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.
Garden hose diplomacy. That's how you get rid of cobras.
Oh zing! That electric snap goes right up to the ears. Ellis’ fists involuntarily clenched. For the next thirty seconds, he was in command. Troubled birth and a childhood of forced napping vanished. He was taller. Eager to bite through low-grade masonry. This was the thrill Ellis felt each time he ordered his underlings to lie on the ground, servile and silent, as he walked barefoot across their faces. Doubt evaporated, and there, atop the mountain stood Ellis.
Endless Regret Catches Us All.
Babylonian sundials. That's actually the name of a disease. Terrible disease. Thankfully all but eradicated by modern science. In the early 20th century it swept across eastern Europe, leaving thousands unable to touch their own necks. Their necks didn't disappear, you see. Their fingers didn't fall off, for the most part. The disease just made a person's neck skin bunch up and smell like oatmeal. Not the good kind with fruit in it or maple syrup. The disgusting kind of oatmeal nuns use to wash their feet. The kind industry uses to make envelope glue and retching powder. And the neck skin is never the same. The person isn't the same. It's only contagious for a few weeks and then the purple-gray color lessens. And, although invisible to the outside, the victim...
Week 4 of the Harpoon Gun Shortage. We’re gonna have to reason with these squids. They can breathe air and crawl on dry land. And according to the emails, they can control thunderstorms. In this kind of situation – God you just don’t know. First you couldn’t get the harpoons. The guns? Everybody had the guns. “My buddy Ken said he could make ’em shoot wax pellets. Hard wax. Just as deadly. I believe it too. But you can’t get no wax in January. The mines are frozen shut. Canned stuff’s covered in oils.” Then the guns disappeared. Folks feel embarrassed. They feel shame. To have a gun sit useless on the table or out nailed to the door where people can see. They can see your helplessness. They know “That Man has failed in life...
Finishing up day three of this Plague of Frogs and I'm feeling, just, well, discouraged. The frogs themselves are only a slight inconvenience at worst. Hey, I mean, now nobody questions my desire to carry around a parasol everyday.
It's just…originally, I had supported a Plague of Gophers…but Obama couldn't get it through congress.
It's a failure of imagination. That's what it is.
Most of the city's annual recreation budget has already been exhausted on statues of donkeys and repairs of statues of donkeys. Come April we're going to float a bond proposal for money to fly in actual donkeys and have them photographed next to the statues. The pictures will eventually be donated to local children's charities.
The best selling poster of 2012 depicts an uninterrupted field of neutral gray.