September 25th, 2006

ALP - Smile

Another morning after

scarlett78 describes the post-fun misery:

"Oh god. I am due at brunch in 32 minutes and yeah I want to die. I don't think I am hungover yet either, because I am pretty sure you have to stop being drunk before you can start being hungover. The neck is better. I am not sure if this is because: my head hurts so bad my neck can't get its pain message across or sleeping on the bathroom floor next to the toliet has magical neck restorative powers."

Context is headed for a greasy breakfast. QWP and all that jazz.
  • Current Mood
    amused amused
agent may is unimpressed

On knowing what to say at a wedding

The usual gospels were right out; all things considered, it would have been the matrimonial equivilant of standing on top of Olympus and yelling "ZEUS HAS SHITTY AIM!". I offered to commit bloody murder upon the first person to suggest Corinthians 13. The only poem that had any significance to the happy couple was Poe's Annabelle Lee. I had no real objections, but it did have to be pointed out that a poem about a woman dying of tuberculosis and being dumped over a cliff would likely not be well recieved on top of a vaguely pirate-themed wedding and being married by a guy with enough ink to qualify as a calligraphy set.

--graphicnovelist married two LJ-ers last weekend... er, not like that...
Morelen credit

(no subject)

spatialrift47 gets creative after noting that I tag my TV entries 'tv or not tv?' :


TV, or not TV: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The flings and bad jokes of outrageous sitcoms,
Or to take arms against a sea of adverts,
And by opposing end them? To go: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand acts of shock
That set is heir to, 'tis a satisfaction
Devoutly to be wish'd. To go, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of OFF what dreams may come
When we have powered down this nightly foible,
Must give us pause: there's the Tony
That makes calamity of his mob life;
For who would bear the whips of South Park's time,
The Survivor's race, the CSI's spinoffs,
The pangs of the prized Lost, the law's Order,
The insolence of Office and the spurns
That patients merit from the sardonic House,
When he himself might make quiet his house
With a bare remote? Who would The View bear,
To laugh and groan under a weary script,
But that the dread of something in a book,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No TiVoer returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus prime time does make cowards of us all;
And thus the TV's hue and resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And Enterprises of great Kirk and Picard
With this regard their engines turn awry,
And lose the name of warp speed. - Soft, look now!
The fair QVC! Nymph, in thy merchandise
Be all our sins remember'd.



Public Post. We don't need no context....