The most infamous fitness video of all time, and that includes the porn ones.
This is what William Wegman would have done, had he taken a hit of acid and channelled the spirit of Eva Gabor. And Dali, watching, would have spooged all over himself in spasmodic glee.
From JapanProbe:
Found a great way to game the Technorati Blogworth Calculator, and since it’s been broken for quite some time and hasn’t increased my blog’s value I feel no compunction whatsoever in giving it a nudge. If it’s going to artificially depress my blog value by not counting the 30 more blogs that have linked to me since it last upgraded me, I’m not going to lie awake at night tormented by guilt that I input Gawker to the calculator, grabbed the resultant code, changed the URL and came up with a slightly revised figure for the ol’ raincoaster blog:
My blog is worth $4,025,170.20.
How much is your blog worth?
Yeah. You don’t know my family, but they give these guys a run for their money; only thing is, I’d be playing the mother in this scenario.
You see, once, long ago, I was little. And my little sister was littler. And we lived in Winnipeg.
(when writing about Winnipeg it is mandatory to use a macho, I-can-handle-the-weather, Hemingwayesque writing style, otherwise the Wendigo thinks you’re getting cocky)
And we lived in a little house, my little sister and I, and our mother and father, both of whom were rather diminutive, come to think of it, which I didn’t, then. And our little house had a little basement (the story of which I will tell you another time, as it is noncongruent with this one, so that’s why).
And we were in the basement, my sister and I.
I was riding my tricycle around and around the pillars in a figure eight, as one is wont to do when one is four and one is stuck in the basement with one’s little sister.
My little sister was holding onto the bannister on the landing and swinging back and forth, and suddenly, for no particular reason that she can recall, she let go and decided to fly.
Turns out she wasn’t very good at that.
Some time later, my mother entered the room, to find me now making a figure §. around the pillar, the other pillar, and the unconscious body of my little sister.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” my mother screamed.
“But Mom,” I answered, “She was being quiet.”
Now here’s a family that actually surpasses that remarkable benchmark of it’s not my problem-ism. from SmallHandsIck via Gawker:
My mother called me on the phone Monday, “Rachael you were right the play starts at 7pm so we’ll have to meet earlier– an hour earlier than I said.”
“OK.” I responded, and then continued, “Oh, yeah I just remembered I have to call Dad.”
“Well, he’s in the emergency room, so I don’t know if he’s going to pick up.”
“What?”
“Maybe, he’ll pick up. I just talked to him.”
“What happened to him?”
“Hmm? Oh. Um. I don’t know. He’s in some sort of excrutiating pain. You know your father.”
“Were you going to tell me my father was in the hospital.”
“I did tell you.”
“Only because I brought up that I had to call him.”
“Rachael, your father was never coming to the theatre with us anyway.”
That’s hot!
This came from Flickr via BoingBoing via Gawker, upon which we are keeping a beady, but encouraged eye since Jessica left (speaking of which, must surf over to VF and see if she’s posted any kittens or bitchy stories about Graydon Carter. Or Kurt Anderson; that post might actually be allowed to live). We’ll leave it to them to set the context, geographical and otherwise:
If you don’t instantly recognize this image, then you’re obviously not familiar with the goatse phenomenon, for which you should be extremely grateful. If you’ve already been corrupted, however, you’ll be grimly pleased to note its appearance in Park Slope, land of gaping assholes.
raincoaster 