Thinking before you speak ain’t no fun
You know what else stinks about this work-from-home business? The constant threat of private moments being shared through Zoom or whatever god-forsaken technology presently has its giant eyes and ears open in your house. My wife, working from her home office in the living room, is always engaged in some hoity-toity teleconference or another and I’m always running in there shouting things like, “Why does my sock smell like pee?” or “Fetch my robe and a Shamwow, woman! It’s happened again!” before she shushes me with horror-filled eyes and frantic gesticulations. Kind of fun, actually. I withdraw the complaint.
Soapbox on wheels
On Wednesday came a report of a man standing on top of his car and angrily yelling at the world around him. Wait, is that illegal? Because if it is, my weekend plans are totally shot.
THE HOLY DONUT IS COMING TO AUBURN!!!
This story was so exciting to some people, I burned through my weekly allotment of exclamation points in one sitting. Now all I have left are semicolons and those things are no fun at all. Semicolons are always nagging at you to break up your clauses and blah blah blah. The buzz killers of the written word, semicolons. Period wannabes is all they are.
You know what’s sexy, though?
The em dash that’s what — the en dash is pretty hot also, but it needs to bulk up more – seriously, twerp, get to the gym.
Dances with goats
A certain horrible person dragged me to Wallingford’s Fruit House the other day for the seasonal ritual of pumpkin and apple worship. Don’t get me wrong. Wallingford’s is awesome and they seem to be putting on bigger and bigger events every year. It’s just that to me, spending an afternoon fondling gourds and such is an utter betrayal to the summer that’s still technically with us. The main thing that gets me through sinful outings like that are the goats. My God, goats are cool. I feel as though in another life, I might have been a goat. Heck, there are days when I feel like I might be a goat in THIS life. You can be honest with me, fellas. Am I a goat?
Name that truck!
So after the lamentable demise of Piso Mojado, my old Ford Ranger, I ended up getting a different truck, a 15-year-old Nissan Titan that’s ready to begin prowling the downtown beat. It’s got a powerful engine, a proud snout and plenty of space to store my junk. What it DOESN’T have yet is a name. Considering my tradition of naming my vehicles in Spanish, I’m working with Pobrecito, which means “poor little boy,” and Caballo Pálido, which means “pale horse.” Both of those reflect the mood of 2020 to me, but I’m open to suggestions. Also, if you’ve got an air freshener, I’ll take that, too. Smells like goat all up in here.
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