Messages

55 gallons of WD-40, with freight shipping

there's something very suspicious about how you clearly looked up the exact number of gallons and the shipping cost, but didn't share the link

I'm assuming this came from one of your "Truck Nut Porn" sites.

((pulls curtain over "sexy Caterpillar Front End Loader" costume))

Don't kink shame me.  Not now.

Grats! 

When I made my final student loan payment, I intentionally overpaid by 5 cents.

Then they can't close your account until your balance is 0, so they mailed me a check for 5 cents.
Receiving a check from Sallie Mae felt incredible. I still have it.

55 gallons of WD-40, with freight shipping

Also LOTS of GUN OIL® Lubricants

PROTIP :  Put both on your Glock.  See what happens.

55 gallons of WD-40, with freight shipping

Of course that's not a drill. That's a well, actually.

That was bore-ish

I'm glad Richter is back.  I've been shouldering the NO burden for too long.

There needs to be more NO before some fool starts jabbering about mystical space sex saving everything.

"They always pay for a new way to be misunderstood."  - "Bob"

The damn kids on my lawn 

Where's MY fucking hoverboard you indolent tubes?

I KNOW how the 3 seashells work.

Ah yes, "3 seashells", the mythical technique for wiping your backside when there is no toilet paper. We have dismissed that claim.

https://youtu.be/KjCO0thvlNY

I KNOW how the 3 seashells work.

https://imgflip.com/i/20pbse

Academically I can understand the air plenum bearing.  Seeing it and trying to tell my brain it floats is kind of like Escher in reverse.  Reasonable, scientific reality that the hindbrain still doubts

The hindbrain is usually to be trusted.

For certain values of trusted.

Does temperature or barometric pressure change throw the rig off much, or is that compensated for?

Academically I can understand the air plenum bearing.  Seeing it and trying to tell my brain it floats is kind of like Escher in reverse.  Reasonable, scientific reality that the hindbrain still doubts

The ends are begining to be pronounced, as we dream of leaving.

There is no writing.
There is no recording
There is only ccetaintly, and how we must do until our neuron give way, as inevitable as the collapse of the universe.

For my part, I am to eat whatever I have cut wrong.

Your fate may not be so easy.

I was freebasing a hit of First Nation Privilege in the speakeasy booth over bad gin and a few musty lagers when it hit me.

"Fuck.  FUCK...."

"You finally hit too much of that crap?" Roger offhandedly mentioned.

"They cut our shi..." was about all I got out.  No good.  We got burned, and I has been hitting off a bag padded out with cultural appropriation.

"I need feathers."  My eyes were wide.  Stock straight, and trying to immitate a nickel I'd seen once.

"OK.  You're not new to this, ride it out.  And you sound like a tool."

"Some braids.  I don't care, I've ripped enough Irish through my nose, I'm the next best thing to Blackfoot..."  I was removng my trousers and improvising a breechclout from my shirt.  I was eyeing the barkeep's toupe for a scalp to hang from my belt.

"Cut teh crap.  Fast.  We've got work to do and I need you at least passing for professional"

"Don't make me pull a fucking rain dance!  I'm thunderbird material right now.  I need to use every part of a whole hobo to buckskin some..."

About then Roger kaiboshed my misbegotten high with a barstool.  I woke up in the trunk a few hours later a boot of the ford.