YSaC, Vol. 883: Did you know the real name of that tune was “Whistle Stop?”
2010 December 17
jerbal/hampster
want to get rid of my kids jerbal and everything that we have for it we have a couple cages and tunnels for it and have beding and some food to get you stared
you can text or call or i guess email but mit take time for that so this is my cell ### ### ####
Well, that’s disturbing. This person is trying to give away their children’s pet, (possibly without even telling them) and they don’t even know what it is! It might be a jerbal. It might be a hampster. It might even be a genie pig! Let’s see if the included pictures help out any: (These have not been scaled in any way. At least, not by us.)
Nope. Maybe it’s a capeebara. Or a wumbat. Or a feeld moose.
Thanks for whatever it is, Youngwerths!
I think, from looking at the pictures, that the jerbal may be a hostage…
All they are missing is the newspaper with today’s date on it.
It’s possible that it’s in the picture but it’s just too dark to see it.
I think I see a remote control car upside down. If that jerbal lives in those circumstances some kind of jerbal-itarian organization should come in and rescue it.
Ooh, is this like one of those inkblot tests?
**squints**
I see a dog. Or possibly a small bear.
You think Camille is in there?
I think the jerbal wrote the ad, which is why it may have a hard time answering email or texting. Those little paws just can’t type very fast.
All I see is a pair of Groucho Marx glasses.
The jerbal/hampster/rat/capybara/chew-ha-ha, in a desperate attempt to escape its tormentors, stole the sports car you see above. Unfortunately, having no opposable thumbs proved too difficult to overcome and the car crashed atop a pile of
crapvaluable items stored in the family bathroom.Upon hearing the commotion, Dad said, “That’s IT, I am sick of having to put up with all this foolishness from that rodent! I’m putting it up on craigslist and we’re getting a monkey! At least, with a monkey I can communicate!”
Unfortunately, for Dad, his lack of opposable thumbs made posting on craigslist a challenge…as you can plainly see.
Wait, IT is there too? Sweet mother of circumstance!
A JerBal is a cross between Jerry Lewis and Lucille Ball.
Loooooooooooo-Ceeeeeeeeeee you got some telethonin’ to do!!
ROFL! Elebenty million doors!
I love how they are in such a hurry to get rid of the thing that they don’t even want to take the time to communicate by email. What’s so urgent? It needs to be gone before junior gets home from school so you can pretend you have no idea where it went? He must have just run away, honey, he was gone when I got back from the store. The cage and food and stuff? Well, he probably took it all with him.
It went to the farm to live where it can roam free.
Free range jerbal – taste the difference!
Jerbal! The other, other white meat.
Jerbal! It’s what’s for dinner!
Jerbal! Not just for breakfast anymore.
Jerbal Jerky marinated in Jerk Sauce with a side of bacon!
First of all, a big THANK YOU for posting earlier than 8 am! Now I can look and possibly comment before my next computer opportunity (9 pm – when all the snark is taken and my soul has been sucked out of me).
Objects of note in the picture:
1) A white cat painting on canvas
2) Jerbal’s race car, because all the cool pets have it
3) Purple scarf potentially made of previous Jerbal’s fur
4) Various components of a meth lab
It is like a glimpse into the mind of Kurt Schwitters.
One of my favorite artists, by the way.
I love how this blog both entertains and educates. Until today I had no idea Jerbals existed or who Kurt Schwitters was. This is why we need snark.
What the world needs now
is snark, mean snark
its the only thing
that can lead me from the dark
Of course I am about to get and MLIS so I have to say books also help. I need to spend some time in the art section when I get some time (will that ever happen?)
That was not contrived by the way. I sing weird lyrics to songs all of the time. Ask my cat.
The part cat, part gremlin there in the avatar? I think it stayed up too late last night eating and having squirt gun fights.
Any cat I’ve ever known wouldn’t know how to drive even part of a Gremlin.
Don’t worry Lara, I do the same thing with my dogs. The poor mutts believe that every song in the world is about how bad their breath smells or how muddy their paws are.
To me it looks like Sparky is trying to get rid of his kids, Jerbal and Hampster, and is even going to give you all their toys and food if you just take them off his hands. They even come with a couple of cages, which is nice when you want a little alone time.
I think they thought their kid’s jerbal was actually a feesh. I contend that cage is actually an akweeryum and that Whiskers was not a very good swimmer.
Richard Gere is weeping somewhere.
Sparky is downsizing…it’s the new trend, dontchaknow.
Well, if he had left the kids in their cages and just stacked them on top of each other then he would not have had a problem fitting them into his
refrigerator box under the overpassnew apartment. Much more efficient use of space.I thought the kids’ names were Jerbal and Everything.
Future partners in the firm of Jerbal, Hampster, and Everthing.
I am thinking that Sparky misspelled it and really he is giving away Jer-Baal, god of reproductive rodents and miscellaneous crap.
He is an all-purpose god, you know.
I think Jerbal would be an excellent new coffee brand with herbal tea and java. I have been told that a coffee was herbal before but I was suspicious. Those Starbucks people are shady, they might tell me the brownies are herbal next.
Parts of them are.
Especially in California
Heh, in California the proportions are reversed, so instead of Pot Brownies, you have Brown Potties… Wait…
At least Sparky didn’t spell it Goebbels.
Although that’s one rodent I would like to see in a cage.
Day 263, Expedition Landing Team, Commander Xvagwec reporting. Since the microwave incident, the Earth Beings seem to be wary of approaching my residence module. I believe they may be attempting to relocate this outpost. The change may be for the best. Perhaps the next Nest that accepts me will be more active and less addicted to certain substances, and also not upset by occasional probes sent out to gather data. In all, I am looking forward to a response from someone referred to as Craig List. I am keeping this short so that I can process and file the samples gathered by the most recent probes. Xvagwec, out.
Windy is my girlcrush of the day! Brazillions of doors!
See, I knew their whiskers were antennae transmitting information. I just never figured out where it was going or what it said.
This is exactly why I always felt SETI should be setting its sights right here on Earth instead of the starts, because the alien life they’re looking for is already here.
And it’s causing bad gateway errors from transmission interference. I think that means there’s one nearby.
I once had a friend who owned a ferret. Said ferret, named Weasel, was apparently building a space ship to return to his people. He would regularly steal small electronics and cords and secure them behind the refrigerator.
I always set my sights on the starts… Much easier to see than the finishes…
Darn you, Bomby, I was gonna edit that in no one commented on it! 8)
In other news, sorry that two of your minions were discovered here inor near my hometown. The fire that eliminated the one house was short but intense.
The last several weeks had been thoroughly unkind. Not only did the humans think he was a gerbil or a hamster or some other rodent, they had absolutely no sense of perspective, because everything they had bought for him, from the tank to the tubes leading into a much larger tank, and even the exercise wheel were meant for a creature roughly half his size. Even after it became abundantly clear through demonstration that there was no way he was going to fit through those openings, they simply assumed he was too fat for a gerbil, or hamster, or mouse, or whatever they thought he was at the moment, and put him on a diet.
Pickles sat in his pile of wood shavings and fumed. It was bad enough they took him and left Winston to the continued molestations of society’s dregs, but they weren’t feeding him nearly enough, he couldn’t fit through the tubes into the much more appealing and roomy area in the next tank, nor use the exercise wheel — not that he had the energy for it — and the minuscule tank he was stuck in felt like a prison cell. The adult human assumed the prospect of being able to fit into the passageways leading next door would be additional incentive for him to lose weight.
That, of course, was on top of the repeated, utterly failed attempts to rub him for wishes. Those had fortunately stopped days after he was brought into this home when the humans realized that all the manhandling in the world wasn’t going to produce any wishes. Pickles was thankful that they only took a few days to reach this understanding, at least.
Of course, the adult human who had taken him home was female, and if there was one thing he found, it was that females tended to understand when something just wasn’t going to work much sooner than the males did, who resolutely kept trying long after the point where any other thinking creature would have fully understood the futility of their actions. Even dogs will eventually stop digging for things that aren’t there, and they eat their own vomit.
The female human came over to the cage and bent over, supporting herself with hands on thighs. “Such a ripoff, you were. They told me you were a genie, but did you grant me any wishes? No, you didn’t. No, you didn’t!”
Her syrupy tone couldn’t mask the bitterness it was said with. You didn’t ask nicely, Pickles thought with an inner sneer.
The human stared at him for several moments before straightening up and reaching into the cage to grab him. Oh jeez, Pickles thought bitterly. Don’t tell me she’s going to try one last time before she gets rid of me. Instead, the woman held him in an enclosed hand and brought him to her face.
“And you’re still too fat. Why aren’t you losing weight? Don’t you want to go play in that nice big tank with all the toys?” she said to his face. Her breath smelled like onions.
Pickles squirmed a little, mostly because he hated onions. The two of them stared each other down for several moments. Pickles twitched his whiskers. The woman twitched an eye.
At length, the woman’s expression softened and she sighed an oniony sigh. “You know, I kind of envy you, rat. Rat? Gerbil, hamster, guinnea pig, whatever. You know what you are. But I admit I’m kind of jealous. You’ve got such a good life.”
Pickles gave a brief, sharp guffaw. It came out as a squeak.
The woman continued, “No responsibilities, no bills, no bratty kids. You just sit there in your tank and eat and sleep and play. Must be nice.”
The woman exchanged another lengthy glance with him before speaking again. “I wish…”
Oh, no, Pickles thought with increasing dread. No. Don’t do it. Don’t you say it.
“I wish…” the woman said again, almost absently.
He knew the day would come eventually. Someone would figure out how it worked and they would make a wish. He figured they would probably discover the secret unwittingly, and he was certain this was the case here. She was about to make a wish. A real wish. And she was about to do it the proper way, and he would have to grant that wish. He hoped she wouldn’t finish her thought, hoped she would just trail off wistfully, put him back in his tank and walk away. Just walk away. There was no need for this.
But then she finished her sentence.
The sudden flash of bright light wasn’t nearly as jarring as the sudden and disorienting impact with the floor. It took Pickles several moments to right himself, gather his wits and check to make sure he hadn’t broken anything. His fur was rumpled and his side was starting to ache, but bruises and a headache seemed to be the only things he had to worry about at the moment.
Well, that and the newly minted hamster clinging desperately the floor several feet away. She was spread-eagle on the ground, her little paws digging into the wood as though it might run away from her at any moment. Her eyes were wild and frenzied, scanning everywhere at once. She was utterly confused and riding the upward emotional swell toward total gibbering panic. Oh yes, Pickles knew. He knew that someday, someone would accidentally discover the secret of wishing on Genie pigs by way of making a silly, idle wish they had absolutely no real desire to have fulfilled. Today was that day, and now there was a hamster freaking out where once stood a human.
“Never,” admonished Pickles, now that he could be understood. “Never wish for anything you don’t really want.”
The hamster swiveled her head and stared straight at Pickles, her whiskers vibrating like they were reproducing a vinyl recording of the 1812 Overture, her eyes now nearly shooting straight out of her skull like buckshot. She stared at him just a moment longer before she shot straight in the opposite direction and into another room of the house, the only trace of her presence now a small brown pellet that he certainly didn’t make, and the faint smell of onions.
“Hey, a hampster!” came an excited, young squeal from the other room, followed almost immediately by the frantic, skittering paws of the hamster as she raced straight past Pickles and into yet another room of the house.
Pickles knew no good was going to come of anything at this point, and fortunately, a previous escape attempt gave him a certain degree of knowledge about the layout of the house. Without another moment’s pause, Pickles headed straight for the front door and wriggled his way under a cat flap. Without even looking back, he left the house and determined never to make contact with another human again, regardless of where he had to go to make sure that happened. Humans were stupid, stupid creatures and he wanted nothing more to do with them. Maybe he’d go find out if he could still rescue Winston.
Who knew that from the dregs of CL posters a truly hilarious and delightful story would emerge?
I do hope you are keeping track of this stuff, smiley puppy.
Thanks. 😀 I do keep an archive of the storys with an eye toward eventually putting up a blog with those and some other material made up on the fly. Dunno when/if I’ll be able to stick it up, but it probably won’t be ’til I finish up a musical contract, which is entering crunch time next month.
Oh crap. I think Taco is rubbing off on me. (Seriously, Taco, that’s creepy, stop it.) Pretend that said “stories” ‘k? Thanks.
Are you and Taco enjoying a little quiet t-shirt time together?
I’ll pretend it said “stories” if I can also pretend I didn’t read kelli’s comment ^^^.
Mindfield, your appearance in the box today is obviously a pitiful cry for attention and praise. It is entirely beside the fact that it’s well deserved and that you have talent for snark in many forms. In fact, I think we should overlook all of that, and hold another bake sale to get you the therapy you so desperately need.
I think I am going to save this comment and use it every day, just changing the name to fit the non-suckee!
I am a sad and pathetic attention whore who needs to be theraputicized*. Any chance my therapist could be Jessica Alba? I hear she likes cookies.
* It’s like being hyp-mo-tized, but without the embarrassing subconscious commands to bark and strut like a chicken.
Thank you for tonight’s nightmare.
Wait, you don’t just bark and strut of your own accord?
Weird.
I’m much too refined to just bark and strut indiscriminately. I ask permission before I hump your leg. My mama raised me right.
:golf clap:
Yet another winner, eerily smiling puppy. I hope you continue the saga of the genie pigs, I’m curious to see what will happen to Winston and Pickles.
Thank you. 🙂 I suspect that since I’ve gone and serialized the rodents, there will be further adventures featuring this magically fluffy duo. Of course he has to find Winston first and the figure out how to break him out — but that’s another story.
(I think I just reinvented Tales from the Riverbank for the urban set. No, not the awful movie remake from a few years ago, the original one from the early 80s. :D)
You should call it Watershit Down: Tales of the Non-Rabbit Rodent Family.
You could accidentally create a cult, too.
Just think of the people who would resonate to the djinii pigs’ revenge in granting the wish of “I wish I could stop thinking” being far-too evident in the world around us.
It would explain far too much behaviour in general, and in pet shops in specific.
All hail Pickles ibn Hammie, rizouli swammi to the Cube-day Rodentoverse, master of Djinn!
If this was any of the genie pigs I ever owned, Pickles would have launched into some T-shirt time before making his escape.
Being of the Genie Pig variety, Pickles has to exercise a little more self-control. Can’t just go around indiscriminately making Genie Pig babies, after all. It would be the downfall of society.
Fuming Pickles is my nomination for the band name of the day.
Fuming Pickles – opening for Flaming Lips?
Teary Eyes is the between-sets act.
Ok, just had a cross-cultural moment.
Was commenting upon some fine woodworking on a separate site, and had remarked on how the finish on the white oak cabinetery looked fumed (which it was not). Which has engendered a discussion of “fuming” as a wood finishing technique. Short version, woods, like oak, with some specific tannins, will respond to acid fumes with a chmical reaction that stains the wood from inside out. The effect is quite striking, and very permanent.
So, “Fuming Pickles” just struck quite perverse.
Milling brine-marinated cucumbers into casework a quite odd mental image as is; tenting them to chemically stain them equally so.
The corollary image, of some sparky trying to stain melamine-laminated particle board with a hundredweight of Claussen product clearly the sort of thing caused by djinn rodents.
Plus it clashes with the sauerkraut.
Claussen is my favorite sauerkraut.
Ewww…in my world the words “sauerkraut” and “favorite” never meet in the same sentence.Ever.
Note: No Ruebens for CJ <G>
*cancels shipment of kimchee for CJ*
**goes to return CJ’s Christmas present of Sauerkraut contained in fine German coffee cups brong from Greek.**
The 1812 Overture is srs bsns, smiling puppy.
Srs bsns for a srsly transformative event, of course. Being turned into a hamster doesn’t exactly call for Brahms.
Hmmm… no, I suppose you’re right, but I think, given the circumstances, perhaps K.L. King could have served the purpose better than than Tchaikovsky?
:squints at pictures:
Is Sparky trying to sell another lightless light fixture?
That looks like part hamster ball, part racecar. That’s cruelty, folks. Why not put a little trailer hitch on it and make it pull the vacuum around, too?
It would take more than one to pull my vacuum cleaner, I’d have to hitch a team of them up to the thing.
You know food that gets me stared (at)? Spaghetti. Or anything that involves noodles. Never could get the hang of noodles.
So, Smedley, was the pic of your adorable puppy snapped during one of your how-the-hell-do-people-do-this noodle-eating moments?
No, my phone says “Quack” before it takes a picture. Velcro hadn’t heard that voice before, and got the quizzical look going. I think she would have raised an eyebrow, if she was so inclined.
If it was during one of the noodle incidents, the look would be replaced with one of fear and alarm. I think it’s the slurping that most people cringe at.
Think Dr. Zoidberg eating, well, anything.
Being one of the four people remaining on Planet Earth that has not seen Futurerama, I had to ask Uncle Google about the good doctor.
Sweet.Clothespin.Jeebus.
And..um…I see now what you mean.
Velcro, eh? She’s a cutie-pie. I have always said if I’m ever owned by another cat, said cat will be known as Velcro. And if we ever get another dog it will be called Hoover.
Hoover? That’s boring. You should name it Roomba!
OK, so I can see that Sparky clearly wants to get rid of the cage and tunnels, which have some lovely beadwork, and some food, but that might get you stared at if you’re wearing rodent-oriented beadwork and eating the food in public.
And he’s OK being texted or called, or even with you using his email address, but he’s warned you that, improbable as it may seem with the coherence of this post, he’s a student at MIT – but at least he’s aware that it’ll take some time for him to get through that, since he’s (rightly) in a cell.
But I still don’t know what the rodent in question is.
Hey – If it’s indeed a feeld moose, is it in a poncho? (And how does the moose feel about being feel’d, anyway?)
My precious poncho should not be used for feeld work.
I have a hampster for my dirty clothes.
Ah, the dreaded Laundry Hampster! A fearsome mutation that has a Downy coat.
They like to Snuggle, though.
Sure – it brings them Cheer.
Is that All they have to Gain?
Ah, but to what Gain in our lamented Era?
Can it turn the Tide, or must we to Arm and Hammer?
I suspect, we shall have to lament: Clorox it!
Willy the Shake as told by Proctor and Gamble.
Nice sonnet Cappy!!!
Awfully Bold of Cap’n to go for the poetic Method.
I thought it was Fab, though.
I think he needs to get out a bit more, catch a little Sunlight.
If he gets dirty though, it’ll take a little mOxy to Clean it.
I’m sorry, but it’s nearly impossible to work OxyClean into a sentence, and y’all took all the good’uns.
He’s just trying to pull the Woolite over our eyes.
My gerbil seemed bedraggled
I believed that it was blue.
So I got it a companion
Now I had exactly two.
They got along together.
But it still was a surprise,
When one morning I detected
Seven pairs of gerbil eyes.
Then I had a dozen gerbils,
And another dozen more.
Every day I had more gerbils
Than I’d had the day before.
Soon I had a hundred gerbils,
Double, triple that amount,
As the population blossomed,
And I started losing count.
There are gerbils on the bookshelves
In the kitchen, on the stairs,
Bowls and baskets full of gerbils
On the tables and the chairs.
There are gerbils in the corners,
Gerbils all along the floors,
Gerbils searching through the closets
And exploring all the drawers.
It’s a gerbil inundation,
They take every inch of space,
When I waken in the morning
Gerbils gaze into my face
I am overrun by gerbils,
Gerbils, gerbils everywhere,
So I hope you’d like a gerbil-
I’ve got lots of them to spare!
Ripped offBorrowed from here….I think you got Tribbles, not gerbils…you’ve really got to check the labels on those li’l buggers.
Yeah, gerbil mothers eat their babies. It’s a great method of population control.
Exactly, or you risk the Quadro-tri-tricale; invented by that poor, under-recognized Moskba agonomist ever so long ago in the future.
Trouble with Dribbles.
Penicillin’s always worked for me*
*YMMV
I thought dribbles was an old-man-syndrome.
More likely a careless-young-man-syndrome:
A variety of causes could produce a persistent drip from the penis, doctors say. But most likely, in this age of war on sexually transmitted diseases, you’ve just been handed a dishonorable discharge.
It’s not as if hamsters and gerbils even look alike. The tails are a giveaway, for a start. Mind you, I’ve seen two kids in front of a tank containing a pair of fully grown rats, clearly labelled as rats, talking about said rats and insisting that they were in fact something else. They didn’t know what they were, but they were definitely not rats. Apparently.
Did they think they were hedgehogs, like the one in your avatar?
sj, that’s obviously not a hedgehog, it’s a porcupine.
If it’s a porcupine then where is it’s mane?
In New England, of course.
where is it is?
Yur bot’ wacky; tha’s a pygmie Nutria! <G>
Damn those tricky apostrophe’s!
Let’s put this into proper YSaC lingo.
Hamsters & Gerbils: Definitely.Not. A. Rat.
{matt}Seriously.
Can’t you people see?
It’s clearly a chee-huwa-huwa…
Sheesh…{/matt}
The one in my avatar divides her time between impersonating baby giant pandas and training to be a hairdresser.
Is she a Himalyan dumbo? My kid’s got one that looks just like her. Only she has smudges on her nose and tail (the rat does, not the kid).
[Matt] Now that’s not nice Mudsy, calling rw’s unicorn dumb! You should be ashamed of yourself, with that smug leopard in your avatar![/matt]
Mudsy, she’s a husky (or roan) dumbo. Roans have the most amazingly cute, innocent faces matched with the biggest capacity for creating havoc I’ve ever encountered.
looks more like an opossum to me 😉
Right, I stand corrected.
[Matt] Now that’s not nice Mudsy, calling rw’s unicorn dumb! You should be ashamed of yourself, with that smug opossum in your avatar![/matt]
Our home computer is making an ominous clicking sound and won’t boot. All that is missing is smoke. The CPU is in the front seat of my car, awaiting transport to the hospital. Oh, the huge manatee! His will I survive a whole weekend without a computer? I’ve already had to resort to doing my husband, next thing you know I will be cleaning or making Christmas presents! Please pray for me.
My keen intellect deduces that you are (I hope) using a handheld device that has that annoying autofill function turned on. Because there is such a thing a too much sharing.
Best. Typo/Autocorrect. Ever.
Sorry, Taco, you have been out-typoed.
Good luck ADJ though. I am sure it can be resurrected; having performed many digital surgeries in my time I can tell you there’s nothing that can’t be fixed, though there’s never any guarantee the contents can be saved. Not without massive dollars invested in forensic data recovery, anyway.
Well, there are a number of have-already-bred who ought have been fixed, first–but, the djinii pigs can only grant so many wishes at a time …
Thanks for the blind faith, guys, but that was, in fact, an overshare rather then a typo. Taco’s reign continues. And yes, the hard drive is dead. Long live the hard drive. In a classic “closing the door after the horse has escaped” move, I bought an external hard drive when leaving the patient at the hospital. Oy vey.
Well, you should get them to give you back the dead hard drive anyway. It may not be bootable, but it might still be readable, so you might still be able to hook it up as a secondary drive and save some stuff (if the techs don’t do that for you already, that is).
Also, I’m sure your husband appreciates your sacrifice. 😀
Clicking hard drive… not a good sign.
I’ve sometimes been able to briefly resurrect one of those by sticking it into the freezer for a while and then hooking it up with a USB adapter. Sometimes, I’ve had to keep it in a little cooler with a frozen gel pack while I do that to keep it working long enough to get the data, but I’ve made it work.
And considering your “little Irish” share, I actually didn’t believe it was a typo. I apologize for not having faith, misplaced or otherwise. 🙂
I must be too married, because I didn’t read it as a typo either.
The number one reason why so many babies are born nine months after a power outage. It’s either that or *shudder* conversation.
i love the overshare. no need to be ashamed of it.
Hmm… so, note to self, sabotage wife’s computer.
This is one time I am happy my dear Chthulhu doesn’t read the comments. And don’t anyone tip him off in Face Book please!
For some reason (I presently suspect the possum under the house), I am struck with a vibe, that CPS has hauled Spark’s kid(s) off; and Spark is likely expecting to wind up incarcerated either in subsequence or consequence–which would explain why emails might go unanswered a great long time.
I’m thinking that I need to get the pillsbury cinnamon rolls out and in the oven for some aromatherapy vice the gloomy, cold, overcast for the cold front dawdling thorough town just now.
I’d make spiced sugar cookies, but the butter will not soften enough to cream until Sunday, like as not.
Sure he’s expecting to be incarcerated. That’s why he gave out his cell number.
The Ham-man, Ham-erino, The Ham-inator, Ham-atollah, The Ham-ster…Makin’ copies.
You forgot HamStir-meister.
Ham Stir-meister-meister-stir?
Or, in true Christmas special spirit, Hamster-meister Meister-hamster!
Ok, I do not get (have not gotten) 5nn errors (praise Bees).
But, today and yesterday, I’ve noticed that I can Adore, but that the action does not “stick” if I refresh. Even odder, sometimes the count increments, sometimes it increments in reverse. Yet, I’m not getting an error of either “you have already commented” or the “Cheatin; huh?” dialog.
Quite pequliar.
And I prefer my Pequliar Olde, and malty, and in mulled wine.
[ IE 8; XP Pro SPII ]
I got a 502 error earlier today, but only the one time…oh and my doors keep reappearing as well, although they don’t count in reverse.
Is this perhaps meat jerbals #2?
I think JerBals are more like Rocky mountain oysters…
You can’t eat just one?
Head for the mountains!
They do tend to come in pairs.
Pardon the pun.
Dang, I missed a whole day, but I got cookies and a monkey. Looks like I need to grab a glass of milk and play catch up.
Okay.
Why a monkey?
Can I touch your monkey?
WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE!?
Snorkeling.
At the mall.
In a trenchcoat.
Looking for a change?
Gotta pay for the presents somehow.
Miss Scarlet, in the library, with the knife! *checks cards in the envelope* Ah, darn!
A change we can believe in?
I believe I’ll change into my superhero costume.
You mean Captain Mattress, the Sheep Wonder?
Or did you mean Aquaman?
” You are getting very sleepy”
WHUH!
Sheesh. Don’t do that, you startled me half to death. I was busy licking myself.
But you’re not a ca-
Ewwwwww…
Digging yet another copy of the fake MS AntiVirus trojan off my computer–got that one from theChive, one of their links is infected.
Bummer.
Oh, and the YSaC Fora are still discombobulated.
Will away to houston to have an early xmas with the middle sister over the weekend–may not get to snark until quite late on Sunday.
So, that means y’all will likely be in rare form, all inter-acty and with much bandying about of high-quality mirth and jocularity. So, be exactly as you are, amicuae
OT.
I was emptying the spam folder on my blog and this caught my eye…
wholesale baby clothes Rare cultures from evolved various ways of creating clothes non-functioning of cloth. Inseparable overtures wholesale baby clothes simply involves draping the cloth. Uncountable people wore, and undisturbed have, garments consisting of rectangles of fabric wrapped to right — due to the fact that example, the dhoti for the treatment of men and the sari for the benefit of women in the Indian subcontinent, the Scottish kilt or the Javanese sarong. The clothes may simply be tied up, as is the box of the head two garments; or pins or belts hang on the garments in circumstances, as in the happening of the latter two. The precious material remains uncut, and people of different sizes or the same person at unconventional sizes can fray the garment.
Another approach involves penetrating and sewing the fabric, but using every crumb of the stuff the clergy rectangle in constructing the clothing. The adjust may cut triangular pieces from one corner of the stuff the clergy, and then continue them absent as gussets. Historic European patterns for men’s shirts and women’s chemises lay hold of this approach.
Modern European wholesale baby clothes fashion treats material much less conservatively, wholesale baby clothes typically cutting in such a forward movement as to leave wholesale baby clothes various odd-shaped stuff the clergy remnants. Industrial sewing operations sell these as waste; well-informed in sewers may become them into quilts
That sounds like some kind of dramatic monologue that I would have to glaze over because it doesn’t make sense to my plebeian mind.
This reads like something from Time Cube guy.
Except less blatantly racist and completely off-the-wall loony.
I think I pulled a hampster once.
No, wait, that was my hampstring.
Ah, well! My meat
gerbitsjerbals are done defrosting, time for a quick midnight snack!Mindfield, here is your well-deserved Punchity Punch Punch!
G’Night, Syria!