I enjoy cheap wallpaper sporting a pattern that mimics real wood paneling.
But only on ceilings.
Author - Chris Weagel
Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
Amateur Dentistry has fallen out of favor over the last 75 years. That's what we say publicly.
But who doesn't secretly wish to put their hands into the mouths of strangers? Often it's all you can think about during job interviews or memorial services.
Until it was washed away by global warming, there existed an island nation in the Southwest Pacific populated exclusively by Crocodile Men. From the neck down they are as normal as you or I. But theirs is no ordinary smile. In place of a mannered, civilized human face, is the horrible, green, cold head of a crocodile. Obnoxious snout, putrid eyes and questionable dental work all present. Well these Crocodile Men, aside from their taste for human flesh, made the best apple butter anywhere. Hands down. They imported the apples from Washington and passed down the recipe from generation to generation. NASA's top scientists could never decipher its blend of spices and the Crocodile Men weren't talking anything beyond a mix of Venezuelan Latin and Islamic Spanish. They weren't very approachable...
A Museum dedicated to unused, still-in-the-wrap Index Cards?
Excuse me, I meant to say, "FINALLY, a Museum dedicated to unused, still-in-the-wrap Index Cards!"
A selection of miniature trees is needed. Not next week, not tomorrow, NOW. They shall be arranged in rows, yes, but shall not be uniform in type. Some will be coniferous, some deciduous, others petrified, a few shall bear fruit. One will be dusted with artificial snow and bring good spirits to all who are near. These trees are not to be eaten, nor to be part of any elaborate window display. They are for our edification so that the forest romp following our supper shall not be done in ignorance. Or fear. And those at the table who insist that if one listens oh-so-carefully and precisely and all the stir of the rumpus room shall still, one would hear the song of a microscopic Bird of Pleasure issuing forth from our tiny orchard, shall be regarded as fools who do not know when delight has...
Ever have the unfortunate experience of looking into one of those clear plastic Honey Bear honey bottles only to see, trapped in the golden sludge, a tiny, little human being, a mask of horror locked onto its face? How did he end up there, so far from home? How long has he been in there? Minutes? Years? Why isn’t he just a skeleton? If the honey is that good at preserving his features, what on earth is it doing to my digestive track? Did his village send a search party out for him? Where is his village? Ohio? Think they have charming little bed and breakfasts? Am I just stereotyping? And what of this restaurant? What kind of place is this with little people getting into the food? What’s going on in that kitchen? What’s trapped inside this opaque mustard squeeze bottle...
I could really go for hearing the sound of heavy machinery and furnaces and fixtures being hastily moved in a far off room by ugly, angry men who never wanted to deal with this mess in the first place right now.