When your girlfriend gives you the silent treatment, you’re both fighting and not fighting.
The dilemma is known as “Schrodinger’s spat.”
Tag Archives: humor
(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.]
Knights in Wight Satin …
Soooo many “Game of Thrones” puns that I want to post online, soooo many spoilers I need to beware of sharing. What’s a nerd to do?
The generic puns are safe enough. People seemed to enjoy my “I’m dreaming of a wight Christmas” tension-breaker when that storm started hitting during last night’s episode. Or maybe they were just humoring me. They do that a lot.
I’m waiting for someone to do that weird thing where they brag about having never seen an episode of the show. I want to hit them with “Arya Stark raving mad?!” Which I guess is kind of pointless, because they won’t understand the reference, but still.
The dessert you’ve GoT to try tonight.
I’m calling it the Iron Throne. (I’ve been scheming like Littlefinger to make it perfect.)
The base is a Brownie-Fudge Swirl Klondike Bar, the back consists of stacked Swiss Cake Rolls. What you see seated there is an official “Game of Thrones” Oreo. Scattered about its base are Espresso M&M’s, because you’re going to be up late chatting online about the episode.
I actually lined up a couple of yellow Peanut Butter M&M’s to symbolize the heads of Lannisters, but the picture didn’t turn out. Because leave it the Lannisters to screw up a good thing.
WHO’S YOUR FAVORITE NERD, BABY?
If the undead attack while you’re enjoying this, tell them to CHECK THEIR WIGHT PRIVILEGE.
People just say things differently in Virginia.
I stopped by the Arby’s in Vinton and ordered at the counter, and the girl asked me, “Is there a name for your order?”
Except I didn’t I didn’t understand what she meant, and I got flustered about being from out-of-town, so I stammered something along the lines of, “I dunno, let’s call it Ted,” and now the people at Arby’s think I’m some kind of maniac.
Ducking any responsibility for good taste.
A pal of mine just complained on Facebook that autocorrect keeps censoring a certain curseword and changing it to “duck.”
I told him that autocorrect HAD to censor it — because its meaning is fowl.
DAMN, I’M GOOD.
My latest get-rich-quick scheme.
I’m selling miracle pills to Donald Trump supporters. (If you take one per day, they’re 100 percent guaranteed to prevent any cancers caused by windmill noise.)
I figure I can satisfy false advertising laws by stating right in the ad that these are placebos. Nobody in my target demographic will know what that word means.
I can even say that they are derived from “snake oil.” None of them are going to get that either.
Good Knight, folks.
Now I can never stop thinking of the President as Donald Trump Quixote.
He literally thinks windmills are deadly enemies.
