Middle of the night. Tired. You just passed through the woods from Gramma’s house, and crossed over the river. You see him in your headlights. He’s there, standing in the middle of the road. He dares you to hit him, knowing that your wife and kids are in the car, not quite asleep. You slowly brake to a stop, wondering what to do next. Defiance charges the air with electrical impulses unseen in the damp humid darkness, felt only by the hairs on your unshaven back. You can’t back down, yet you recoil after coiling. That haunting apparition…
[Good God. Will Someone PLEASE finish this in the Comments Section? Otherwise it’s just gonna get worse, and I don’t wanna take responsibility for what might happen next.]
BrerRick emailed me about the lolferret post. Said that someone’s got, “Waaay too much time on their hands,” even though the post was of “Bosley,” a ferret owned by the Weasel, a mutual friend.
Well, bro, if you work efficiently and play efficiently, one can find oneself with enough time to pay the bills, do the laundry, feed the lolpossums and oil the cat, scour the shovel, and still have time left over to post utter absurdities on our favorite website.
Unfortunately, eating and sleeping is a necessary waste of time, kinda like having to put your pants on when you’re not going outside. Kinda like making your bed when it’s just gonna get messed up again. Kinda like surfing the internest for posts and limiting the search to the sites that already link to yours.
I can’t possibly have too much time, and neither can you. Always look through the mud for the rainbow in the windshield, or you might end up like her.
Lookee here for some cool 360 degree pans of the interior of an A380 Airbus. Click on the left hand thumbnails for the interior views, then spin around and up and down. The only things missing are stewardesses in 1967 hot pants and boots, or 1967 day-glo miniskirts and boots:
Women as objects? Naw. Women in boots. They’d hit on you if you asked them for peanuts, spill coffee in your lap if you thought they were hitting on you. (Bunky was too young to understand it but old enough to appreciate it.)
This works, as long as the shovels weren’t first used for latrine duty.
Reminds me of hubcap grilles, clothes hanger toast, fish poached in a dishwasher, grilled cheese sandwiches ala steam iron, foil-wrapped stew on the exhaust manifold, BeanieWeenies-in-the-can on a hot plate, electric dryer bacon. (Okay, I made up the last one.)
I’ll have our crack team of webminers find links for the above concoctions asap (unless any of you wanna beat me to it in the comments section).
Ken Nordine… the voice, the guy you’ve heard, but never knew it…
Best of Word Jazz is available on cd via Rhino Records. Ken Nordine’s late 1950’s and early ’60’s work is bizarre. Here’s Bunk’s review [from Amazon] a few years ago:
“Late at night, toss this into your cd player, press pause.
“Turn off the lights.
“Turn on the TV. Turn off the sound. Flip to channel 3…
“Static…
“Hit play attention…
“Ken Nordine is the comforting yet oddly disturbing voice in your head that you try to ignore, but can’t; he’s the Twilight Zone for your ears.”
But don’t take my word for it. The liner notes include this gem of a description:
“Ken Nordine, yea I know that guy.I heard his voice 1000 times, he’s the guy in the bus station that says “go ahead I’ll keep an eye on your stuff for you,” and you see him the next day walking around town wearing your clothes.He broadcasts from the boiler room of the Wilmont Hotel with 50,000 watts of power.I know that voice, he’s the guy with the pitchfork in your head saying go ahead and jump, and he’s the ambulance driver who tells you you’re going to pull thru.He’s the guy in the control tower who talked you down in a storm with a hole in your fuselage and both engines on fire.I heard him barking thru the Rose Alley Carnival strobe as samurai firemen were pulling hose.Yea he’s the dispatcher with the heart of gold, the only guy up this late on the suicide hotline.Ken Nordine is the real angel sitting on the wire in the tangled matrix of cobwebs that holds the whole attic together.Yea Ken Nordine, he’s the switchboard operator at the Taft Hotel, the only place in town you can get a drink at this hour.You know Ken Nordine, he’s the lite in the icebox, he’s the blacksmith on the anvil in your ear.” –Tom Waits, 1990
For some reason, I have this subtle urge to buy 501 Jeans…
Seems pretty easy to me. All the tools you need are illustrated, including a flat iron, a nipple gauge made from a sassafras twig, a hand grenade, a broken rubber band, some shelves with hats on them, a cat brush, a kybo seat, and a toaster. The other items are optional. Another gift-giving problem solved, courtesy of your friends here at TR.
Of course, if you decide to become a “chapelier” you’ll need a certificate from an approved training center, a qualification test to get licensed, a business license, a conditional use permit for your business location, approval by the EPA, workers compensation and liability insurance, and then the union thugs will prolly shut you down before you produce your first “chapelle” unless you sign up.
Yeah, I know those are geese, not ducks. That’s not the point.
It appears that one of my favorite websites, Your Daily Awesome, has turned off its lights for good as of last Tuesday. In respectful memory, here are a handful of my favorite YDA posts, in shout-out fashion, and not in any particular order:
Many others can be found in the archives. Thanks for all the awesome daily entertainment, Chas. Although I never met you, it still feels the same as if I never had. Here’s to last Wednesday’s yesterday, and we wish you well on your long road ahead.
“Two young Kiwis have put New Zealand on the world map by gaining a Guinness World Record for the world’s largest tape ball. The record tape ball weighs a staggering 53kgs and has a circumference of more than 2.5 metres.”
Even though “Mr. Tape Ball” weighs about 117 pounds, he won’t sit in a car seat and won’t “buckle-up.” Mr. TB has an attitude that I don’t like. Mr. TB doesn’t rock. He rolls, and if I had to stop suddenly, I wouldn’t want his 117 pounds of attitude jamming my temporal, parietal and occipital lobes out through my nose. In other words, don’t expect a ride from me, Mr. TB. I’ll give you a push in a downhill direction, but that’s it.
[Good God. I’ve lost it. I’m talking to a ball of Kiwi tape that I met on the internet, in the back seat of a car that I don’t own.]
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The only American entry, from Kent State University, weighed a mere 28 kegs, but was captured on camera as well:
[Top image from Scoop, via here, via GrowaBrain. Bottom image from experience.]
Tacky Raccoons 