The second in our continuing video exposé series on What Really Happened.
It’s that goddam Cheezburger cat!
I knew he was evil!
But who’d have thought he was working for the Empire?
Thanks to Gina for the tip.
Keep your eyes on the skies!
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Behold the magnificence which is Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan’s River Street.
Often has it been said that Canadians are too literal-minded; most particularly often it has been said to my face, although there’s nothing about my face in particular or in whole which is literal-minded, and indeed quite often the parts migrate at will or vanish altogether and I’ll end up all ears, ferinstance.
Quite embarrassing, especially when they see me writing down everything they say.
But that is neither here nor there. And it’s certainly not in Moose Jaw, which is not all that far from everyone’s favorite Canadian place name: Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump.
So…have you been to Moose Jaw? Have you seen it? It’s not Paris, let me tell you. So, when the city fathers/mothers/foster parents put their heads together and wanted to do something uniquely Moose Jawian, they quite naturally phoned Germany and brought over artist Edgar Muller and his team to turn River Street into a painting of a river, reportedly the world’s largest 3-dimensional painting.
How proud they must be, eh?
So they not only paved Paradise: they gravened themselves an image of it and now walk all over it.
In shocking news from exotic Nottingham, we have learned that a disgruntled and highly competitive chocolatier has attacked and “inappropriately handled” the truffles of his competition.
Lynn Cunningham from Hotel Chocolat said: “It was quite extraordinary really.
“The staff observed Mr Colenso handling a number of truffles in a way that made them suspicious.
“When we checked the truffles later they had been squashed and damaged.”
She said Hotel Chocolat was told by Thorntons that Mr Colenso had “handled the truffles inappropriately“.
“We just want to move on now,” she said.
Let the healing process begin.
Remember, one should always be careful about letting one’s competitors finger one’s truffles.
So the deal is this: Sir Richard “Hottie” Branson, the closest thing England has to an attractive man, was going to rapell down the side of the Fantasy Tower at the Palms in Vegas, to publicise the new Virgin Airways flight from San Fran to Vegas. Things went about as smoothly as you’d expect, once you knew it would pop up here: ie, things got grossly out of hand, resulting in Sir Richard banging the side of the building repeatedly (whether or not it was his type we have been unable to determine; and oh, WHY must it be a mere building: Richard, call me) and also in his splitting his pants up the backside, revealing some dusky grey tighty greyeys, much to onlookers’ amusement.
What would you do for unsuspecting victims without them? I mean, really.
So there I am, staying with my friend James. He is a lovely man. A kind man. A thoughtful man.
So thoughtful, indeed, that during the entirety of my visit with him he has arranged that all his scheduled appointments take place between the hours of 9am and noon, knowing well that I shall be (and, indeed, was) dead to the world during this time.
A kind, thoughtful man.
And so today, it was with a sense of shock that I endured the following exchange.
Now, I’m not the sylph I was at twenty-one, ’tis true. Nor yet the Amazon I was at thirty-six, when I ran the Marathon (4:33:09, quite respectable thankyouverymuch). Yet, I am 25 pounds lighter than I was in January and have the ability to take off the jeans I got then, which were skin tight, without actually going to the trouble of unzipping them.
Still.
We were getting ready to leave the house. James wished, as a thoughtful friend, to facilitate my ability to take coffee along with me, although it must be said that this could have been purely selfish in motivation, me being much easier to get along with when I have caffeine to put in my system and a beverage to occupy my mouth instead of talking.
So he suggested I pour the hearty mug of Anniversary Blend I had in my hands into a travel mug and we could hit the road. The problem is, he did so using the following wording:
“Here’s an old chubby. It’s perfect for you.”
raincoaster 