Friday Ephemera (758)
The machine uprising, day 9. Previously. || Incoming. || In a choice of colours. || Lively scenes. || Pineapple sea cucumber. || The quiet part. || Snow clearing of note. || Neighbours of note. || Nommy-nommy-nom. || Modernity, baby. || She doesn’t want to give birth to any little Nazis, you see. || Take Me Out to the Ball Game. || I’m just going to leave this here, I think. || Venting stag. || Honey surplus. || The progressive retail experience, parts 614, 615, 616, and 617. || Dana is polyamorous. || The Life of the Private Eye, 1966. || The thrill of osteo-odonto keratoprosthesis, or tooth-in-eye surgery. || For likes. || Eight feet. || What fetish? || Mr Magee fell four miles without a parachute. || Space-saving innovation. || Safety first. || Here, have some faeces. || And finally, fun times for the weekend.
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Okay, but does he double dare Trump?
The official Top Ten Things
Who’s On First? the definitive performance
How many beatings will be needed to change her behavior?
Cheeky.
“Rapid unscheduled disassembly” is very unfortunate but a spectacular light show.
Veritable models of deportment.
[ comment deleted upon reflection ]
There should be a diminution of psychoses in the next generation.
Fascinated by the man with the bongo, one day I tracked it back to its original video. He’s singing “Ievan Polkka,” a Finnish folk song.
Here’s an a capella rendition by some Finns. And a video purporting to track the song’s evolution from 1953-2020.
Then the Kiffness gives it a go.
Here’s another view. Last time, the remnants streaked almost horizontally across the sky, but this time it’s more like a nebula. Probably from the spinning.
That’s equal parts sooper genius and eldritch body horror.
Brilliant.
Now THAT’s pronoun trouble.
Inverted boneless pineapple sea cucumber rectums.
Well, if you beat the shøt out of her . . .
David, from the other thread, what happens when people spend too much time on Reddit. Do we need to stage an intervention for you?
“Hypocrite! First remove the tooth from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”
A preview of Prince Harry’s wife’s new show.
Inverted boneless pineapple sea cucumber rectums.
But do mind the thorns
or tooth-in-eye surgery.
I can see clearly now
The dentist’s gone
I can see all opticals and tooth decay
So she’s saying she has sex with Nazis?
Morning, all.
You’ll never know the suffering I endure, heroically, to bring you these little fancies.
[ Slurps coffee. ]
The thought process is… intriguing.
As someone who takes a shortcut through Westfield on every office day (albeit very early, when the melanin-enriched are all sleeping off last night’s debauchery) this one hits pretty close to home!
Sounds better than fat, tattooed slag.
[ Rummages in pocket, slides single Nestlé Shreddie along bar to EmC. ]
Did someone say rectums…?
I’ll boil some water.
Hard pass.
It doesn’t really instil the feeling of, er, security one hopes for in that situation.
Safety first
Man, that’s sikh.
A preview of Prince Harry’s wife’s new show.
My television viewing presently is an episode per night of the old series NYPD Blue. But last night my husband wanted to retire early and so I decided to watch a little more television. I first put on Netflix’s documentary on the murder of Gabby Petito. Too slow – if everyone knows the outcome, a glacier buildup doesn’t bring suspense, it just drags.
Then I turned on With Love, Meghan, expecting a dumpster fire. No, it wasn’t a dumpster fire – rather, it was a performance of Sartre’s No Exit without the drama. It was like watching a bowl of plain vanilla ice cream melt. The banality. The boredom. The beige-ness. The realization that the California avatar must have a center part and beach waves, with any pony tail pulled high to mid-back of head. Do you remember the scene in The Big Lebowski where the Dude encounters Maude and her giggling gay friend, where she’s speaking rapidly in the phone in French (C’est rigolo!)? That was Meghan and her guest, Daniel Martin – only absent any comedic vibe.
Okay, I laughed when Meghan was cutting cherry tomatoes in half and casually told us that using “heirlooms” are fine, like, bitch, you think my local Kroger sells heirloom tomatoes and thanks for your permission to do that …
I can’t speak for the rest of it because I found myself fast-forwarding, and then gave up entirely. I currently am reading Simon Winchester’s Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded and with that and a small gin and tonic, snuggled in for some bedtime reading.
Shake your booty.
Cha-cha-cha.
Cha-cha-cha.
The uplighting in the beginning is perfection and worthy of George Romero directing a Samuel L. Bronkowitz production.
It’s a vision of effortless grace and womanly élan.
Clomp clomp clomp.
[ Adds posh tomatoes to shopping list. ]
No sudden movements.
Well, yes, quite.
The one thing you don’t want in that situation is a sense of… precariousness.
Hey, give the guy some credit. He’s selflessly doing his part to make the utopian micro house of the future a reality. (Can we build prole housing smaller than a supermax prison cell?)
[ Checks stability of toilet, notes time and date. ]
Wanye Burkett has locked his Twitter account. I hope it’s very temporary.
You can still read existing posts if you follow him. I believe he’s observing Lent, which, for him, means not using X for a couple of weeks.
I need a bookmark. Pup in Bedonia, Italy.
Has this claim been peer reviewed?
Ridley Scott’s Alien walkthrough, part seven.
He’s right, you know.
Big, squeezable bottoms.
One of the wonders of the modern world is the inability of those tasked with reporting on it to understand much of it.
Is this the same Chinese spy or did Swalwell get a new one? I haven’t been keeping up.