Sometimes I have nothing to say. This is one of those days. Here are a few random thoughts, which I frequently have, no matter the day. I collect them for days like this.
Carpenter’s Hypochondriac Rule: If you haven’t read enough about a disease to be able to spell it, you probably don’t have it. Unless it’s Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. You get a free pass with that one.
My fourth mocha today was probably too many.
I used to be able to eat a whole extra-large pizza all by myself. Now I can hardly eat three slices without feeling like I’m about to explode.
Why do the same people who hate Darwin’s Origin of Species embrace the work, under the guise of pure free market capitalism (à la Ayn Rand)?
My son Daniel informed me that the average fart produces 5-6mL of gas. Daniel, I’m pleased to announce, is WAY above average.
I still have toes? Now where did I leave them? One went to the market; another one stayed home… Good thing somebody wrote this down.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer creator Joss Whedon was a writer for 70s children’s show The Electric Company.
John Adams and Thomas Jefferson both died on July 4, 1826, exactly 50 years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. My wife thinks it was a lovers’ suicide pact.
Speaking of Thomas Jefferson, my son Daniel informs me that if he were alive today, he’d drive a macaroni-and-cheese powered Prius.
I don’t like not recognizing why somebody annoys me. If I can understand them, then I can like them. If I can’t, it’s as if a wall is there that perpetuates dislike, mistrust, and dyspeptic ulcers (if the person happens to be your boss).
Since it’s two days after the summer solstice, I suppose it’s time to take down my office Christmas decorations.
From a cartoon I just saw: “I like my women like I like my packets of instant oatmeal–quick, easy, and covered in facts about dinosaurs.”
I was seventeen years old before I ever held hands with a girl. It was in the back of the youth group van, and we threw coats over our arms so nobody would know our fingers were touching.
You know you’ve reached a certain level of fame if your name has become its own adjective.
Am I the only one who thinks those Streamline travel trailers from the 1960s look like giant chrome suppositories?
In ultra-dry 100-degree (38c) Austin, Texas, I was far more comfortable outdoors than in 84-degree (29c) Virginia, with its 80% humidity.
My son Alex bid me good night yesterday with the following exchange: “Good night, Alex.” “Weasel Cookies, Dad!” This is fairly normal in our house.
My sons asked me the other day if the real reason Pontius Pilate had Jesus crucified was because he wouldn’t stop doing Jazz Hands during Jesus Christ Superstar.
Speaking of musicals: I can’t stop listening to the soundtrack from Cabaret this week. I’m okay with this.
Have a great Thursday. Wish it were Friday. Saturday comes after. Partyin’, partyin’, YEAH…