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2001.12.23 : 2001.12.29
Saturday, December 29, 2001
Blab. Ah, youth!
"Everyone there has to relate
themselves to it. They are like 'Yeah, my neighbour's dogs' owners' sister's
dog was involved, but he got out just in time'.
 "It
was a bit sick. People overdramatise and lose perspective."
"[New York firefighters] went from
here in society to celebrities.
"They are even invited here to present
television awards which I just don't agree with.
"There was Paul McCartney saying 'I
witnessed the crash'. Who cares? Thousands witnessed it."
In case you missed it, that's teen singer Charlotte
Church with an insightful analysis of Recent Events. Isn't she sweet?
In an interview the next day (the "next day"), Church said views attributed
to her were "distorted and misrepresentative". Now you can distort and
misrepresent them yourself.
Blab. A sadistic reader finds pleasure in our ongoing misery.
I find it ironic (and quite
amusing) that you have devoted much of your post collegiate life studying
computer viruses and how to prevent them, yet you seem to have been completely
wiped out by the common cold, as if a giant magnet had been swept across
your body.
We actually tried that magnet thing yesterday. We think it erased our credit
cards.
Blab. A reader informs us of yet more changes to the SAT
tests.
SAT (math section):
A container of canned beets has a
volume of 335.6 cm3,
and the serving plate has a surface area of 17.5 in2.
The average canned beet weight is 1.25 oz.
|
A
|
B
|
-
The number of servings actually consumed
on Christmas Day
|
The number of Senate office
building fumigations |
-
The total weight of canned beets thrown
away after Christmas
|
The typical weight of
an explosive shoe bomb |
-
The volume of the container needed to
freeze leftover canned beets for next Christmas
|
The number of hairs on
Tony Blair's stubbly beard |
Whoa! These things have gotten way harder than when we took them
(on clay tablets). Readers are invited to submit
answers, of course. Or tell us about other new SAT questions.
Blab. A reader makes a joyful noise.
Alien Food Cymbals!
Orchestration or gustation? You decide.
Plurp. We seem to have a pattern in getting colds. We work like
crazy for weeks, getting up before dawn, getting home way too late, engaged
in emotionally trying activities with deadly deadlines. Finally, when all
is finished, we take a few days of well-deserved rest and - achoo!
We're sick. Is this:
-
a pattern that everyone else undergoes as well,
-
something unique to us, or
-
random events pretending to be patterns just to confuse?
If this really is a common pattern, is there some logic behind it? Does
the body somehow stave off illness while urgent tasks remain, only to let
down its defenses once they are no longer pressing? Does anyone have an
authoritative
answer? Or at least a funny one?
Yo. Note to our friends in Buffalo: Seven feet of snow in a week
is God's way of saying, Move South. OK?
Plop. We are not surprised to hear that Al Qaeda was interested
in weapons of mass destruction. We are, however, dismayed to find that
they seemed to know
more about such things than makes us comfortable. Among documents
found in Kabul are indications that Al Qaeda:
-
Was studying how to produce botulism, ricin and cyanide in batches strong
enough to kill 2,000 people.
-
Was examining materials to make a low-grade, “dirty” nuclear device.
-
Had an understanding of bomb-related electronic circuitry to a level that
matched, and in some areas exceeded, that of the Provisional IRA’s experts.
-
Trained terrorist units to assassinate Middle Eastern leaders sympathetic
to the West.
-
Had plans for chemical weapons with large-scale production in mind: each
recipe contained a step-by-step guide explaining how to produce batches
that would kill thousands of people.
Now, it's too early to tell if these fragments indicate that these folks
actually figured out anything at all. Al Qaeda has, in the past, shown
itself to be remarkably stupid.
On the other hand ...
Yow. Here we were all ready to make puns about weapons of
mass production, only to discover that a rather large
number of people have already used the term, almost all of them (including
government folks) as an unintended malapropism!
Then, thinking about it, we decided it was actually a pretty compelling
Helenism
- compelling enough that lots of people didn't even recognize that they
were writing it.
Plurp.
Quick Facts: TGS 3590127-3
| Dominant lifeform |
Photoenergetic unicellular |
| Multicellular lifeforms |
Some |
| Cognitive lifeforms |
Sparse |
| Social organization |
Geographic |
| Technology |
Macroscopic |
| Galactic transport |
No |
| Synthetic evolution |
No |
| Synthetic cognition |
No |
| Watch list |
No |
 Plurp.
Documents captured in Kabul
indicate that Al Qaeda had plans
to produce the blue dog in batches
of 2,000.
Friday, December 28, 2001
Blab. One of our covert operatives writes:
I will not be clever. Here
is the information.
Ah. We couldn't find information on St. Swiven's Day
because we misspelled it.
15 July
St Swithin's day
The Bishop of Winchester or St Swithin
died in AD 862. In legend the monks could not remove his body for 40 days
and 40 nights because of torrential rain. It has now become folklore that
if it rains on St Swithin's day, it will rain for 40 days and 40 nights.
Lucky they didn't live in Seattle, eh?
Blab. A fan of cold, dark, tight spaces writes:
Thought this
might be interesting to those Scotophiles. Looks like we have to
set our alarms for the good stuff.
Ah. "This" would be the Maes Howe Webcams, a set of cameras
placed inside of the neolithic tunnel structure that one of the Stone Age
cultures in Scotland used to determine when the Winter solstice arrived.
Looks pretty cold up there just now.
Blab. Puzzled by a recent complaint of ours
(and, we surmise, much more), a reader writes:
I was puzzled by your complaint
that pre-historic people didn't write things down, thus baffling generations
of scholars and other folks who have nothing better to do with their time
than think about dead people.
After all, if folks "back then" HAD
written everything down, they wouldn't really be PRE-historic, now would
they?
This reminds me of Randy's (or at
least he's the one who told me) iterative proof that all numbers are interesting.
This suggests an interesting, iterative approach. Consider the first person
who wrote anything down. Where did she learn how to do this? Why, from
someone who taught her how to write things down, we must assume. And what
did that person do? He wrote stuff down, dagnabbit!
Hence there is no pre-history. Only history we haven't found
yet. So get busy.
Blab. Our Northwest correspondent returns
with this:
Glad to read that news travels
so fast as to have our engagement announcement made public so that devoted
readers such as Leuschke and Mia can remove me from their little black
books. I was bothered, however, that I only made fourth on your billing
for the 26th. I suppose Alien Food Labels has more importance than
engagement announcements. HMPFH !
-- Your Northwest Correspondent
That would be Alien Food Symbols, and that would be correct. It
turns out that our Alien Food
Symbols section, weirdly enough, is one of the most prevalent ways
that people find our humble Web site. But more about that some other time.
In the meantime, we can only offer our condolences to Leuschke
and Mia.
Plop. The viruses are winning, and we're still down with this
stupid cold.
What is the evolutionary advantage to rhinovirus of debilitating its
victims? We understand runny noses, coughs and sneezes as obvious mechanisms
to spread itself. But wouldn't it be better to make the victim energetic
and gregarious rather than listless and grumpy?
Readers?
Yow. Speaking of which, the 2001
Darwin Awards are now up for vote. Vote early and often!
(We like the one in which a girl sniffed
aerosol insecticide to get high, even though the can was clearly labeled
with a skull and crossbones. No, it's not just our macabre sense of humor.
It's also the coroner's comment: "It (is) prevalent for New Zealand young
people to sniff fly spray for a quick buzz." Quick buzz. Get it?)
Plop. Good
news about New Year's Eve in Times Square.
A "substantial number" of
lawmen on duty will be using "personal radiation detectors" on loan from
the U.S. Customs Service.
The device, which is slightly larger
than a pack of cigarettes, is capable of alerting the user to radioactivity
nearby, providing greater protection for the expected 1 million New Year's
Eve revelers who will watch the ball drop in Times Square.
We certainly feel much safer.
Plurp. What are we going to do for New Year's Eve this year?
Reader
suggestions are welcome. We currently have no idea and no plan, except
to avoid the radioactive bliss of Times Square.
Yow. Do you miss playing Pong ... using the lights of a tall
building? Then you need to visit Blinkenlights,
part of the 20th anniversary celebrations of the Chaos Computer Club. (Has
it really been 20 years? Ouch.) Not the limelight type? Then watch the
trailer
or peek through the Webcam
(which is updated twice a minute).
Yo. The
Way of the Exploding Stick, a mildly cute Flash game, though we have
no idea what it has to do with sticks. (/usr/bin/girl)
Yo. Mars
Needs Women.
Plop. In an ongoing effort to bring you the best of world journalism,
this
major headline from the formerly reputable Times (of London).
Blair and the tomb raider curse
TONY BLAIR was warned that he faces
the wrath of an ancient mummy after he witnessed the discovery of a 4,600-year-old
skeleton near the great pyramids of Giza yesterday.
The Prime Minister, who is on a five-day
family holiday in Egypt, was told by a leading archaeologist that to avoid
the curse of the long-dead pyramid artisan he would have to grow a stubbly
beard — or be devoured by animals.
Plurp.
Shoe-bomb. Shoe-bomb.
It sounds like an old Sha-Na-Na act, doesn't it?
Plurp. New SAT question.
-
A car bomb is to a truck bomb as a shoe
bomb is to what?
(a) A skin disease.
(b) The Metropolitan Opera.
(c) A bozo bomb.
(d) Canned beets.
Yo. We finally have the full
transcript of the latest bin Laden tape. 'Bout time! We love primary
sources. They are so ... unadulterated by the misinterpretations of the
media.
Plop.
Number of fumigations to
destroy anthrax spores in ...
| Senate office building |
2 |
| Various contaminated post offices |
0 |
Plurp.
Number of fumigations to
destroy anthrax spores in
the blue dog ...
priceless
Thursday, December 27, 2001
Blab. Reminiscing on an
old Plurp entry, a reader reminds us of:
ST. SWIVENS DAY
Did you know that St.
Nicholas of Bari is the patron saint of bakers and pawnbrokers? Yes,
the very same St. Nicholas who was later franchised as jolly old Santa
Claus. Or that St.
Augustine of Hippo is the patron of brewers? It's true.
Anyhow, St. Swiven is, of course, the patron
saint of the city of Okarnia in Jonatela, where he cured a plague caused
by Gbaji. Despite this justly famous event, we actually have no idea when
St. Swiven's Day is. Perhaps a more catholic reader can enlighten
us?
Plop. We are still felled by this wretched cold and, while it
was fun for several days having our nose drain in the middle of the night
and feeling as if half our brain is missing, it has now gotten rather old
and we are tired of it. Grumble.
Yow.
Yow. The LA Times has an excellent
article on how the Taliban's lack of both strategic and tactical thinking
led to their rapid defeat. Pithy and highly recommended.
Plop. Those stunning geniuses at the various broadcast news media
have their knickers quite atwist today over the most
recent bin Laden video tape. Should they show they whole thing or
just excerpts?, they fret. If we show the whole thing, we could be
giving valuable air time to a Nasty Guy.
These guys are so last millennium, aren't they? They think that
lack of information is a good thing, and that they control what people
see. Don't they realize that most of the rest of the world has already
seen the whole thing? And that it's likely available on the Web already
anyhow? They seem to be living in the days when broadcast media mattered.
We love nostalgia.
Plurp. Given that it's that festive time of year, what we need
is a festive online personality test.
-
Every year at this time I ...
(a) Mutilate my body with an electric
drill.
(b) Torture small kittens with household
cleaning fluids.
(c) Send body parts to people who
have wronged me.
(d) Show curious children my collection
of canned beets.
-
If I could be any kind of terrorist plot
in the world, I would be ...
(a) An anonymous anthrax attack.
(b) A radiological bomb to be set
off at a football game.
(c) An assault by the Executive branch
on the U.S. Constitution.
(d) A case of canned beets.
-
If I could choose only one horribly painful
form of suicide it would be ...
(a) Having my face eaten by enraged
pit bulls.
(b) Hammering small nails into my
forehead.
(c) Crushing my head in a vise.
(d) Eating canned beets.
-
The eye I has always wanted to have poked
out with a hot pin is ...
(a) My left eye.
(b) My right eye.
(c) John Ashcroft's blind eye.
(d) Canned beets.
-
I have always wanted to ..
(a) Mutilate my body with an electric
drill.
(b) Have my face eaten by enraged
pit bulls.
(c) Be John Ashcroft's blind eye.
(d) Fill my bathtub full of brightly
colored canned beets.
Score 5 points for every question you read and 25 points for every one
you answered. If you scored more than 5 points you are in need of immediate
professional care and major medication. Happy holidays.
Plurp.
The blue dog
scored 32 points
on that
test
Wednesday, December 26, 2001
Blab. You're gonna love this.
Subj: short film on symbols
meanings / alien food
I am working on a short film on symbols
and would like to use some quotes or imagery from your website. May I have
permission if used with a credit?
Thank you
Jim Minton
 Now
of course, we would have to agree that our Alien
Food Symbols are the stuff of legend. Heck, we made them up ourselves.
But having them appear in a film?
The world is a very strange place. And we're doing our best to keep
it that way.
Blab. A religious reader writes:
Christmas... HAH BUMHUG!
In fact, we found just that very same thing under our Solstice Tree yesterday.
Blab. A scorned lover writes:
December 22nd was my birthday...and
you didn't even remember!
Ah. We must have missed the invitation to your party.
Yow. Congrats to our recently absent Northwest correspondent
on getting engaged over the holidays. Now we know why we haven't
heard from you in so long!
Yow. A new Helenism,
this one from a source no less lofty than a professor at U. Illinois who
is an expert on the law of war, and as reported by today's New
York Times.
If the U.S. government is
going to pull the wool out from under the Geneva Conventions, that is going
to be serious for our soldiers.
Isn't that lovely?
 Plop.
We're still home recovering from this stupid cold, and the people in the
apartment above us are intent on driving us mad. For the past several weeks
they have allegedly been doing some kind of work on their apartment, but
at the pace of Chinese water torture. All day long, a single person with
a hammer taps sporadically on what sound like very small nails. We estimate
that, by now, every square centimeter of their apartment - ceiling, walls,
floors, everything - is covered in small nails. Maybe it's the Hellraiser
look.
Yow. Saw Shrek
today. It's probably just our clouded cognitive abilities today, but we
loved it. Fabulously silly, and completely wasted on kids as there's way
more pop culture jokes than kids could ever get. The animation of Shrek
himself is quite wonderful, as is the animation of liquids and fire. We
want a game like that.
And did we mention the gross, 13-year-old humor? Flatulent jokes. Earwax
candles. Great stuff.
Plurp.
The blue dog
was excited at the chance
to appear in a
film
Tuesday, December 25, 2001
Plurp.
Mary # 5
One night, the Lord spoke
to a woman named Mary.
I am to have a son,
said the Lord, a son by a mortal woman.
But surely not me, Lord. I am but
a lowly woman, and I am not worthy, said Mary.
I know, said the Lord.
Then surely, said Mary, you
cannot mean me.
The next night, the Lord spoke to
another woman named Mary.
I am to have a son,
said the Lord, a son by a mortal woman.
But surely not me, Lord, said
Mary. I am so poor. I could never offer your child the riches
he deserves.
I know, said the Lord.
Then surely, said Mary, you
cannot mean me.
On the third night, the Lord spoke
to yet another woman named Mary.
I am to have a son,
said the Lord, a son by a mortal woman.
But surely not me, Lord, said
Mary. I have such plans for my own family.
I know, said the Lord.
Then surely, said Mary, you
cannot mean me.
On the forth night, the Lord spoke
to still another woman named Mary.
I am to have a son,
said the Lord, a son by a mortal woman.
But surely not me, Lord, said
Mary. I am afraid, afraid of what it would mean to be the mother
of God.
I know, said the Lord.
Then surely, said Mary, you
cannot mean me.
On the fifth night, the Lord spoke
to one more woman named Mary.
I am to have a son,
said the Lord, a son by a mortal woman.
But surely not me, Lord. I am but
a lowly woman, and I am not worthy, said Mary.
I know, said the Lord.
And poor Lord, I am so poor, said
Mary. I could never offer your child the riches he deserves.
I know, said the Lord.
And Lord, said Mary, I have
such plans for my own family.
I know, said the Lord.
And Lord, I am afraid, said Mary,
afraid
of what it would mean to be the mother of God.
I know, said the Lord.
Then Mary spoke again. Lord, I am
your servant, and if it is your will then I will bear your child.
I know, said the Lord.
Yow. The TV just said that Madeleine
L'Engel, our favorite author from long ago kidhood, is a church librarian
at the Church of St. John the Divine, right here in Manhattan. The world
is way, way too small.
Yak. The conversation in the car between my father and me, one
day about this time of year when I was six or so, during which I decided
that there really wasn't a Santa Claus after all.
Dad?
Yes?
Reindeer ... can't really fly. Can
they?
No ...
OK.
I remember having given this a lot of thought at the time.
Yow. So it turns out to be Xmas again. Who can keep track? Helen
went to the traditional Xmas party last night but wisely came home instead
of attending the traditional midnight mass. We were both wiped out by this
stupid cold. Helen braved the virus and went to mass this morning. We chickened
out all the way around.
It was a Monty Haul kind of Xmas. Our friends kindly avoided sending
us nonconsumable stuff for the most part. That's both boon and bane;
we don't have to find permanent places for stuff in our tiny apartment,
but consumable stuff seems to find a permanent place on us. What
to do? Our shopping for each other seems to have been almost entirely (a)
from museum gift shops, so we have some very pretty new design-y things,
or (b) from Amazon, including (oddly) Frank Lloyd Wright books of various
flavors from each of us and a wonderfully eclectic collection of upcoming
vacation reading for our next eight or nine vacations.
There were a couple of presents that don't fall into those categories,
but we can't talk about them. Those involved know exactly what we mean.
We had a Grand Feast planned for tonight, but we're both too bleh
for rich food, so we're postponing it until later this week. You may, if
you wish, pity us.
Yow. We are amused at the reactive nature of airport security
in the past few months. Evildoers hijacked planes with smuggled box cutters,
so now all bags are checked for box cutters. Some evildoer over the weekend
tried to take a plane down with explosives in his shoes, so now shoes are
being checked for bad stuff.
We want to know what happens when an evildoer tries to take a plane
down with something in his or her underwear. And that's not the worst we
can imagine.
Yak.
What would you do if we on
a plane with a terrorist?
Cower.
Be serious!
I am being serious.
You wouldn't leap up to subdue him
and save your sweetheart?
Me? Are you kidding? I figure
there will be 8-10 big, beefy guys on board that would like nothing better
than to be on the evening news having saved a plane full of geeks, and
this geek would like nothing better than to applaud them for it.
Plurp. Someone said recently that Rush Limbaugh is going deaf.
How can they tell?
Yow. We just noticed that we confused
the bejesus out of Leuschke a while ago, and that our naughtiness was
rewarded with a long diatribe and links to both Captain Plurp and the blue
dog. This is not the way to discourage us. Nosir!
Yow. Google's 2001
Zeitgeist - what we really cared about in 2001. Very interesting!
(leuschke)
 Plurp.
The blue dog
was always a festive
Xmas buddy
Monday, December 24, 2001
 Blab.
Our sweetheart sends us this ...
[link]
... to a curious article promoting the use of Silly Putty and Koosh Balls
as something technographers (?) use to help a group of people create
something that reflects their collective understanding.
Oooh! We have no idea what that means, but it does sound so very touchy-feely,
doesn't it? Makes you want to rush out and have a meeting! (Well, maybe
not today ...)
Plurp. In a dream last night, we were somehow transported ahead
ten years to the suburbs of an indeterminate city, where upscale tract
homes were scattered about rolling hills.
Some Official Folks - guys with guns in black cars - were chasing us,
but we seemed to have little trouble evading them by leaping over the fences
that separated the well-to-do homes from the trashier sections of the burbs.
The money had been changed, probably recently, and a "nickel" was now
the size of a quarter and made of copper. The older man who ran a newsstand
- which now sold publications that were exclusively in Quebequese - offered
to exchange our old money for us on the sly.
Our accent must now have seemed vaguely Puerto Rican, apparently not
a well liked group, as several people mistook us for that, and one young
tough tried to pick a fight with us. Curiously, casual fashion had not
changed much, so we still fit in while walking around.
Plurp. In another dream, we come upon a game in which there is
a holographic display of little things on the floor. Some of these little
things are strange technological artifacts, with mysterious pools and beams
of light. One of the little things is a tiny dog, obviously intended to
be your sidekick in the game.
Eventually, one of the tiny beams finds you and - zhoosh - you are sucked
into this little world, which then becomes a full sensory experience for
you as you play.
Full sensory experience computer games have been on my Xmas list for
over a decade now. Would you game people please get on it? Thank you.
Plop. You know all that prehistoric stuff - the broken statues
and mysterious stone artifacts that litter museums - the stuff that generations
of scholars puzzle over, trying to outbid each other in the outlandishness
of their theories?
Well, would it have been so very much trouble for those prehistoric
folks to have just written stuff down? Sheesh.
Plurp.
The blue dog
mulled over the idea
of playing the
sidekick
Sunday, December 23, 2001
Blab. On the never-ending debate on Donner
vs. Donder, a reader of a certain persuasion writes:
We suspect that it should
actually be "Donna", rather than the common Donner or apocryphal Donder
(Who said that Santa was German anyway). The reason for this is quite simple.
All known portrayals of Santa's reindeer have shown quite clearly that
the antlers are present. Now, it is a little known fact (amongst normal
people - as opposed to sad people like me) that male reindeer shed their
antlers in late autumn and only the females keep theirs until the spring,
shedding them once they have sprogged (British technical term for producing
offspring). Therefore, all Santa's reindeer are girls. (Or Christmas should
really be in September) They could even be pregnant girls, so if you do
get a late delivery (groan) then that could be why. One could also speculate
that Rudolph was teased to such an extent, not as a result of his red nose
(surely only due to embarassment), but as a result of his being a male
reindeer who always wanted to be a girl. One would assume that in these
days of genetic manipulation (or good old latex rubber) that such a situation
would be remediable. Anyway, with such speculation put firmly behind us
and given a good flash of backside, we take this opportunity of wishing
Plurp, it's writer and the other reader a very merry Yuletide and a thoroughly
surreal Newy ear.
-AJL
Well, this is probably the first time that a reader entry combined furryism,
lesbianism, transgenderism, and latex worship. Not to mention a pregnancy
fetish.
We thank our reader for its knowledgeable contribution and festive holiday
wishes. We're sure our other reader would as well, were he not currently
encased in feathers and honey.
Blab. On the etymology of jumping
the shark, a reader writes:
The reference (as I'm sure
the site says somewhere, otherwise, how would I possibly know it?) is to
an episode toward the end of the Happy Days run, wherein the Fonz
waterskis over a shark tank. This ep is generally acknowledged to
be the first sign of the Apocalypse, in addition to being the beginning
of the end of Ron Howard.
--G
Wow, how very obscure!
And we do have to wonder what our Treasured Reader would be doing with
those neurons if not for remembering this.
Blab. A reader responds to our recent story of multiple
homicide at the Solstice Tree.
As typical with the yellow
sheeted journalism that we have become accustomed to, the story of the
gingerbread cookies is partially correct. The beauty of this misreporting
is that the sprinkled bits of lies color the truth in anything else in
the story.
It wasn't a multiple homicide - it
was multiple attempted suicide with one death.
The event wasn't cause when I "fiddled"
with the tree but when I was merely cutting a low branch that was ruining
the visual perfection of the ideally decorated tree.
The only victim was NOT Miss Purple
Squiggle Lady but Randomly Decorated Mister. He was carefully recovered
and later EATEN by the Plurpmeister himself! My Miss Purple Squiggle
Lady only lost all her squiggles and I later REdecorated her myself with
great care.
The only other victims to this accident
were Little Chicken Little ("the tree is falling!! The TREE is FALLING!!"
was heard shortly before the event) and Baby Santa Claus who bounced on
his little tiny bag packed full of toys and goodies for all those little
creatures that Christopher the cat chases around the apartment in the middle
of the night and when questioned announces, "I seen 'em!!!")
I rest MY CASE!
Helen
Plurp stands behind its story.
Blab. A reader attempts flattery, successfully.
 That's
a mighty fine favourites icon thingy that you made. It looks pretty
swell sitting on my desktop.
[Blush!] Gorsh - thanks!
We're still puzzled about why the middle bars look wider on our IE favorites
menu than do the side bars. Something to do with the mysterious two sizes
of favicons? And we're getting errors on people trying to find it somewhere
other than the root of our Web site, which we didn't think was possible.
Have you ever noticed that computers are way more trouble than they're
worth?
Plop. I hate being sick. Yeah, there's the drippy nose and lack
of all energy, but that's not the worst. The worst is being stupid. I try
to read and the words don't make sense. Helen says something but I can't
figure out what it is. The cat suddenly seems smart.
I hate that.
Rant. So Time appointed King Rudy as Person
of the Year. What a cop-out! Not that Rudy hasn't done a magnificent
job in responding to the WTC mess - he most certainly has. But Rudy as
the person who most influenced the world this year? Not a chance. That
position was clearly occupied by bin Laden. Time chickened out.
Plop. For those of you keeping an exhaustive list of our many
infirmities, you may want to add rosacea,
as a combination of a random TV commercial and a subsequent Web search
suggests that our odd and sporadic skin condition is just that.
Yo. Poking around the Web reveals some frightening information
about Donner vs. Donder.
Is that confusing enough for you?
Plurp.
The blue dog
resolved to stay far, far
away from that
Solstice Tree
 |
