| eraddeus: |
-[[ ten minutes later]]-
I'm sorry, I just couldn't pass this up.
| eraddeus: |
In response to this question:
2. What is the name of the TV sitcom that follows the family adventures of Lois, Hal, Francis, Reese, Dewey, and ... the other brother?
...was this answer:
Malcolm X in the Middle. Chronicling the early years of the black revolutionary as he was raised by white foster parents.
(This is doubly funny to me, because I finally read that book, and am now picturing an angry, young, zoot-suit wearing, lye-conked haired, young-thug-in-training Malcolm Little being raised by the other Malcolm's parents.)
zakharushka: Just 'cause I'm a really nosy person, who's the guy with the red hair?
ashayne: Probably cub reporter Jimmy Olsen.
foxhack: Cub? He's probably in his mid thirties by now, with a wife and three kids. XP
prettyamyrose: And, if my translation of those "Superman's Friend: Jimmy Olsen" covers is correct, they're half-human half-gorilla children being raised by Jimmy and Lois while Superman pursues his part-time job of witch-doctoring and his full-time job of being a complete son of a bitch.
On a side note, in 6th grade, I did not know what glamour shots were. One day, some girls in my gym class told me that another girl had gone to get "glamour shots". Being a functional moron, I interpreted this as a shot like a vitamin-B shot or something. And you would go and get these glamour shots and then you would be better looking. I saw her and scanned her face and hair for any sign of improvement. Finding none, I said to somebody "I thought Stephanie got glamour shots." "No, she got them yesterday." And then, STILL not catching on, I decided to myself that to look pretty for only one day after having several needles injected into you was not a very good value.
Then when the end of the shampoo is near and you have squeezed all the ooze that you can out of the bottle, you turn it on its head, where it will sit all day long, until someone thinks it has all rushed to the end, unless of course the shampoo bottle has the unfortunate luck to end up in a house where instead of turning the bottle on its head, they bang the end of the bottle on their hand until they have beaten the appropriate amount out. have you ever paused to listen to the noises a shampoo bottle makes as it comes to the end of its use, it is a noise of pure exhaustion, "This is it!" it cries "no moooooooooorrrr (splat dribble dribble toot).....(gaaaaaaaaaaaasp) "through... through... no more (dribble) no more (toot) whyyyyyyyyyyy." Its really quite awful.
I don't think, I just pee onto the screen.
*aims her imaginary penis*
So, right, I'm at granddad's, and he's dictating a letter to me.
Granddad: "...also, please say hello to my wife Laddie Greene..."
Me: ...wait, your wife?
Granddad: Yeah. He was my wife at West Point.
Granddad: That's what you called your first-year roommate when I was at school. Your wife.
. . . I realize that, not actually living with him, there isn't much I can say without sounding like his mom. But it really is quite astounding how he can take one room and, without lifting a finger, make it look like a post-apocalyptic sloppy-joe burger. But that's just the way he is, it seems. It's funny, though I try not to laugh because he is so proud when he shows me his room after a day of cleaning, indicating that I can actually see the floor. Wow, says I. And wow indeed.
Okay, buddy. Here's the deal, and I'll only say this once: The day you get up early and shampoo and condition my hair, dry it, and sufficiently style it, and do all this while I am still blissfully unaware and sleeping, is the day you can dictate my hair's length and cut. Throw in a nice long head massage each morning and I might let you decide the color (although it'll have to be an amazing massage). Throw in fresh coffee and breakfast in bed and you've got yourself completely free reign. Almost.
But there is this thick strand of nerves running below my jaw which is connected to all of my teeth. This was numbed and even if the nerves in the tooth had felt any pain it could not have been transmitted. Couldn't have been received because the pain highway was bombed into the stone age, temporarily that is. It seems as if the local tooth nerves sent the pain signals via wireless LAN past the highway straight to the pain center in the brain.
Those up to date bastards.
-- from 3jane, who has a point there :)