Circumstance sometimes reminds it better to take time out for calming breath and deliberate consideration that we might slip through distracting noise and manage something better than headbanging phuqueue and some manner of joke derived from douchebags, or maybe that’s just the coffee.
Anatomical Futility is the name of my . . . ¿sixteenth? . . . yeah, something like that . . . next punk band.
The weather report for the next couple days is hardly catastrophic, but neither is it pleasant, and that in turn brings to mind talk of blustery, wet, generally unpleasant winter expected to be, overall, too mild to build significant snowpack in the Cascades, and while it is easy enough to hope such chatter is, well, merely chatter, it is also rather quite tempting to mutter something about, Damn it, Nature! stop wasting water like that!
Except, you know, we’re the human species, so the next thought to mind is also pretty obvious: Oh, right.
Image note: I’m pretty sure I was playing around with the photocopy filter in GIMP. Never mind. It’s Bloom County, by the one and only Berke Breathed, and I’ve a date of 26 March 1982 for this particular episode.
re: Do you really need the explanation
I figure I am being pedantic. That must be it, right? I mean, it’s true that I occasionally mistake BuzzFeed for a news organization, mostly because whenever I encounter it someone purports to be telling me something about the news. It is, of course, my own fault for taking you seriously; thank you for correcting that erroneous notion.
No, seriously, as fatally ironic metahumor goes, I suppose someone, somewhere needed to try that one. And I do confess my curiosity as to just how many clicks that tease accrues. Still, though, I think the problem is that the only thing funny about it is the fact of someone wasting their time trying.
Were you hazing the intern? Taking bets on who could most embarrass their own mother for the fact of their own birth? (No, really, who won, and how?)
Still, though, God works in mysterious ways; you can always use that for an excuse.
Image note: “23 Pictures That Really Need To Be Deleted From The Internet” ― Sidebar offering from Buzzfeed.com, 3 November 2016.
To the one, there is such thing as a bad picture, and we all know it. Sometimes the camera just … you know, that’s the way it goes.
To the other, we usually worry about that when we are the subject of the picture, instead of merely a set piece.
Still, we sometimes find an unforgettable moment if only because it was captured in still life.
More the pity, I suppose. Something about that which we cannot unsee goes here.
Image note: Gov. Chris Christie addresses members of the Camden County police force, 2 November 2015. (Image credit: Emma Lee/WHYY)
With many thanks to Sean, a friend who pointed out this particular iteration of the morbid spectacle otherwise known as
¡Jesus’ fucking tits! Westboro Baptist Church―see Anna Merlan’s report for Jezebel about the latest Westboro wannabe Christianishesque clodhopping―a certain question arises, a reiteration that occasionally demands address:
• Is it wrong that I only pay attention to WBC at all anymore because they’re like a comedy troupe performing a Christian version of The Aristocrats? I mean, it’s true: It was cruel of kids in my junior high to encourage the overweight, developmentally impaired kid to do stupid and humiliating things just so people could have a laugh. The Westboro heritage is similar; there is a tinge of guilt about paying attention to anything they do, as if we’re denigrating them just by watching.
So, right. To the one, this is a no-brainer. To the other, I have heard the question three times today, so it seems worthwhile to pass it along: What the hell happened last night?
The backstory is that when I awoke this morning, clocks were ninety-seven minutes off. This did not become apparent to me until the inaccuracy in the clocks was explained as, oh, right, the time changed last night.
Daylight to standard. Easy enough.
Yet I still have not figured out why every clock on the second floor of my home is not sixty minutes off, but ninety-seven minutes, instead.
Just one of those mysteries.
No, seriously. My housemate cannot have screwed up the time on every non-networked clock on the middle floor of the house by exactly the same thirty-seven minutes. Right?
Ah! The Universe.