August 5th, 2006

agent may is unimpressed

Homeless man or ronin samurai?

Squeegee men in any major city are a dime a dozen. But none like Needabeer Mifune. Someone offered him a dollar. Needabeer dips his squeegee in the bucket and then... holds it. For long minutes, it seems that the light will change and someone will be going without their much-needed windshield cleaning. And then almost faster than the eye can follow, his arm whips out snakelike and squeegies the entire windshield in two strokes. And then (and this made me actually want to give him money) he flicks the blood soapy water from the squeegie and drops it back into the bucket. The stony expression on his face doesn't change in the slightest.

When the light changes and we start driving past, I will go to my grave swearing that I heard him mutter "Again I have cleaned an unworthy object."


--graphicnovelist talks of life in Austin, Texas.
Scare the road

(no subject)

My brother, foodephile, has lost a tried and true friend:

Now it won't even flash white. Goddamnit. Nothing more frustrating than a dead cell phone. Aargh. Time to pitch a bitch at the friendly neighborhood Sprint store. Prepare to look especially sour and inconsolable. Polite but forceful. Ready hostages and demand list. No one's going anywhere until my cellphone works again! You there! Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. And get the fuck off the phone!

QWP, Context
  • Current Mood
    amused amused
hell

(no subject)

I'd just talk about classical liberal economic policy until they wanted to light their underpants on fire to get away from me, or fell asleep through boredom.

This new method of screening out the dweebs has been dubbed the "John Locke Cock Block."
-- madpiratebippy, here
Gospel According to St. Bastard

ginmar tells us about Fred Phelps:

Just the other day I found myself chatting with nimbrethil on gmail, and she told me that Fred Phelps was coming to her town. Ugh. I mean, at first I thought it was like having the Angel of Death showing up. Then I realized it wasn't like the Angel of Death at all. It was like the Creepy Uncle of Death. You know, the strange, possibly child-molesting uncle of Death that the Death family doesn't tell about the re-unions, the Creepy Uncle that corners you in the corner by the potato salad and tries to sell you Amway or Viagra or..spam... or get you to buy insurance from him, even though, you're, you know, Death Itself, until you want to off yourself and tell him his creepy sales techniques and ogling and gay fixation are giving Death a bad name. Maybe the younger members of the Death family get togehter and start humming, "You give Death a bad name whenver ole Fred's back is turned, while he's snorking down the potato salad like htere's no tomorrow. Then he'll complain about how there's not enough of it. The good die young; Fred's continued existance makes no sense unless the mediocre, the petty, and the damned vicious are eternal.

Context.