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.
I’m still waiting for the donkeys to arrive.
Well, what am I going to do about it? I know we’re reaching Peak Oil and the Climate’s Warming Up and the ground beneath us is melting and each year more and more ugly children are being born. I don’t need any convincing. But let’s be realistic. What on earth am I – Mr. Me, Myself – what am I going to do about it? I don’t have any time or resources. No answers. I’ve got all I can handle just keeping this place painted a bright shade of yellow and the stairs carpeted. I’ve got thousands of episode summaries of Home Shopping Network programming to write and laminate. It’s all I can do to keep these expensive Amazon river fish alive! They have to be kept in separate buckets of Salt-Free River water at 68 degrees F, otherwise they...
Rally in Madison March 5, 2011
Democratic State Rep attempts to enter Madison Capitol Building:
Largely the Police Unions have sided with their brothers and sisters in other unions. I don’t know about the officers featured here or their allegiance.
One of my favorite cultural trends to emerge online over the last decade is the practice of altering celebrity photos to make them appear morbidly obese or the victims of severe amputation procedures. Ostensibly, these works were created for fringe sexual reasons, but I see something more. In these photos, I see a plausible alternative reality, total and complete in its construction. The thought put into where to place the neck fat – off to the side or partially engulfing the lower lip, for example – is considerable. These artists take seriously the decision to cut off Jennifer Aniston’s arm ABOVE the elbow and perhaps replace it with a hook or equivalent animal paw. They even consider the emotional journey of their subjects by making an 1100lbs Tom Hanks grimace at his...
If you don’t eat lemons very often you could easily wind up the owner of 400 acres of southern Illinois bottom land that floods with the slightest drizzle. There’s no structure on it since the local teenagers burned down the pump shed. You will still owe about fifty US dollars in placeholder taxes each year.
You’ll be looked down upon by men in ties for such a foolish acquisition. Especially since it could’ve been avoided by simply eating lemon slices and occasionally taping them to your face during job interviews.