Because you'll see shit like this, and you'll feel guilty for laughing helplessly at it for the rest of the day.
If there's one thing I dread each autumn, it's raking leaves. I put this task off until I can't possibly put it off any longer. If I could rake leaves in February, believe me, I'd do it.
The reason I put off raking until the Rapture is simple: no matter when I decide to rake the leaves, there will still be, roughly, 8 million more leaves waiting to fall from the trees, thus negating almost all my previous raking work.
I honestly think trees may have some sort of intelligence fuelling them, and that one of the few sources of entertainment they can draw upon during their solidly-rooted and otherwise boring lives is to taunt the stupid humans who insist on raking their annual leaf diarrhea. Oh, sure, they'll dump about 80 percent of their leaf load by the first week of November, but they'll clench tight to the remaining 20 percent until I get out their and clear the organic mess, at which point they'll release their clench and re-pollute my lawn. It's all very irritating.
Well, the whole process became all the more irritating last weekend when my girlfriend/wife-to-be (WTB) decided to commandeer the rake. You see, over the years, I've developed a sort of routine when it comes to raking. Namely, I only rake that which is absolutely necessary to keep the lawn from suffocating come the next spring. I'm okay with leaving some leaves, in other words. Those which I leave, I shred with one last mowing of the lawn. I find it saves a lot of work, a lot of bagging, and a lot of garbage bags.
The girlfriend/WTB, on the other hand, took a no-leaf-left-behind approach to raking. She insisted on raking the lawn with the obsessive/compulsive tenacity typically reserved for dedicated schizophrenics. She raked the lawn like she was trying to draw blood from the very earth itself. She was determined to get at leaves that I left sitting two years ago. Worms frantically dug themselves deeper to escape her chisel-plow raking technique. I could only stand back helplessly and wait to assist any Chinese who perhaps would claw their way out of one of her rake grooves.
In other words: she took raking leaves to an extreme not seen since mankind first came up with concept of a "lawn."
When I was finally able to wrestle control of the rake, I noticed that the wooden handle was actually bowed from the raking pressures forced upon it by my girlfriend/WTB, and it was only about seven minutes into my raking that the rake gave up the ghost and snapped in half in my very hands, no doubt grateful that it could die in the care of someone more gentle and less demanding.
That night, the girlfriend/WTB started to complain that her back was hurting and, considering the 9,000 lbs of force she applied to the rake most of the day, I couldn't say I was all that surprised.
As I fell asleep, I could hear the trees outside, quietly laughing amongst themselves as they unloaded their remaining leaves on my pristine lawn.
Stupid trees.
My cousin is blogging now! Granted, he's trapped on Blawgspot for now, but it's all about the baby steps. Welcome to the InterWeb, my cousin!
With apologies to The Koolaid Report for tromping on their hallowed fisking ground.
Today's Strib moron letter to the editor:
POLICE OVERKILL
Too many shots
Tell me about it. Last weekend's bender was, like, a brain cell killer of the highest order and. . . oh, wait, you're not talking about THOSE kinds of shots.
I knew something sounded familiar when I read that Minneapolis fired their weapons 43 times in response to Wayne Reyes exiting his vehicle armed with a shotgun (Star Tribune, Nov. 1).
Okay, he didn't exit the vehicle armed with a wallet, or a white dove, or a multi-function dildo; he exited his vehicle with a SHOTGUN. Now, if I happen to be armed with a GLOCK when some motherfucker comes out of a vehicle weilding a shotgun, it's shoot first, ask questions later. What's more, I'm going to fire every round in my GLOCK's magazine. I'm not going to fire once and ask Mr. Shotgun whether I hit center mass.
Even though Reyes was armed, were 43 bullets from six police weapons justified?
Now, I'm just spitballing here, but if the police in question were armed with a Glock 17, which is the pistol of choice for a couple of my law enforcement friends, we're talking a magazine capacity of 17 cartridge rounds per weapon. So, there's a combined Swiss cheese potential of 6 x 17 = 102. In other words, those police used half the restraint I would have had I been in their position. Good job, guys! *SALUTE*
I am as concerned about the Minneapolis Police Department as I am about violent crime in Minneapolis.
Oh, well then, you're a fucking moron.
Is this the kind of policing that Minneapolis needs?
Yes, if you're crazy enough to exit a vehicle with a shotgun when surrounded by six law enforcement officers. Perhaps they should have held their fire and asked Mr. Shotgun whether his father abused him as a child and then offerred Mr. Shotgun a Tootsie Pop and a hug?
I don't think so. I am interested to see how new Minneapolis Police Chief Tim Dolan will handle this tragic incident.
Personally, I hope he hands out more bullets
JOHN "PANSY MILQUETOAST" SULLIVAN, MINNEAPOLIS
I'm Ryan Rhodes, and I approve this ThunderJournal post.
Paid for by the "Last Minute Write-In Campaign For Ryan Rhodes Committee."
I promise to do whatever it is you expect your elected official to do. If elected, I'll do things. I promise.
I'm Ryan Rhodes, and I approve this ThunderJournal post.
Paid for by the "Last Minute Write-In Campaign For Ryan Rhodes Committee."
"The man was lying on a tree stump, masturbating beside a nature path."
The man was lying on a tree stump,
Masturbating beside a nature path,
His hand went thump, thump. . . thump, thump, thump.
To the beat of his maturbatory wrath.
Whilst nature's chipmunks, bunnies and birds,
Went merrily on their happy way,
The man spoke no uttered words,
He had nothing at all to say.
I'm trapped on the phone with IBM Help this morning. First, I incorrectly dialled, which led to a hysterical "WTF?" moment. Hey, quick homework assignment: try dialling 1-800-IBM-HELP, and see what happens. It will change your life, I promise. And it's TOLL FREE!
Are you back? Cool. Hope you had a good time.
Anyway, when I dialled the correct number, I was obviously routed through to India, where I was assisted by an Indian (dot, not feathers) who spoke far better English than I can speak, er. . . Indian? Nevertheless, it was still an Indian with a very thick accent, so the end result was me without my problem solved. So, I called again, and again I was routed on over to India, and again my problem remained unresolved due to the accent barrier.
The third time was the charm, as I was actually routed to a native English speaker, presumably here in America, who was able to fix my problem in under a minute.
I can't help but think there's a lesson in there. . . somewhere.
