An automatic donut maker triggers a bigass blogger bundle of bile.
Good gracious! I had no idea that eating raw potatoes, the name of which is the post title, is a form of pica. I always thought of raw potatoes as food, especially with celery salt and coarse ground pepper.
This is really interesting, and entirely different from other avenues of research…. best of all, there now seems to be something to tell people rather than “It’s all in your head.”
Yes, it’s a copyright picture. However, it’s too good not to repost.
As I am being chased (with no partic’lar sense of urgency) up and down a corridor, which is always like a corridor in an apartment I used to live in, being crooked and with doors coming off at odd angles, I’m thinking, “and just the other night I commented to Katie K that I haven’t had a nightmare in years”. Moments later I’m awake thinking, “My God, those were the SLOWest moving zombies I’ve ever seen!”
I’m wearing a black widow outfit (self-assembled) to the office. Let’s see if I can survive the boot madness. I hate those boots, but they are the only vaguely fetish-y ones that I have.
To address any aspect of my personal life in my blog, consisting as it does at the moment of a bundle of indignities, gripes, aches, bitches, whines and bs, would be merely foolish, so I will try to herd my thoughts into lusher pastures.
My mother’s arm is much improved. The burning is greatly reduced.
I have forwarded pictures of my mandolin to Tom MacMurray, local LOLcats dude, and expect to see pics of his Piggy Sue and Mawgey playing mandolin SOON. (This is something to be anticipated with pleasure).
Deb sent me this. Don’t watch unless you have the speakers blasting and ten free minutes!
There there, Canadian investors…. don’t worry about the subprime crisis in the States.
Delightful Chick style pamphlet on what to do when the Elder Gods are coming!
After driving by it a hundred times, I have finally eaten at the Brave Bull on Hastings.
Steak dinner for $8.95? Roger…. and yummy.
Mike, bless him, has prevented me from not seeing the sun this day by calling me and asking me to join him for dinner. Daughter Katie is so angry with me that our Mexico trip is now in jeopardy, such are the hazards of a misused word, and frankly, I’m not sure, in my present choleric and dismissive mood, that I care that much. To be frank even further, I’d be 2 thousand dollars up if she bails on me, as she has frequently done of late.
And the Deadwood series is done. Like Firefly. Delivered before its time, dead untimely, to be much mourned.
Just watched the end of the second season. Tim Olyphant, who was so joyous and physically pleasing in the first season, is now hewn from granite, with cedar spacers. If it was possible for a man to walk stiffer without appearing robotic I’d be amazed. Ian McShane continues to amuse and amaze. Wish the musical scenes actually made a tiny effort to sync the music to the actions. Noise coming from the soundtrack when the instrument is not actually be held in a playing position is the kind of thing that gets up Tonstant Watcher’s nose. Onward to season three.
Cousin Gerald sent me this amazing animation. You will want to watch it again!
I offer my joyful thanks and praise to chipper for digging up this link for me.
There was a comedian (male) who remarked that men have only four emotions. Horny, angry, hungry and tired. I heard this and thought…. Hm. There’s one missing. Where’s busy?
Second Season of Deadwood Disk 4.
The company Xmas party is on November 24th.
Today I will book the vacation.