Steph just asked me if I felt her throwing things at me on the couch last night. She says I was snoring, what Steph describes as the "traditional, long, loud snore." Hey, I said, at least I stick with the classics. At least I'm not some post-modern snorer who recites Victorian shopping lists or Thomas Pynchon novels or something. Nope, give me a good, long pig-getting-sawed-in-half snore any day of the week. If it ain't broke don't fix it. Snore what you know. At least you know where I am at night. And, don't forget, guys that snore aren't allowed to work on submarines, so. . .
The post bellow is a good reason I try not to drink near wifi hot-spots. Although, Trash Baby was based on a real life, actual, not-even-drunk conversation at The Shed in Palmer, Mass. last night. Something else someone said last night really got me to thinking. Whatever happened to hoverboards? Did we just forget to invent those? If I had to pick, as I'm sure I one day will, between a cloned sheep and a hoverboard, I'd pick the hoverboard every time. Unless the sheep is full of cloned human organs that will allow me to live forever. Then I would pick the sheep.
1 comment:
I would always pick the hoverboard. What would be the point of living forever, if it was a world without hoverboards.
Post a Comment