I looked at this photo flat-eyed for a while before I realized what it was.
[Found here.]
When Planetross says there are a lot of bums near the train station, he’s not kidding. I mean, just look at this maasterpiece. The locals fondly refer to it as:
アメリカ人は、この記念碑でよく笑う。彼らはそれを面白いと思う。
Located at the rear end of the plaza, you pass the gas station. It’s on the backside. For best results, photograph this statue during a full moon while standing upwind.
The monument already had a lot of cracks in it by the time it was installed. It’s been said that the sculptor always gets behind in his work.
Not trying to be cheeky; it tookus no time at all to come up with these terrible buns. Butt I digrass… The title of this work o fart?
The Acrobutts.
The End.
P.S. I suppose that the steel hoops protecting the sculpture represent the Rings around Uranus. Yeah, I know. I just had to say it.
[Planetross found it near his house, kinda; kudos to S.Le who provided the name for the stack ‘o glutes. Possibly related posts here, here and here.]
Police Officer Martin Duffy rappels down the side of 2430 Adam Clayton Powell Blvd. in Harlem to shoot a 400-pound Bengal-Siberian tiger, that was kept in an apartment, with a tranquilizer. The sedated tiger, named Ming, and a 3-foot caiman alligator were removed from the building. The animals’ owner was tracked down in Philadelphia and charged with reckless endangerment.
[Image found here with description embedded. Full story from 2003 here.]
I was looking for a song that I heard in the mid-seventies that had these lyrics:
I want to be a bus;
I want to be a big bus;
I want to bus the world around;
I want to be the biggest bus to ever bus the world around.
The google machine didn’t help; neither did the Utoobage search. Meh.
And Now For Our Feature Presentation:
Ernest Borgnine On The Bus (Part 1).
That’s step one. Step two has to do with a slice of bologna.
Yeah, it looks funny, but PLEASE don’t do this to your loyal dog. Don’t do it to the one who’s gonna drag you, your spouse and your children, all unconscious, one-by-one out of your burning house by the collar in the middle of the night in a sleet storm and risk his/her life to to return to the inferno to fetch your wallet and a 6-pack with a quart of Jack.
Do it to your ambivalent anarchist cat who doesn’t care if you burn or not as long as there’s a pile of food somewhere within a quarter mile of the house.
Just don’t do it to the dog.
[Image from here.]