GeernHills

There is like this weird end of day light on the coasts which is all weird. Pretty much it's all over every coast. Stuff gets all fuzzy and strange. Like what happens when you leave salsa in the fridge for an few extra weeks. All kinds of green hills of life start growing everywhere. Makes for an especially interesting and tasty surprise to the unwary nocturnal forager. Daylight however brings it's own special beauty. The kind of furry off-color weirdness that only Rodney Dangerfields mother could love. That is what I am talking about. It puts the CA in Kali. Maybe that's offensive to somebody. Not Kali though, that's standard fare. Furry salsa is not.

Bakery

What could be better than sake and Kurosawa? Like maybe bread and circuses. The kind which pump out multi-faceted enumerations of vehicles, furniture, appliances, lifestyles and personalities. The kind of factory in which bread can be make uniform and to rise at the same time on the same day, day after day after day. Simply to quote "I'm not worrying about the future", the credo of the insane, shortsighted and sages of olde. The kind of rabbit hole which has an ending upon the wings of a balrog. Twisted, convoluted and nearly never ending... but due to the temporal nature of the balrog itself doomed to an incomplete failure to imitate the untouchable absolute of the infinite. The kind of bakery where things are what they seem and are less then they every could aspire to be. The kind of bakery where a tree is a tree and worshiped as such. A bakery whose baker has become the butcher, buying and selling the discarded carcasses of an undead society of vampiric consumers. Yes, the kind of bakery where a baguette inspires devotion and and a slice of bread becomes art. The kind of bread where bread is no longer simply flour, water, yeast and salt, but... the sword, the life. The bread of life. So ends the days of the tree-lords and the wyas of living upon the forests of growth.

I'm a consumer, not a doctor

Time sink .

Mr. Strudel

Like last year while at a police station in Frankfurt this german cop was eating himself a nice big sausage. Not like you'd expect he's got it in his hand and chomping away, no bun, condiments, nothing. Barbarians. Course they steamrolled the legions when those came marching up north. Not to say barbarians cant be efficient and ruthless when pressed. Much like what happens when you squeeze peanuts. It like makes all the oil come out and then you can like burn it, consume it, cook with it, lubricate machinery with it and then to top it all off notice that hordes of raccoons which normally prowl the neighborhood looting trash and scoring dog food and stuff are now gnawing and licking your machineries. Makes me want to get a main coon cat. Not sure that they'd really be effective at running off thoes furry little bastages, but they'd be better than your average cat and probably run-of-the-mill house dog which seems to be all the rage these days. Whatever happened to real mutt type dogs who bit things just because and like ran wild around everywhere and were a general menace to both wildlife and man alike? My guess is they were shipped off somewhere and forced to pull sledges in the arctic so that oil exploration and expliotation could continue at the current pace of craziness. Lost in all this is what happens to the annual migration of the lemmings. Who speaks for them? My guess is that ANWAR isn't going to protect them any more than tinfoil effectively keeps my brainwaves from influencing others thoughts. Which brings me back to Mr. Strudel. Why exactly does smoking a cigarette in one hand whilst eating a sausage with the other lead to cultural dissonance and periods of missing memories? Someday I may remember.

Love in the Dark

See either like The Dead (may they rest in peace) may have been prescient or perhaps Dark Stars are simply the order of things in a Deconstructionist / Dervivatiive Universe though such things are beyond the ken of all but the most all knowing of machinist technologies . At least given that said technologies being incapable of detecting or measuring dark matter stand little chance of doing anything but speculating upon its affects upon the white matter found in most brains. For now I'd like to remind everyone that terrestrial concerns are the most pressing. Why is it that something such as colored saran wrap has been invented and discarded, albeit in both a literal and figurative sense, whilst things such as an effective self-cleaning cheeze grater have yet to impart their productivity gains upon our society? It begs the questions as to if a cabal of lactose hating luddites has successfully stymied efforts in this area for years, unbeknownst to all but a select few who are even now fighting for your --- oh I'm sorry this thought was rudely interrupted by a gnat. Only one thing makes me madder than a gnat flying and/or walking on an LCD in a darkened room. However, it may be noted that recent advances in bio-mechanical flight may force inclusion of the possibility that said gnat was not a gnat at all, but rather, a new form of spy device capable of remotely monitoring and operating on the behalf of the cheeze haters. As I've said... you can never be paranoid enough.

VD-Day Minus 1

Twisted into the fabric of reality is this little thing I like to call irony.

See the flatlanders drive all over here thinking that the roads are all the same everywhere. Except that when you got hills and mountains and put a bunch of roads all over everywhere then there are these places where roads look like roads but really aren't roads in the flatlander sensibility.

There are curves, banks, twists, guard-rails, trees and weird mountain critters lurking in the underbrush outside the range of the headlights. About that time the whole flatland driving thing seems pretty attractive. Getting hot, dizzy and queasy and next thing the straight roads seem like heaven. Except the roads connecting the mountains to the flatlands ARE all the same... and once you've driven beyond the flatland there is no going back. There is no flatland. There is no mountain nor hill.

Worsted Wool

Which side of the turnip truck did this idea fall off of?

Seriously. Like anybody would buy something called worsted. What kind of sick reverse logic marketing genius hell-bent on failure came up with this idea? Let's take good, itchy, stays warm when wet wool and worst it. Then tell people about it. It will be huge.

Social darwinism says that their offspring will not be attending a place of higher education, perhaps not even elementary school. At about that age they are ready to begin a hard but rewarding life as a shepard. Helps to have a pre-pubescent voice. It scares the wolves more when yelling.

At any rate, all those sheep that now make it to wool producing status due to the shrill little cries of a mentally challenged shepard have worsted wool to thank. Which in it's own way is a deliciously circular sort of ironic dependency. Much like the super-position of the electrons flailing about and generating the image of the cusor which creates the letters that keep appearing on the screen here.

Funny thing about worsted wool... there is no truck.