Someone I have never heard of used one of my Damn You Banana cartoons in their blog!
http://seaspray-itsawonderfullife.blogspot.com/2007/09/banana-dayand-more.html
See? Sure, it was over a year ago, but- doing some boredom-induced browsing- I found it! This is very exciting for me, and a damn fine ego boost on a day when I could surely use it.
So don't bring me down, OK?
On a cloud,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
A quick joke
Q.) As a full-grown man, what is the worst thing about rollerblading?
A.) Telling your parents that you are gay.
A.) Telling your parents that you are gay.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Fun Fact #1
(Note: I will also use this blog to occassionaly share with you bits of fun facts and little-known information. Here is the first one.)
Huey, Dewey, and Louie- Donald Duck's nephews- have a fourth brother. His name is "Phooey Duck." He was drawn on accident in a comic book, kept around for a bit, then never heard from again. Like their parents.
Quack,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Should I be afraid?
My current boss is Russian. His boss is also Russian. The owner of the business is Russian. Most of my co-workers are Russian. When the door-bell rings, they all seem to hide while I open the door. When the phone rings they check Caller ID, and will not answer if it says, "No ID."
And their computer password for everything is "Torpedo." or "Missle." or "Overthrow."
Should I be afraid?
U-S-A,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
And their computer password for everything is "Torpedo." or "Missle." or "Overthrow."
Should I be afraid?
U-S-A,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
I'm voting for...
We're less than a week away from the presidential elections. I have a decision to make. I've decided what will make me choose one or another. Here it is. I'm going to make it real simple...
Whichever candidate institutes a plan to allow/arm/and encourage the American people to rise as one against the CEOs of any major corporation (who give themselves bonuses of immense wealth while the rest of the company hemorrhages money at unfathomable rates) which in turn causes the US government to take money- money they've already taken from you and me with promises of better schools, safer roads, and kicker-asser baseball stadiums- and give it to these companies to "bail them out," only for them to turn around and use a sizable chunk of said money to take their top-earners to an all-inclusive resort to gorge on fruity drinks and roasted pig on a spit while the rest of us are apparently just suppose to shrug our shoulders in a comedic style as if to say "Oh that CEO, what crazy scheme will he try and get away with next?" and then immediately try and scrape together $300 for new brake pads while all the while these CEOs talk about how $300 million seems like a lot, but when you factor in paying house staff wages and sexual harassment hush funds and weekly golf trips to the moon . . .
OK, I've failed in keeping it simple. Let's go with the direct approach.
These aforementioned "CEOs" need to be stopped. So whichever candidate promises to lead the United States populace as one united front to slay these CEOs has my vote. Whether it is Obama giving us all torches, maces, and 2x4s with nails driven into the end; or McCain outfitting us with battle fatigues, grenades, and machetes: whichever one leads us directly to the doorsteps of these greedy, selfish, ignorant bastards and promises to pay off the mortgage of the man who brings back the bloody head of a CEO, has my vote. Hell, I'll steal some absentee ballots and vote for him with those, too.
So there is my vote. And there is my plan to "bail-out" not just these business who are being run by men suffering from delusions of grandeur, but everyone in the United States. The government should pay off all the bills and all the debt of anyone who can get rid of these CEOs in a swift, covert way. It doesn't have to be murder; it could just be kidnapping. Or a beating. Or exportation via a large catapult located strategically close to the US/Mexico border. Something.
Anything.
Dammit.
Vote or Die,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Whichever candidate institutes a plan to allow/arm/and encourage the American people to rise as one against the CEOs of any major corporation (who give themselves bonuses of immense wealth while the rest of the company hemorrhages money at unfathomable rates) which in turn causes the US government to take money- money they've already taken from you and me with promises of better schools, safer roads, and kicker-asser baseball stadiums- and give it to these companies to "bail them out," only for them to turn around and use a sizable chunk of said money to take their top-earners to an all-inclusive resort to gorge on fruity drinks and roasted pig on a spit while the rest of us are apparently just suppose to shrug our shoulders in a comedic style as if to say "Oh that CEO, what crazy scheme will he try and get away with next?" and then immediately try and scrape together $300 for new brake pads while all the while these CEOs talk about how $300 million seems like a lot, but when you factor in paying house staff wages and sexual harassment hush funds and weekly golf trips to the moon . . .
OK, I've failed in keeping it simple. Let's go with the direct approach.
These aforementioned "CEOs" need to be stopped. So whichever candidate promises to lead the United States populace as one united front to slay these CEOs has my vote. Whether it is Obama giving us all torches, maces, and 2x4s with nails driven into the end; or McCain outfitting us with battle fatigues, grenades, and machetes: whichever one leads us directly to the doorsteps of these greedy, selfish, ignorant bastards and promises to pay off the mortgage of the man who brings back the bloody head of a CEO, has my vote. Hell, I'll steal some absentee ballots and vote for him with those, too.
So there is my vote. And there is my plan to "bail-out" not just these business who are being run by men suffering from delusions of grandeur, but everyone in the United States. The government should pay off all the bills and all the debt of anyone who can get rid of these CEOs in a swift, covert way. It doesn't have to be murder; it could just be kidnapping. Or a beating. Or exportation via a large catapult located strategically close to the US/Mexico border. Something.
Anything.
Dammit.
Vote or Die,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Whose Got My Vote?
I can't vote for Barack Obama. The reason is because of my dog, Penny. She's a pug. She is quite adorable, sometimes overly affectionate, and incredibly friendly. Especially to new people. If an unfamiliar person stops by for a visit, Penny will not leave them alone until she has received a minimum of 10 minutes of uninterrupted love and affection from them.
Unfortunately, Penny is a racist. But not in the way you might think. For you see, Penny hates African-Americans, but only when they are on the television.
Penny has been around black people before. Young and old, men and women, cute and ugly; and she has no problem. In fact, I would go so far as to call her "color-blind" when it comes to people in flesh and bone in front of her.
But once an African-American comes on the television, she goes nuts. So, during the presidential debate last night, we got to hear- quite pleasantly, in fact- all of John McCain's promises, speeches, and attacks nice and clear. Some made sense. Some reminded me why I wanted him to be the candidate instead of "W" over eight years ago. Still, I would have liked to hear what his opponent for the evening had to say.
Unfortunately, I couldn't hear it over my dog's hate-filled barks and nips. It was uncomfortable, to say the least; to see a dog you raised- and tried to raise right- from a mere puppy behaving in such a disgusting manner was just heart-breaking. And kind of funny. Until my wife said, "Looks like we might be in for another four years of this."
No way.
So unfortunately, I cannot vote for Barack Obama. Because of my dog. The racist pug.
But that doesn't mean I'm voting for McCain either. Who am I voting for? I'll explain it all next blog.
That's called a teaser,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Unfortunately, Penny is a racist. But not in the way you might think. For you see, Penny hates African-Americans, but only when they are on the television.
Penny has been around black people before. Young and old, men and women, cute and ugly; and she has no problem. In fact, I would go so far as to call her "color-blind" when it comes to people in flesh and bone in front of her.
But once an African-American comes on the television, she goes nuts. So, during the presidential debate last night, we got to hear- quite pleasantly, in fact- all of John McCain's promises, speeches, and attacks nice and clear. Some made sense. Some reminded me why I wanted him to be the candidate instead of "W" over eight years ago. Still, I would have liked to hear what his opponent for the evening had to say.
Unfortunately, I couldn't hear it over my dog's hate-filled barks and nips. It was uncomfortable, to say the least; to see a dog you raised- and tried to raise right- from a mere puppy behaving in such a disgusting manner was just heart-breaking. And kind of funny. Until my wife said, "Looks like we might be in for another four years of this."
No way.
So unfortunately, I cannot vote for Barack Obama. Because of my dog. The racist pug.
But that doesn't mean I'm voting for McCain either. Who am I voting for? I'll explain it all next blog.
That's called a teaser,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Friday, October 3, 2008
I want to be a supervisor
So I work in a brand-new office building. It is not state-of-the-art or anything, and there isn't an awesome fountain in the middle or security you have to show a badge to for entrance, but it's new. And it is an office building. And they are still constructing it. That's how new it is.
As I got the muse to write this blog, two friendly, talkative contractor-chums were placing glass in the door and window frames of the individual offices/cubes. They are about as stereotypical you can get when it comes to Midwestern contractors: dirty clothes; dirty facial hair; and dirty vocabularies. In a nutshell, I feel home at last.
And- as far as I can tell- they are doing a bang-up job. There are five offices to get to up here, and- as of when I decided to write this- they had finished three. Because I am the only one up here today, they were kind enough to not do mine until the very end, so I could get some important work done in the process. Right as they started mine- a process they said would only take 15 minutes tops- a third man showed up.
Their supervisor.
What a bastard.
According to the supervisor, everything that was done was incorrect. The type of glue and tape used to hold the windows in place. The amount of dirt and fingerprints on the glass. The process in which glass is mass-produced in the United States. The pronuniciation of the word "glass." The entire concept of opaque surfaces. Wrong. All wrong.
The best argument came in regards to a process the supervisor wanted to streamline to knock about 12 seconds off of each door. (Remember, there are now only two doors left. The amount of time saved? Less than your standard Kit Kat commercial on TV. Give me a break!) The supervisor suggested they could save time (ie. 12 sec.) putting the glass on the door WITHOUT removing the door handle first. Hank, the lovable, 50-something contractor who has been working on the project for most of the last six weeks, explained that they had narrowly averted catastrophe on the first door earlier in the work day when the glass nearly hit the door handle, which would have shattered the pane and just been a big ol' mess.
Hank was wrong. Stupid Hank.
Time was more important then the possibility of shattering a 3 foot by 6 foot pane of glass. I mean, sure it would be a huge mess, would push the project back at minimum one whole day because of cleaning and procurement of another pane of glass that big, and- hell- could even be life-threatening if a shard of glass managed to sever an artery. But still: why be done in three hours when you could be done in two hours, 59 minutes, and 48 seconds?
This time the supervisor was wrong. And how ironic, he was proven wrong while he attempted to prove ol' Hank wrong.
Up went the pane of glass in the supervisor's hand, down it went across the door handle, and everywhere went the glass, in pieces ranging in size from a penny to a million times smaller than a penny.
So the supervisor was wrong, and Hank won, right? Nope. Hank was put in charge of cleaning the shards, locating another pane of glass, picking it up, and finishing the job, all in the next three hours. (Sorry; two hours 59 minutes and now 40 seconds.) And the supervisor left. For the day. For the weekend. Also, I have to go potty, but because of the amount of broken glass on the floor in front of the door, I am stuck. I'm thinking of emptying out my empty Mountain Dew bottle and "refilling" it.
God, I wish I was a supervisor.
Always watching,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
As I got the muse to write this blog, two friendly, talkative contractor-chums were placing glass in the door and window frames of the individual offices/cubes. They are about as stereotypical you can get when it comes to Midwestern contractors: dirty clothes; dirty facial hair; and dirty vocabularies. In a nutshell, I feel home at last.
And- as far as I can tell- they are doing a bang-up job. There are five offices to get to up here, and- as of when I decided to write this- they had finished three. Because I am the only one up here today, they were kind enough to not do mine until the very end, so I could get some important work done in the process. Right as they started mine- a process they said would only take 15 minutes tops- a third man showed up.
Their supervisor.
What a bastard.
According to the supervisor, everything that was done was incorrect. The type of glue and tape used to hold the windows in place. The amount of dirt and fingerprints on the glass. The process in which glass is mass-produced in the United States. The pronuniciation of the word "glass." The entire concept of opaque surfaces. Wrong. All wrong.
The best argument came in regards to a process the supervisor wanted to streamline to knock about 12 seconds off of each door. (Remember, there are now only two doors left. The amount of time saved? Less than your standard Kit Kat commercial on TV. Give me a break!) The supervisor suggested they could save time (ie. 12 sec.) putting the glass on the door WITHOUT removing the door handle first. Hank, the lovable, 50-something contractor who has been working on the project for most of the last six weeks, explained that they had narrowly averted catastrophe on the first door earlier in the work day when the glass nearly hit the door handle, which would have shattered the pane and just been a big ol' mess.
Hank was wrong. Stupid Hank.
Time was more important then the possibility of shattering a 3 foot by 6 foot pane of glass. I mean, sure it would be a huge mess, would push the project back at minimum one whole day because of cleaning and procurement of another pane of glass that big, and- hell- could even be life-threatening if a shard of glass managed to sever an artery. But still: why be done in three hours when you could be done in two hours, 59 minutes, and 48 seconds?
This time the supervisor was wrong. And how ironic, he was proven wrong while he attempted to prove ol' Hank wrong.
Up went the pane of glass in the supervisor's hand, down it went across the door handle, and everywhere went the glass, in pieces ranging in size from a penny to a million times smaller than a penny.
So the supervisor was wrong, and Hank won, right? Nope. Hank was put in charge of cleaning the shards, locating another pane of glass, picking it up, and finishing the job, all in the next three hours. (Sorry; two hours 59 minutes and now 40 seconds.) And the supervisor left. For the day. For the weekend. Also, I have to go potty, but because of the amount of broken glass on the floor in front of the door, I am stuck. I'm thinking of emptying out my empty Mountain Dew bottle and "refilling" it.
God, I wish I was a supervisor.
Always watching,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
It's Been Nearly a Week
And that is too damn long to go without a blog. Unfortunately, I have nothing to blog about at this moment. So, instead, I will share the story of my first beer.
When I was 12, my father called me into his room for a "chat." These "chats" were few and far between, so I was not sure what this one would entail. So I entered the room- quite cautious of what he may have discovered I did, or was about to do- when I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, a beer in each hand. He handed me one, told me to drink, and proceeded to give me "the talk." Yes, "that" "talk." And so I listened. I already had a pretty good idea about "it" based on school education and that channel on cable my mom didn't discover until I was 14, but I decided to humor him. And beside, I got beer. I must admit, initially I was more focused on the beer than on his ramblings, until it came to the end. My father always had a great way of summarizing his point, and I learned through the years that- should my mind wander during a "chat" I could always get the gist of it from the summary that followed.
"Son," my father said, as I managed to finish my first of many Pabst Blue Ribbons, "You're going to meet a lot of special people in your life. And some will love you, and some will say they love you, and not really mean it. The point is, I don't want you to lose your virginity to someone who doesn't love you.
"Now come here."
Has it sunk in yet? That was a joke. (In fact, once it got me into the regional semi-finals of a Bud Light joke contest on their website. I don't think the clip is available online anymore.) That scenario never happened. I enjoy telling that story because the story of my first beer- and my dad's sex talk- are fairly mundane. In fact, I'll quote you my dad's sex talk real quick, and then tell you the real story of my first beer.
Here is his entire sex talk: "If you ever decide you need them, I have condoms in my sock drawer you can use."
Awe inspiring, yeah? Now, the story of my first beer, which does involve my dad, just not like the joke sex story above.
At some point in my adolescent years- probably around year 13 or so- my father made a simple request: he asked that when I have my first beer, that it be with him. I agreed. We bonded. Many years went by.
Then I went to college.
But no, unlike most college students away from home for the first time, I did not waiver from my covenant with my father. I may have imbibed other various alcohols and food-like-stuffs for the amusement of my dorm-mates, but not once did that sweet combination of barley, hops, and yeast touch my lips. No, I had made a promise: and I intended to deliver. And deliver I did.
A couple of months past my 21st birthday, I cam home for a weekend visit to see my aunt off as she moved out of state. At her going-away party- which, unsurprisingly to anyone with any knowledge of my family, was held at a bar- my father asked if he could buy me anything. I don't think he remembered the pledge I gave him nearly eight years prior at this point, but I sure remembered.
"Sure, Dad," I said, ready for the manly hug that was sure to come my way. "I'll take a beer."
"Ok," my dad nonchalantly replied. "What's your brand?"
Surely he knew I had no brand. After all, I had promised him no beer until I could have one with him. So I told him that.
"I don't know. I've never had a beer."
"You're kidding!" my father yelled. I couldn't tell if the look he gave me was one of disappointment, or one of confusion, or one of disbelief. After all, I am a Woolhouse: most of us are born into AA. I have cousins who were given "12 Month Sober" chips on their third month birthdays. So I reminded him of our pact.
"You asked if I would wait to have my first beer with you, so I did."
"Oh, thanks." Then he turned and got a Miller Light from the bartender.
And that was it. All that build up, all that turning away offers of "brewskies" in college, all that forcing myself to drink hard liquor because I wanted to keep a promise I made to my father years before, and he barely remembered it. I downed that mother quick, and then another, and then another. I had lost time to make up for.
And that is the story of my first beer.
Also, it is the story of my last promise kept.
You hear that, wife?
Love you tender,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
When I was 12, my father called me into his room for a "chat." These "chats" were few and far between, so I was not sure what this one would entail. So I entered the room- quite cautious of what he may have discovered I did, or was about to do- when I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, a beer in each hand. He handed me one, told me to drink, and proceeded to give me "the talk." Yes, "that" "talk." And so I listened. I already had a pretty good idea about "it" based on school education and that channel on cable my mom didn't discover until I was 14, but I decided to humor him. And beside, I got beer. I must admit, initially I was more focused on the beer than on his ramblings, until it came to the end. My father always had a great way of summarizing his point, and I learned through the years that- should my mind wander during a "chat" I could always get the gist of it from the summary that followed.
"Son," my father said, as I managed to finish my first of many Pabst Blue Ribbons, "You're going to meet a lot of special people in your life. And some will love you, and some will say they love you, and not really mean it. The point is, I don't want you to lose your virginity to someone who doesn't love you.
"Now come here."
Has it sunk in yet? That was a joke. (In fact, once it got me into the regional semi-finals of a Bud Light joke contest on their website. I don't think the clip is available online anymore.) That scenario never happened. I enjoy telling that story because the story of my first beer- and my dad's sex talk- are fairly mundane. In fact, I'll quote you my dad's sex talk real quick, and then tell you the real story of my first beer.
Here is his entire sex talk: "If you ever decide you need them, I have condoms in my sock drawer you can use."
Awe inspiring, yeah? Now, the story of my first beer, which does involve my dad, just not like the joke sex story above.
At some point in my adolescent years- probably around year 13 or so- my father made a simple request: he asked that when I have my first beer, that it be with him. I agreed. We bonded. Many years went by.
Then I went to college.
But no, unlike most college students away from home for the first time, I did not waiver from my covenant with my father. I may have imbibed other various alcohols and food-like-stuffs for the amusement of my dorm-mates, but not once did that sweet combination of barley, hops, and yeast touch my lips. No, I had made a promise: and I intended to deliver. And deliver I did.
A couple of months past my 21st birthday, I cam home for a weekend visit to see my aunt off as she moved out of state. At her going-away party- which, unsurprisingly to anyone with any knowledge of my family, was held at a bar- my father asked if he could buy me anything. I don't think he remembered the pledge I gave him nearly eight years prior at this point, but I sure remembered.
"Sure, Dad," I said, ready for the manly hug that was sure to come my way. "I'll take a beer."
"Ok," my dad nonchalantly replied. "What's your brand?"
Surely he knew I had no brand. After all, I had promised him no beer until I could have one with him. So I told him that.
"I don't know. I've never had a beer."
"You're kidding!" my father yelled. I couldn't tell if the look he gave me was one of disappointment, or one of confusion, or one of disbelief. After all, I am a Woolhouse: most of us are born into AA. I have cousins who were given "12 Month Sober" chips on their third month birthdays. So I reminded him of our pact.
"You asked if I would wait to have my first beer with you, so I did."
"Oh, thanks." Then he turned and got a Miller Light from the bartender.
And that was it. All that build up, all that turning away offers of "brewskies" in college, all that forcing myself to drink hard liquor because I wanted to keep a promise I made to my father years before, and he barely remembered it. I downed that mother quick, and then another, and then another. I had lost time to make up for.
And that is the story of my first beer.
Also, it is the story of my last promise kept.
You hear that, wife?
Love you tender,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Rain is Here
The weatherman- sorry, "person"- said during this morning's newscast that we were in for a chance of rain. He/she/it was correct; it is pouring out. Have you ever heard the sound of rain on a skylight? Let me rephrase: have you ever heard the sound of rain on a skylight directly behind you while you are at work, so that it constantly sounds like someone is coming up behind you while you type away at either a blog, Facebook, or an eBay purchase, and you nearly snap your own neck turning around quickly while- at the same time- blindly moving the cursor to another window, so your boss doesn't see you bidding on an adult-male-sized Tinkerbell costume (slightly used) only to have no one there but the pitter patter of raindrops?
Because that has been my day.
In a slightly unrelated topic of discussion, that above intro paragraph reminds me of one of the most under-appreciated yet most-loved (by me and me alone) tools of writing today: the run-on sentence. When used properly, it is a thing of absolute beauty. All at once sharing the writer's uncontrollable need to spit out every thought and every instinct one after another, faster and faster, with little to no regard of how the "." key feels on the keyboard. It reeks of a maturity far beyond its years; a maturity that is both childishy-playful and borderline learning-disability in adults-ish at the same time. It has the power to make adults weep, and cause migraines in small children. Run-on sentences are awesome.
In short, I love run-on sentences. I love them so much I am going to give them a more proper name: Sixes. That is in honor of Blossom's best friend on that TV show "Blossom", who would talk so fast and with such disregard for even the most simple and antique of punctuation marks- I have to admit- she would turn me on. Just a little. Think young sapling on a windy day. That's how it looked.
I use that comparison because the heavy rain has now turned onto full-on thunderstorm. That does not turn me on. It frightens me. Just a little. So I am going to finish this up, so that I can hide under my desk for the remaining 45 minutes of the day.
Hold me,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Because that has been my day.
In a slightly unrelated topic of discussion, that above intro paragraph reminds me of one of the most under-appreciated yet most-loved (by me and me alone) tools of writing today: the run-on sentence. When used properly, it is a thing of absolute beauty. All at once sharing the writer's uncontrollable need to spit out every thought and every instinct one after another, faster and faster, with little to no regard of how the "." key feels on the keyboard. It reeks of a maturity far beyond its years; a maturity that is both childishy-playful and borderline learning-disability in adults-ish at the same time. It has the power to make adults weep, and cause migraines in small children. Run-on sentences are awesome.
In short, I love run-on sentences. I love them so much I am going to give them a more proper name: Sixes. That is in honor of Blossom's best friend on that TV show "Blossom", who would talk so fast and with such disregard for even the most simple and antique of punctuation marks- I have to admit- she would turn me on. Just a little. Think young sapling on a windy day. That's how it looked.
I use that comparison because the heavy rain has now turned onto full-on thunderstorm. That does not turn me on. It frightens me. Just a little. So I am going to finish this up, so that I can hide under my desk for the remaining 45 minutes of the day.
Hold me,
Adam "The 'House" Woolhouse
Monday, September 22, 2008
Initial Contact
Word.
This is my first blog at this blog site. Remember this day. Forget it tomorrow. Contact a therapist several years down the road to uncover some deep-seeded molestation memories of your uncle. Remember this day again. Ignore the molestation. And enjoy my blog.
There, it is as easy as that.
Once I get settled in, I'll do a couple of things with this blog. Things like: blog; share the latest Damn You Banana cartoons; show you interesting thing(s) I've discovered on the Internets; share recipes; type an andecdote I was sure was funny, but upon retrospect might not be; challenge celebrities to 1920s-style bare-knuckled fights; and such and such.
Also, no one knows about this blog. I mean, why should they? I don't advertise; I don't talk to people outside my set circle of friends; and people initially don't like me. But if you enjoy this, share it. If you hate it, share it. If you need practice sharing to pass preschool, share it.
That's all. My wrist is kind of sore from typing. Think I'll go now.
Hugs and Kisses,
Adam "The House" Woolhouse
This is my first blog at this blog site. Remember this day. Forget it tomorrow. Contact a therapist several years down the road to uncover some deep-seeded molestation memories of your uncle. Remember this day again. Ignore the molestation. And enjoy my blog.
There, it is as easy as that.
Once I get settled in, I'll do a couple of things with this blog. Things like: blog; share the latest Damn You Banana cartoons; show you interesting thing(s) I've discovered on the Internets; share recipes; type an andecdote I was sure was funny, but upon retrospect might not be; challenge celebrities to 1920s-style bare-knuckled fights; and such and such.
Also, no one knows about this blog. I mean, why should they? I don't advertise; I don't talk to people outside my set circle of friends; and people initially don't like me. But if you enjoy this, share it. If you hate it, share it. If you need practice sharing to pass preschool, share it.
That's all. My wrist is kind of sore from typing. Think I'll go now.
Hugs and Kisses,
Adam "The House" Woolhouse
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