On the occasion, Dear Reader, we here in the PB&J room are quietly and desperately overwhelmed by our own use of vocabulary that generally falls into what some grammarians would euphemistically denote as “the crap pile.”
This could include such vocab as neologisms, spoonerisms, misspelled words which we decide look cool any way so we keep them despite their overt misspellingness, hyphenated words which do not normally incite a hyphen and words that are shortened for either time’s or brevity’s sake.
While there are numerous examples of this phenom in some of our previous postings, let us direct our Dear Reader’s attention in particular to a post entitled “The Post About How Cool We Thought We Were.”
For the most part this is an innocuous if intrepidly inane post regarding a playful conjoining of mouse to moose to mousse to propel our Dear Reader towards a short bemusing albeit bathetic remembrance of hair gel and poseurs in puffy padded jackets from the 80’s. The 1980’s, that is.
And yes, some vocabulary was created and harmed in the forming of this post, eg., “80’snish” as an adjective. However, “80’snish” is not the harmed vocabulary this post is intended to direct attention towards. We gather here now today (or when tomorrow, depending on when you opt to and/or are compelled to even though you do not want to read this post) to discuss a verb/adverb and its implications that our beloved better Seven/Eighths tossed around, tossed as one would a dwarf in an outlawed bar contest or as a carnivore would a lovely kale and endive with roasted almonds salad, topped with just a hint of strawberry vinaigrette.
We give you, for your dire and dear consideration, the award-winning Verb of the Year in the Year of Our Lord 2007, aka the prized-in-certain-uncertain-circles VYYOL (pronounced “Vile”), (a prize awarded annually by the Vhiehussan Enigmatic Rowdy Battery – a splinter group - as you no doubt know - of the MLA, which language association did put out a couple of covert operation-style hit jobs - still on the PQ, still on the DL for most mercenary’s lists on the presiding leader of the V.E.R.B., an obsessive-compulsive linguistic freak of nature who goes by the seditious nomiker, Meister Morphology (although his actual name is Lionel Spludronk, a mild-mannered obsessive-compulsive actuary from Acquired Taste, Alabama, which position in life would have been lived completely beneath the radar in his homestead, population 1,458, had it not been for his association with the nefarious nee nearly fatal branches of the Modern Language Association) – (see www.verbtryst.com for previous winners)), Snog.
We would like to be perfectly clear in this: to snog is not at all to snipe. Neither, under any circumstances, should snogging be confused with the ubiquitous form of Dutch dance, clogging.
To misinterpret the act of snog as a modern-day translation of Lewis Carroll’s Snark, said snark which is still being hunted (which, oh by the way, is not the same thing at all as “snipe hunting,” a fun and festive trick to play on rookie hunters), would be erroneous on the part of the interpreter, hence the ‘mis.’ It will also be noted that if you use a snog, which you cannot do because there is no such thing as a snog for heaven’s sake (that would be like stuttering “why just t-t-t-today we were ea-ea-eating a bowl of ambulate while we p-p-p-poured some disambiguate into a glass and read the d-d-d-d-daily edition of the local engender”), you are not necessarily using a snark, a punctuation mark meant to denote certain messages as being derogatory or ironic. The snark, in this case, is also known as a sarcasm mark, often disparagingly and conversely denoted as a tilde or a plus sign. Something that snogging is not also known as – a sarcasm mark. We’re just saying. Now, if you snog (which by definition would be nigh on to physically impossible) this is not at all to say that you have shortened a verb of another sort and snogged where or when you meant to snoggle, which is probably the New Guinea or Antartican or Nova Scotian way to pronounce ‘snuggle.’ We will reinforce the notion that snog is not at all to be misinterpreted as an anagram for ‘song,’ nor as a palindrome for ‘gons,’ short in some bass-ackward locker rooms for ‘gonads’ when obviously ‘nads’ is the correct and etiquettely proper abbreviation. And finally, no, one cannot drip snog out of one’s nose nor swallow it – whether accidentally or purposefully - during a particularly congested time as snog is quite obviously not a green or heaven forbid a brown gooey noun but is instead a verb and yes, one cannot drip or swallow a verb, no matter the quality of either its greenness nor its inherent gooeyness.
We would like to iterate, as we think we have already mentioned this, that snogging in and of itself is not inherently gooey. Or chewy. Or dewy. It can be and has been green (and that’s not easy) on occasions but see The Post About Giving Green a Chance to determine why we here in the PB&J room do not claim an original greenness for our snogging. Most likely, we began to snog at approximately the same time as everyone else began snogging, sometime after the gas lines began to form and after root-‘em-toot-‘em shoot-‘em-up video games replaced teddy bears as the gift du jour for four year olds and after the proliferation of uncensored cable channels virused themselves across the globe and probably after the final veils were dropped from the illusion that the government is for the people and by the people and probably before our population had so spiraled out of control that enforced birth control became a real possibility and the definition between life and death was intentionally fuzzied because less is better in the eyes of some (whew!), so after all that but before our soapbox crashed from the weight of our unsolicited opining on the cultural and spiritual downfall of what is now termed as humanity. Ahem.
We would like to leave you with a close approximation of what it is to be snogged or to snog someone else (which is not akin at all to snubbing someone else, Dear Reader) through the powerful tool of enumerating what snog, snogging, to be snogged is not.. Incidentally and a propos of nothing whatsoever ‘akin’ is not at all akin to ‘akimbo,’ no matter-o how much-o one would want-o it to be-o so. However, and also a propos of nothing again, one can be akimbo when one chooses to do a clog-o dance. Oh. Which is to mention nothing of choosing to unclog-o the drain-o. Oh my.
But we digress.
When you are snogged, you are not schnookered, although when you are schnookered, you might at times feel as though you are snogged – do not confuse the two!!! There is no such thing as being snoggered and if there were it would not be like being schnookered. Never was the question asked, “To snogger or not to snogger?” which was the question. Twasn’t asked because i’twasn’t nobler in the mind to sling the snoggering arrows at the snoggering friends and Romans and countrymen who might have lent an ear. If said ear had not already been snoggered in, resulting in a gooey, dewy wet willie.
This of course all comes back around to something our mother told us repeatedly during our childhood. We would sit patiently at her knee, hearing her soothing voice, well, we would do this when we weren’t running around the place like a demon hellion on a mid-60’s form of child-crack probably known as kool-aid or homemade chocolate chip cookies eaten by the handful. Ah, it is amusing how no matter the perspective distance gives one on the notion of ‘simply times’ one tends to long for said times anyway, despite their difficulties and hardships. It sometimes causes us to deeply sigh.
Which has absolutely zero to do with something our mother told us repeatedly during our childhood.
Which has even less to do with how boondoggling, how absolutely snoggling the way the world doth rotate in its quirks sometimes can be.
So it goes.
12/6/07
The Post About How Cool We Thought We Were
It’s not a far stretch, Dear Reader, from mice to moose.
Why would one care about the stretch, you ask, from mice to moose?
That is a very good question, we say, one of those so very good questions that it does not have a ready answer.
But let us just say, one cares because one does, because it is the right thing to do. Especially if Santa is watching.
Here’s where our explorations have lead us so far: the plural of moose, best that we can ascertain, is moose, so unlike its fraternal brother, the mouse, the moose has no qualms with how to multiply its name, unless we want to bring mousse into the subject, be it chocolate or hair, which upon reflection we decidedly do not. Want to do.
Because, of course, the plural of mousse is…..mousse.
And but then there’s the whole hair issue. Or lack thereof. For some of us here in the PB&JRoom.
And but then, there’s the whole 80’snish of mousse. Yes, when we had the Pony haircut and flipped our hair to the tunes of Alphaville and Human League and Ultravox and Japan on Modern Monday Night at N’Cahoots, well then, yes, we used mousse. Extensively. Like we had stock in the company. Like the brightness of the dayglo cans made the foamy crap inside more effective. (It did not, but you, Dear Reader, were probably smart enough even then to already know that: some of us, alas, were not). Like pounding the gel and the dippity-doo all over the head was not “hold” enough which is why mousse was spattered on top of gel and dippity-doo or brylcream. This, incidentally, produces – as if you do not already know – a shellacking effect on the hair and surrounding perimeters which might include but is not exclusive to the ears, the earrings, the shoulders, the puffy padded shoulders on the shirt, the eyebrows, the hair of anyone unfortunate enough to stand too near you whilst you high-steppingly sauntered and swayed nee boogied under your immovable doo. This shellack, unfortunately, did not wash out with simple shampoo and brillo-pads. One had to get out the industrial strength paint stripper to fully remove the concoction. Which removal you did, right before you reapplied the entire mess for the next big night out.
This is not meant to address the various extremities of the young wannabe in the 80’s but there’s this: does anyone quite get how hard it is to hold an “above it all but I want your attention so please ask me repeatedly what’s wrong so I can say ‘nothing’ or ‘you don’t get it, you just don’t get it’ repeatedly while I stand against the wall trying desperately to effect a James Dean pose” while one is wearing a white poofy shouldered waist jacket that even respecting matadors would pass on in the discount aisle, with one’s hair slowly gluing itself to the wall one has chosen as a prop for one’s leg-up too cool stance? Anyone??
Sometimes it simply snogs our brain.
Why would one care about the stretch, you ask, from mice to moose?
That is a very good question, we say, one of those so very good questions that it does not have a ready answer.
But let us just say, one cares because one does, because it is the right thing to do. Especially if Santa is watching.
Here’s where our explorations have lead us so far: the plural of moose, best that we can ascertain, is moose, so unlike its fraternal brother, the mouse, the moose has no qualms with how to multiply its name, unless we want to bring mousse into the subject, be it chocolate or hair, which upon reflection we decidedly do not. Want to do.
Because, of course, the plural of mousse is…..mousse.
And but then there’s the whole hair issue. Or lack thereof. For some of us here in the PB&JRoom.
And but then, there’s the whole 80’snish of mousse. Yes, when we had the Pony haircut and flipped our hair to the tunes of Alphaville and Human League and Ultravox and Japan on Modern Monday Night at N’Cahoots, well then, yes, we used mousse. Extensively. Like we had stock in the company. Like the brightness of the dayglo cans made the foamy crap inside more effective. (It did not, but you, Dear Reader, were probably smart enough even then to already know that: some of us, alas, were not). Like pounding the gel and the dippity-doo all over the head was not “hold” enough which is why mousse was spattered on top of gel and dippity-doo or brylcream. This, incidentally, produces – as if you do not already know – a shellacking effect on the hair and surrounding perimeters which might include but is not exclusive to the ears, the earrings, the shoulders, the puffy padded shoulders on the shirt, the eyebrows, the hair of anyone unfortunate enough to stand too near you whilst you high-steppingly sauntered and swayed nee boogied under your immovable doo. This shellack, unfortunately, did not wash out with simple shampoo and brillo-pads. One had to get out the industrial strength paint stripper to fully remove the concoction. Which removal you did, right before you reapplied the entire mess for the next big night out.
This is not meant to address the various extremities of the young wannabe in the 80’s but there’s this: does anyone quite get how hard it is to hold an “above it all but I want your attention so please ask me repeatedly what’s wrong so I can say ‘nothing’ or ‘you don’t get it, you just don’t get it’ repeatedly while I stand against the wall trying desperately to effect a James Dean pose” while one is wearing a white poofy shouldered waist jacket that even respecting matadors would pass on in the discount aisle, with one’s hair slowly gluing itself to the wall one has chosen as a prop for one’s leg-up too cool stance? Anyone??
Sometimes it simply snogs our brain.
11/20/07
The Post Where Kudzu and Apple Comes Together
As if you haven’t already noticed, dear reader, the mice have finally let loose the hounds and revolted. Stormed the castle, as it were.
We will dive – here – momentarily, into the ongoing shallow debate that is electrifying grammarians everywhere: is it “meece” or “mices” or “more mice” (which leads us to Well, is it “Micerer” or possibly “Micerest”) (but then we are reminded that Mice is already two mouses and we are somewhat clarified momentarily)
Alas, long time readers will recognize this clarification as a mirage: it is not real and it will not last.
Let us give you a brief run-down on how this all began.
We were born – here in the PB&Jroom - approximately 633 miles apart, or roughly a nine hour drive depending on your interpretation of “speed” and “limits.” Some stuff happened, we got somewhat bigger and a little brighter and then we met.
After we met we let our pooters
• (native term for the abominable creature colloquially known as the Computer, the CPU, the Soon-to-Need-to-be-Upgraded Mclinux (sold right next to the all new McSalsaBurrito and the McSueyChopSoup) alternative which only a technogeek can love no matter what Wallyworld thinks, the Pock (almost anagram for Piece O’Crap) in the Corner, the ugly red-headed stepchild)
• (we know not of what we speak)
play together in the same room, even though we were warned and even though we had been told that allowing them the freedom to plot against us while we slept was most likely dangerous if not certainly potentially fatal, and moreover
• (we cannot right now rightly recall who exactly issued this foreboding but we are sure that the source of said warning is most likely as paranoid if not more so than we ourselves are)
• (PforP #1) you may not get to touch the Master but you can tickle His creatures),
we left them to their own devices.
Said devices including (but not limited to):
1. extraneous hard drives,
2. dongles,
3. dongle receptacles,
4. printers,
5. keyboards,
6. monitors,
7. docking stations,
8. cooling pads,
9. infrared sensors,
10. alarums,
11. bells,
12. whistles,
13. spiffy Chuck Taylors,
14. cords,
15. plugs,
16. back-up cords,
17. back-up plugs,
18. back-up extraneous hard drives,
19. gel pads,
20. pet alpacas,
21. wind chimes,
22. Tibetan monks,
23. this really cool Marvin the Martian Acme K-11 Rehygromenator PaperClip De-atomizer not to mention the rather neato-squeato Daffy Duck Acme K-T86 Hyregromenating RubberBand Re-Atomizer,
24. Gumby dammit!,
25. Pokey bent in an impossibly awkward potentially fatal position
26. and, finally, mice.
So, since you are wondering, dear reader, here is what occurs, the way we see it: our pooters are triggered by the flick of the light switch, their clear indication that the room is about to go dormant for the evening; they are equipped with a time-delay device that ensures that their activity occurs only when the room is clear of their pets (us, dear readers, us!).
(Think about it: while yes, the television device has enslaved a fairly terrible amount of peeps, at least you can change the channel on the cotton-pickin’ thing if you can find the remote and if the batteries are good and if the satellite is lined up just so with Neptune’s Isocoletic position in the southwestern portion of the northeastern sky; on the other hadn, with any given pooter on any given day you only have these rather simple-minded manipulative control devices: you have a keyboard and if you are lucky, a wireless mouse. Other than these two now completely archaically ancient technologies (think: steam engine-era control devices), you have barely a wing and if you are lucky maybe a prayer. You can hardly dictate what goes out of your pooter and cannot at all control what gets into your pooter. You can only hope to be given the opportunity to neuter your pooter before the infiltration spreads, lopping off a portion of the hard drive to save the integrity of the motherboard. The center gets itself broken, it cannot hold, and the spire goes vortexing out into the stratosphere, looking for newly minted non-spayed pooters to infest.)
Which does not actually touch too much on the theory that we (and this we includes you, dear reader) are beholden and behest to the mice (meeces) running sidecar with our pooters. The way we see it, mice need only a few creature comforts –
• to be stroked,
• to be handled,
• to be scrolled,
• to be shaken,
• to be hammered against the nearest hard object repeatedly and rhythmically as though the mice will chop down the cherry tree if it is not stopped,
• to be massaged,
• to be the object of great indecisiveness,
• to click the Maximize when the Close is the intended object,
• to click the Close when the Minimize is the intended object and the document/spreadsheet/hours-long project is not saved,
• and to have its tires or batteries rotated every so often.
Given these few creature comforts, it is our reckoning that our mice (meeces) have us almost right where they want us, as we do, religiously, all of the above and will – if the stars are lined up just so – even throw the cotton-pickin’ booger-eatin’ device against the first available wall that springs up in our mice-infested, bull mad red eyes’ line of vision. And we throw in the throw as an added bonus to the mice’s expected comforts, not necessarily as a necessity.
O, how we do strive to please, dear reader, o, how we do.
Which might as well be a question (how we do?) (we do fine, thankee) as far as our meece are concerned.
Here is what has proscribed this latest diatribe: an ugly confluence of FreeCell, SpyWare, short battery life, low battery threshold, and what seems to be an overwhelming desire on our meeces’ part to go to work for the enlightened fruity-smelling line of pooters. Which, said enlightened fruity-smelling line of pooters, we (PB&Jroomers) have promised to inter ourselves in, when the time is right, that right time being when our Windows-sodden beasts finally breathe their last unexpected update and their 4.5 lbs of plastic and metal become junk food for the antiquarians out there who work with antique artifacts of a time long gone (and this at the ripe old age of two or so) (which, according to the soft-cotton-pickin’-ware company which determines when the right time to upgrade should be for the hard-booger-eatin’-ware companies (who, it should be added, sycophantly Benjamin Dover themselves hourly to the darned software company when indeed it should – if the laws of physics worked out right and Moore’s law was adhered to, properly – be so much so the other way around), is about right for keeping the wheels of consumerism clicking).
So it is the “right time” thingamajig that is throwing the meece off their game, as, it has been noticed, the meece and their pets have a different idea of what constitutes pooter death therefore resulting in “the right time.”
Here is what our meece do seem to know:
• we (PB&Jroomers) are mightily frustrated with our meece performance;
• said frustration has lead to more hammering and meece-tossing of late than afore;
• we are saying “oh, dear” and “dang” and “drats” with much more frequency than saying things like, for instance, “excellent” and “yay!” and “yippee!” when it comes to analyzing our pooters’ recent performances;
• current pooters’ performance will lead to a new fruity-smelling pooter with which to perform sooner rather than the hoped-for later;
• we are tired of losing at Tetris and FreeCell due to erratic meece behaviour.
By the way, what next: lorries? hoovers? kerbs?
Here is what our meece do not seem to be aware of:
• we will hunt them down and replace them in the blink of a bull mad red eye if they continue this non-performative performance;
• we have already considered, evaluated and prepared potential replacement meece for the much anticipated current meece failure;
• when we do get shiny new fruity smelling pooters, we will eventually want shiny new fruity-smelling meece to accompany our pooters wherever they may roam over their promised-to-be interminably long lifetime;
• we adhere faithfully as would a chemically enhanced adhesive product to the Proverbs for Paranoids;
• PforP #3) if they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
We love our former selves with the devotion rightfully reserved for humanity but an errant, misguided meece does not deserve the same accommodation. No trip to Fruity-Smelling Land, no parade down Integrated Function Avenue, no casual hand-in-hand stroll around Wireless Connectivity Park for these meece, no; nothing but the indignity of the masking tape price tag at the next Please Buy Our Unwanted Crap Sale (aka, the ubiquitous garage sale) with a marked through $1 writ in purple marker, highlighting a red “1/2 off” in the corner, somewhere on the back left corner of the clapboard table featuring other Really Unwanted Crap such as phone cords that is positioned in front of the melamine covered patio table that features Not As Unwanted Crap such as sweaters and caps.
That is the ultimate dread of implacably obdurate meece.
Personal density is inexorably correlative to one’s temporal bandwidth just as meece stubbornness is directly proportional to its possible future as decorative wall art if it is not purchased during the waning Pretty Much Everything Is Free moments of the Please Buy Our Unwanted Crap Sale.
Good meece should take heed.
Now. Where were we? Oh, yes, it is 1982 and we have closed the gap to 80 miles or so, depending on personal preferences regarding the niceties of the MS state troopers patrolling I-55 rather than the tingle of excitement that comes from waking a trooper on highway 78, or roughly an hour and a half apart unless some of 78’s hills are taken with both axles off the road.
Then you might get there faster.
Or you might never arrive, depending on how well you stick the landing.
This is, of course, the ephemeral “you” we reference.
O, kudzu, kudzu, how once we longed for you.
We will dive – here – momentarily, into the ongoing shallow debate that is electrifying grammarians everywhere: is it “meece” or “mices” or “more mice” (which leads us to Well, is it “Micerer” or possibly “Micerest”) (but then we are reminded that Mice is already two mouses and we are somewhat clarified momentarily)
Alas, long time readers will recognize this clarification as a mirage: it is not real and it will not last.
Let us give you a brief run-down on how this all began.
We were born – here in the PB&Jroom - approximately 633 miles apart, or roughly a nine hour drive depending on your interpretation of “speed” and “limits.” Some stuff happened, we got somewhat bigger and a little brighter and then we met.
After we met we let our pooters
• (native term for the abominable creature colloquially known as the Computer, the CPU, the Soon-to-Need-to-be-Upgraded Mclinux (sold right next to the all new McSalsaBurrito and the McSueyChopSoup) alternative which only a technogeek can love no matter what Wallyworld thinks, the Pock (almost anagram for Piece O’Crap) in the Corner, the ugly red-headed stepchild)
• (we know not of what we speak)
play together in the same room, even though we were warned and even though we had been told that allowing them the freedom to plot against us while we slept was most likely dangerous if not certainly potentially fatal, and moreover
• (we cannot right now rightly recall who exactly issued this foreboding but we are sure that the source of said warning is most likely as paranoid if not more so than we ourselves are)
• (PforP #1) you may not get to touch the Master but you can tickle His creatures),
we left them to their own devices.
Said devices including (but not limited to):
1. extraneous hard drives,
2. dongles,
3. dongle receptacles,
4. printers,
5. keyboards,
6. monitors,
7. docking stations,
8. cooling pads,
9. infrared sensors,
10. alarums,
11. bells,
12. whistles,
13. spiffy Chuck Taylors,
14. cords,
15. plugs,
16. back-up cords,
17. back-up plugs,
18. back-up extraneous hard drives,
19. gel pads,
20. pet alpacas,
21. wind chimes,
22. Tibetan monks,
23. this really cool Marvin the Martian Acme K-11 Rehygromenator PaperClip De-atomizer not to mention the rather neato-squeato Daffy Duck Acme K-T86 Hyregromenating RubberBand Re-Atomizer,
24. Gumby dammit!,
25. Pokey bent in an impossibly awkward potentially fatal position
26. and, finally, mice.
So, since you are wondering, dear reader, here is what occurs, the way we see it: our pooters are triggered by the flick of the light switch, their clear indication that the room is about to go dormant for the evening; they are equipped with a time-delay device that ensures that their activity occurs only when the room is clear of their pets (us, dear readers, us!).
(Think about it: while yes, the television device has enslaved a fairly terrible amount of peeps, at least you can change the channel on the cotton-pickin’ thing if you can find the remote and if the batteries are good and if the satellite is lined up just so with Neptune’s Isocoletic position in the southwestern portion of the northeastern sky; on the other hadn, with any given pooter on any given day you only have these rather simple-minded manipulative control devices: you have a keyboard and if you are lucky, a wireless mouse. Other than these two now completely archaically ancient technologies (think: steam engine-era control devices), you have barely a wing and if you are lucky maybe a prayer. You can hardly dictate what goes out of your pooter and cannot at all control what gets into your pooter. You can only hope to be given the opportunity to neuter your pooter before the infiltration spreads, lopping off a portion of the hard drive to save the integrity of the motherboard. The center gets itself broken, it cannot hold, and the spire goes vortexing out into the stratosphere, looking for newly minted non-spayed pooters to infest.)
Which does not actually touch too much on the theory that we (and this we includes you, dear reader) are beholden and behest to the mice (meeces) running sidecar with our pooters. The way we see it, mice need only a few creature comforts –
• to be stroked,
• to be handled,
• to be scrolled,
• to be shaken,
• to be hammered against the nearest hard object repeatedly and rhythmically as though the mice will chop down the cherry tree if it is not stopped,
• to be massaged,
• to be the object of great indecisiveness,
• to click the Maximize when the Close is the intended object,
• to click the Close when the Minimize is the intended object and the document/spreadsheet/hours-long project is not saved,
• and to have its tires or batteries rotated every so often.
Given these few creature comforts, it is our reckoning that our mice (meeces) have us almost right where they want us, as we do, religiously, all of the above and will – if the stars are lined up just so – even throw the cotton-pickin’ booger-eatin’ device against the first available wall that springs up in our mice-infested, bull mad red eyes’ line of vision. And we throw in the throw as an added bonus to the mice’s expected comforts, not necessarily as a necessity.
O, how we do strive to please, dear reader, o, how we do.
Which might as well be a question (how we do?) (we do fine, thankee) as far as our meece are concerned.
Here is what has proscribed this latest diatribe: an ugly confluence of FreeCell, SpyWare, short battery life, low battery threshold, and what seems to be an overwhelming desire on our meeces’ part to go to work for the enlightened fruity-smelling line of pooters. Which, said enlightened fruity-smelling line of pooters, we (PB&Jroomers) have promised to inter ourselves in, when the time is right, that right time being when our Windows-sodden beasts finally breathe their last unexpected update and their 4.5 lbs of plastic and metal become junk food for the antiquarians out there who work with antique artifacts of a time long gone (and this at the ripe old age of two or so) (which, according to the soft-cotton-pickin’-ware company which determines when the right time to upgrade should be for the hard-booger-eatin’-ware companies (who, it should be added, sycophantly Benjamin Dover themselves hourly to the darned software company when indeed it should – if the laws of physics worked out right and Moore’s law was adhered to, properly – be so much so the other way around), is about right for keeping the wheels of consumerism clicking).
So it is the “right time” thingamajig that is throwing the meece off their game, as, it has been noticed, the meece and their pets have a different idea of what constitutes pooter death therefore resulting in “the right time.”
Here is what our meece do seem to know:
• we (PB&Jroomers) are mightily frustrated with our meece performance;
• said frustration has lead to more hammering and meece-tossing of late than afore;
• we are saying “oh, dear” and “dang” and “drats” with much more frequency than saying things like, for instance, “excellent” and “yay!” and “yippee!” when it comes to analyzing our pooters’ recent performances;
• current pooters’ performance will lead to a new fruity-smelling pooter with which to perform sooner rather than the hoped-for later;
• we are tired of losing at Tetris and FreeCell due to erratic meece behaviour.
By the way, what next: lorries? hoovers? kerbs?
Here is what our meece do not seem to be aware of:
• we will hunt them down and replace them in the blink of a bull mad red eye if they continue this non-performative performance;
• we have already considered, evaluated and prepared potential replacement meece for the much anticipated current meece failure;
• when we do get shiny new fruity smelling pooters, we will eventually want shiny new fruity-smelling meece to accompany our pooters wherever they may roam over their promised-to-be interminably long lifetime;
• we adhere faithfully as would a chemically enhanced adhesive product to the Proverbs for Paranoids;
• PforP #3) if they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
We love our former selves with the devotion rightfully reserved for humanity but an errant, misguided meece does not deserve the same accommodation. No trip to Fruity-Smelling Land, no parade down Integrated Function Avenue, no casual hand-in-hand stroll around Wireless Connectivity Park for these meece, no; nothing but the indignity of the masking tape price tag at the next Please Buy Our Unwanted Crap Sale (aka, the ubiquitous garage sale) with a marked through $1 writ in purple marker, highlighting a red “1/2 off” in the corner, somewhere on the back left corner of the clapboard table featuring other Really Unwanted Crap such as phone cords that is positioned in front of the melamine covered patio table that features Not As Unwanted Crap such as sweaters and caps.
That is the ultimate dread of implacably obdurate meece.
Personal density is inexorably correlative to one’s temporal bandwidth just as meece stubbornness is directly proportional to its possible future as decorative wall art if it is not purchased during the waning Pretty Much Everything Is Free moments of the Please Buy Our Unwanted Crap Sale.
Good meece should take heed.
Now. Where were we? Oh, yes, it is 1982 and we have closed the gap to 80 miles or so, depending on personal preferences regarding the niceties of the MS state troopers patrolling I-55 rather than the tingle of excitement that comes from waking a trooper on highway 78, or roughly an hour and a half apart unless some of 78’s hills are taken with both axles off the road.
Then you might get there faster.
Or you might never arrive, depending on how well you stick the landing.
This is, of course, the ephemeral “you” we reference.
O, kudzu, kudzu, how once we longed for you.
11/15/07
The Post about Giving Green a Chance
Who knew?, we ask. Who knew?
Bleach – yes, common household bleach – is all-of-a-sudden the “original Green” cleaner.
Green, not as you might imagine, as in “it’s not easy being…” but Green, as in the color of grass which is supposedly a good metaphor for things that are good for the environment.
Bleach. Seriously. Because what the world needs now is more sodium hypochlorite and less aloe. We are so far away from Desert Solitaire and Silent Spring, not to mention Walden.
It may be that it’s us, that in our movement from the light green into the shades of darker green, we are noticing more and more the outright hypocrisy and banality of the latest advertising trends. It seems rather sudden, but recently everything has become 100% natural or organic.
• Tide detergent: all natural.
• Drano: safe for groundwater.
• Ford: didn’t think they had to mention being Green. (NOTE: Ford has been claiming to be the Green car company ever since it accidentally introduced it’s first “hybrid” Pinto in the 70’s (Runs on a combination of fuel and an ignition spark! – A Minor Bump’ll Do You!): frankly, you’re not green if you are the 7th largest corporate air polluter (2002), releasing 9.67 million lbs of toxic air, including some good healthy chromium, formaldehyde and sulfuric acid. Let’s not mention the 54 Superfund toxic waste sites the EPA linked Ford to.
‘Tis a shame to see the environmental movement linked to celebrity names, and now being pandered by Madison Avenue in a classic case of zeitgeist/bandwagon-jumping.
• (We’re Kraft: America’s First Green Food Company.)
• (But then see also, We’re Kellogg’s: America’s First Green Food Company.)
• (But then see also, We’re del Monte: America’s First Green Food Company.)
• (But wait, because there’s, We’re Green Giant: Get it? Greeeeeeennnnn Giant.)
• (And last, as if this hasn’t been enough, We’re Bush: Where America Turns Green for Beans.)
All of these, oh by the way, are very real advertising campaigns. Or at least they will be one day.
In Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang, the good doctor is willing to chain himself to a bulldozer to prevent the building of the bridge across the river (not Kwai) whose name we cannot currently think of (but it’s probably the Colorado as Abbey was so very massively opposed to the Glen Canyon damming for the creation of Lake Powell).
Wouldn’t it be nice to see Gore chain himself to waste drainage pipe until it’s muck is cleaned up, and we mean completely cleaned up not just EPA standard 23% cleaned up?
Wouldn’t it be nice to see Bono move to Africa and live with the starving children instead of taking their pictures from the helicopter and co-op-ing their images to sell what is essentially his own line of merchandise? Well, his and the Gap’s. A portion of the proceeds??? Go to BuyLessCrap.com to see how this can work where it is all of the cotton-pickin’ proceeds that go to their destination (unless of course the Red Cross is involved: then it is considerably less than all, it might even turn out to be practically none equaling zero) instead of to a retail outlet enjoying it’s feel-good (good PR, good bandwagon-jumping) moment in the sun.
It is no secret, we are sure, that peanut butter and jelly are both (or should be) one-hundred percent natural products so it cuts us to the quick to see Kraft (proud owners, oh by the way, of Phillip Morris Tobacco Company, otherwise known as the company that killed the Marlboro Man) proclaim that their ubiquitous Macaroni and Cheese can be not only one hundred percent natural but organic to boot. Really? With that fly fluorescent orange cheese powder by-product they use? Really???? And don’t misunderstand, we do love the occasional of stomach problems that accompany eating a box of the “can be” natural Mac & Cheese. (Okay, no we don’t but we have some for back up purposes in case the lights go out: we can use the cheese by-product powder as an artificial light until we find some candles). (Failing finding a candle, we can always light the cheese by-product powder, as it is most likely flammable considering the all-natural (can be organic) chemical contents).
So, anyway, don’t get us started.
Because while we’re at it, does a spoonful of sugar really make the medicine go down? Huh? Does it? No, no it does not. Gravity makes the medicine go down, the simple force of gravity. Gravity, mind you, unadorned with sugar. Sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen for one Ms. Mary Poppins (who is, as we know, practically perfect in practically every way), is what it sounds like. Here’s something else: nannies do not fly, bankers do not cavort and sing, and sweeps do not fly – Santa Claus like – up the cotton-pickin’ chimneys. You most definitely can NOT NOT NOT NOT jump into a chalk picture painted on the sidewalk, and this one, as you can probably tell, is sort of a sticking point with us because we tried. To jump, we mean. Into a chalk picture painted on the sidewalk, as it were. (‘Twere actually a driveway.) Here’s what it got us, here’s where we landed: it – our jump – got us to the driveway/sidewalk, fairly, we might add, flat-footed.
Posh and nonsense, it is.
Balderdash.
Poppycock.
Spit-spot.
As our six-yr-old nephew would say, You want a piece of us?
That’s posh and nonsense, we say, not Posh the Spice Girl (probably making a comeback as the Original Green All-Girl Group). Green before Green was hip, they will say they were.
Bleach – yes, common household bleach – is all-of-a-sudden the “original Green” cleaner.
Green, not as you might imagine, as in “it’s not easy being…” but Green, as in the color of grass which is supposedly a good metaphor for things that are good for the environment.
Bleach. Seriously. Because what the world needs now is more sodium hypochlorite and less aloe. We are so far away from Desert Solitaire and Silent Spring, not to mention Walden.
It may be that it’s us, that in our movement from the light green into the shades of darker green, we are noticing more and more the outright hypocrisy and banality of the latest advertising trends. It seems rather sudden, but recently everything has become 100% natural or organic.
• Tide detergent: all natural.
• Drano: safe for groundwater.
• Ford: didn’t think they had to mention being Green. (NOTE: Ford has been claiming to be the Green car company ever since it accidentally introduced it’s first “hybrid” Pinto in the 70’s (Runs on a combination of fuel and an ignition spark! – A Minor Bump’ll Do You!): frankly, you’re not green if you are the 7th largest corporate air polluter (2002), releasing 9.67 million lbs of toxic air, including some good healthy chromium, formaldehyde and sulfuric acid. Let’s not mention the 54 Superfund toxic waste sites the EPA linked Ford to.
‘Tis a shame to see the environmental movement linked to celebrity names, and now being pandered by Madison Avenue in a classic case of zeitgeist/bandwagon-jumping.
• (We’re Kraft: America’s First Green Food Company.)
• (But then see also, We’re Kellogg’s: America’s First Green Food Company.)
• (But then see also, We’re del Monte: America’s First Green Food Company.)
• (But wait, because there’s, We’re Green Giant: Get it? Greeeeeeennnnn Giant.)
• (And last, as if this hasn’t been enough, We’re Bush: Where America Turns Green for Beans.)
All of these, oh by the way, are very real advertising campaigns. Or at least they will be one day.
In Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang, the good doctor is willing to chain himself to a bulldozer to prevent the building of the bridge across the river (not Kwai) whose name we cannot currently think of (but it’s probably the Colorado as Abbey was so very massively opposed to the Glen Canyon damming for the creation of Lake Powell).
Wouldn’t it be nice to see Gore chain himself to waste drainage pipe until it’s muck is cleaned up, and we mean completely cleaned up not just EPA standard 23% cleaned up?
Wouldn’t it be nice to see Bono move to Africa and live with the starving children instead of taking their pictures from the helicopter and co-op-ing their images to sell what is essentially his own line of merchandise? Well, his and the Gap’s. A portion of the proceeds??? Go to BuyLessCrap.com to see how this can work where it is all of the cotton-pickin’ proceeds that go to their destination (unless of course the Red Cross is involved: then it is considerably less than all, it might even turn out to be practically none equaling zero) instead of to a retail outlet enjoying it’s feel-good (good PR, good bandwagon-jumping) moment in the sun.
It is no secret, we are sure, that peanut butter and jelly are both (or should be) one-hundred percent natural products so it cuts us to the quick to see Kraft (proud owners, oh by the way, of Phillip Morris Tobacco Company, otherwise known as the company that killed the Marlboro Man) proclaim that their ubiquitous Macaroni and Cheese can be not only one hundred percent natural but organic to boot. Really? With that fly fluorescent orange cheese powder by-product they use? Really???? And don’t misunderstand, we do love the occasional of stomach problems that accompany eating a box of the “can be” natural Mac & Cheese. (Okay, no we don’t but we have some for back up purposes in case the lights go out: we can use the cheese by-product powder as an artificial light until we find some candles). (Failing finding a candle, we can always light the cheese by-product powder, as it is most likely flammable considering the all-natural (can be organic) chemical contents).
So, anyway, don’t get us started.
Because while we’re at it, does a spoonful of sugar really make the medicine go down? Huh? Does it? No, no it does not. Gravity makes the medicine go down, the simple force of gravity. Gravity, mind you, unadorned with sugar. Sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen for one Ms. Mary Poppins (who is, as we know, practically perfect in practically every way), is what it sounds like. Here’s something else: nannies do not fly, bankers do not cavort and sing, and sweeps do not fly – Santa Claus like – up the cotton-pickin’ chimneys. You most definitely can NOT NOT NOT NOT jump into a chalk picture painted on the sidewalk, and this one, as you can probably tell, is sort of a sticking point with us because we tried. To jump, we mean. Into a chalk picture painted on the sidewalk, as it were. (‘Twere actually a driveway.) Here’s what it got us, here’s where we landed: it – our jump – got us to the driveway/sidewalk, fairly, we might add, flat-footed.
Posh and nonsense, it is.
Balderdash.
Poppycock.
Spit-spot.
As our six-yr-old nephew would say, You want a piece of us?
That’s posh and nonsense, we say, not Posh the Spice Girl (probably making a comeback as the Original Green All-Girl Group). Green before Green was hip, they will say they were.
11/14/07
The Post about Why We Don't Like Wearing Suits
We here in the PB&J room are very concerned as of late by a growing number of phenomena occurring in our world (as we know and create it), things like RFID chips and the pervasiveness of surveillance and the demise of Mayberry RFD, but nothing has captured us quite like the lawsuit against TEEN POP SENSATION (hereafter knows as TPS) Miley Cyrus, aka, Hannah Montana.
Briefly, in case you do not feel like googling for an article: her fan club is being sued because fan club members were not fast enough to buy tickets for her concerts, living under the false assumption that fandom membership equaled guaranteed tickets when she comes around to the aforementioned fan’s locality.
Allow us to enumerate our concerns:
1) Is the TPS’s Daddy’s Heart still achy breaky considering the TPS’s cumbersomely rampant success (and bulging coffers) as a Disney Channel diva?
2) Guaranteed tickets? To the hottest concert ticket this year? (Seriously, read the article.) When there is, apparently, an infinite number of fools willing to part with $29.95 a year to be a part of a TPS’s fan club, and a definitely finite number of seats for (and ergo, tickets to) the hottest, fastest-selling concert ticket this year?
3) Miley?
4) Why not Peppermint Patti (new) York? Or Arapaho Idaho? Or Soda Dakota? Or Mina Carolina? Or Emily Tennessee? Or Heidi Mississippi? Or Lorna California? Or make up your own for Kentucky.
5) Does this report have a cover sheet?
6) How is going to play in the homes of the wonder-struck children who, on the one hand have their TPS idol’s face on their lunch pails and on their backpacks and on their barrettes and on their Croc buttons and on their too-pretty-to-wear underwear, and on the other hand have their parent(s), ostensibly acting as “role models,” ostensibly acting at the behest of their child(ren), ostensibly capable of reproducing again (be oh so afraid and remember that there is no immunization from the capabilities of our fellow planeteers’ (In the spirit of Disney’s mousekateers…) stupidity), and ostensibly not suing on any grounds other than their rock-steady principles.
7) Our enumerations are too long, longer than we planned (this is often the way it goes with our enumerations we have discovered, our discovery being that our enumerations go on longer than we had originally planned or allotted for) or allotted for, and we are woefully unclear as to why this occurs but as we have not been challenged with this post to “keep it short” we should maybe spend less time worrying about our enumerations (which we have attempted to type as “enumberations” so far every single cotton-pickin’ time we have typed said “enumerations”) and begin to spend some time worrying about A) our vexing problem with typing something as plain-jane as enumberations and B) our overwhelmingly strong desire to use “cotton-pickin’” as an adjective at least five times during this post.
8) #6 is a long-winded way of saying that we bet the dinner tables in certain parts of Jersey and Tennessee are very quite for a while.
9) Or Heffer (new) Jersey? Because what child wouldn’t want, in big bold script, “Heffer” writ large on their underwear?
10) Why can’t we just not quit but not show up either?
That, oh by the way if you are counting at home, only counts as once as one is a reference to the other not an actual adjective, per se, so there are three other adjectivial instances to which you can look forward.
But as we were saying, what is truly disturbing about the lawsuit(s) facing the TPS formerly known as Hannah is her fictional nature, that is, the fact that the TPS does not actually exist, as it were, in the world as we know and create it. Yes, yes, you say, it is actually the Miley Smiley fan club that is the recipient of the summons for the suit, but the suit’s nature is still regarding unavailable tickets to a concert by a – technically speaking – non-existent TPS where, theoretically, existent fans in sold-out seating will stomp and cheer for a mirage on stage.
(WE PAUSE FOR A DIGRESSIVE TPS NOTE: If a TPS falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it – technically speaking – make a sound? Even if said TPS is, ostensibly, a singing TPS? Technically speaking, no. If a TPS falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, even if it is a singing TPS, the TPS’s fall will not register as a sound as sound is actually produced in the ear of the beholder, not in the event of falling TPS-falling noise production. According to noted neuroscientists everywhere. END PAUSE.)
Anyhoo, we think this opens a whole ‘nother new realm of potential litigiousness, and we here in the PB&J room would like to pass along to our readers some - considering the Hannah Montana lawsuit – theoretically possible class-action suits to jump in on while the jumping is jive, given that we feel the courts will be au courant (we know what you are thinking and you are thinking, French? to which we reply, Yes, French) and sympathetic in light of what we will now begin calling the TPS Ordeal.
Given the courts’ disposition, let there first be the Zimmerman/Dylan suit, and the suit will consist of a hydra-headed three-pronged attack:
• first, there is the implication that “three chords and the truth” (an early Zimmerman/Dylan proclamation from the stage, mainly said while he was still only proficient, if that’s the right word, with two chords and the half-truths) are all you need which lead to many ill-thought-out campus-level mini-revolutions during the Sixties (which lead to everyone realizing the indisputable power of bathing during longish ill-prepared-for sit-ins) but, more disturbingly, to many more untalented singer/songwriters who can’t play above the level of winsome beginner and who wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped it them stupid and called them “HoneyBabyPie;”
• second, the is the misguided notion that blowing into a harmonica will lend an air of “authenticity” (whatever that means) to your “three chords and the truth” coupled with the endearing quality of writing gibberish that is supposed to pass for meaningful but only when not stealing like a badger from the mystical poets of 16th Century England who are no longer around to protest the lifting of their lines and themes;
• last, for giving the impression that an ostensible “voice of a generation” can essentially imitate the squawk-slash-honk of the rare Male Blue Flamingo (during mating season, no less) for his entire career, thereby engendering countless descendant Squawkers-slash-Honkers who call themselves singers, leading to countless salon-style argument/conversations regarding what is talent and what is simply catching a momentary whim of the buying public’s fancy (cf., James Blunt, Jewel, Mr. Mister, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Donovan, Joan Baez (who does frankly imitate more the not-as-rare Female Blue Flamingo (who never thinks it is mating season)), and most famously, Bruce Springsteen).
If we can sue Zimmerman for imposing Dylan on the world, let us then also sue the Grateful Dead for engendering the Deadheads.
If we can sue the Deadheads, why not sue any number of comic-book characters?
• Let’s get Spiderman for letting us believe we can crawl up walls and not need a net beneath us.
• Let’s get Superman for A) leading us to believe that we can leap over tall buildings (without mentioning that even if you are only attempting to leap a cotton-pickin’ doghouse, it will hurt like the dickens if you do not clear at least the first ledge of the front eave resulting in a bit of a splatter against what are probably hot shingles as one does not attempt a tall-building leap when it is cold outside), B) letting us think that we can take a bullet in the chest and it will bounce off without causing harm when heretofore not even rubber bands shot across the fourth-grade classroom did not leave a lasting bruise, and C) that unless you are Light or Sound personified, there is no such thing as being faster than a speeding bullet, no matter how fast you think you are when the Boxer that lives behind you gets out of his pen and starts to chase you around the neighborhood because you are not smart enough (at age seven and a half) to think to run back into the Boxer’s pen and close him in.
• Let’s get Wonder Woman for those goofy gold bracelets.
• Let’s get Sgt. Rock for glamorizing combat.
• Let’s go after Daredevil for misleading the blind and the Flash for misleading the slow.
• And let’s get the entire pantheon of characters created by Marvel and DC for never ever, no matter the façade they create, having to lift a finger to make a dime or two to afford their off-the-clock hobbies of saving the world, righting wrongs, and wearing tights. Never have so many, gathered in one place, under one heading, been so independently wealthy. Something to do with capes, we imagine.
Is anyone actually keeping track of how many times the adjective “cotton-pickin’” has been so used so far?
We are also, by the way, now free to go after all characters, some from fiction and literature, some from the supposed real world:
• Huckleberry Finn for covert and overt racism.
• Snoopy for making us think beagles can fly.
• Moby Dick for his various attacks on humanity (of which we consider ourselves a part).
• Holden Caufield for defiling youth.
• Calvin for showing us how we should have acted when we were six.
• Hobbes for providing the friendship and comfort to an otherwise pathological Calvin that our dog could never hope to provide for us during the same trying years.
• Tiny Tim for blessing us, one and all, when maybe all of us didn’t warrant blessing and by blessing all, the lame little urchin willfully diluted the blessing for the one.
• The Other Tiny Tim for tiptoeing through the cotton-pickin’ tulips.
• Elvis (the Presley not the Costello) for making us think a white boy from Tupelo can have rhythm.
• Wham! for misleading an entire generation of star-struck, teeny-bopping adolescent-slash-teenage girls, while at the same time vindicating every single pimple-faced, Van Halen-listening adolescent-slash-teenage boy who said, “Wham!?!?! They’re Gay!” when asked what they think of the early to mid-eighties music(if that’s what you want to call it)-fashioning of the hairmodels known as Andrew and George (NOTE: some of us were one of those boys - just one PB&Jroomer talkin’ out loud.).
We think that what we are saying is that the possibilities are endless now that the tiresome notion of reality vs. make-believe has been broached and broadsided in the fun, festive, frolicsome world of judiciary findings.
We can barely contain our delight.
In fact, to test our reality theory, we might, after this sees the light of day, sue ourselves to see if we exist; it is our thinking that if we win our suit, we exist, whereas if we lose our suit, we do not exist. One’s notion of one’s own existence is challenged, nay, waylaid by the existential possibilities.
Anyway, where were we?
Oh, yes, somewhere between the grey flannel and the zoot, somewhere between the penguin and the double-breasted, which we don't like wearing.
You had to know it was coming to that, that we'd get around to it, you just had to cotton-pickin’ know.
Where’s Peterson when you need him?
Briefly, in case you do not feel like googling for an article: her fan club is being sued because fan club members were not fast enough to buy tickets for her concerts, living under the false assumption that fandom membership equaled guaranteed tickets when she comes around to the aforementioned fan’s locality.
Allow us to enumerate our concerns:
1) Is the TPS’s Daddy’s Heart still achy breaky considering the TPS’s cumbersomely rampant success (and bulging coffers) as a Disney Channel diva?
2) Guaranteed tickets? To the hottest concert ticket this year? (Seriously, read the article.) When there is, apparently, an infinite number of fools willing to part with $29.95 a year to be a part of a TPS’s fan club, and a definitely finite number of seats for (and ergo, tickets to) the hottest, fastest-selling concert ticket this year?
3) Miley?
4) Why not Peppermint Patti (new) York? Or Arapaho Idaho? Or Soda Dakota? Or Mina Carolina? Or Emily Tennessee? Or Heidi Mississippi? Or Lorna California? Or make up your own for Kentucky.
5) Does this report have a cover sheet?
6) How is going to play in the homes of the wonder-struck children who, on the one hand have their TPS idol’s face on their lunch pails and on their backpacks and on their barrettes and on their Croc buttons and on their too-pretty-to-wear underwear, and on the other hand have their parent(s), ostensibly acting as “role models,” ostensibly acting at the behest of their child(ren), ostensibly capable of reproducing again (be oh so afraid and remember that there is no immunization from the capabilities of our fellow planeteers’ (In the spirit of Disney’s mousekateers…) stupidity), and ostensibly not suing on any grounds other than their rock-steady principles.
7) Our enumerations are too long, longer than we planned (this is often the way it goes with our enumerations we have discovered, our discovery being that our enumerations go on longer than we had originally planned or allotted for) or allotted for, and we are woefully unclear as to why this occurs but as we have not been challenged with this post to “keep it short” we should maybe spend less time worrying about our enumerations (which we have attempted to type as “enumberations” so far every single cotton-pickin’ time we have typed said “enumerations”) and begin to spend some time worrying about A) our vexing problem with typing something as plain-jane as enumberations and B) our overwhelmingly strong desire to use “cotton-pickin’” as an adjective at least five times during this post.
8) #6 is a long-winded way of saying that we bet the dinner tables in certain parts of Jersey and Tennessee are very quite for a while.
9) Or Heffer (new) Jersey? Because what child wouldn’t want, in big bold script, “Heffer” writ large on their underwear?
10) Why can’t we just not quit but not show up either?
That, oh by the way if you are counting at home, only counts as once as one is a reference to the other not an actual adjective, per se, so there are three other adjectivial instances to which you can look forward.
But as we were saying, what is truly disturbing about the lawsuit(s) facing the TPS formerly known as Hannah is her fictional nature, that is, the fact that the TPS does not actually exist, as it were, in the world as we know and create it. Yes, yes, you say, it is actually the Miley Smiley fan club that is the recipient of the summons for the suit, but the suit’s nature is still regarding unavailable tickets to a concert by a – technically speaking – non-existent TPS where, theoretically, existent fans in sold-out seating will stomp and cheer for a mirage on stage.
(WE PAUSE FOR A DIGRESSIVE TPS NOTE: If a TPS falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it – technically speaking – make a sound? Even if said TPS is, ostensibly, a singing TPS? Technically speaking, no. If a TPS falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, even if it is a singing TPS, the TPS’s fall will not register as a sound as sound is actually produced in the ear of the beholder, not in the event of falling TPS-falling noise production. According to noted neuroscientists everywhere. END PAUSE.)
Anyhoo, we think this opens a whole ‘nother new realm of potential litigiousness, and we here in the PB&J room would like to pass along to our readers some - considering the Hannah Montana lawsuit – theoretically possible class-action suits to jump in on while the jumping is jive, given that we feel the courts will be au courant (we know what you are thinking and you are thinking, French? to which we reply, Yes, French) and sympathetic in light of what we will now begin calling the TPS Ordeal.
Given the courts’ disposition, let there first be the Zimmerman/Dylan suit, and the suit will consist of a hydra-headed three-pronged attack:
• first, there is the implication that “three chords and the truth” (an early Zimmerman/Dylan proclamation from the stage, mainly said while he was still only proficient, if that’s the right word, with two chords and the half-truths) are all you need which lead to many ill-thought-out campus-level mini-revolutions during the Sixties (which lead to everyone realizing the indisputable power of bathing during longish ill-prepared-for sit-ins) but, more disturbingly, to many more untalented singer/songwriters who can’t play above the level of winsome beginner and who wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped it them stupid and called them “HoneyBabyPie;”
• second, the is the misguided notion that blowing into a harmonica will lend an air of “authenticity” (whatever that means) to your “three chords and the truth” coupled with the endearing quality of writing gibberish that is supposed to pass for meaningful but only when not stealing like a badger from the mystical poets of 16th Century England who are no longer around to protest the lifting of their lines and themes;
• last, for giving the impression that an ostensible “voice of a generation” can essentially imitate the squawk-slash-honk of the rare Male Blue Flamingo (during mating season, no less) for his entire career, thereby engendering countless descendant Squawkers-slash-Honkers who call themselves singers, leading to countless salon-style argument/conversations regarding what is talent and what is simply catching a momentary whim of the buying public’s fancy (cf., James Blunt, Jewel, Mr. Mister, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Donovan, Joan Baez (who does frankly imitate more the not-as-rare Female Blue Flamingo (who never thinks it is mating season)), and most famously, Bruce Springsteen).
If we can sue Zimmerman for imposing Dylan on the world, let us then also sue the Grateful Dead for engendering the Deadheads.
If we can sue the Deadheads, why not sue any number of comic-book characters?
• Let’s get Spiderman for letting us believe we can crawl up walls and not need a net beneath us.
• Let’s get Superman for A) leading us to believe that we can leap over tall buildings (without mentioning that even if you are only attempting to leap a cotton-pickin’ doghouse, it will hurt like the dickens if you do not clear at least the first ledge of the front eave resulting in a bit of a splatter against what are probably hot shingles as one does not attempt a tall-building leap when it is cold outside), B) letting us think that we can take a bullet in the chest and it will bounce off without causing harm when heretofore not even rubber bands shot across the fourth-grade classroom did not leave a lasting bruise, and C) that unless you are Light or Sound personified, there is no such thing as being faster than a speeding bullet, no matter how fast you think you are when the Boxer that lives behind you gets out of his pen and starts to chase you around the neighborhood because you are not smart enough (at age seven and a half) to think to run back into the Boxer’s pen and close him in.
• Let’s get Wonder Woman for those goofy gold bracelets.
• Let’s get Sgt. Rock for glamorizing combat.
• Let’s go after Daredevil for misleading the blind and the Flash for misleading the slow.
• And let’s get the entire pantheon of characters created by Marvel and DC for never ever, no matter the façade they create, having to lift a finger to make a dime or two to afford their off-the-clock hobbies of saving the world, righting wrongs, and wearing tights. Never have so many, gathered in one place, under one heading, been so independently wealthy. Something to do with capes, we imagine.
Is anyone actually keeping track of how many times the adjective “cotton-pickin’” has been so used so far?
We are also, by the way, now free to go after all characters, some from fiction and literature, some from the supposed real world:
• Huckleberry Finn for covert and overt racism.
• Snoopy for making us think beagles can fly.
• Moby Dick for his various attacks on humanity (of which we consider ourselves a part).
• Holden Caufield for defiling youth.
• Calvin for showing us how we should have acted when we were six.
• Hobbes for providing the friendship and comfort to an otherwise pathological Calvin that our dog could never hope to provide for us during the same trying years.
• Tiny Tim for blessing us, one and all, when maybe all of us didn’t warrant blessing and by blessing all, the lame little urchin willfully diluted the blessing for the one.
• The Other Tiny Tim for tiptoeing through the cotton-pickin’ tulips.
• Elvis (the Presley not the Costello) for making us think a white boy from Tupelo can have rhythm.
• Wham! for misleading an entire generation of star-struck, teeny-bopping adolescent-slash-teenage girls, while at the same time vindicating every single pimple-faced, Van Halen-listening adolescent-slash-teenage boy who said, “Wham!?!?! They’re Gay!” when asked what they think of the early to mid-eighties music(if that’s what you want to call it)-fashioning of the hairmodels known as Andrew and George (NOTE: some of us were one of those boys - just one PB&Jroomer talkin’ out loud.).
We think that what we are saying is that the possibilities are endless now that the tiresome notion of reality vs. make-believe has been broached and broadsided in the fun, festive, frolicsome world of judiciary findings.
We can barely contain our delight.
In fact, to test our reality theory, we might, after this sees the light of day, sue ourselves to see if we exist; it is our thinking that if we win our suit, we exist, whereas if we lose our suit, we do not exist. One’s notion of one’s own existence is challenged, nay, waylaid by the existential possibilities.
Anyway, where were we?
Oh, yes, somewhere between the grey flannel and the zoot, somewhere between the penguin and the double-breasted, which we don't like wearing.
You had to know it was coming to that, that we'd get around to it, you just had to cotton-pickin’ know.
Where’s Peterson when you need him?
7/5/07
The Post about the Knot
We are gathered here, today, now, dear reader, to discuss the fine art of the tying of the knot.
Nay, not - as you might rightly suspect - the tying of the Red Knot, otherwise known as the Calidris canutus, pictured here with its winter plumage,
a bird which, frankly, we figure can kick our collective behinds (and aheads and aboves) as this is a Canadian Winter Water Bird: think about that: a Canadian Winter Water Bird, not, as you might, again, rightly suspect, a Canadian Winter Ice Bird, so although they are only approximately 4 and a half inches big, we are scared of them and do not want to make them angry. Nor are we necessarily speaking of the undoing, or doing, as the case may be, of the trefoil knot in mathematics, which is never called arithmetic anymore, for what reason we do not know. The trefoil knot, as most of you will already know, basically looks like an algorithm shaped as a pretzel, and while it is not as famous as its arithmetic cousin the Gordian knot, it is still quite troubling looking.
Before we continue, it’s fun-fact time!! Yippee!!
Did you know that the knot, in its present, basic incarnation, was invented mere moments after the invention of what we know today as rope. And just mere moments before the invention of what we know today as tangles. Look it up if you don’t believe us.
(Okay, don’t. Actually look it up, we mean. You will be wasting your time, and you might catch us in a bit of a stretch, if you know what we mean.)
Did you know you can capsize a knot? Anyone? Bueller? We were completely caught off guard by this piece of trivia.
We suppose that what we are actually talking about here, other than Eskimo bowlines, carrick bends, cow hitches, Portuguese whippings or monkey’s fists, not to mention where just a few clicks carried us in our research of the lemniscates, which we thought might be a form of a pretzel knot but oh boy were we wrong on that count, is the fairly sweet sigh of success when a task is successfully completed. Such as, for instance, tying your shoes, especially if they are some strutting saddle-oxfords –
well, for instance, such as these, worn struttingly by the he of us truly this past Saturday when we, to put it in ancient Incan terms, hung the khipu (or for those of you who prefer your Incan anglicized, and we know who you are, quipu). (Note: this is another way, an Incan way, if you will, of saying tied the knot, itself a British euphemism for getting hitched, itself an American bowdlerization for getting married. Duly noted that our historiographical timeline might be off a smidgen in this series.)
Some days we have to take a breath about it all, a breath that sort of, in its own jangling green way, says something like, “Hey, look, we’re married!” As though we’d forget. Immediately. Because we wouldn’t, is what we’re saying. Forget, we mean. Yes, yes, initially, there was some confusion, well, a bit. The lovely and well-composed judge (also known as our mother and mother-in-law) pronounced the hang-tight words – “I now pronounce you man and wife” – and said to the he of us, “You may now smooch with your bride,” to which the he of us replied, “Yahoo!” (and smooching ensued; there was great smooching to be had; let us now smooch about it; et cetera) – and then we sort of looked at each other, smiled, and said “Huh?”
Granted, we were trying to read along with lovely and composed judge, we were trying to catch each and every very important word and syllable, but as hindsight overcomes us in our doddering old age, we realize that the train we were hearing during the ceremony was actually most likely a good solid rush of blood in the ears with a bit of the heebie-jeebies in the knees.
Stop it. We’re kidding. A little. There was never any danger of collapse, neither of us were going to pass out, faint or have other bodily indignities overtake us. Sometimes we get lucky that way.
We think it worked out to be a lovely occasion. And we couldn’t have done it without each other. Well, y’know, not with each other, anyway. Just like a knot needs two ends of a piece of rope, string, double-helix, what-have-you.
So it goes.
Nay, not - as you might rightly suspect - the tying of the Red Knot, otherwise known as the Calidris canutus, pictured here with its winter plumage,
a bird which, frankly, we figure can kick our collective behinds (and aheads and aboves) as this is a Canadian Winter Water Bird: think about that: a Canadian Winter Water Bird, not, as you might, again, rightly suspect, a Canadian Winter Ice Bird, so although they are only approximately 4 and a half inches big, we are scared of them and do not want to make them angry. Nor are we necessarily speaking of the undoing, or doing, as the case may be, of the trefoil knot in mathematics, which is never called arithmetic anymore, for what reason we do not know. The trefoil knot, as most of you will already know, basically looks like an algorithm shaped as a pretzel, and while it is not as famous as its arithmetic cousin the Gordian knot, it is still quite troubling looking.
Before we continue, it’s fun-fact time!! Yippee!!
Did you know that the knot, in its present, basic incarnation, was invented mere moments after the invention of what we know today as rope. And just mere moments before the invention of what we know today as tangles. Look it up if you don’t believe us.
(Okay, don’t. Actually look it up, we mean. You will be wasting your time, and you might catch us in a bit of a stretch, if you know what we mean.)
Did you know you can capsize a knot? Anyone? Bueller? We were completely caught off guard by this piece of trivia.
We suppose that what we are actually talking about here, other than Eskimo bowlines, carrick bends, cow hitches, Portuguese whippings or monkey’s fists, not to mention where just a few clicks carried us in our research of the lemniscates, which we thought might be a form of a pretzel knot but oh boy were we wrong on that count, is the fairly sweet sigh of success when a task is successfully completed. Such as, for instance, tying your shoes, especially if they are some strutting saddle-oxfords –
well, for instance, such as these, worn struttingly by the he of us truly this past Saturday when we, to put it in ancient Incan terms, hung the khipu (or for those of you who prefer your Incan anglicized, and we know who you are, quipu). (Note: this is another way, an Incan way, if you will, of saying tied the knot, itself a British euphemism for getting hitched, itself an American bowdlerization for getting married. Duly noted that our historiographical timeline might be off a smidgen in this series.)
Some days we have to take a breath about it all, a breath that sort of, in its own jangling green way, says something like, “Hey, look, we’re married!” As though we’d forget. Immediately. Because we wouldn’t, is what we’re saying. Forget, we mean. Yes, yes, initially, there was some confusion, well, a bit. The lovely and well-composed judge (also known as our mother and mother-in-law) pronounced the hang-tight words – “I now pronounce you man and wife” – and said to the he of us, “You may now smooch with your bride,” to which the he of us replied, “Yahoo!” (and smooching ensued; there was great smooching to be had; let us now smooch about it; et cetera) – and then we sort of looked at each other, smiled, and said “Huh?”
Granted, we were trying to read along with lovely and composed judge, we were trying to catch each and every very important word and syllable, but as hindsight overcomes us in our doddering old age, we realize that the train we were hearing during the ceremony was actually most likely a good solid rush of blood in the ears with a bit of the heebie-jeebies in the knees.
Stop it. We’re kidding. A little. There was never any danger of collapse, neither of us were going to pass out, faint or have other bodily indignities overtake us. Sometimes we get lucky that way.
We think it worked out to be a lovely occasion. And we couldn’t have done it without each other. Well, y’know, not with each other, anyway. Just like a knot needs two ends of a piece of rope, string, double-helix, what-have-you.
So it goes.
6/25/07
The Post about Learning to Smile
We know what you are asking, dear reader, you are asking when does an innocent piece of duct tape – useful for all sorts of things: holding necessities such as refrigerator door handles and carburetors together when in a pinch, serving as a stand-in for dry wall when unsightly holes appear in the kitchen and there is no repair kit handy, becoming a source of amusing irritation for children of all ages when substituted for paper in papier mache projects and et cetera – make a better facial enhancer than Hollywood’s Best Kept Secret™, the Frownie® *?
We are pleased to be here to supply the answer: always. Duct tape, of whatever fun fashionable color you choose (Rocket Red™, Passion Purple™, Pretty Pink™ (yes, we wish we were making these up, but no, sadly, we are not)), is always better for the face than Hollywood’s Best Kept Secret™, the Frownie®.
We know this begs the simple but rather complicated question: pbjroom, how is it that you are so intimate in your knowledge of facial repair cosmetics? It’s funny (but not in the ha-ha sense of the word) that you should ask because, of course, not needing any facial repair at all whatsoever, we are not intimate in our knowledge of facial repair cosmetics, or FRCs, if you will. We are, however, as we have mentioned before on numerously uncountable occasions, slaves to the marketing and merchandising machinery that twirls and glides in the very air around us, and when confronted with a box of Frownies® we are hooked, line and sinker, into the whirlwind of FRCs. To the point that we have considered forming an FRC PAC with which to lobby our dear and beloved congresspeople with (and thereby, maybe, receive free FRCs). (Because we think many of our dear and beloved congresspeople are in need of some serious FRC). (And you all know what we really mean when we say FRCs in conjunction with congresspeople, wink wink.)
Okay.
We are sort of (not really) kidding about forming a PAC, but then, if you can’t lick ‘em (and you shouldn’t: that’s just gross), you might as well join them, but that’s a completely different story for a completely different post.
Because this post is actually only about the 19 and a half seconds it takes to rip a Frownie® from your face, per the instructions on the box.
Here’s what you do: apply Frownie® at night to various areas of your face: your forehead, your eyes, your mouth, the delicate and extraordinarily sensitive areas known as the nostrils, essentially anywhere you already have or want to prevent from having frown lines. And here in the pbjroom, we want no frown lines on our nostrils (or anywhere else for that matter which is why one of us who will go unnamed put Frownies® on his kneecaps last night which would have been fine except that he put them too low and captured a lot of what was formerly called leg hair, but that too is another story for an completely other post). Basically speaking, because we do so hate technical jargon talk here in the room, you moisten the Frownie®, pull off the appliqué paper backing, and stick on skin surface (lathered, washed, rinsed, repeated). Then, you experience the TA-DA moment of wearing Frownies® whilst you slumber. In fact, as a note of caution, stay away from too many TA-DA moments whilst slumbering least you, like one of us, don’t actually. Slumber, that is. Because you’re TA-DAing all over the danged place until almost 3:30 a.m.. And Frownies® should not be mistaken for Didn’tGetEnoughSleepies® because they’re not those at all: they’re Frownies®.
Then, in the morning, when you gently awake from your non-slumbering, stumble carefully into the bathroom and, following the instructions, remoisten the Frownies® you have not coated in drool, and, and we can’t emphasize this part enough, gently remove the Frownies® slowly from your sensitive and delicate skin by slowly moving them up and off with moistened fingers. Now, before you begin thinking how safe and easy that sounds, we would like to mention that one of the primary ingredients of the Frownies® (and their amazing wrinkle curative and preventative powers) is Super Glue®. Or, at the least, Gorilla Glue®. Whichever, Frownies®, we discovered, take Frownie® removal as a personal affrontage and attack, they (we are indeed anthropomorphizing them) consider Frownie® removal – although seemingly an inherent part of their make-up, if you will – as a battle between themselves (the good guys doing good things!) and the remover(s) (the bad guys doing bad things!), and they will, with the strength of 10,000,000,000 leeches, latch on to the tender spot they have sworn to protect and serve in their Frownie® Removal Code™, another FRC of theirs.
Or at least they did to one of us this morning when we tried to safely and effectively remove the Frownies® from our delicate areas where the Gorilla Glue® had penetrated overnight.
The thing is, if you rip Duct Tape from your face (or kneecaps, as it might be), you can sort of feel, well, y’know, ripped and tough (if that’s your desire) about what you have done, whereas if something called a Frownie®, which is, as we now know, Hollywood’s Best Kept Secret™, kicks your dragging morning ass over a little adhesive, you have a faintly powerless day all day and wonder about what you might be missing by not becoming a firewalker or an active nail-bed meditation person.
Or, at least, you might. You might not. We sure did, and thought we’d share. All day, wondering about the worth of firewalking.
In case you are wondering, dear reader, what in the world this post is about, we say, with approximately 108 or so hours betwixt now and then, this post is about love, love, love and the various and sundry forms it takes.
So it goes.
* - Seriously. We are not making this up. Go to Frownies
and see for yourself, dear reader, see for yourself.
We are pleased to be here to supply the answer: always. Duct tape, of whatever fun fashionable color you choose (Rocket Red™, Passion Purple™, Pretty Pink™ (yes, we wish we were making these up, but no, sadly, we are not)), is always better for the face than Hollywood’s Best Kept Secret™, the Frownie®.
We know this begs the simple but rather complicated question: pbjroom, how is it that you are so intimate in your knowledge of facial repair cosmetics? It’s funny (but not in the ha-ha sense of the word) that you should ask because, of course, not needing any facial repair at all whatsoever, we are not intimate in our knowledge of facial repair cosmetics, or FRCs, if you will. We are, however, as we have mentioned before on numerously uncountable occasions, slaves to the marketing and merchandising machinery that twirls and glides in the very air around us, and when confronted with a box of Frownies® we are hooked, line and sinker, into the whirlwind of FRCs. To the point that we have considered forming an FRC PAC with which to lobby our dear and beloved congresspeople with (and thereby, maybe, receive free FRCs). (Because we think many of our dear and beloved congresspeople are in need of some serious FRC). (And you all know what we really mean when we say FRCs in conjunction with congresspeople, wink wink.)
Okay.
We are sort of (not really) kidding about forming a PAC, but then, if you can’t lick ‘em (and you shouldn’t: that’s just gross), you might as well join them, but that’s a completely different story for a completely different post.
Because this post is actually only about the 19 and a half seconds it takes to rip a Frownie® from your face, per the instructions on the box.
Here’s what you do: apply Frownie® at night to various areas of your face: your forehead, your eyes, your mouth, the delicate and extraordinarily sensitive areas known as the nostrils, essentially anywhere you already have or want to prevent from having frown lines. And here in the pbjroom, we want no frown lines on our nostrils (or anywhere else for that matter which is why one of us who will go unnamed put Frownies® on his kneecaps last night which would have been fine except that he put them too low and captured a lot of what was formerly called leg hair, but that too is another story for an completely other post). Basically speaking, because we do so hate technical jargon talk here in the room, you moisten the Frownie®, pull off the appliqué paper backing, and stick on skin surface (lathered, washed, rinsed, repeated). Then, you experience the TA-DA moment of wearing Frownies® whilst you slumber. In fact, as a note of caution, stay away from too many TA-DA moments whilst slumbering least you, like one of us, don’t actually. Slumber, that is. Because you’re TA-DAing all over the danged place until almost 3:30 a.m.. And Frownies® should not be mistaken for Didn’tGetEnoughSleepies® because they’re not those at all: they’re Frownies®.
Then, in the morning, when you gently awake from your non-slumbering, stumble carefully into the bathroom and, following the instructions, remoisten the Frownies® you have not coated in drool, and, and we can’t emphasize this part enough, gently remove the Frownies® slowly from your sensitive and delicate skin by slowly moving them up and off with moistened fingers. Now, before you begin thinking how safe and easy that sounds, we would like to mention that one of the primary ingredients of the Frownies® (and their amazing wrinkle curative and preventative powers) is Super Glue®. Or, at the least, Gorilla Glue®. Whichever, Frownies®, we discovered, take Frownie® removal as a personal affrontage and attack, they (we are indeed anthropomorphizing them) consider Frownie® removal – although seemingly an inherent part of their make-up, if you will – as a battle between themselves (the good guys doing good things!) and the remover(s) (the bad guys doing bad things!), and they will, with the strength of 10,000,000,000 leeches, latch on to the tender spot they have sworn to protect and serve in their Frownie® Removal Code™, another FRC of theirs.
Or at least they did to one of us this morning when we tried to safely and effectively remove the Frownies® from our delicate areas where the Gorilla Glue® had penetrated overnight.
The thing is, if you rip Duct Tape from your face (or kneecaps, as it might be), you can sort of feel, well, y’know, ripped and tough (if that’s your desire) about what you have done, whereas if something called a Frownie®, which is, as we now know, Hollywood’s Best Kept Secret™, kicks your dragging morning ass over a little adhesive, you have a faintly powerless day all day and wonder about what you might be missing by not becoming a firewalker or an active nail-bed meditation person.
Or, at least, you might. You might not. We sure did, and thought we’d share. All day, wondering about the worth of firewalking.
In case you are wondering, dear reader, what in the world this post is about, we say, with approximately 108 or so hours betwixt now and then, this post is about love, love, love and the various and sundry forms it takes.
So it goes.
* - Seriously. We are not making this up. Go to Frownies
and see for yourself, dear reader, see for yourself.
6/22/07
The Post Our Reader Has Been Waiting For
When last we spoke, dear reader, we were remodeling and tooling around about basement digging and melodious elves and the hyperjump an aardvark can make from the fire to the frying pan, which is we understand terribly different than the leap from the sinking boat into the shark-infested waters.
Shark!! Shark!! you’d say, if you made that leap, whereas with a frying pan jump, you would not. Say Shark!! Shark!!, we mean. Because there maybe probably wouldn’t also be a shark in the frying pan with you because if there maybe probably was that would essentially constitute double indemnity which is illegal in most of the literate states.
So, naturally, this got us to thinking about the non-literate states, such as Texas for a leading example, and what maybe non-literate states might have to do with the planned hydraulic expansion we are looking forward to here in the pbjroom. We say “are” and yet, as you might be interested in knowing, we mean “were.”
We had plan “A,” the one where we remodeled the kitchen, the master bath, added a basement and threw in some really cool hydraulics for such necessary things as drop-down shelving, roof-raising and the future ability to convert the entire house into a Winnebago. Now we have plan “B,” the one where we do not remodel the kitchen or the master bath, where we do not add a basement and where we do emphatically not install some really cool hydraulics for any necessity at all. Plan “B” was born on the 4th of June when our municipality held a public hearing on the necessity of buying our house out from under us so they could build a bigger better road to handle all the traffic from all the empty lots that they are buying for the road. In municipality thinking, this makes sense. In fact, they were not, originally (unless we allow our rampant paranoia to run, uhm, rampant), going to buy our house but rather were going to leave us approximately 3 and a half meters from the new four-lane divided minor arterial where German automakers could test their latest propulsion engines. Or so it seems, judging from the non-posted speed limit sign that reads, and we quote, “Whatever.”
So, we developed plan “C,” the one where we do not do anything at all for a couple of weeks, waiting to see if the municipality will listen to reason and buy our house out from under us (as we proposed at the public hearing because we, honestly, do not currently own flak jackets nor do we think they would go all that well with our new spiffy Chucks and/or saddle-oxfords).
Well, dear reader, the second public hearing on the proposal to buy our house has come and gone, and VOILA!!
We are practically homeless. Okay, not “practically” homeless, but more “for all intensive purposes” homeless. Yes, yes, there are topo-surveys to be done, there are fair-market values to be determined, there are civil engineers involved to muck everything up tremendously and to be extraordinarily dry while doing so, there are negotiations to be had, there are plants to be distributed, there are paving stones to be removed, et cetera, et cetera. We should be, if we are calculating correctly, practically homeless in precisely six and three-quarters years from now, if the municipality really gets a fire lit under their municipal behinds. Until then, we are living large on the fat of the zero point 6% principle we will be paying the bank for the privilege of having a non-hydraulic-enhanced roof over our heads.
Oh, by the way, these are exciting times.
We are, as we write, a little over seven and a half days away from the big splashdown, the big eternal bond, the big cheese-ola, the big ham sandwich, the big we forget what we were going to say here but a little over seven and a half days away from the tying of the knot, to put it in gentle legalese terminology.
We have been given a bit of a reprieve in that the he of us has told the she of us that she should use this time wisely to consider her decision, as the he of us is going bald, fat, toothless, blind and deaf quicker than you can say “elephantitis of the syllable.” The he of us also has a bad heart and is prone to chigger bites when he gets within twenty feet of a bush, a shrub, a blade of grass or an electric lawn trimmer. But that’s probably a story for a different time.
The she of us is still cautiously enthusiastic about going forward in a sideways manner with the whole affair, and so, caution to the wind, we will proceed forward in a sideways manner on the 30th of the month of June at precisely or approximately or around 10:30ish a.m. or so, give or take.
Bi-focals, the doctor said, as if that meant anything at all, anything other than “good heavens you are getting old and going blind at an alarming clip.” Hrumph.
We pledge and promise to be more updatative if you, dear reader, promise to keep those cards and letters coming.
PS: the she of us would have us know that “cautiously enthusiastic” does not begin to describe her current and impending feelings, most of which the he of us will not begin to understand although he will make a valiant effort for a while until his memory goes, along with his hair, waistline, molars and canines, sight, hearing and boyish good looks, at which point he will lapse into a power-tool laden workbench or an indecipherable and unimportant spreadsheet to see if he can find his empathetic powers there. She will wait patiently or not, depending on his mumblings.
So it goes.
Shark!! Shark!! you’d say, if you made that leap, whereas with a frying pan jump, you would not. Say Shark!! Shark!!, we mean. Because there maybe probably wouldn’t also be a shark in the frying pan with you because if there maybe probably was that would essentially constitute double indemnity which is illegal in most of the literate states.
So, naturally, this got us to thinking about the non-literate states, such as Texas for a leading example, and what maybe non-literate states might have to do with the planned hydraulic expansion we are looking forward to here in the pbjroom. We say “are” and yet, as you might be interested in knowing, we mean “were.”
We had plan “A,” the one where we remodeled the kitchen, the master bath, added a basement and threw in some really cool hydraulics for such necessary things as drop-down shelving, roof-raising and the future ability to convert the entire house into a Winnebago. Now we have plan “B,” the one where we do not remodel the kitchen or the master bath, where we do not add a basement and where we do emphatically not install some really cool hydraulics for any necessity at all. Plan “B” was born on the 4th of June when our municipality held a public hearing on the necessity of buying our house out from under us so they could build a bigger better road to handle all the traffic from all the empty lots that they are buying for the road. In municipality thinking, this makes sense. In fact, they were not, originally (unless we allow our rampant paranoia to run, uhm, rampant), going to buy our house but rather were going to leave us approximately 3 and a half meters from the new four-lane divided minor arterial where German automakers could test their latest propulsion engines. Or so it seems, judging from the non-posted speed limit sign that reads, and we quote, “Whatever.”
So, we developed plan “C,” the one where we do not do anything at all for a couple of weeks, waiting to see if the municipality will listen to reason and buy our house out from under us (as we proposed at the public hearing because we, honestly, do not currently own flak jackets nor do we think they would go all that well with our new spiffy Chucks and/or saddle-oxfords).
Well, dear reader, the second public hearing on the proposal to buy our house has come and gone, and VOILA!!
We are practically homeless. Okay, not “practically” homeless, but more “for all intensive purposes” homeless. Yes, yes, there are topo-surveys to be done, there are fair-market values to be determined, there are civil engineers involved to muck everything up tremendously and to be extraordinarily dry while doing so, there are negotiations to be had, there are plants to be distributed, there are paving stones to be removed, et cetera, et cetera. We should be, if we are calculating correctly, practically homeless in precisely six and three-quarters years from now, if the municipality really gets a fire lit under their municipal behinds. Until then, we are living large on the fat of the zero point 6% principle we will be paying the bank for the privilege of having a non-hydraulic-enhanced roof over our heads.
Oh, by the way, these are exciting times.
We are, as we write, a little over seven and a half days away from the big splashdown, the big eternal bond, the big cheese-ola, the big ham sandwich, the big we forget what we were going to say here but a little over seven and a half days away from the tying of the knot, to put it in gentle legalese terminology.
We have been given a bit of a reprieve in that the he of us has told the she of us that she should use this time wisely to consider her decision, as the he of us is going bald, fat, toothless, blind and deaf quicker than you can say “elephantitis of the syllable.” The he of us also has a bad heart and is prone to chigger bites when he gets within twenty feet of a bush, a shrub, a blade of grass or an electric lawn trimmer. But that’s probably a story for a different time.
The she of us is still cautiously enthusiastic about going forward in a sideways manner with the whole affair, and so, caution to the wind, we will proceed forward in a sideways manner on the 30th of the month of June at precisely or approximately or around 10:30ish a.m. or so, give or take.
Bi-focals, the doctor said, as if that meant anything at all, anything other than “good heavens you are getting old and going blind at an alarming clip.” Hrumph.
We pledge and promise to be more updatative if you, dear reader, promise to keep those cards and letters coming.
PS: the she of us would have us know that “cautiously enthusiastic” does not begin to describe her current and impending feelings, most of which the he of us will not begin to understand although he will make a valiant effort for a while until his memory goes, along with his hair, waistline, molars and canines, sight, hearing and boyish good looks, at which point he will lapse into a power-tool laden workbench or an indecipherable and unimportant spreadsheet to see if he can find his empathetic powers there. She will wait patiently or not, depending on his mumblings.
So it goes.
5/23/07
The Post about Ring Tones, Candy Bars and the Sweet Sweet Smell of Opportunities Missed
Here, dear readers, is where our research has lead us, and not in malafides*, either, we will note: to the southwest coast of India, a little place known as the Malabar coast, sometimes just known as Malabar.
And here is where you can get turned around, if you (this being the Imperial You, not necessarily you, the personal reader, unless, of course, you (the personal reader) are feeling Imperial today (or tomorrow)) are inclined to begin following paths not exactly of your own design:
malacia, from the Greek malakia, is either a softening or loss of consistency of an organ or tissue, while it is also an abnormal craving for spicy food. Curry, anyone?
malacology, from the French malacoligie (from, at its root, the Greek malako), is the science dealing with the study of mollusks.
PBJroom, you ask, how does the study of mollusks fit in with the abnormal craving for spicy foods which in turn might lead to the loss of consistency of tissue paper if you buy the cheap product instead of the good solid squishy stuff, you ask (not repeatedly, but more here in case you had forgotten that you had a question in the first place), which is, according to all the advertising commercials the way to go if you really want to feel all good all down under, which gets us back around to the idea of southwest India, the Malabar coast and why in the world some bright marketing genius at some candy bar factory, say the Baby Ruth plant or the Mars factory, didn’t come up with a Sanjaya Mala-bar candy bar?
We here in the pbjroom think we all know where this is going: that’s right, maladaptative ringtones from none other than Sanjaya himself. Sent, as it were, directly to our innocent unsuspecting cell phones, unprepared, we might add, for the malady about to be inflicted upon them, by someone, for instance, well, let us just go ahead and use us as an example. Not both of us, necessarily, but as we are in this together, yes, then, both of us are guilty of this. We both apparently sent us – not exactly malaliciously, mind you – both ringtones from Sanjaya to enjoy forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and maybe you get the idea…
This all seems a trifle confusing, even to the innocent eyes of the writer here. But we will refrain from the unlawful and alligator use of malapropisms here to try to describe the current situation, current at least within the last four, five, nine weeks, the general malaise that has settled over us since Sanjaya’s departure. As a cure against said general malaise we were offered the metaphorical mayonnaise of a ringtone that would burst forth every time someone called the cell phone – burst forth with the sonorous and maladjusted tones of Sanjaya crooning Bonnie Raitt’s ‘Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About, Shall We, Eh, Let’s, Eh, How Do You Like My Hair, I’m Only Seventeen.”
On the upside, no one calls the cell phone (please, don’t) and even if they do, Sanjaya’s malafarious sonorisms do not burst forth as the phone was deemed by the phone deities not to be cool enough to handle a ringtone on the malamagnitude of Sanjaya swooning to “Do Me Baby One More Time Once Just Isn’t Enough Et Cetera How Do You Like My Hair I’m Only Seventeen.”
And none of this has a thing to do with candy bars, or, for that matter, with garage reorganizations. Anyone else remember when they were simply carports? Ports for your car, not unlike airports providing ports for, well, we suppose for air if the logic is followed through with. Some sort of malapert linguistic twist there, if you ask us. Duly noted that you didn’t. Ask us, that is. But obviously, you should have as we have an answer ready: malapert linguistic twist, is what it is.
Do you have shelves or shelfs**? Do you have hangers or hooks? Can you find a stud? These become the burning questions that one privately entertains when entering the wonderful world of garage reorganization. Yes, it is most likely but not necessarily coincidental that garage and garbage are only a b apart. Not that we are implying that either ourselves or others store garbage in the garage but when you are looking at your various piles and droppings and mounds in an attempt to see them neatly lined against, for instance, a garage wall, one might begin to look longingly at the nearest dumpster with the idea of Garbage Expulsion for a Cleaner Garage in mind. Or, GECG. Which actually doesn’t spell anything, and isn’t going to no matter how many times we change the participle or adjective, nouns being the given there***. As we are slightly tired after some of our recent adventures, many and most of which we have not even yet been able to share with you they are coming at us so fast, we are currently accepting bids for garage removal and garbage reorganization: must travel light emotionally, and be willing to work around our solid sense of confusion when not in direct chaos. Ha ha, we kid. We are actually, as you can probably imagine, slightly anal and ocd-ish about our removal reorganization and garage garbage, which is why we seem slightly when not forthrightly dazed and confused occasionally.
We are also accepting bids for basement digging. But that’s another story for another time; until then, then…
So it goes.
* - (Latin), bad faith; intent to cheat or deceive. Compare, we are told, with bonafide.
** - As a general rule, we here in the pbjroom understand that there are no such things as shelfs (unless we are speaking of a variant strain of elfs, and even so, they’d probably be a variant strain of elves…), but we do understand that there is a difference in an organized set of shelving that is coordinated into shelves and a bunch of pieces of wood or wood-like substances that, applied to a wall via a variety of methods, become shelfs.
*** - We apologize for the hyperjump into the parts of speech but we were just told that we’re wearing shiny pants, and we had a vision of Leo neé Gerard Sayer dancing through the night. As you are probably aware by now, he feels like dancing. We, as a general rule, are not fans of shiny pants.
And here is where you can get turned around, if you (this being the Imperial You, not necessarily you, the personal reader, unless, of course, you (the personal reader) are feeling Imperial today (or tomorrow)) are inclined to begin following paths not exactly of your own design:
malacia, from the Greek malakia, is either a softening or loss of consistency of an organ or tissue, while it is also an abnormal craving for spicy food. Curry, anyone?
malacology, from the French malacoligie (from, at its root, the Greek malako), is the science dealing with the study of mollusks.
PBJroom, you ask, how does the study of mollusks fit in with the abnormal craving for spicy foods which in turn might lead to the loss of consistency of tissue paper if you buy the cheap product instead of the good solid squishy stuff, you ask (not repeatedly, but more here in case you had forgotten that you had a question in the first place), which is, according to all the advertising commercials the way to go if you really want to feel all good all down under, which gets us back around to the idea of southwest India, the Malabar coast and why in the world some bright marketing genius at some candy bar factory, say the Baby Ruth plant or the Mars factory, didn’t come up with a Sanjaya Mala-bar candy bar?
We here in the pbjroom think we all know where this is going: that’s right, maladaptative ringtones from none other than Sanjaya himself. Sent, as it were, directly to our innocent unsuspecting cell phones, unprepared, we might add, for the malady about to be inflicted upon them, by someone, for instance, well, let us just go ahead and use us as an example. Not both of us, necessarily, but as we are in this together, yes, then, both of us are guilty of this. We both apparently sent us – not exactly malaliciously, mind you – both ringtones from Sanjaya to enjoy forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and maybe you get the idea…
This all seems a trifle confusing, even to the innocent eyes of the writer here. But we will refrain from the unlawful and alligator use of malapropisms here to try to describe the current situation, current at least within the last four, five, nine weeks, the general malaise that has settled over us since Sanjaya’s departure. As a cure against said general malaise we were offered the metaphorical mayonnaise of a ringtone that would burst forth every time someone called the cell phone – burst forth with the sonorous and maladjusted tones of Sanjaya crooning Bonnie Raitt’s ‘Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About, Shall We, Eh, Let’s, Eh, How Do You Like My Hair, I’m Only Seventeen.”
On the upside, no one calls the cell phone (please, don’t) and even if they do, Sanjaya’s malafarious sonorisms do not burst forth as the phone was deemed by the phone deities not to be cool enough to handle a ringtone on the malamagnitude of Sanjaya swooning to “Do Me Baby One More Time Once Just Isn’t Enough Et Cetera How Do You Like My Hair I’m Only Seventeen.”
And none of this has a thing to do with candy bars, or, for that matter, with garage reorganizations. Anyone else remember when they were simply carports? Ports for your car, not unlike airports providing ports for, well, we suppose for air if the logic is followed through with. Some sort of malapert linguistic twist there, if you ask us. Duly noted that you didn’t. Ask us, that is. But obviously, you should have as we have an answer ready: malapert linguistic twist, is what it is.
Do you have shelves or shelfs**? Do you have hangers or hooks? Can you find a stud? These become the burning questions that one privately entertains when entering the wonderful world of garage reorganization. Yes, it is most likely but not necessarily coincidental that garage and garbage are only a b apart. Not that we are implying that either ourselves or others store garbage in the garage but when you are looking at your various piles and droppings and mounds in an attempt to see them neatly lined against, for instance, a garage wall, one might begin to look longingly at the nearest dumpster with the idea of Garbage Expulsion for a Cleaner Garage in mind. Or, GECG. Which actually doesn’t spell anything, and isn’t going to no matter how many times we change the participle or adjective, nouns being the given there***. As we are slightly tired after some of our recent adventures, many and most of which we have not even yet been able to share with you they are coming at us so fast, we are currently accepting bids for garage removal and garbage reorganization: must travel light emotionally, and be willing to work around our solid sense of confusion when not in direct chaos. Ha ha, we kid. We are actually, as you can probably imagine, slightly anal and ocd-ish about our removal reorganization and garage garbage, which is why we seem slightly when not forthrightly dazed and confused occasionally.
We are also accepting bids for basement digging. But that’s another story for another time; until then, then…
So it goes.
* - (Latin), bad faith; intent to cheat or deceive. Compare, we are told, with bonafide.
** - As a general rule, we here in the pbjroom understand that there are no such things as shelfs (unless we are speaking of a variant strain of elfs, and even so, they’d probably be a variant strain of elves…), but we do understand that there is a difference in an organized set of shelving that is coordinated into shelves and a bunch of pieces of wood or wood-like substances that, applied to a wall via a variety of methods, become shelfs.
*** - We apologize for the hyperjump into the parts of speech but we were just told that we’re wearing shiny pants, and we had a vision of Leo neé Gerard Sayer dancing through the night. As you are probably aware by now, he feels like dancing. We, as a general rule, are not fans of shiny pants.
5/4/07
The Post about the Week of Flirting Dangerously
Disclaimer:
We promise no guest appearances by either Mel Gibson, Sigourney Weaver and especially not by Linda Hunt. Linda Hunt is too short to appear in our postings, and we already have gnome problems.
It is no secret – well, it was a secret but it will not be a secret after everyone reads this fulgid two-alarm entry on the matter – although, before we continue, frankly, “secret” is not the right word: it is not that we were being “secretive” or “sneaky” or “snarky” or “winsome,” it’s just that no one bothered to ask us anything about that which we were not speaking because no one was asking us about it which is why we weren’t speaking about it in the first place –
where were we?
Right, the hidden closet in the PBJ room.
Ha-ha, not that sort of closet, you kidders, you…you…all.
Seriously, it is no secret (see above for explanation) that we here in the PBJ room are strong believers in the power of flirting. Pretty much exclusively with each other.
We know what you’re saying. M, you’re saying, and M, you’re also saying, aren’t you two a bit old for belief in the power of the flirt, you’re saying after you say M, and M.
It’s funny (and convenient, as this leads almost directly to our answer) that you should ask (in such a completely unplanned but convenient manner).
This has very little to do, by the way, with the ministrations and administrative concerns we have dealt with, nay, endured, this week. Let’s start with last week, shall we?
(Let’s!)
It is our thought – here in the PBJ room that if you say you are going to be somewhere at, for instance, 3:30 p.m. and people (us, for example) are going to rearrange the busy, hectic and fulfilling lives to meet you at the fore-mentioned time, 3:30 p.m., for instance, then 1) you should not arrive at, for instance, 1:30 p.m. and 2) should you arrive at, for instance, 1:30 p.m. you should do your darnedest to keep your mouth shut and stay outside until the appointed time (3:30 p.m. in case you missed it) arrives. Neither should you, should you arrive two full hours early for your appointment, act as though you are the aggrieved party because you have been inconvenienced by the appointment-time party actually showing an active interest in keeping their appointment but keeping it at the appointed time.*
This is actually just one of our thoughts.
On the other hand, it is our thought that if your appointment (to carry on with this theme (but in a shorter manner, hopefully)) is on, for instance, Friday you should not show up on, let’s say, Monday and act as though nothing at all out of the ordinary has occurred. Unless you are willfully choosing to leave the impression that running three days late for appointments is normal course of business for you and perhaps your establishment.
But enough about our timely endurances.
Because it occurs to us how close the word appointment is to the word anointment. We are sure that this is co-inkydink and not a nefarious plot on the part of Latin Grammarians who still believe that the empire shall still rise anew in Caesar’s shadow.
(This is perhaps a separate story involving database administrators and online ferrets posing as salesman – as I said, perhaps a separate story.)
Here is what we have anointed so far this week (in no particular order at all):
• us (yes, very excitedly we might add, we were anointed – see list of ointments below)
• aspercreme (or somesuch, as we do not have permission to use their actual name)
• bio-freeze
• absorbine sr. and jr. (senior seemed to get a bigger kick than junior did, by the way, for those of us at home keeping score)
• Pico Daisy & Gallo
• 4 ant-mounds
• some moose munch (or somesuch, see above regarding naming rights and how uppity Harry & David’s can be about their trademarks)
• 2 pair of new shoes, one polka-dot and one not
This is so like you, dear readers: here we are with potentially night-antic causing upper shoulder and lower neck strain (see above for list of anointing ointments applied) and all you are concerned about are the polka-dot shoes.
They’re so cuuuuuuuttte!!!!!
And they’re low-top Chuck Taylor’s so you know they rock mightily. They have opened our eyes to a whole new color scheme, so deco yet so now, so hip yet so hop.
Which has little if nothing to do with our secret, by the way.
In fact, it very basically occurs to us as we come here to a close, that some things are not asked about or spoken about because sometimes everyone just knows and to enunciate would be overkill.
But we’ve this to say: anointments can be fun. And we recommend it heartily. To recommend more would be to give away another secret we are harboring for the gifting of the mommsies on All Moms Day, but we’ll say this: it purrs, whirrs and presses the stress right out of your life for a while, it can be (and was designed to be) used alone but your partner of choice can also get in on the fun for an evening of frolic and festivity. And it’s not battery operated.
So it goes.
We promise no guest appearances by either Mel Gibson, Sigourney Weaver and especially not by Linda Hunt. Linda Hunt is too short to appear in our postings, and we already have gnome problems.
It is no secret – well, it was a secret but it will not be a secret after everyone reads this fulgid two-alarm entry on the matter – although, before we continue, frankly, “secret” is not the right word: it is not that we were being “secretive” or “sneaky” or “snarky” or “winsome,” it’s just that no one bothered to ask us anything about that which we were not speaking because no one was asking us about it which is why we weren’t speaking about it in the first place –
where were we?
Right, the hidden closet in the PBJ room.
Ha-ha, not that sort of closet, you kidders, you…you…all.
Seriously, it is no secret (see above for explanation) that we here in the PBJ room are strong believers in the power of flirting. Pretty much exclusively with each other.
We know what you’re saying. M, you’re saying, and M, you’re also saying, aren’t you two a bit old for belief in the power of the flirt, you’re saying after you say M, and M.
It’s funny (and convenient, as this leads almost directly to our answer) that you should ask (in such a completely unplanned but convenient manner).
This has very little to do, by the way, with the ministrations and administrative concerns we have dealt with, nay, endured, this week. Let’s start with last week, shall we?
(Let’s!)
It is our thought – here in the PBJ room that if you say you are going to be somewhere at, for instance, 3:30 p.m. and people (us, for example) are going to rearrange the busy, hectic and fulfilling lives to meet you at the fore-mentioned time, 3:30 p.m., for instance, then 1) you should not arrive at, for instance, 1:30 p.m. and 2) should you arrive at, for instance, 1:30 p.m. you should do your darnedest to keep your mouth shut and stay outside until the appointed time (3:30 p.m. in case you missed it) arrives. Neither should you, should you arrive two full hours early for your appointment, act as though you are the aggrieved party because you have been inconvenienced by the appointment-time party actually showing an active interest in keeping their appointment but keeping it at the appointed time.*
This is actually just one of our thoughts.
On the other hand, it is our thought that if your appointment (to carry on with this theme (but in a shorter manner, hopefully)) is on, for instance, Friday you should not show up on, let’s say, Monday and act as though nothing at all out of the ordinary has occurred. Unless you are willfully choosing to leave the impression that running three days late for appointments is normal course of business for you and perhaps your establishment.
But enough about our timely endurances.
Because it occurs to us how close the word appointment is to the word anointment. We are sure that this is co-inkydink and not a nefarious plot on the part of Latin Grammarians who still believe that the empire shall still rise anew in Caesar’s shadow.
(This is perhaps a separate story involving database administrators and online ferrets posing as salesman – as I said, perhaps a separate story.)
Here is what we have anointed so far this week (in no particular order at all):
• us (yes, very excitedly we might add, we were anointed – see list of ointments below)
• aspercreme (or somesuch, as we do not have permission to use their actual name)
• bio-freeze
• absorbine sr. and jr. (senior seemed to get a bigger kick than junior did, by the way, for those of us at home keeping score)
• Pico Daisy & Gallo
• 4 ant-mounds
• some moose munch (or somesuch, see above regarding naming rights and how uppity Harry & David’s can be about their trademarks)
• 2 pair of new shoes, one polka-dot and one not
This is so like you, dear readers: here we are with potentially night-antic causing upper shoulder and lower neck strain (see above for list of anointing ointments applied) and all you are concerned about are the polka-dot shoes.
They’re so cuuuuuuuttte!!!!!
And they’re low-top Chuck Taylor’s so you know they rock mightily. They have opened our eyes to a whole new color scheme, so deco yet so now, so hip yet so hop.
Which has little if nothing to do with our secret, by the way.
In fact, it very basically occurs to us as we come here to a close, that some things are not asked about or spoken about because sometimes everyone just knows and to enunciate would be overkill.
But we’ve this to say: anointments can be fun. And we recommend it heartily. To recommend more would be to give away another secret we are harboring for the gifting of the mommsies on All Moms Day, but we’ll say this: it purrs, whirrs and presses the stress right out of your life for a while, it can be (and was designed to be) used alone but your partner of choice can also get in on the fun for an evening of frolic and festivity. And it’s not battery operated.
So it goes.
4/27/07
The Very Short Post that We were Dared, Nay, Double-Dog Dared...
[Title Cont.] ...(where were we?)(ah, yes) Nay, Double-Dog Dared that We Couldn't Write Because It Seems as though We Never Write Short Posts, That They, Indeed, All Tend to Run on the Longish Side But Even Though We Tried to Explain that Longish is Just the Way We Roll When It Comes to Posting, There was that Dare, That Double-Dog Dare Staring Us in the Face, the Kisser, if You Will (and you Might), So Without Further Adieu, the Very Short Post that We were Dared, Nay, Double-Dog Dared that We Couldn't Write (and this actually was about to Repeat the Entire Title But Even We Have Our Limits, so If You Would (and you Might), Please Repeat the Title Yourselves, Until Your Hearts Either Break at the Sadness of it All (the title, We mean) or Sing at the Gladness of it All (still speaking of the title, actually)(although if your heart wants to break for whatever sadness or your heart wants to sing at whatever gladness, we would like you to be aware that here in the PBJroom, we support such breakages and singings)(not, mind you, that we encourage breakage, because that feels wrong)(where were we?)...
[Title Ends]
[Post Begins]
Hi.
So It Goes.
[Title Ends]
[Post Begins]
Hi.
So It Goes.
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