He’d been the first one off the tee this final day of the tournament. His caddy hadn’t shown, but ESPN
and their advertisers would wait no longer than ten minutes, leaving him to trundle his bag alone down the fairway in search of his ball. He squinted, one hand extending his sponsor-splattered visor into the morning sun to get a better view of the copse that seemed to have eaten his slice.
Of course, a hangover from the night before was not helping him concentrate, and he wished he could remember exactly what had led him to waking in his now-missing caddy’s hotel room. Hopefully the festivities that had given him this headache, and which had probably caused Bob’s no-show, had been worth his current predicament.
If his memory ever cleared, he may even find out where his nine iron had gone. Once he’d neared the trees, a gleam of white appeared in the undergrowth and he headed it for it, the hum in his skull eclipsing that of the Goodyear blimp above.
Wondering how Rule 13 would effect this next shot, he picked up his missing club from the grass, lined himself up, and swung. Crossing his fingers, he hoped that the cameras were not as confused as he’d been about which arc to follow: that of his ball, or Bob’s divot-severed finger. At least, he thought, I played it where it lay.
I need to close tabs. Let the internet littering commence!
When I die, put me in these ninja pajamas, shove me in the dirt sans mortuarily gussying me up, plant a tree, some mushrooms and a bit of weed on my grave and remember me fondly. “Decompiculture” might be my word of 2012, despite its late arrival in my personal records. Anyway, I figure we are bound to be recycled — why slow the process? Make me part of the *sings* “ciiiircle of liiiiiife” as soon as possible!
I have recently become enamored of mole crickets, the AV
nerds of the bug world:
Mole crickets amplify their song by chirping in a burrow that they’ve carefully sculpted into the shape of a double exponential horn, which acts as a megaphone.
I mean, how can you resist a cricket with undersized wings and diggety, mole-like front feet?
Even more irresistible is this 7up-endorsed kiddie cocktail. Never thought I could be more grossed out than I am by mixing ice cream and soda, but this may do it. (I know, floats are fantastic, or so my brothers and sisters would tell me, but I have never liked them, root beer or otherwise. Some childhood hates have gone by the wayside, dimming to ambivilences if not mild likes, but floats, yams, sweet potatoes, chestnuts and pumpkin in any configuration (yes, including pie) are still on the no-thank-you list.
Finally, this reminded me of Team SJ/Laurie. I am thinking, tho, how much more cheerful it would be if there were small people ropes-coursing throughout the thing… Or ski lifts!
I love Reddit. I kill more time there than anywhere else. In its defense, I am at least able to choose the type of thing I read about more easily there, and there is no culture of taking what one has read and regurgitating it (see previous rant about Facebook). Anyway…
Today I saw a photo of two boys who were, immediately after the photo was taken, struck by lightning. It was a sad occurrence. Still, I couldn’t help being fascinated by the comments! Did you know that crouching down, head on knees, is the best position to protect against harm from lightning when shelter is not available? Did you also know that hair standing on end is a very good indicator that you should find shelter or crouch?
Even more amazing, however, are the Lichtenberg figures burnt into lightning strike survivors. They are fractal scars, maths problems that storms figure out on your skin, reflections left on people when lightning uses their skin as a mirror.
This is what your skin looks like after you’ve been struck by lightning
Lichtenberg Figures — Lightning Strike Patterns / Source: Oxford Textbook of Medicine Online.
Old black and white Lichtenberg
Meet Winston Kemp, Lightning Strike Survivor and Lichtenberg Figure Owner | Gear Diary
…we kindly go to it. The daughter and I are headed to L.A. today to visit the Museum of Death. It used to live in San Diego, but has since moved about a bit, and has found (hopefully) a final resting place. I wanted to close a few tabs before we leave.
However, there were several differences between the original game concept and that initially published in 1949, In particular, Pratt’s original design calls for ten characters, one of whom was to be designated the victim by random drawing prior to the start of the game. These ten included the eliminated Mr. Brown, Mr. Gold, Miss Grey, and Mrs. Silver, with Nurse White, and Colonel Yellow. The game allowed for play of up to eight remaining characters, providing for nine suspects in total. Originally there were eleven rooms, including the eliminated “gun room” and cellar. In addition there were nine weapons including the unused axe, bomb, syringe, poison, shillelagh (walking stick/cudgel), and fireplace poker. Some of these unused weapons and characters would appear in later spinoff versions of the game.
I like the old weapons better! It would be interesting to find out exactly when and why each was replaced…
I agree with Atwood here. I think that, much in the way any diet that requires you to pay attention to what you eat, any writing form that requires you to consider the words you use will make you a better writer.
An interesting article about the brain and the universe which no doubt has every stoner in the world feeling vindicated for every time they mused aloud about the possibility that we are atoms…
Christmas is coming, and this atheist, should she have been good enough, would love to be brought, by whatever imaginary being is feeling kind, this monocle necklace, these tabi, these sticks or a story arc that would bring together romantisexually either Reid and Morgan or Sherlock and Watson.
This new Banksy piece pleases me greatly.
Further proof, kids, that none of the nasty you think you’ve invented is new at all.
Oh, and I graduate this May. Now, off to death with me.