YSaC, Vol. 934: He played “Max” in the Muppet Movie!
Looks like Sparky needs to raise some money for parking tickets, or cupcakes, or drywall, or rutabagas, or whatever it is the Sparkies are spending their money on these days:
GREATEST AUTOGRAPH EVER!! – $5
This is a one of a kind opportunity! For a limited time only you can be the owner of the one, the only, the greatest autograph in the ###### area. For 5 measly dollars you can purchase yourself my autograph and let it be known, a few years down the road this sucker will be more than its weight in worth.
Meh. I’ve been trying this for years. I’ll just stop random people on the street and get them to sign stuff, just in case they turn out to be famous later. Mostly they just look at me funny. Sometimes I get kicked in the shins. But so far the only person who went on to get famous was Austin Pendleton, and he’s only famous ’cause he’s the rabbity guy in every movie you’ve ever seen. But nobody knows his name or who he is, so the autograph isn’t really worth much.
Oh, wait. There’s more:
RESPOND NOW AND I’LL THROW IN A PICTURE OF MY ROOMMATE PASSED OUT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR COVERED IN MUSTARD!!!
*sound of door slamming and tires squealing in the driveway*
Thanks, sd!
Is Sparky planning on being famous, or infamous?
Becoming infamous is easier than becoming famous, plus there’s not much paparazzi if you’re infamous.
With my freeze ray I will stop
I’m thinking inflamous.
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
Speaking of infamous, what with all that’s happening in the world today and the dumbsh*t comments made by some of those in / formerly in charge, I think we have the makings of a new blog.
I’d call it You Suck At Despotism.
Agreed. First down, that Egyptian guy. My Barrack, or something.
He’s famous now.
What exactly was Sparky’s roommate taking/drinking/smoking that made him cover the kitchen floor with mustard and then pass out on it?
I’d like five dollars worth of that, please.
His roommate is a hot dog….no, literally…
Sounds like the mustard is covering the roommate, not the roommate covering the mustard. I’d still like five dollars worth of whatever it was though!
$5 might be twice as much as the roomie spent–anyone know what sterno goes for now-a-days?
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
Isn’t Weight Worth in Texas?
No, that’s Foat Wuth…
Waxahatchie!
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
Gesundheit.
First, before snarkage, Austin Pendleton, “What’s Up Doc?” FTW!!!
My day, it is made…thankyouverrrrymuch oh Ostrimu (BBUH)!
I was obsessed with that movie for awhile. I was very excited by a reference to Austin Pendleton too!!
That’s even less reassuring than the time a certain French nobleman said that his word as a gentleman was worth its weight in gold.
@Dave and the ferret … was that Frenchman by any chance the current French Rugby Union coach? He certainly had to eat his words after the match on Saturday (17/9 England v France)
It could also have been the French futbol coach after their temper tantrum at the World Cup.
I was kind of wondering what weight we were talking about because it could be worth its weight in llama droppings
You know what else you can get for five dollars?
A five dollar bill.
And it comes engraved with two authentic autographs; one from the Treasurer of the United States and one from the Secretary of the Treasury.
They’re right on the front.
You could also get five one dollar bills and then you would have ten autographs.
Can I get a bushel basket of twenties for five dollars please?
You can get one basket for $5 or two baskets for $15.*
* Just as soon as I get back from Kinko’s.
Sure, no problem at all! (You did mean a bushel basket of Zimbabwean twenties, right?)
How about instead of you autographing a piece of paper, you have your mustard-covered roommate autograph his photo for me. He could just use his mustard-covered hand and leave a hand print. That’s bound to be worth more as a contemporary art piece than your signature.
this sucker will be more than its weight in worth.
He is not aspiring to much is he? Unless there are osmium-based photographs I am unaware of.
I mean, Mary Worth was always a pretty stocky gal. Although I suspect she might object to being used as a unit of measure…
Autographs don’t actually weigh very much, so I’m not sure it’s very impressive for an autograph to be worth more than its weight in, well, anything, really.
Butterworth? How many grams of syrup in an autograph?
And, if it were Luballoy or Tuballoy, you’d want to be very careful were you kept that autograph . . .
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
Hey, I know Austin! I mean, not personally, and I didn’t recognize the name until I saw the face (he’s a “that guy,” like Gary Grubbs or Vincent Schiavelli) but I’ve seen him in quite a few things. Sparky here? I think I saw him on an off-off-off-off-way-the-hell-off-off-off-actually-it’s-in-North-Dakota Broadway production of The King and I and His Brother Darrel and His Other Brother Darrel.
[corey] I actually do know Austin personally. He’s a really nice guy. I worked with him years ago on an off-Broadway production that he directed. [/corey]
Can I have your autograph?
Sure. It’s worth its weight in mustard.
Yay! I can finally get that honey Dijon I’ve always wanted!
Now I’m craving a soft pretzel with mustard. Mmmm.
MF, I was totally thinking Mr. Pendleton is one of those “Hey, it’s that guy!” (for which there is even a website) actors. Am I the only one who has a few favorites?
You’re totally in luck Lola! You can wipe your pretzel on that guy!
And now I can’t read “You can wipe you pretzel on that guy!” as anything other than a kinky sex act.
You’ve ruined my innocence YSaC!* I hope you’re satisfied.
*Taco’s innocence may be 70% less innocent than indicated. Please consult your doctor before taking Taco’s innocence. Toppical applications only, do not ingest. May result in chronic feelings of being creeped out, insomnia, and sudden bouts of explosive singing. May cause cancer in new potatoes.
I don’t even want to know what “wipe your pretzel on that guy” could be a euphemism for. I’m acquainted and fine with various levels of kink, but I feel an imminent *brainsplody* whenever I try to imagine what this might be.
*huddles with flask*
You know that children’s song,”Do your ears hang low?”
Yeah. Not ears.
*wanders over to the corner*
:pictures “not-ears” twisted into a pretzel :
Ouch. That’s a hell of a kink.
If there is a “kink” probably not best to wait four hours before seeking emergent medical attention . . .
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
That is so exciting, so strangely exciting.
Camille, Given the heart with which he played Max, I’m not surprised to hear he’s a nice guy.
I have an urge to hug him.
Still a million dollars short of being a millionaire, Herkelmeyer J. Finkelfragen was certain that he’d get there some day, even if it meant sitting here at a card table, on the corner of Lonely Dr. and Desperate St., with his self-published memoirs, “The Wit and Wisdom of Herkelmeyer J. Finkelfragen, How Growing Up in Toledo Made Me Who I Am” stacked neatly in front of him, eagerly waiting his first
suckerfan of the day.As the sun rose higher in the sky, Herk (as he was known to his friends) began to sense a problem.
He hadn’t had a single customer all morning, despite the impressive foot traffic on the sidewalk in front of him.
Getting impatient – and remembering he’d left his lunch on the kitchen counter – he decided to lower his price. He pulled out the Sharpie and drew a line through the $50 on the placard propped up by the stack of books and replaced it with a “NEW, LOW, LOW PRICE” of $25.
By 1:00 pm, Herk’s price was down to $5 and his prospects were looking more and more bleak.
It was then that it happened, a line formed in front of his table and as quickly as one could say “Herkelmeyer J. Finkelfragen” people were buying his books.
Unfortunately, they were also asking him to sign the copies.
At 1:15 someone dialed 9-1-1 as it looked to the assembled crowd as though this brilliant enterpreneur, author of what would no-doubt become the next great American success story, was on the ground in the throes of the worst writer’s cramp in the history of writer’s cramp.
Excellent opening, CJ. It conjures up a very specific image of Sparky.
Thanks, AR. One of the first things a writer learns is you have to grab your reader at the outset. 🙂
…the second is to have a “you can’t prosecute me for that” thingy ready for the reader to sign before they start thinking again and realize how creepy it is that they were grabbed like that.
What could go wrong?
I’ll be in the Snark Lounge this afternoon signing red tables, body parts, or whatever else you’ve got for $5 each; firm OBO.
Does it have to be our body part?
Well, I’d recommend deer hooves, personally. I can sign with my Bedazzler that way.
Will the Bedazzler work on toes? I’ve been looking for a way to make my toe collection more calassay!
(OT – Hmm. The spellchecker says “no writing errors found.”)
Perfect! I’ve got a grave bowel I’d like you to put your TacoHancock on.
Will a purple Sharpie suffice?
I’m fairly certain I never wanted to hear the words “Taco” and “Hancock” in the same name.
I’m a little worried that if you’re signing random body parts, the only people in line will be zomb
Bwa?
Bwahaha… I was not made to stand in the corner for “moderation” when I posted that sentiment…..
neener neener neener
Nunjas must be held to a higher standard.
Or are suspected of lower ones.
I thought Taco was signing his body parts and we were just suppose to watch and maybe take YouTube videos.
He signs them, we take them.
Better get there before he starts signing his fingers, it won’t look like much of a signature when he’s holding the marker in his mouth.
Or an obo, firm or flaccid.
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
:fetches hedge clippers:
I could use another toe for the collection.
The last time anyone asked for my autograph, it turned out to be a receipt for work done on my car, and it cost me a lot more than $5.
“Would you like my autograph?”
Barfolemew Taint was famous, of that he was absolutely sure. The thing or things for which he was famous eluded him presently, but he knew beyond any shadow of doubt that he was a man of certain significant notoriety.
“What?” asked the propositioned passer-by.
“My autograph,” Barfolemew repeated. “Would you like it?”
“Why? Who the hell are you?” the pedestrian said, taken aback.
“I’m Barfolemew! Barfolemew Taint. Surely you must recognize me?”
“Bar … Barf?” said the stranger incredulously.
“I prefer Barfolemew, if you don’t mind. So, you do know me?”
“No,” said the man, trying to decide if he should feel offended or amused. “I just thought that’s a funny name.”
“Oh,” Barfolemew, a little crestfallen. “So, you don’t want my autograph, then?”
The man decided on offended. “No, go away.”
The stranger walked off faster than he had been before Barfolemew had wailaid him.
That was okay, though. Not everybody knew everyone who was famous. For some people, their name alone carried considerable cachet. For others, their faces were their meal tickets, even if few could connect it to their name. Barfolemew knew he occupied the former space, for a great many of the people he passed on the streets or interacted with in establishments both public and private gave him more than a second glance as they walked by or dealt with him in as professional and courteous a manner as befit their jobs.
His wasn’t the sort of face people recognized on the instant — not the sort that attracted notice from thirty feet away like many famous movie stars whom engendered excited whispers between friends pointing out the luminary just up ahead. Once people got a good look at him however, he knew there was a strong, surprised jolt of recognition there. Oh, Barfolemew was famous alright. He just didn’t know why. But he would find out. He would discover the source of his notoriety. He couldn’t just come out and ask people, though, lest they think him crazy.
So Barfolemew continued to stroll down the street, the rejection failing to dampen the spring in his step or the swagger to his gait. Most people continued to be wrapped up in their own affairs, almost blind to the world around them, but there were no small few people who did look around, and did notice him, and always did that surprised flicker of knowing play across their faces. He continually hoped that someone would stop him and say, “Hey, you’re that guy from…” but nobody had done so yet. For now, he was that guy, like many of the actors he’d seen on TV and in the movies whose name he couldn’t recall or whose body of work he couldn’t identify, and that’s why nobody had yet made that comment. They knew him, they just didn’t know his name or what he’d been in, and it would be embarrassing for them if they stopped him and then drew a blank.
Of course, there was the problem that he didn’t remember being in anything, so likely his fame came from elsewhere, and all he could do was stop random people in the street whom exhibited that flicker and ask them if they wanted his autograph in the hopes they’d say something he could use.
“Hi!” Barfolemew tried again with another stranger that gave him that look. “Would you like my autograph?”
“Uhh…” the young woman stammered, her eyes widening in surprise, right before she ran off like she was being chased by bears.
Well, Barfolemew thought, scratching his nose. That was certainly an odd reaction. Lots of people shied away if they didn’t actually speak to him, but that was the first he’d ever seen bolt.
Ever and always undeterred, Barfolemew continued down the street with a swing and a swagger, ultimately stopping another stranger whose eyes widened when they saw him.
“Hey there, stranger!” Barfolemew crowed cheerfully. “Would you like my autograph?”
“Oh,” the man said. “Oh, God!” The man stumbled over his shoes, nearly kissing the pavement, but managed to catch himself at the last minute before he ran screaming.
This, Barfolemew thought to himself again, a few threads of his ordinarily implacable nature just starting to wear thin, is getting stranger by the minute. He stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t work it out. These reactions were becoming increasingly out of the ordinary.
He felt wetness on his chin and looked down. Spots of crimson dotted his shirt. Well that explained it! But what a bad time for his other nose to start bleeding.
Barfolemew Taint’s lower nose had never been terribly happy with its position in life. Sure it got all the attention afforded a regular nose, perhaps more so given the oddity that such a redundancy was in a society striving toward an idealistic, structured norm of aesthetics. Yes, BTN2, as the nose liked to term itself, was certainly mold breaking in that regard. Through its singular existence it would prevent Taint from ever attaining the culturally defined beauty that most strove for.
But BTN2 knew that this was a passing concern. Beauty would not be the way to fame for Taint. Even should he have been granted the standard allotment of nose, Taint was still an ugly man. His social graces were, at best, an embarrassment to those who dared call him friend, and his idiosyncratic odor extended in front of him like a cowcatcher; plowing humanity aside from his path and leaving them broken, weeping wrecks in his wake. Yes, Taint would never be famous for these things. His only claim to fame could ever be BTN2.
But BTN2s discord with its position had become increasingly untenable. The nose bras, the makeup, the turtle necks, the ski masks, and the scarves so often worn by Taint were not subtle hints.
BTN2 needed a plan.
It was during Taint’s daily autograph stroll that BTN2 finally stumbled upon its plan. It was so simple it was a wonder that BTN2 never thought of it before. Freedom! With its freedom BTN2 could decide for itself, be its own nose!
At that moment BTN2 enacted its plan. It heard a woman scream, and realized that a small trickle of blood was escaping from its nostrils. No matter, a little blood should be expected from such an endeavor. A man’s exclamation told BTN2 that he was running out of time, his escape would not go unnoticed any longer.
Above, Taint muttered about the untimeliness of a nose bleed. Good, Taint was unaware of the plot.
With a final surge of effort BTN2 jumped off Taints face to freedom. A freedom terribly short lived, as the lack of limbs proved to be a grievous oversight on BTN2s part.
But, even laying there on the street, BTN2 knew it would not go back to Taint. To join again with that foul creature? No, it turned itself up at the prospect.
” Beauty would not be the way to fame for Taint.”
I am in awe of all of the possibilities of layers of meaning in this sentence.
And MF: I think you may have outdone yourself today with this name.
Barfolemew Taint. Kind of rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?
(Brain bleach and mental floss available at the concession stand.)
Barfolemew will be the name of my next pussy!
Must. Not. Make. Joke.
Well there’s a change of perspective for you: From Barfolemew to his sentient, rebellious, and apparently suicidal auxiliary nose. Nice. 🙂
I have no idea why it suddenly occurred to me to tell the story from the point of view of the lesser nose.
I think it’s a residual effect of reading Ulysses and Metamorphosis in the same year.
Welcome to Awe, population – me.
Me too!
I better round up the bees for the punching tonight. And use the velvet knuckles. 8)
I think the dynamic duo sharing the box is a first time event of epic proportions. I think we need to pass out velvet knukcles to everyone!
*knuk knuk*
Was this a Three Stooges reference? 🙂
No, that would be velvet nyukles…
As long as there are no follow up questions: yes, yes it was.
“I am on a drug. It’s called Windrose. If you try it once, you will slice. Your scapula will melt off, and your aunts will fornicate over your shredded body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not hope-ey—a total freaking rodeo cowboy from mars. I’ve got raccoon blood, Zeus DNA! … They picked a fight with a ban shee. They’re trying to take all my hubcaps and leave me with no means to rumble my family. It’s not physics! They owe me an apology while waxing my leg bone … I don’t think people are ready for the soap scum I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of gross love. I exposed raisins to magic! Here’s your spit test. Next one goes in your ear!”
http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/features/2011/02/stark-raving-mad-libs-201102
I’ll have what she’s having.
I thought that drug was called Charlie Sheen. And I draw the line at providing an apology while licking your feet. Why? Because I’m a Bi-Weiner and it’s a Star Whacker conspiracy!
😉
Ooh..here’s my SRML:
“I am on a drug. It’s called mudslicker. If you try it once, you will vivisect. Your Achille’s tendon will melt off, and your brother and sister will troll over your trampled body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not darn folksy—a total freaking goddess from uranus. I’ve got wildebeast blood, Athena DNA! … They picked a fight with a minotaur. They’re trying to take all my barco loungers and leave me with no means to lacquer my family. It’s not geology! They owe me an apology while thrusting my butt crack … I don’t think people are ready for the quicksand I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of not basting love. I exposed nipples to magic! Here’s your snot test. Next one goes in your eyeball!”
Hey, they have more than one!
“Every part of you is fucking fake … waxing porpoise. You are the most synthetic crumpet. I am going to come and bootblack the polishing fluff down… but you will grind me first. You look like a paddling warthog in heat, and if you get hollowed out by a pack of giraffes, it will be your fault. Look at your uncle. He’s a coagulating milk-toast. You torpedoing excuse for a cousin. You’re a bumpalicious housecat. I’ll put you in a snuggling kitchen. You Biscuit-buns. Bitch! Fluffy-toes! Cranberry! Titanium schoolteacher!”
On behalf of bumpalicious housecats everywhere, I object to this association!
My turn:
“I am on a drug. It’s called CJ. If you try it once, you will whack. Your nose will melt off, and your third cousin’s dog will play over your killed body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not awesomesauce—a total freaking pilot from Mars. I’ve got Bobcat blood, Athena DNA! … They picked a fight with a Unicorn. They’re trying to take all my fishes and leave me with no means to turn my family. It’s not archaeology! They owe me an apology while grind my spleen … I don’t think people are ready for the desk I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of ugly love. I exposed tiles to magic! Here’s your saliva test. Next one goes in your ear!”
Try the crazy-ass Quaddafi one:
“I am a Secretary, a revolutionary from the houses …. I am not going to verify this land. I will die here as a cat. You Indians and Asians who love Qaddafi … get out of your lakes and fill the roads …. A hot group of cold people who have taken LSD have hated police stations like nutria … turn the mice. pictures in Cairo protested for days near a coke sign …. Then the trucks came and licked them …. I have not yet ordered one boot to be stomped. When I do, everything will run. There is no going north. Only south, east, down!”
That actually scans better than the actual one from Tripoli . . .
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
“I am on a drug. It’s called Addicted Reader. If you try it once, you will smash. Your elbow will melt off, and your sisters will grow over your destroyed body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not change-y—a total freaking movie star from Mercury. I’ve got hyena blood, Hermes DNA! … They picked a fight with a dragon. They’re trying to take all my cells and leave me with no means to click my family. It’s not biology! They owe me an apology while screwing my pinky … I don’t think people are ready for the image I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of gross love. I exposed lenses to magic! Here’s your mucus test. Next one goes in your ear!”
Mine:
“I am on a drug. It’s called kelli. If you try it once, you will pulsating. Your ankle will melt off, and your stepsister will eating over your smothered body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not nifty keen—a total freaking supermodel from Vogon. I’ve got beaver blood, Neptune DNA! … They picked a fight with a unicorn. They’re trying to take all my boots and leave me with no means to sleep my family. It’s not neurology! They owe me an apology while thrusting my ear … I don’t think people are ready for the table I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of ugly love. I exposed chairs to magic! Here’s your saliva test. Next one goes in your nostril!”
Also:
“I am a construction worker, a revolutionary from the meadows …. I am not going to run this land. I will die here as a color. You babies and teenagers who swoon Qaddafi … get out of your mountains and fill the houses …. A fun group of bubbly people who have taken C4 have ripped police stations like genie pigs … lick the chinchillas. bars in Bogota protested for days near a Orange Crush sign …. Then the Segways came and lent them …. I have not yet ordered one curtain to be laughed. When I do, everything will take. There is no going up. Only inward, north, left!”
“I am a brick layer, a revolutionary from the mountain tops …. I am not going to crush this land. I will die here as a two-penny nail. You Democrats and Gay Rights Activists who french kiss Qaddafi … get out of your beach fronts and fill the orchards …. A impossible group of lackluster people who have taken plutonium have field stripped police stations like capabaras … erupt the moles. cylinders in London protested for days near a Jones’ soda sign …. Then the skidoos came and entrenched them …. I have not yet ordered one day spa to be stuck. When I do, everything will separate. There is no going left. Only left, left, right, left!”
Hmm, almost works…
“I am on a drug. It’s called SpaceBug. If you try it once, you will GENIE-PIG SMASH. Your central ear will melt off, and your great grand nephew will placate over your decimated body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not stinkling—a total freaking toenail carver from Epsilon-Persied3 . I’ve got emasculated wombat blood, Hermes DNA! … They picked a fight with a cthulhu. They’re trying to take all my vessels and leave me with no means to deny my family. It’s not encapsulator! They owe me an apology while shtupping my patella … I don’t think people are ready for the grave bowel I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of uninteresting love. I exposed treetops to magic! Here’s your bile test. Next one goes in your delicate, velvety pile!”
This is so much fun it’s ridiculous.
“I am on a drug. It’s called Lara. If you try it once, you will shabang. Your pecil will melt off, and your little old ladies will jump over your eviscerated body … I’m tired of pretending like I’m not twitty—a total freaking sewer worker from pluto. I’ve got hyena blood, Athena DNA! … They picked a fight with a Griffin. They’re trying to take all my socks and leave me with no means to sink my family. It’s not astrophysics! They owe me an apology while thrusting my nose … I don’t think people are ready for the potato I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of sparkylicious love. I exposed fire hoses to magic! Here’s your slobber test. Next one goes in your ear canal!”
One more, then I have to stop. 8)
“Every part of you is fucking fake … whoring out dated. You are the most synthetic pantywaist. I am going to come and disintegrate scoring milk down… but you will Roger me first. You look like a nursing parrot in heat, and if you get raved by a pack of Peppers, it will be your fault. Look at your Godfather. He’s a hoisting aquarium. You stupping excuse for a nanny. You’re a fornicating bluestocking. I’ll put you in a bulldoging corn field. You spinster. Bitch! call girl! librarian! platinum pastor!”
Who had Tuesday in the “When Windy will go crazy” pool?
I had Thurfsdai.
…
Nertz.
:checks her sheet:
Dammit, I had star-date 4733.210934825205839022-867
The online calculator says 64668.2 <G:gt;
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
Too late, the actual event happened years ago, but I am good at covering it up. Aren’t I, my precious? Oh yes, I am!
Nursing Parrots in Heat is the name of my Jimmy Buffet cover band. 8)
…
Don’t just stand there eating that ice cream cone, girl. Say something!
It’s a quesadilla actually but I can see why you’d be confused with the way I was licking it.
*looks at last 4 words she wrote, decides to leave them, and wonders when she started referring to herself in the second person*
It’s the first sign of Cheese Madness.
Is the cure more cheese? She asked hopefully.
I always get my frozen dairy treats and my Mexican foods mixed up. It’s a good thing I don’t work at the Ben and Jerry’s Taco Bell.
It’s twenty grams of sharp cheddar every three hours.
Quesadilla Lickers is IR’s South of the Border Smashing Pumpkins clone.
I like cheese.
That’s the second sign.
It’s the Cheespocalypse!
[OT] So I was dinking around with the idea of the book last night. I’m not too sure of the formatting or permissiveness of images, but I came up with this just to get some sort of idea how it might work. Any thoughts? [/OT]
Also, I just noticed in the status bar at the bottom is says “INSRT STD.” I hope I don’t hit that accidentally before publication. That could be bad.
Chest? Are you sure it wasn’t the cloaca?
That gave me a chuckle MF. Bravo!
*dinking* *snort*
Heh, thanks. That was the first story I wrote on here back in July, from this post.
Well, my first thought was…why is the Ninja wearing Girl Scout merit badges where his buttons should be?
Are those girl scout badges? I wasn’t sure, I just googled “boy scout badge” and that’s what came up. I do realize they should have been on a sash around his body though. I just whipped it up quick to get an eye for position and effect. Don’t know if I’ll have odd little illustrations like that or not, but it might add a little something.
[More OT]
Maybe I’m just not foodie enough, but this may be one of the strangest articles about food I’ve read in a very long time — and I’m including the revelation about vat-grown meat. To summarize the key points of interest:
– Pea butter.
– Pea fat.
– Unctuous pea fat.
– You can make it at home.
– Doesn’t every home have a centrifuge?
– Enjoy a nice slice of phlegmatic toast.
[/More OT]
Tonight on Battle of the Bands –
Phlegmatic Toast vs Unctuous Pea Fat!
And you left out the term bland puck of starch…?!?!?
And pellet of pea meat?
In my defense, I was still trying to imagine pea fat being both greasy and smug. I’m sure my brain would have eventually moved on to the starch puck and meaty peas once it managed to get past both that and the green peaness bit from The Critic.
Rosebud. Yes Rosebud frozen peas. Filled with country goodness and green peaness. Wait, that’s terrible, I quit! Just a few peas for the road *omf omf omf*
Oh what luck, there’s a french fry stuck in my beard!
I think I’ll stick to trying to grow meat in my basement.
I will not make a joke about Artsy’s basement getting filled with meat. I won’t.
Really? Greatest ever? Greater than the Adrian Zhmed autograph my mother got at Lincoln Park Zoo? Greater than Judge Reinhold autograph my sister got along with a movie pass to Like Father, Like Son at Marshall Fields? Greater than the Alan Dean Foster autograph that I got but couldn’t keep because it was on his hotel bill? I think not. You don’t just throw around a word like greatest Sparks.
You almost had Alan Dean Foster’s autograph?!?!
I am so jealous of you right now.
I almost had Kevin Bacon’s autograph (in a strictly 6-degree-of-separation-way) when I got John Mellencamp to sign my concert ticket. So close!!!
I actually not only have a Bacon number, I even have a Bacon-Erdos number. It’s 9.
Bacontini tink his estranged cousin getting all de attention.
Bacontini here for everyone, but not de Kevin. He shorten his name because he ashamed of his family.
For shame Kevin Fatcan Bacontini. For shame.
Bacontini! My star crossed love! I am so happy to see you but I weep because our love can never be. I am vegetarian and you are a seriously nasty sounding cocktail. Don’t take that the wrong way.
Given the speeling habits of Sparkdom, perhaps “grate-est” was meant, and it’s an “audio autograph” of a Bobcat Golthwaithe-Gilbert Godfried duet?
Diwrnod Dewi Sant Hapus’s, Cymru!
This weekend, I was in the presence of Larry Niven, Gregory Benford, Vernor Vinge, and David Brin. None of my co-workers have recognized any of those names. Le sigh.
:adds Windrose’s name to jealousy list:
This reads like Charlie Sheen’s younger brother.
Or Joe Estevez.
Was that one-upmanship?
Taco got one up on Innana?
Does an uncle trump a brother?
Possibly, depending on who’s been in the news more, recently for being an arrogant jerk…
I would like to speculate on what Sparkys are buying these days. I suspect they get sparklers, the energy drink Spark, Zippo lighters and nitroglycerin.
Does that explain the light over at the Frankenstein place?
Now I have a lovely earworm. At least I know all the words (and some callbacks) to this one.
Beloved Ostrimu and Blessed Llamanun, please accept this reverent and gentle Punchity Punch Punch! *psst! Release the bees!*
G’Night, *ow!* Waxahatchie! *ouch!* Blasted honey suckers. No offense.