What smell? What are they talking about? I change my Underoos every day.
Honestly, some people.
I think, actually, this is what Cthulhu wears for a pedicure.
From the Manolo…I will not link you directly to the horrific, browser-destroying Chinese source site, because yea verily it is horrific, even unto the browser-destroyingness.
Come to think of it, I could get the effect of any of the three shoes featured just by walking around my neighborhood barefoot. The decaying zombie feet might take a couple of days to ripen properly, though.
So Judy was here visiting. It was easy to tell it was Judy when she walked into the train station, because there is, in my wide experience (and surely, few experiencers can have had a wider one, what with me having met in meatspace something over 100 people whom I first met online) a certain expression that people have when they’re away from home and meeting up for the first time with some other cybernaut who, come to think of it and they do and BOY do they look worried when they realize this, they haven’t the faintest idea what they look like. And likewise.
So, I was looking for a tall American brunette, and she was looking for a short Canadian blonde with a Moosehat sticker from the Northern Voice blogging conference, and although we are not exactly a dime a dozen, even in the train station, nevertheless the situation is enough to give one pause.
She paused.
With that certain look on her face. That alright now I can figure this out. I can handle this. If she turns out to be a freak there are plenty of people around who can call the cops, and I can always get another train back home look.
And I tried not to have my oh, I’ve seen that look before, newbie look on my face although it must be said that of all the emotions, smugness comes perhaps most easily to me, even when it’s not appropriate, but then when has the fear of looking like a idjut ever stopped me, eh? I ask yez.
And we had a lovely time. I made sure to take her by the library and Canada Place and the Marine building and other suchlike architectural wonders, of which it must be said that Vancouver has very few but as long as nobody tells her different and who’s to do that, she’ll never know the place isn’t larded with gems, eh?
And we went patio-ing. Yes, it’s a verb here. We do a lot of patioing in BC, although we also do a lot of other social things, too, which you can tell from the fact that Whistler has its own strain of genital warts, but we didn’t do any of that.
Especially not on the patio. Hell, it wasn’t the Cambie!
But as we were on the patio, enjoying our refreshing beverages and making amusing comments about some kind of corporate teambuilding exercise which apparently involved vast herds of nerdy-looking men in matching t-shirts running at speed back and forth through the restaurant, it became apparent that Judy was working up her courage. Finally, after an internal struggle and a moment of distracted yet anticipatory silence, it came out.
The old Gloaming homestead of Miami has been given a glamorous new makeover since those exotic and exciting social dynamos the Nyarlathoteps rescued it in April of this year. The redecoration has spared no expense, and the charmingly distressed mansion is filled with those remarkable and seductively alien little touches that remind the owners of their former home. Eldritch-y!
That’s a catfish the way a sabertoothed tiger is a cat. You’re looking at a record-breaking 66 pounds of fish sticks (a gazillionty-seven kilograms, howthefuckshouldiknoweh) landed by Bev Street, a deceptively mild-mannered housewife with, obviously, a lethal antipathy to free-range freshwater fish.
In unrelated news, I have recently deleted our dear friend StevenL from the blogroll, as his former idiosyncratic football/politics/pikefishing/future lung cancer victims rights blog has turned into a gay, pink, ad-bedecked page of financial advisor for profit links. Bleagh. Buh-bye.
raincoaster 