Bad news first: my gerbil had a stroke this morning and is on his way out, so there isn’t going to be a Moral Guide today.
The good news is that all next week is going to be Guest Week for the Guide to Moral Living in Examples! I have an array of talented writers to supply you with examples on how to live morally, in case I’ve missed any big ones.
My kittens helped me to discover a major flaw in my computer hair removal routine, mostly by overloading the inside of my computer case with their astronomically high weight/hair ratio. Their hair, when combined with the vortices and air channels through my computer, knit a fine sweater for my processor.
Unfortunately, my processor is 100% grade-A American man, and he’s never once been too cold in a room. This is the sort of man that lives on steaks and when his girlfriend puts her cold hands on him she has to go to the hospital for that shit where you heat a frostbitten body part up too fast, and then when they get to the hospital he eats another steak, served to him by his cardiologist.
My friends, wife and I planted a garden this weekend. We put in two 6×10 plots and filled them with yellow onions, garlic, chard, sugar snap peas, and hot peppers of some description. According to a label written by a friend, we’re also growing hamburger trees.
And the fucker bought the hamburger tree seeds whose fruit has fresh onions, not grilled onions. I hate fresh onions on hamburgers. Joke’s on him, I’m not sharing the bounty of my french fry plant.
I also have a project in the works that, while it probably won’t titillate, might capture your attention for three or so seconds, and that’s enough time to implant a latent neuron-pulverizing hook for a pop song.
Like I just did.
I seem to have adhered to a bag-related theme for the last two Friday posts. Maybe because people’s bags are full of their most personal effects. What speaks more volumes about a person than what they choose to carry on their person? Like any other sartorial cue, a person’s bag tells us about themselves. A bag overflowing with muddy wrenches makes us think plumber. You follow fashion if you’ve got the latest couture purse. Artists have to carry those huge, flat bags.
Each trinket, whether it’s a wrench, a tube of lipstick, or a crusty vial of paint is a verb. It tells us what that person does. Nothing in a bag, even if they’re an artist, is meant to be held up and admired as a piece unto itself. Each object is functional.
Bags are often full of mysterious lint or awesome trinkets as well. Here’s a cell phone with a picture of the owner standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Now you know that they traveled to France, assbag. But what contains the cell phone can say even more about the owner.
Bags say a lot about who we are and aren’t just important for what’s inside of them. They’ve destroyed shambling entities from dimensions most foul and eaten people on the metro.
They also hit me in the nuts because of a height mismatch between myself and my wife.
And that, my friends, is the story of why Coach bags can all go to hell.
Spent Christmas at the bed and breakfast that I mentioned in my previous post. We arrived a bit after seven on Christmas Eve and me, being the mastermind that I am, not only didn’t make reservations but also didn’t check to see if any restaurants were open. Luckily we not only found an open restaurant but they
All in all, I feel like this experience validated my shitty planning skills.
On Christmas Day, which is also my wife’s birthday, we had an excellent breakfast and then farted around watching HGTV (I never want to see someone with a $500k budget for a vacation house complain about money ever again) and TLC (some sort of wedding dress shopping show). We intended to go see a movie that evening, but I’m brilliant and ALSO DIDN’T PRINT OUT A MAP TO THE THEATER. We ended up having a brief recap of our days living in the Northwest suburbs. We drove around on snowy streets and almost got rammed by tiny dicks steering big cars. We ended the evening by stopping at a 7-11 and getting some snacks to go along with our Christmas chocolates and wine.
Unfortunately, the big old house wasn’t haunted by anything other than some critter that skibbled through the ceilings in the middle of the night, but I did accidentally take a ghost picture of myself.
My ass is a ghost and it's haunting my ass
Tomorrow is Christmas and so I don’t feel like it will be a good day to give a Moral Example. If you’ve been bad, Santa and his CCT (Closed Circuit Telepathy) know it so there isn’t much to be done. Maybe next year if you actually use these Moral Examples as a guide to your behavior, you’ll get that set of Fondue forks that you’ve always wanted. Next year.
My wife and I are dodging the entire Christmas bullet and spending her birthday at a bed & breakfast. I have a pile of Christmas chocolates and she has a few bottles of wine. We each bring something to the table. I don’t believe the B&B has an internet connection available and I definitely don’t have a laptop. The plus side of not having an internet connection is that I’ll be able to catch up on some reading. I’m partways into Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth and Travis got me a copy of the Dragonlance Annotated Legends. I’m looking forward to it because I understand that there is very little Tanis involved.
Happy Holidays!
Two Sundays ago my wife and I attended the Feast of the Hunter’s Moon, a reenactment centered around Fort Ouiatenon near what is now West Lafayette, Indiana.
My wife is a fearsome seamstress. I’ve posted before about the brown linen suit that she hand sewed for me. I marveled and squealed with joy. It is without a doubt the finest piece of clothing that I own and, honestly, the most meaningful because she made it for me. Then I went ahead and ruined everything.
Getting farby with my bad self
I also took the opportunity to pose for a real picture. Rest assured, I don’t have my union-made Chuck Taylor knockoffs on in this photo, but rather undersized moccasins.
Look at how serious I can be
My wife, for whom accuracy is more important than sleep or sanity, made sure that we were correctly dressed for the period. Others do not share her priorities. There were some at the Feast who had unassailable vêtements, like a total badass Scottish officer and a handful of voyageurs. The fife and drum corps were generally okay, helped by the spats and mud covering their modern shit-kicker boots.
Another sector chose neither their everyday clothing or historically correct clothing, and instead opted for leather fringe. Lots and lots of leather fringe. I’d imagine that you could throw a herd of cattle into an industrial cheese grater and have less leather fringe on your hands than what I saw at the Feast. And that’s just what was visible.
I also was told that I looked like Heath Ledger again, which threw me because I figured that the 18th century costume would interfere with the resemblance. Then my wife pointed out that he was in The Patriot and it made more sense.
Overall, though, a terrific time was had by all. Especially by me, because by the Feast’s close one of the food merchants was selling bowls of ham & beans for a dollar and shit yeah I want some ham & beans for a dollar.