Boy, it was the ferocious albino dog-pig, escaped from a New York asylum, with the assistance of a gangly frizzy-haired eccentric. Which spoke to me, because that was a sub-plot in a teevee show about nothing. But no. She disappointed me. This was no cross-over between Southern Degeneracy Literature and pre-twentieth century semi-documentary humour, but a cute video of a fox-pup smiling. What a huge amount of pinkness!
Quite deceptive in it's pork-like qualities.
For many people, now is the time to circulate cute clips.
Animals, and people drinking wine for breakfast.
Idiocy and traffic accidents.
One person alerted me to something else.
"It's National Book Week. The rules are: Grab the closest book to you, turn to page 56, and post the 5th sentence as your status. Don't mention the title. Copy the rules as part of your status."
"Her Adrianus papa -- Offa cyning forðferdon; Æðelred Norðan hymbra cyning was of slægen from his agenre ðeode, Ceolwulf bisč Eadbald bisč of ðæm londe aforon; Ecgferð feng to Miercna rice."
From which we deduce that Aethelred (king of Northumbria) was wacked by his own courtiers, and two bishops saw fit to flee the country. Shortly after that, Egferd started ruling Mercia, and Eadbryht, whose nickname was "Prawn", took over Kent. Dark doings in Anglo-Saxon Britain.
The year was 794.
Rice in the scrap above does NOT mean what I had for lunch, but is the same word more or less as Dutch "rijk" and German "reich". What I had for lunch was fried rice. With meaty bits, veggie bits, curry spices, tomato, fish sauce, and sambal. The key to making good fried rice is to undercook the rice slightly, and let it rest. So after putting the water-cooked rice to air, I loaded up a pipe and wandered around the neighborhood a bit. Most of the people outside were street people. I think the nuts are losing their minds; one of them was hollering indistinctly at the bus stop in front of the donut place, two of the others were shouting at each other at the bus stop around the corner. I recognized all of them.
One of these days I shall start speaking Old English at them. While telling them in detail how sad it was that the Anglo Saxons had no rice, no curry, no chilies, tomatoes or cucumbers, and consequently fressed mediocre dinners, everything fried or boiled, and had indigestion afterwards.
Anglo Saxon cuisine must have been miserable.
Truly it was the dark ages.
Nor did the Anglo Saxons have tea or tobacco. In fact, while Tolkien enjoyed the latter, he did not invent a plausible back-story for the cultivation of the tobacco plant in Middle Earth, or ascribe it to Prydainic origins, so whatever pipe weed hobbits puffed was probably pot. Nasty hairy-footed hippies.
This is important because I just rubbed out enough Samuel Gawith's Saint James Flake to fill my pipe for nearly two months.
My hands smell, but NOT like hobbit.
What could be more English than Lord Of The Rings? Or tea and tobacco?
Tolkien smoked Gold Block and Capstan Navy Cut.
His hands smelled like pubes.
Yeah, you're right. I am not fond of Lord Of The Rings. At all. And "Elven Languages" are, by and large, heaps of festering bollocks. But we could've shared our tobacco pouches for a change of pace occasionally.
I think I'll head out for another smoke before tea time. This time I'll avoid the crazies down on Polk Street, and stroll along Larkin.
It's better for the digestion that way.
Fewer crazed hobbits.
Update, 5:25 PM: There is extremely loud shouting from over a block away. Audible, but not intelligible in the teevee room. Probably would not be intelligible even from closer-by. The hobbits are revolting.
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