and apparently no one had figured out how to make them pay. They have all come to see the man die, of course, as will I when I go back to the TV. I don't know what it is about watching crazy men die that is such an attraction.

I'll go watch the spectacle now, and you can find out if he made it or not in your morning newspaper.

P.S. - He's doing it at night. Obviously. That would be a first.

A great collection of puns

People who enjoy puns (or any plays on words) are obviously very intelligent. Show you're intelligent by visiting Sage's list of outrageously funny puns without delay.

Weakest Link

"In every chain of reasoning, the evidence of the last conclusion can be no greater than that of the weakest link of the chain, whatever may  be the strength of the rest."

—Thomas Reid: Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man, 1786

Slowing them down

In the news today I see that Texas has increased the speed limit on Highway 130 between Austin and San Antonio to 85 mph. Critics say it will cost lives, cynics like me doubt it will slow them down to 85.

A Twofer: Temperance AND Celebacy

And that's a shame, because I would have to be mighty drunk to kiss any of you. Even with Adullamite's lips. Persimmon eaters, all.

No Rust, Still Fun

I had an old car once. A 1937 Pontiac. It ran. Sometimes I drove it. Actually I've had a lot of old cars, not that old, just junk, semi-running. But the Pontiac was an "official" old car, the kind people stopped to look at when you drove past. I like to go to old car shows. I take pictures and collect information. I didn't take the above picture. It is a 1936 Pontiac. It is like my 1937 Pontiac was, only different.