I have the focus of a laser lately.
One of these cheap little laser pointers for entertaining cats with or for practicing your dickwadery with from the back of a movie theatre.
Sharp. Single minded. Low wattage.
And my cats smell like hot and sour soup.
Why do I get the feeling that Winston Churchill never felt like this?
To All My American Readers: Enjoy yer turkeys.
And to the Rest of You: Get to it, folks.
“Every time you leave the single word “FAIL” as a blog comment, people mentally count the flecks of eczema & pepperoni in your lonely goatee.”
In deciding whether or not a single sentence constitutes a proper blog post, I realise that as long as it consists of a) at least one hyperbolic word, b) an utterly improbable (yet hilarious-to-the-author) stage direction, and c) enough verbiage to require either the vocal training of a Wagnerian opera star or at least four breaths and a pee break to be said aloud, then we’re all good.
[Sound of devious mole rats sneaking up behind you for the sheer tangential joy of messing with your head.]
If I can post to Twitter at least once a day, I can post here a little more frequently than once EVERY TEN DAYS.
I can’t promise that everything will be of the “stunning quality”* that you have all come to expect from Space Monkey Pants, but I’ll do my gosh-darned best.
And I have a very big project looming on the horizon.
I have approximately three months of comments to answer.
I’ll need a serious pick-me-up to get me through that.
Do they make crystal-meth-chip cookies?
…
* Please — reserve your sarcasm. I used quotation marks.
