If he were my friend, I would have called him "Blackie".
And that boy? His name was ogged.
Only the boys told him he sucked.
And the swimming? That's all of these strange new things going on with his body
And the boys were his mother.
.
And you would have never, ever forgiven yourself, Ben.
Chopper, I can't help you.
I don't know what you're talking about, ogged. It was your post.
No, I get it, Ogged.
Kids these days have fogotten how beneficient Spandax-related program teasing relatived activities can be for the oppressed.
Post title in honor of Times Week in Review recycling the "What's the matter with kids these days?" trope?
I'm trying to write a paper here, so the more you folks could comment and help me procrastinate, that'd be great.
Chopper,
Please provide an explanation for why it is that, when you ride your bike in the evening, your hands get cold—colder than they would if you walked. Your explanation must begin with the phrase "Back on the veldt".
Is that because you want an evolutionary biology story, or because you're hoping to make some kind of pun on velodrome?
I want an evolutionary biology story.
I've already come up with one, but I want Chopper's unique take.
Back on the veldt, my hands never got cold--duelling Cape Buffalo all day to practice for the World Freestyle Bullfighting championship keeps the blood up, what?
However, now that I am back in the States, and perambulate around town upon my motor-bicycle on a regular basis, I find myself faced with constant cold-handedness. Some might attribute such a state to my warm heart, others to my gloveless state and the cold air.
I, however, attribute it to the need to use my hands whilst pottering about on my metal steed. For certainly, while I walk my hands are free and toasty warm, kept firmly in the warm, slightly moist confines of w-lfs-n's mom's muff--the dear soul being kind enough to lend it to me, since Wolfon's pater wasn't using it.
I should have been clearer—why one's hands get cold.
There's an ineptitude, or perhaps infelicity, in your joke, you know; a woman's non-euphemistic muff is used by her herself, not by a man of her acquaintance, yet the reason you proffer for my mom's having given you the use of hers is that my father wasn't using it. It's a needless lack of grace.
I disagree. The lack of grace was quite needful. For, in order to follow the form of what the youth of today call "playing at twelves" or somesuch, one must offer the most ungentlemany opinions about one's fellow gentlemen's matriarchs. Can't be helped, old chum.
While I was travelling in Africa (on the veldt, don't you know), I met a marvellous tribe--the Ownzoori--and they taught me the art of this much-beloved cross-cultural means of communication. It pains me to inform you, old bean, that the first to complain of a wound suffered on the field of verbal battle suffers immediate defeat. And I repeat to you their ulullating cry of victory, purely for the sake of form and not from any harbored ill feeling:
Pwn!
You quite mistake my meaning, old chap. I meant nothing more than that the dozens, while executed as well as could be expected, was at odds with itself in conception, for its exoteric subject matter, a muff for a woman's own use, in which to warm her hands, and its esoteric, a woman's own muff, in which sexual congress is accomplished, are typically employed by different individuals; in the former case, the owner, in the latter, the leaser or (in your mother's case) the renter.
This inherent disharmony prevents the insult from being maximally artful.
Your lease/rental distinction strongly suggests that you view your parent's relationship as a longer-term, more formalized version of prostitution.
What with artificial insemination and in vitro fertalization, this post title is true.
It was late and I was tired.
I know how to spell.
I am not Michael.
Your lease/rental distinction strongly suggests that you view your parent's relationship as a longer-term, more formalized version of prostitution.
Yeah, I paused over that. Then I decided I was adopting a persona.
Aha! I see the cause of our misunderstanding. As w-lfs-n's father knows, his mother really does prefer to remain frigid. If she's not using it, why not make it available for the use of others?
Her willingness to lend her muff to me and let it out to the odd Chinee proprieter of opium dens should hardly come as a surpise, given her propensity for polishing the brass of all the fellows in town. Why, I don't believe I've ever met a more accomplished entreprenuer in the field of brass polishing. Knobs in doorways, knobs in cars--the shine she can put on a fellow's knob is truly extraordinary.
You see, that second paragraph was much better done.
Paper's done. Thanks for the procrastination assist!
Won't the pudgy swimming kid grow up feeling good about himself, thus losing the edge of bitterness and ressentiment that leads people to accomplish great things? American competitiveness was threatened enough already, without people going all feely-touchy with the nerds and geeks.
Won't the pudgy swimming kid grow up feeling good about himself, thus losing the edge of bitterness and ressentiment that leads people to accomplish great things?
You're missing the obvious explanation for why the cool kids were being nice: the fat kid is dying of something.
I don't know, Emerson. He still might consume a lot of healthcare on his way out...
w-lfs-n: a muff for a woman's own use
Allowing the little darlings free run now, are we?
ash
['Next it will be equipment for mechanical stimulation.']
Totally OT, but...I believe today is Apostroher's birthday, no?
If we could convince the swimming kid to opt for natural healing, the cost could be minimized.
Oddly enough, Medicare doesn't cover megadoses of garlic and grape juice.
today is Apostroher's birthday, no?
And mine, too.
Happy birthday; any plans to celebrate?
I believe Ben wishes you a happy birthday, as well.
Well, I'm getting to the age where they don't mean much any longer. The missus is cooking a special dinner and we'll open one of the bottles from deep in the back of the cellar.
Beyond that, just Monday Night Football.
For your birthday, some weird news. (I couldn't find a bacon-wrapped wine bottle.)
Never got around to wishing you happy bday, apo. Hope it was a good day.
Thanks, everybody. It was indeed a good day.