The simile defense?

This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I've ever heard any lawyer, real or fictional, say:

Barrett’s comments were taken out of context, said his lawyer, Peter
Marano.

“Officer Barrett did not call professor Gates a jungle monkey or malign him
racially,” Marano said. “He said his behavior was like that of one. It was a
characterization of the actions of that man.”

Yeah. I don't even know how to make fun of that, since it pretty much makes fun of itself. What can I add? Anyway, here's his precious context:

In Barrett’s e-mail, which was posted on a Boston television station’s Web
site, he declared that if he had “been the officer he verbally assaulted like a
banana-eating jungle monkey, I would have sprayed him in the face with OC
(oleorosin capsicum, or pepper spray) deserving of his belligerent
non-compliance.”

Barrett used the “jungle monkey” phrase four times, three times referring
to Gates and once referring to Abraham’s writing as “jungle monkey
gibberish.”

Not really sure how putting it back in context helps here....

(Excerpts are from this CNN story.)

The Mentee

        "Watch it, Agnes," said Captain Marvell, "you're letting paint drip on the cat there." And indeed she was, as Agnes herself saw when she looked down from her easel. Oops.

        "Oh well," she said, "it's not my cat. Nor is it yours, so let's just keep it between us, eh?" The formerly grey, now grey-with-tangerine-spots cat slunk around under Agnes's chair in a figure eight, brushing up against each leg of the chair in a manner so methodical as to suggest a higher intelligence. Or a very low one—Agnes couldn't decide. "Whose kitty are you?" she said, and the animal quickly took leave of them, vanishing into the high grass that surrounded the lake.

        Agnes glanced at the Captain's easel. It seemed he was almost finished. He'd rendered the lake, the sun, the clouds, the flowers, the house in the distance, the electrical substation, even the billboard over by the highway, in photographic detail. Agnes looked at her own work. So far she'd only managed to paint the sun, which filled most of the canvas. The Captain noticed this and politely suggested she leave the sun as it was, as she'd come as close to perfection in painting it as one who had never been to art school could hope to come. Besides, she was using so much of the various shades of yellow and orange in her supply that she soon might not have enough left for other details of the picture requiring those colors.

        "Why don't you try starting on the lake," the Captain gently suggested. "Only don't use so much paint. You're really slathering it on there." And indeed she was, as Agnes herself saw when she sat back in her chair and appraised from this slight but considerable distance the soup of yellow-orange swirls in front of her. "I think it could be better..." she said.

        Captain Marvell knew from the intensity of her gaze upon the painting that any further attempt to intervene would be futile. He allowed her to proceed, but kept a watchful eye. After a few brief but sharply focused moments of concentration, Agnes leaned in with her brush and began to paint a long, curving streak of yellow jutting out from the massive churning sphere. The Captain was confused, but he kept his mouth shut. Then, with a pang of alarm, he realized this must be an early sign of senility in poor, stubborn Agnes.

        "Now for the spots," she said, reaching for a tube of black paint.

        Spots? On the sun? Captain Marvell shook his head, sighed, and resolved to provide her with the best doctors money could buy.

Happy Birthday

In which I add funny captions to old yearbook photos from the 50s

Most likely to work in the Apollo program

Most likely to sell you something for more than it's really worth

Most likely to be severely beaten by a motorcycle gang after inadvertently looking at the gang leader's girlfriend in just the wrong way

Most likely to... I... I can't—this is just... this is just too creepy. Wow.

Anyone want to write me a recommendation letter? It's okay if you don't know me, just make something up.

Christian Hawkey

Self-appointed poetic enforcers over at Silliman's blog may not want you to read Christian Hawkey, but that's probably because they don't like Silliman and will object to anything he likes no matter what. Fact is, Christian Hawkey's pretty awesome. And I do check my facts. Take a look:

Underwhelmed by Cathedrals

        After visiting, for no reason that he could identify, Seattle's St. James Cathedral one slight spring day of a recent gray-blue year, Chad sat down on the front steps and wondered if what he was sitting on could be called a "stoop". Deciding that it could, but only when no one was looking, he went on to wonder why he had felt so underwhelmed by the cathedral. It was supposed to be overwhelming. All cathedrals were. And this was one of the largest west of the Mississippi. Though he was not religious—this was his first visit to a cathedral—he had wanted to be at least whelmed, if not overwhelmed, by the alleged grandeur of the cathedral. "Exquisite grandeur", he had been promised. But while he appreciated the feats of engineering and artistry that were everywhere apparent, Chad just wasn't all that impressed. He wasn't moved.
        Not wanting to go through life without ever experiencing the unparalleled majesty supposedly inherent in and unique to all cathedrals, Chad rose from the steps and embarked on a sightseeing trip that he privately referred to as "Chad's American Cathedrals Tour 2009". Starting with another Seattle cathedral, St. Mark's Episcopal, he continued on to Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels in Los Angeles, St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans, Washington National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., New York's St. Patrick's Cathedral and Cathedral of St. John the Divine, and finally Boston's redundantly named Cathedral Church of St. Paul. It was this last cathedral that Chad found the most underwhelming of all.
        He had still not found a cathedral that moved him, and now he was nearly out of money. Dejected, he wandered the streets of Boston until the sun, which had gone down, came up. After a merely "okay" waffle, sausage, and cup of coffee at a diner, Chad took up a position on the shoulder of a nearby highway, thumb raised high. Within two weeks he was back home, back to his old job in data processing, and life resumed as normal.
        When I asked him why he felt the need to confess all this to me, he shrugged and said, "I don't know, Father. Just felt like you should know."
        "You know, you haven't done anything wrong," I said.
        He only breathed.
        I continued, "Well, did you experience any... unusual feelings, at all, on your trip?"
        "Yeah," he said. "I experienced heartburn after I ate that sausage." The sarcasm in Chad's voice was unmistakable. Even less mistakable was the sound of him storming out of the confessional. I was sad that I couldn't help him, but hey, what are you gonna do.

Not me:

After my first visit to the dentist in nine years, I find I have my first cavity. To be filled anon. Oh well. Could have been worse. See above. Or, see below to see that mouth in action...

Milo's Conscience

        Milo and Marjorie were browsing the dreary aisles of Jay Joe's Country Store, down by the river.

        "Do you think Jesse might be prevailed upon to drive us to the lake tomorrow?" said Milo, setting down the Jig-A-Whopper fishing lure he'd been turning over in his hand as if he actually knew enough to evaluate it.

        "Depends if we can tear him away from his jai alai semi-final," said Marjorie, unwrapping a Snickers. "You know he's been looking forward to it all week."

        "Aw hell. I forgot." Milo turned to the clerk and asked, "Is there a pharmacy around here?" Marjorie gave Milo a puzzled look. "I need to refill my Zovirax," he told her.

        "There's one in the Wal-Mart up the road here," said the clerk. "That's probably the closest one, I think."

        "Why can't he just TiVo it?" said Milo in regard to Jesse's jai alai match. Jesse was elsewhere at the moment, as he tended often to be. Probably sowing seeds of discord in some drafty tavern.

        Marjorie hadn't finished being puzzled about Milo's pills. "What's that Zo... stuff you—"

        Before she could finish, Milo's cellphone rang. The ringtone, Oingo Boingo's "Only a Lad", told him the call was from his wife, Griselda. "It's the boss," he said, which caused Marjorie to snort. He stepped outside to take the call.

        Polishing off her Snickers, Marjorie leaned over the counter and confided to the clerk: "What a piece of work, this guy..." She shook her head ruefully, but with a note of sympathy—or empathy, it was hard to tell.

        "What do you mean?" said the clerk.

        "Did you see the news about the disaster yesterday?"

        "Oh yes. It was all over the news. That was some disaster."

        "Welp, he caused it." Marjorie pointed to Milo, visible through the store's front window, pacing around the parking lot, phone to his ear, gesticulating.

        "No shit..." said the clerk, in a state of slack-jawed wonder so profound that he would not speak again for one week, save for the single word he uttered next: "Motherfucker."

        "Yeah. All those people. A real shame. And now here he is next day walkin' around like nothing happened."

        Marjorie and the clerk watched Milo in silence. An orange-and-white cat patrolled the store's outside perimeter.

Charlene

        The thrill of the hunt was what kept Julius interested in Charlene. Charlene herself, well, Julius didn't really give a rat's ass about her one way or the other. She was not substantially different from any other wild boar, he figured. And yet he had named her, an admittedly odd thing for a hunter to do. But this was more to elevate and romanticize himself, in a weird way. Don't ask me to explain it. It's something only a true hunter can understand. Julius's futile desire to be a true hunter was the main thing I liked about him as a human being.
        As the sun crested the hill on which he was sitting with an empty coffee cup in his clenched fist and a rifle across his lap, Julius waited for some sign of Charlene, his eyes unblinking and glassy. He'd been waiting there for years. I'm afraid the thrill was starting to get to him.

The Unicycle and the Other Unicycle

        It was July—everything was. Exhausted Beverly had just crossed Bleecker on her unicycle when she realized hydration was becoming an issue. She rolled up to a street vendor, purchased a bottled water, and proceeded to chug the whole thing right there, all without dismounting her unicycle. The vendor clearly was impressed. "Where did a fetching young lass like you learn to ride one of those?" he asked, in a hybrid Indian/Scottish accent. Beverly smiled and directed the vendor's attention to the writing on her t-shirt: "Scott Johnson Unicycle Academy, Middletown NY." The vendor looked thunderstruck. "You know Scott Johnson?" he said. "I did, once. Not anymore. You heard what happened to him, didn't you? Could I have another one, please?" The vendor handed her another bottle from his cooler. "No," he said, "what?" Beverly sighed, shrugged, and drank, sipping rather than chugging this time. "I'm not sure. I've been looking for him ever since our houseboat capsized." The vendor (whose name, incidentally, was Raj) gasped. "We weren't home at the time," Beverly reassured him, "but I'm afraid it might have had something to do with—"

        She stopped. A small crowd, mostly tourists by the looks of them, had started to gather round, entranced by the sight of a blonde beauty balanced on a unicycle on 7th Avenue. Not wanting to divulge her story to these strangers, she quickly poured the rest of the water over her head and sped off, but not without a grateful smile for the vendor. "In another time, another place..." the smile seemed to say. (The smile also made him forget that she had neglected to pay for the water.) 

        When the vendor arrived home that night, he made love to his wife with wild abandon. His wife (whose name, incidentally, was Nell) remarked afterward on the unprecedented passion her husband had displayed. Raj, the vendor, merely smiled and said goodnight. An hour later, his wife asleep, Raj tiptoed over to the closet, pulled the cord for the light, and rummaged around until he had found what he was looking for: the unicycle he'd brought from Glasgow, a family heirloom going back four generations. "Hello, old friend," he said. 

Two Forks Instead of One

        Archibald Ainsworth, aged 5 and one-third, had started using two forks at supper instead of one. By holding one fork in each hand, alternating with each bite, he hoped to finish his roast beef in half the time. When his mother, Abigail, who always cut his meat for him, noticed this latest in a long series of peculiar habits, she thought little of it, assuming it was a phase. And whether it was a phase or not, there didn't seem to be any harm in it—who knows, she thought, maybe the child was on to something. Maybe one really could cut one's suppertime in half by using two forks instead of just one, a technique heretofore untried in all of Western history, for all she knew. And if indeed it could be done, imagine the rewards this benefit to society would bring! Scholarships, donations, parades—no, no parades, that's silly, she mustn't be too prideful, Abigail reminded herself—oh!—but it was even possible that her son's patented bi-forked dining method would come to be known by his very name—"Ainsworthing", it would be called, perhaps shortened, in time, to "sworthing" (or "swerthing" in America). "To sworth", the textbooks would read, "is to save time at supper by using two forks instead of one. The technique is named for its inventor, Tory MP Sir Archibald Ainsworth, who was felled by an assassin's bullet on Novem—" Good lord! Abigail dropped her knitting and ran out of the house, screaming, "Archie! My Archie! They're going to kill my baby! Oh!"

FAKE!

According to a Spanish newspaper, this famous photo was staged:

"Capa photographed his soldier at a location where there was no fighting," wrote Barcelona-based newspaper El Periodico which carried out a study of the photograph taken in September 1936, the third month of the war.

The so-called "falling soldier" photo was not taken near Cerro Muriano in the southern Andalusia region, as has long been claimed, but about 50 kilometres (30 miles) away near the town of Espejo, the newspaper said.

Well what do you know. The message of this photo was always "war is bad", and it turns out to be fake; I guess that means war isn't so bad after all. What a relief!

The Divorce

        Roderick took a seat in front of Mr. Griesling's desk. Mr. Griesling took his own seat behind it and leaned back into the chair as if pulled by a magnet. As if there were a magnet in the chair and another magnet in Mr. Griesling. As if both Mr. Griesling and the chair were themselves magnetic.

        No. No, that's not right at all. Two magnets would repel each other, of course. No, it was not as if both the chair and Mr. Griesling were magnetic. It was as if one of them were magnetic, and the other... subject to magnetism? Is there a word for that?

        Mr. Griesling opened his mouth to speak but sneezed instead, much to his surprise. It didn't surprise Roderick, however, who had an uncanny ability to sense when someone was about to sneeze. Not just someone nearby, but someone anywhere in the world. Needless to say, he scarcely went one moment of his life without enduring a barrage of extrasensory sneeze perceptions. It amounted to a white noise he had learned to ignore, much as those who suffer from tinnitus learn to cope with their affliction.

        With a "Gesundheit" or "God bless you" always at the ready, Roderick only got as far as "G-" when Mr. Griesling interrupted with, "Goodness gracious! I don't know where that came from. Wait—is that a wool sweater you're wearing?"

        "Well, it's more of a sweatshirt, really. I think it's... cotton?"

        "That's what it is. Must be. I'm allergic to cotton."

        "Oh. Should I... take it off, or...?"

        "No, no. Forget it. I'll be alright. But let's be brief, if we can. How can I help you today, Mr. Swarts?"

        "Well, your specialty is divorce, right?"

        "That is mainly what we do here, yes."

        "Well, I'd like a divorce."

        "I see. And how long have you been married? Ha-choo!"

        "God bless you. I'm not married."

        "I see."

        "Yes."

        "But you want a divorce."

        "Yes. Can you do it?"

        "Of course. Ha-choo! But it will cost extra."

        "Gesundheit. Um... how much extra?"

        Mr. Griesling stood and turned his back to Roderick as he sneezed yet again and blew his nose into the tissue he'd pulled from his hip pocket. Folding the tissue and returning it to his pocket, he began to pace. "Well," he said, "if you want a divorce, you'll need to get married first, right? And if you want to get married we'll need to find you a girlfriend, yes?" Roderick agreed, and nodded to indicate this. Mr. Griesling continued, "Now the dating scene these days can be a real horrorshow, take it from me. How do you feel about dating?"

        Roderick considered it and decided, "Yeah. I could do that."

        "You feel good about your chances?"

        "I could try. I could definitely—"

        "Because, see, my only concern here is that we waste time sending you on a lot of unsuccessful dates before you ever find someone willing to marry you. If you find someone at all. Ha-choo! And the cost of all these dates would add up, would really cost you."

        "God bless you." Roderick appreciated the lawyer's pragmatic viewpoint and concern for Roderick's finances.

        "My recommendation is—ha-choo!—my recommendation is an arranged marriage. Arranged, preferably, in childhood, by your and your future bride's parents."

        "Oh, but—Gesundheit—but my parents never arranged a marriage for me. And they couldn't now if they wanted to—they disappeared when I was ten."

        "Or did they?" said Mr. Griesling. He raised a finger to his lips.

        "What?" said Roderick.

        "Ha-choo! Oh, nothing. Well, that rules out arranged marriage...." Mr. Griesling sat down again, leaned forward confidentially. "There is another option."

        Roderick waited.

        "Kid—ha-choo!—kidnapping."

        "Excuse me?"

        "We kidnap someone to be your wife. Risky, of course. Illegal. Morally reprehensible. We could both end up spending the rest of our lives in prison.... But! If we're successful in getting you married before you're caught, I'm sure you'd have no problem getting divorced in short order. What woman wants to be married to a violent felon, after all?"

        "I think, uh"—Roderick got up to leave—"I think I'd—"

        "Ha-choo!"

        "God bless you. I th—"

        "Ha-choo!"

        "I think I'll—I think I'll think about it. God bless you." Roderick turned and strode toward the door.

        "Wait!" cried Mr.—"Ha-choo!"—Mr. Griesling. "We, we haven't even talked about the wedding yet! Ha-choo! Think—ha-choo!—think of it! All the guests—ha-choo!—the, the cake!—ha-choo! ha-choo!—the bridesmaids, th—ha-choo!—the church, oh—ha-choo!—how beautiful it would be! Mr. Swarts! Roderick! Ha-choo! Come—ha-choo!—back—ha-choo!—Mr.—ha-choo!—Swarts! Ha-choo! Ha-choo! Ha-choo! Ha-choo! Ha-choo! .... Ha-choo! Ha-choo! .... Ha-choo! .... Ha-choo! .... Ha-choo! .... Ha—"

        But Roderick was long gone, and the office was left to the porcine hulk of Mr. Griesling, slumped over his desk, unconscious.

        The autopsy would prove inconclusive.

Troo story

Today I woke up and found that the ring and pinky fingers on my left hand were missing, gnawed off by rodents, I assumed. Or maybe I had chewed them off myself? Whatever the cause, I wasn't too alarmed. I accepted the situation. There was no blood or pain, the stumps looked as if they'd healed a long time ago, so with no emergency to attend to, I simply resigned myself to a life with two amputated fingers.

Then I really woke up and actually held my hand in front of my face to make sure the fingers were still there. When I saw that they were, I was relieved.

So some people are complaining about how the Kindle will make it impossible for them to show off what book they're reading in public the way they've always been able to on the train or in the coffeeshop or whatever. And other people are complaining that those people are snobs and isn't it a good thing that this showing off won't go on anymore. Putting aside the silliness of the idea that these stupid Kindles will replace books, what is the big deal about reading good books in public? Why does everyone so cynically assume that people do it to show off? If I want to read Infinite Jest on the subway, what am I supposed to do, wrap the cover in plain brown paper? Come on. This is crazy. Why should people be ashamed of having good taste? Why should people be ashamed of anything they're reading?

(P.S. Death to Kindle. Thank you.)

Great conversation about comedy between two masters. This is part 1 of 6. You can follow the links back to YouTube to see the rest.

The Pelican

        The pelican in Mikhail's bathroom had not been trained to use the toilet. It was a wild pelican, of that Mikhail was sure. There had to be another explanation for its presence. Mikhail watched from down the hall as the pelican stood motionless on the toilet's lid. It seemed to be waiting for something. Perhaps it was waiting for an understanding of how to use the toilet. How long would it wait? It had been there for forty-five minutes already, at least. Who knows how long it had been there before Mikhail discovered it?

        He thought of calling someone, but his phone was in the kitchen, and he didn't want to lose sight of the pelican for even a few seconds. To lose sight of the pelican would be to lose sight of the only beautiful thing he'd seen since his wife and daughter had gone missing, years ago. He hoped the pelican would remain where it was, bathed in bright bathroom light, indefinitely.

Osbert's Boxes

        Osbert needed help moving some boxes. I had been moving boxes for the greater part of my adult life, so I offered the help he needed. When the fateful day arrived, I walked over to Osbert's residence and knocked on the door. Once inside, I accepted his kind offer of a root beer. While he went to the kitchen to fetch it, I took myself on a tour around the living room, which I'd never seen before from the inside. It was my first time in the house, even though I'd lived next door for several years. It was filled with personal belongings.

        Well, not filled, as in "filled to the brim"; there was room to walk around. I didn't mean to imply that he was a pack rat. I'm sorry.

        But there were a fair number of belongings. The usual things—furniture, other objects.

        Osbert reappeared and handed me a cold root beer—homemade, apparently. It tasted like no root beer I'd ever sampled. Osbert himself drank an Ovaltine.

        "That looks delicious," I said. Late afternoon sunlight was doing its best to illuminate the scene.

        "Oh, would you have preferred one yourself?" Osbert seemed genuinely alarmed and concerned for my comfort. I was quick to reassure him that root beer was just my thing, and that this particular root beer was miles beyond what I'd assumed was possible to do with root beer, taste-wise. Osbert, relieved, smiled, and we toasted and drank.

        "So, Osbert," I said, "how long have you been drinking Ovaltine?"

        Osbert frowned. "Osbert?" said Osbert. "My name is Lance...."

        "Your name is Lance?" I said. Osbert nodded. "Why did I think it was Osbert?"

        "Couldn't say," Lance chuckled. He looked younger now, closer to my age. I was rounding the final turn on my thirty-eighth year.

        I offered a shrug and a chuckle of my own to close out this train of conversation for now. I would put off any doubts until later. There were boxes to be moved, and where was this daylight disappearing to? I said, "So. Boxes."

Americans "marry other species" according to Fox News dude

A NATURAL SURFACE


When grass listens, I stand up.
It's the least I can do
Not to cough up a lung.
There will be opportunities
For that later. Looks like
Someone brought a hacky sack.
A footbag of dubious vintage,
An aberration. It carries with it
A vague uninterpretability, a
Sense of benevolent law and
Munificent order.
Not since the moon has a sphere
So guileless entered our lives.

How can this be??

I like to say I divide my time between AM and PM, but today I'm dividing my time with AM/PM, the book, that is, by Amelia Gray. I've just read a few of the pieces in the book, but I like it already. Part of why I like it is because it doesn't care what genre it is. On the cover, instead of "AM/PM: stories" or "AM/PM: prose poems" or whatever, we have "AM/PM: a book". I've never seen that before. "A book." I wish I saw it more often.

A Humble Proposition: A Theory of Itself: A Call for Dialogue

The importance of what I'm about to say here lies, it seems to me, in its refusal to be denied. That is, if we are to accept its importance, we must first admit its importance, and thereby accept its reality. It is real, it seems to me, which is why, in order for it to flourish, we must not deny that it is real. To do so would only encourage its deniability, a quality we have already established it does not have. Furthermore, if we are to learn from this, we must not shy away from what it means. Namely, that its importance is vital to our understanding of it, and that our understanding of it is vital to its importance. Lest you doubt the validity of this proposition, let me state that what I'm saying is undeniable. This quality, having been clearly and irrefutably established, cannot be denied its importance. Any attempt at such a denial would only prove its truth, which proof would thereby and furthermore prove its importance. Not only can its importance not be denied, the proof of itself and the proof of its importance are inseparable. Any attempt at separation would only serve as evidence that separation is impossible. It is just this form of denial that has been attempted countless times in the past to no avail. If we are to move forward, we must refrain from not advancing. We must avail ourselves of everything it has to offer, not least of which is its proven quality of undeniability. This quality will sustain it far into the future, regardless of any attempt to refute it.

The question is, now that its importance, its undeniability, the undeniability of its importance, and the importance of its undeniability have all been proven, we must ask ourselves, where do we go from here? Do we stay where we are, or do we do something different? Do we remain in this condition, or do we change? Do we refrain from alteration, or do we avoid standing still? These questions can only be answered if we take a look at why such questions are necessary. First, it is undeniable that these questions are essential. Their essentiality lies, it seems to me, in their necessity, which in turn is the source of their importance. This may be obvious enough, but what may not be immediately clear at first glance is that the necessity of their importance lies not in their essentiality alone, but in their undeniability. From here we can safely assume that such undeniability is itself undeniable, a quality which sets it apart and serves as evidence of its own undeniable necessity. Secondly, these questions must be asked now because now, more than ever, is when these questions are critical. No progress can be made until these questions have been reckoned with, and their time, our time, of reckoning is at hand. Of this there can be no denial, and insofar as these questions can be answered, the answers will prove the questions. It is only by exploring these questions that we may be assured of the validity of their answers. To deny ourselves this exploration would be to do deny the essentiality of these questions. The importance of this cannot be overstated. Furthermore, proof of this importance cannot be denied, nor can be denied the importance of the essentiality of the proof of this importance. Finally, what we seek is not merely proof of these questions' undeniability, but proof that our search for this proof is not merely essential but also undeniably irrefutable.

Now then, as I have just demonstrated, there is much to be learned from what I have just demonstrated. It will be up to others to fully realize the importance of this, but that others will inevitably do so cannot be denied. To deny this would be to deny the importance of this, and to deny the importance of this would be to deny its own inherent undeniability, the evidence of which, in the face of what we can now see to be true, cannot be denied.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

THEY MEAN TO WIN WIMBLEDON

I'm up to page 161 in Infinite Jest. I've already lost track of where I'm supposed to be for #infsum. I'll probably still be reading it next summer.

Kenneth Koch lecture at Naropa, June 26, 1979

Just learned about this Archive.org site. Found the following. Always good to hear his voice....

LOOK HOW WIDE THIS T-SHIRT IS

IT GOES ALL THE WAY FROM ME TO THE DOOR

HOROSCOPE


What a pretty chart.
Can I get a what-what.
Here's what it looks like for me:

I woke up mad today,
Made a riskful offer,
Got an obstructed view.

You'd think with our proximity to Canada
That the coloured plaster will match.

We will see in a week
To a time we will not see,
Enjoying the cooler temperatures,
Hoping for that upgrade today,
Homer Simpson quotes to guide you
To a successful career. Don't know why,
Not what I expected. Wow...

Huge crowd on the hill.
Happy Canada Day.