Friday, December 28th, 2018 Alive 17,412 days
Today I learned that the program that started Apollo 11's rockets was called burn_baby_burn. Glad to see I'm not the only one banging out mirthful function names.
Today I learned that the program that started Apollo 11's rockets was called burn_baby_burn. Glad to see I'm not the only one banging out mirthful function names.
If youʼre not sure when itʼs OK to take down the Christmas decorations, choose from one of the following:
I know some tourists like to bring their own pillows to Las Vegas hotels of unknown quality, but unless your lodging cost less than $30, you probably donʼt need to bring your own Swiffer.
Whatʼs more annoying than someone who writes a check in the express lane? How about a couple of snowbirds who trim the wilted leaves off of their produce right there in the checkout line?
“We donʼt have all these leaves on our vegetables in Canada!”
And for those of you who have never shopped in a Las Vegas supermarket, yes thatʼs a baby casino in the background.
Closed captioning makes Ralphieʼs dadʼs swearing really awesome.
Darcieʼs favorite TV show is ITVʼs Poirot series.
If you ever wondered what became of the wrench-wielding cartoon baddie from A-Haʼs Take On Me music video, thatʼs him on the eft.
If the local government encourages you to take your family to one of the county shooting ranges on Christmas Eve and discharge firearms to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, you may live in Nevada.
Santa hasnʼt come yet, but already the supermarket is loaded up for Valentineʼs Day.
This must be Animal Crackers: Western Edition.
Cleaning the litter box is a lot more festive this time of year, what with all the butt nuggets threaded together with tinsel missing from the tree like the worst Christmas train ever.
If the coronerʼs office has a gift shop, you might live in Las Vegas.
I just found out we have these things living in the neighborhood. Theyʼre called Minerʼs Cats. Theyʼre supposed to be good mousers, and easily domesticated, but they attract owls.
Wait… Owls?
The view from the office Christmas party. Thatʼs not snow. Itʼs sand.
Iʼm not sure whatʼs happening here. But I am sure itʼs not supposed to happen.
Whenever I break out the wood grain wonder, Annie comes to join me.
She doesnʼt always set up camp in the cabinet, though.
What a cat with a tummy full of tinsel looks like.
Itʼs just not Christmas until the first cat barfs up a ball of tinsel.
6:31am
Iʼm not suggesting that In-N-Out Burger put “Merry Christmas” on its bags to imply that Double Doubles are a good Christmas gift. But Iʼve gotten worse presents.
An avocado green National Panasonic radio made for the 1970 Kyoto Worldʼs Fair.
Cleaned up, cleaned out, re-wired, re-painted, and ready for some 1978 wood-grain fun!
Ever have one of those days when you think, “Wow, my web sites are really fast today!” and then you realize you spent the last hour tinkering on localhost?
While I appreciate Henri trying to help me fix the Atari, it would probably go faster if he wasnʼt sitting on the multimeter.
All it takes is one good sunbeam, and my living room looks like a scene from every Agatha Christie novel.
Except, with cats.
I like living in a place where the front page of the Sunday paper is about the rodeo, and not about a couple of political tribes bashing each other and pretending that one is better than or different from the other.
I call it “America.”
I got a letter in the mail from my bank stating that it wants me to stop by so it can take my voice print to be used for accessing my safe deposit box.
My safe deposit box is 2,300 miles away, so good luck with that.
Yay! The minor league baseball team down the street changed its name, so now we donʼt have the worst logo in baseball history anymore!
Oh, wait…
Target wants to know how Iʼm enjoying the gift I bought. The gift I bought for someone else. That I had shipped directly to someone else.
So, I guess the correct answer is “Iʼm not enjoying it at all.”
I received this e-mail from my registrar in Austria. You can tell itʼs not an American company, because itʼs not afraid to say “Christmas.”
I wonder what people called Grammar Nazis before the 1930ʼs.
Itʼs always nice to be reminded that Googleʼs G Suite for business really isnʼt enterprise-grade.
Santa dropped off a present for the Annie and Henri today. Hopefully they donʼt figure out what it is.
Not to be outdone by the Amazon delivery guys who throw my packages over the gate, UPS appears to have actually run over my wifeʼs Christmas present before handing it over to the Postal Service for the last-mile delivery.
Tonight I noticed that in the cold open for Sanford and Son, Fred squints at the sun and acts like heʼs all hot. But heʼs wearing a sweater over his shirt.
What, like you did anything more exciting tonight?
I predict this will be the last year my office does Secret Santa.
Youʼre welcome.
“Oh, hi!”
According to my Advent calendar, the Son Of God got fishing tackle today. Nice bobbers, Baby Jesus!
I hurt my back this morning, so when I got home all I wanted to do is sit in the bed, watch TV, and eat a pizza. Now I have a furry little nurse to make sure Iʼm OK.
In my mind I like to think that the bus driver simply said, “Fuck it. Iʼm out!” and walked away from his bus. But reality is less dramatic.
He probably just died at the wheel.
Today I learned that blind children are better at decorating Christmas trees than I am.
If your neighborhood Christmas tree display has a tree from the Hooters Casino, you might live in Las Vegas.
He picked up the discarded Wild Turkey jug, slurped out the homeless guyʼs backwash, and tossed it aside for the next guy.
Eeeeew!
When you show up to work on Monday and thereʼs a dead guy at the bus stop outside your window, itʼs either a bad omen for the week ahead, or an indication that things canʼt possibly get worse.
I find it curious that the Palestinian prime minister can take part in the annual lighting of the Christmas tree ceremony at Manger Square in Bethlehem; but in America, where we supposedly have the freedom to speak our minds, many people are afraid to even say the word “Christmas” for fear of losing their jobs.