(Hey, I need to make at least one “Wizard of Oz” reference per year. It’s required by the Weirdo Writers Union.)
By the way, that’s Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov. There’s a depressing article over at The Daily Beast today about Russian state media describing Trump as their country’s “agent.” You can find it right here.
This is me laughing at Trump’s feelings being hurt by Trudeau and Macron at the NATO Summit.
Cry me a river, Snowflake-in-Chief.
I’d love to say “schadenfreude,” but I’m not sure I can spell it. (Did I get it right?)
I know this is a weird thing with which to get preoccupied, but little mysteries drive me nuts.
What is the deal with this worn nickel? Why does it sparkle the way it does? Is it the work of an oblique prankster? A faulty counterfeiter? A chemical agent? A sparkly vampire?
Occam’s razor suggests that it’s just a thin, undetectable acrylic paint or something. But I swear doesn’t feel painted; it feels like an ordinary nickel. And what kind of prank is that, anyway? Who sits around painting nickels? And why?
So Say We All.
Either that, or Dr. Strange is summoned before you and emerges from it.
Seriously, look at that thing.
I’m not sure why so many turn-of-the-century Christmas cards feature pig-powered elf transportation, but you’d be surprised. It must be a Norwegian thing — in the same manner as their contemporaneous Americans had a predilection for frogs. (Hey, it could be weirder, right? Norway’s cards could features cadres of confused elves running a barber shop for pigs.)
Whatever. Drive safe and be merry. If you’re traveling far to see friends or family, remember to gas up your pigs.
Jenny Nystrøm, circa 1895.
You know you live in the South when your neighbor keeps going on about Moon Pies.
Dude likes his Moon Pies.
I haven’t heard “pop” substituted for “soda” yet, though.
I came a bit too close for comfort just now with the skunk who lives around my street, Leonardo da Stinki. I can usually saunter right by animals without them even noticing me, which I suppose is sort of a weird trait, or maybe a really boring X-Men mutant power. Leonardo and I both sort of stumbled upon one another, halted abruptly, and made some awkward eye contact. (It’s like running into your ex at Costco.)
He thankfully ambled off, after I oafishly backpedaled. (I can do oafish really well and with precisely zero effort; that’s another one of my superpowers.) I’d like to think we had a tacit exchange:
“I don’t want any drama tonight, do you?”
“Nah.”
So there was no odoriferous outcome, and I’m grateful for that. Leonardo has gotten quite big now that he is an adult, and I’m sure his own special abilities have correspondingly magnified. (Why is there no skunk-themed member of The X-Men, anyway? That feels like a creative oversight.)
I really want to snap a picture of him, because my aspirations in life make sense only to me, and he was crossing a well lit yard during his exit. But this is The South, and I’m not sure how the average Roanoker might react if they discovered a weird, New York liberal taking pictures their property at night. I have a feeling that’s a story that doesn’t end well.
By Twitter, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77807699
Dudes, this might be the biggest leaf I’ve ever seen. That is indeed my foot next to it. And I don’t have small feet; I wear a size 11 and 1/2. (Now, now … this is a family blog, people.)
I found these tarp-sized leaves in the exact same place where I encountered that giant spider — the one the size of a housecat. This makes me think there’s some sort of “Food of the Gods” -type sci-fi shenanigans going on in the vicinity.
Will investigate and report back.
Well, hot damn. Not all healthy food is stultifyingly gross to eat. I can’t remember the last time I ate watermelon — maybe in college? I’m pretty sure that watermelon-flavored Jolly Ranchers don’t count.
But this is a miracle food. I didn’t have to add any salt or sugar ore even fry it in order for it to taste delicious. Why didn’t people advise me to eat this to start with?
Tomorrow — tofu. Or maybe not. I bought a tray of that #$%*, but it’s been sitting in my fridge for a while now, because I’m too afraid to open it. I swear to you … the loose, cool weight of it in that little plastic dish feels precisely how I would expect a slice of prepackaged cadaver to feel in my hands. I might leave it out for the turkey vultures. (Note to New Yorkers — the South indeed has these truly enormous birds called “turkey vultures” or “turkey buzzards.” You kinda have to see it to believe it.) I’ll update you guys.
