The soft invasion is upon us once again; the perennial influx of bunnies has arrived. (It actually arrived maybe two months ago. But these little buggers are shy and quick; this is the first decent picture I’ve successfully snapped.)
Tag Archives: humor
(I’m still a cheap date, though.)
Friend: “What if the president gave us all $20,000 each, would everyone drop their hatred for him? Would money solve the problem?”
Me: “C’mon. If I could be bought off that easily, I’d be a Republican Senator.”
Like money in the Iron Bank.
Today’s agenda — get rich quick by selling pirated copies of 1985’s “Ladyhawke” to millennials.
Tell them it’s a soon-to-be-released “Game of Thrones” prequel that was leaked from HBO.
HOUSE NAVARRE!!!!
Yes, this blog has a recipes page.
My recipe for Southern Fried Catfish!!!
- Purchase pre-seasoned southern fried catfish at the grocery store.
- Fry.
- Serve.
- Throw out that tartar sauce in your fridge. There is no need sniff-test it. You have never sniff-tested tartar sauce in your fridge and ever, ever found it viable. Ketchup will work just fine, possibly.
- Smother your urgent existential dread into a brief and tenuous silence with a Klondike Bar for dessert. Preferably Brownie Fudge Swirl.
I’m so brilliant that famous actors wish they could meet me.
A pal of mine read my review of “Condor” earlier and opined that John Hurt was a better actor than William Hurt.
I told him that someone should call an ambulance BECAUSE THEY’RE BOTH HURT.
He suggested that I have someone read and approve my jokes before I post them. It is an abiding challenge in my life that those close to me fail to appreciate my greatness.
Thinking outside the box.
When your girlfriend gives you the silent treatment, you’re both fighting and not fighting.
The dilemma is known as “Schrodinger’s spat.”
(The problem is me, I’m sure.)
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — Flo the Progressive girl is absolutely ****ing terrifying.
She’s like The Joker. She’s manic. She’s unwell. You just know she consistently wears those loose-fitting tops because she’s concealing a knife in her waistband.
I would rather buy car insurance from that little girl from “The Exorcist.”
I FED THE RABBITS IN ROANOKE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY HAIKU.
I’m just a poor boy — no bunny loves me.
As I told you guys yesterday, I’ve been trying to feed the legions of little brown bunnies that perennially invade my neighborhood. They’re totally not going for it. I’ve been out there two days in a row this weekend, and it looks like they haven’t touched my offering below.
Yeah, yeah, I know — I should be feeding them lettuce or something; rabbits probably don’t eat bread. But I don’t really maintain a healthy fridge; the only green thing in there is a package of Mint-Chocolate Chip Klondike Bars. (I have a problem.)
Cheese? Will bunnies eat cheese?
I suspect I’m still thinking too much in terms of New York’s animal supplicants. The cats there will eat anything, and then demand more. You feed a stray cat in New York, he shows up the next day with five more cats and a lobbyist.
Even the birds won’t eat my bread, for some reason. That makes no sense to me. There was a single, dejected-looking robin outside this morning that only looked at me like I was some sort of imbecile:
Presented with bread,
one plumping, sullen robin,
indicates disdain.
[Update: that Robin has not left the yard. Pretty sure she lives here now.]
Today’s agenda — feed the bunnies.
Seriously. The annual influx of little brown bunnies has arrived. There’s a warren somewhere under my backyard.
I gotta get some video for you guys. I tried last year, but those little fur-twerps are quick and shy. I felt like a paparazzi last spring zig-zagging around my yard with my cellphone camera. Neighbors thought I was nuts.
[Update: a “warren” is a rabbit burrow, right? I can never remember my “Watership Down” accurately. I don’t mean that a guy named “Warren” is buried somewhere under my backyard. This is Roanoke, not New Jersey.]
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 