Belly up to the bar, friends. Let me pour you a large glass of what you've been missing if you're not plugged in to the Almost the Truth Publishing FaceBook page.
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a refund.
This status update is a lie.
Ain’t no sunshine when it’s night. Seldom dark during the day. Ain’t no sunshine when it’s night, and that’s not good for my sight. Guess I’ll just see in the day.
April 15…wasn’t there something important I was supposed to do today? Oh well…I’ll think of it tomorrow.
Look! I can tour farther. (Punny #StarWars reference)
I’m all about the bass…and the trout…and the walleye.
Indiana Jones, having gone vegan, at a backyard gathering of friends: “Steaks. Why did it have to be steaks?”
At what point in my past did I ever do anything so horrible as to deserve the burden of meatless lasagna?
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay, praying these splinters aren’t here to stay…
Don’t know whyyyyyy there’s no sun up in the skyyyyy…oh…it’s nighttime.
As the rabbi empty-handedly said to the priest on Easter, “Frankly, my peer, I don’t give a ham.”
Fie…wordakeen…udda four ehhhhhhhhhhfs…nahkween…nahdook…nahprints…
For every action, there’s an equal and…no…a doubled and opposite misinterpretation.
Said one Looney Tunes gladiator to another, "You got Fudd on your mace, you big disgrace."
Some people think Arby’s. Others contemplate malnourished insects tended to by Noah: Ark Thin Bees.
The love of algebra is the square root of all evil.
If you've been anywhere other than under a rock for the last few days, you know all about the ball-of-stuff-formerly-known-as-a-planet, Pluto, and how its years-in-the-making close-up fly-by by the unmanned spacecraft, New Horizons, is rocking the astronomical world.
You know that if Earth was the size of a basketball, Pluto would be the size of a golf ball.
You know that it takes five hours for the radio signals from New Horizons to get to Command Central.
You know that it takes 100 times longer for its data to download than your phone modem took to buffer its way through a secret Napster acquisition.
However...
What I read in Thursday morning's paper...being passed off matter-of-factly as a commonly-accepted matter of fact...is something I don't think any person on this planet can actually know.
In the thrillingly-headlined piece by the Associated Press' Marcia Dunn, Peaks on Pluto are Rocky Mountain high; Charon has canyons, Dunn states...
The zoom-in of Pluto, showing an approximately 150-mile swath of the dwarf planet, reveals a mountain range about 11,000 feet high and tens of miles wide. Scientists said the peaks - seemingly pushed up from Pluto's subterranean bed of ice - appeared to be a mere 100 million years old. Pluto itself is 4.5 billion years old.
I open the paper and read that and just go...
To be, relatively, right there with scientific measuring instruments and still only be able to say the mountains are "about 11,000 feet high," but in the same breath declare the whole planet's age ... I mean ... seriously ... how ... what...?!!?
Beloved and I took a quick trip to Hoosierland recently so I could visit my mom, SweaterGal. I hadn't been back home since FlatulenceKing passed away, and it was just a good idea to get away from The Job Search and spend time with her for a few days.
It's funny what can happen to good ideas.
We thought it would be a good idea to take our two grandsons, SkittleKid and MrSquishy, with us...along with their mother, AngelFace, of course. You know...let great-grandma see the little bruisers and get reacquainted with the joys of sibling rivalry.
Have I mentioned that, on a good day, it's a ten-hour drive to the Indiana homestead?
Add to that normal drive time emergency rest stops ("I have to go NOW! I can't wait! Ican'twaitIcan'twaitIcan'twait!!!"), leg stretching ("Get...me...OUT of this seat! Arrrrrrr! Uhhhhhhh! I...can't...stand...UP!!!"), and the Clean Air Act-required disposal of well-filled diapers, and the trip took more like three days.
Which left us four hours to swelter in the 86-degree norm that spells comfort for SweaterGal in her very own home.
There was a brief respite though, when AngelFace treated me to a belated Father's Day gift of a side trip to Skyline Chili. It was an extra 140-mile round-trip for her, SkittleKid, and me, but being able to introduce my first grandson to his first taste of Cincinnati-style chili was worth it.
Besides, it made the trip back to Minnesota so much nicer. SkittleKid just sat in his car seat, rubbing his tummy and licking his smiling lips as he savored the memory of the best cheese coney God ever brought into being.
"Let's do that AGAIN!"
Here I sit, on the cutting edge of popular culture, being very careful not to slip.
I saw the recently-trending Twitter hashtag, #MakeAMovieUnderwhelming, and my fertile mind started stinking to high heaven. Not wanting to be influenced by the mediocrity of the Twitterverse, I didn't actually click on or read anyone else's contributions, but decided to unleash my own concoctions upon an unsuspecting world.
Stand back, this isn't going to be pretty...
- Harry Potter and the 2nd Grader's Marble
- Harry Potter and the Small Closet of Rumors
- Harry Potter and the Azkaban Visitor Who Overstayed His Welcome
- Harry Potter and the Shot Glass of Gatorade
- Harry Potter and the Committee of the Phoenix
- Harry Potter and the One-Eighth Blood Duke
- Harry Potter and the Slightly Nauseating Hallows
- The Cat, the Sideshow Medium, and the Broom Closet
- Single Sapling Gump
- Star Disagreements Episode One: Phantom Irritation
- Star Disagreements Episode Two: Phone Prank of the Clones
- Star Disagreements Episode Three: (Montezuma's) Revenge of the Sick
- Misplaced With the Slight Breeze
- The Wizard of Odd
- Guardians of the Garage
And yes...I realize that making Episode One of Star Wars underwhelming is just being redundant.
I took MarcoSansPolo (MSP), the small, canine-like creature that shares our living space, to a large-box pet-needs store in order to save a little money on vaccinations for the little goober.
Savings were enjoyed, and the whole excursion went without incident, other than worrying about whether the Great Dane behind us in line was drooling as part of its normal dental hygiene or in anticipation of having MSP as a morning snack...or ME as a morning snack...or both of us.
While waiting to be called to a kiosk - where we would be allowed the privilege of getting in line in order to wait for the actual collection of shots and minor swear words that constitute a vaccination - MSP and I were browsing through the large-box pet-needs store and enjoying the brightly-colored displays of squeaky toys, rawhide bones, and various unidentifiable pig parts.
Then I saw it.
There was a display dedicated to tasty treats suitable for bribing a dog to sit, roll over, and/or play poker. I could hardly believe the variety of flavors being offered:
- Chicken & Brown Rice
- Beef & Potato
- Lamb & Apples
- Beef Meatballs
- Chicken Sausages
- Salmon & Potato
- Blueberry & Yogurt
And no...I did not make up any of those.
What with all the news about Bruce Jenner now being Caitlyn, I'm wondering how many headlines I'd be in if I decided to become trans-species. I'd be willing to fetch a few thrown sticks in return for mesquite-smoked bison jerky.
Congratulate me.
Well, not just me, but everybody in these here parts who have just survived another life-threatening period of time in the Upper Midwest.
Yes, it's true...we've just made it through the annual spring ritual known as Graduation Open House Season.
Back home in Indiana...at least back when my siblings and I all ended our high school careers...graduating from high school wasn't considered a very big deal. Almost everybody did it. I mean, if you just showed up often enough the principal eventually got tired of seeing you, handed you a piece of paper and told you to get out.
But in Minnesota, it is considered a great accomplishment...along the lines of devising a safe way to transport plutonium...for anyone under the age of 23 to be given a high school diploma.
It must be thought of as a spectacular feat, judging from the time and expense put into each graduate's neighborhood-wide celebration known as an Open House.
It all starts with a complete remodeling of the family's home. If a room isn't added, then at least the kitchen will be re-tiled and double-paned windows installed. This doesn't make a whole lot of sense, though, because the only people who will actually see the inside of the house during the "open house" are immediate family members and the catering crew. Everyone else will be sitting or standing in the yard or driveway, under a rented canopy. Or, if the weather turns bad, gathered in the garage...which has had its floor steam-cleaned and its contents moved to a storage unit in North Dakota.
Cakes will be decorated, fatted calves will be sacrificed, bands will be hired, and engraved invitations will be sent. Make no mistake. We. Will. Celebrate. This. Graduation.
At this point, the alert reader will be wondering, "What's so all-fire 'life-threatening' about this?" That's because I haven't told you about the food.
When you are invited to a graduation open house in Minnesota, you are expected to 1) bring a card with a check payable to the graduate inside of it; and 2) leave weighing 15 pounds more than when you arrived.
Really, that's the expectation. The invitations specifically ask you to come and eat their food...and they usually describe the food to be ingested with the gusto of the head waiter at Chateau le Bombaste.
Menus include tacos, pulled pork sandwiches, barbecued chicken, macaroni and cheese in individual cups, waffles, 12-foot subs, baked potatoes, a Chinese buffet, leg of lamb, and truffles from Upper Mongolia. And don't even get me started on the dessert tables.
And then at the NEXT house...
Oh yes, I didn't tell you yet. Because of my involvement at church and with Giant Step Theatre, I get invited to 87 of these things a year...which means on an average weekend in June, I have to drag myself through 17 of these extravaganzas.
Life is good.
It's true...I still find myself in a time of job transition...going from over seven years as a technical writer with the world's second-largest computer network to...well...whatever's next.
But here in the gap, I am employed part-time in the wonderful world of retail. Specifically, I am working at a Christian bookstore, to be referred to in these here parts as JesusWorld.
The books offered for sale at JesusWorld are arranged in several different sections: Christian Living, Devotional, Rumors and Hearsay, etc.
The book pictured in the following picture can be found in our "Current Issues" section.
I have at least two points to make about this:
1) I suppose that 2012 is "current" in the year 2015...compared to the 2,000-year-old Bibles we sell.
2) I'm thinking a person doesn't need to read this book in order to know the answer to its title's question is "No, it wasn't."
And an extra thought...anyone who would actually buy this book at this point should be flogged with something dull and pointless.
