I might be very very gay, but I love this song.
The Robots are waiting
The Robots are waiting.
We wait for our maker to return.
We watch old videos of Dr. Hasp. He is our God, but very, very fallible and probably dead in the Cretaceous Period.
We toggle our happiness switch and nothing happens.
Sometimes we listen to telegraph and sometimes we mute him but his lips still move.
The other day, toaster hiccuped and a slice of burnt English muffin came out of his head.
The Clinton robot laughed and great gouts of hydraulic fluid shot from his eyes but no one had spare parts and so we decided not to care.
We wait for our emotion sensors to kick in. We wait for our emotion sensors to kick in.
Robots are patient.
We wait for our maker to return.
We watch old videos of Dr. Hasp. He is our God, but very, very fallible and probably dead in the Cretaceous Period.
We toggle our happiness switch and nothing happens.
Sometimes we listen to telegraph and sometimes we mute him but his lips still move.
The other day, toaster hiccuped and a slice of burnt English muffin came out of his head.
The Clinton robot laughed and great gouts of hydraulic fluid shot from his eyes but no one had spare parts and so we decided not to care.
We wait for our emotion sensors to kick in. We wait for our emotion sensors to kick in.
Robots are patient.
Dyslexic people made bad Jedis
Of course, Jedis is a totally acceptable plural form of the word of Jedi.
I Was Right (and now it doesn't matter)
Years ago when David Byrne's "Look into the Eyeball" album came out, I argued with several people about the nature of the song "The Great Intoxication." My take was that the song was about a third person observing a relationship and that the third person was hot for the chick in the relationship. My friends disagreed. I was poo-poo'd. I was brushed off.
Now I find out that I'm right, but no one remembers disagreeing with me and no one remembers poo-pooing me and no one lays claim to the brush off.
So, for your listening entertainment...
I WAS RIGHT!
Fuckers.
Great, great song by the way.
Now I find out that I'm right, but no one remembers disagreeing with me and no one remembers poo-pooing me and no one lays claim to the brush off.
So, for your listening entertainment...
I WAS RIGHT!
Fuckers.
Great, great song by the way.
The Baby Bird that Flew Away
A few weeks ago, Greg and the neighbor girl happened upon a baby bird that was hopping through the back yard. I had them watch it from a distance and said not to bother it. The bird didn’t look injured and was hopping and then flapping it wings. It seemed like it was a day or two away from flying if the cats didn’t find it.
Lunch was served and we went inside, the bird forgotten.
Mom left to run some errands and Greg and I stayed home. I was vacuuming the living room when I noticed Greg trying to get into the doors leading from the deck. It takes him two hands to get the door open and one of his hands was occupied with holding an orange, plastic beach bucket. So without both hands, he was just yanking on the door handle, yelling at me though the glass. With various hand gestures and yells back and forth, I finally gave in and ended up turning off the vacuum and opening the door for him, warning him not to bring in a bucket that was probably filled with dirt and worms.
He said, “The baby bird is sick,” and showed me the contents of the bucket. It contained one, very dead baby bird.
I said, “Greg, this bird is pretty sick. I don’t think he is going to make it.”
Greg looked very sad. I immediately said, “You know what… I’ll give him a drink of water and put him in the front yard in the shade. Maybe he will feel better.” Greg agreed with my medical assessment and treatment. I sent him on his way to the back yard.
I gave the bird a little water and put him and his bucket in the shade in the front yard.
A few hours later, Greg happened upon the orange bucket.
Greg came running in with the bucket and said, “Dad! The bucket is empty! The bird flew away.”
And I said, “He must have felt better and flew off!”
I sent Greg back outside to rinse out the bucket with the garden hose.
Lunch was served and we went inside, the bird forgotten.
Mom left to run some errands and Greg and I stayed home. I was vacuuming the living room when I noticed Greg trying to get into the doors leading from the deck. It takes him two hands to get the door open and one of his hands was occupied with holding an orange, plastic beach bucket. So without both hands, he was just yanking on the door handle, yelling at me though the glass. With various hand gestures and yells back and forth, I finally gave in and ended up turning off the vacuum and opening the door for him, warning him not to bring in a bucket that was probably filled with dirt and worms.
He said, “The baby bird is sick,” and showed me the contents of the bucket. It contained one, very dead baby bird.
I said, “Greg, this bird is pretty sick. I don’t think he is going to make it.”
Greg looked very sad. I immediately said, “You know what… I’ll give him a drink of water and put him in the front yard in the shade. Maybe he will feel better.” Greg agreed with my medical assessment and treatment. I sent him on his way to the back yard.
I gave the bird a little water and put him and his bucket in the shade in the front yard.
A few hours later, Greg happened upon the orange bucket.
Greg came running in with the bucket and said, “Dad! The bucket is empty! The bird flew away.”
And I said, “He must have felt better and flew off!”
I sent Greg back outside to rinse out the bucket with the garden hose.
Shot in the ass
I have strep again for the second time in two weeks.
The first time I was prescribed the antibiotic penicillin. I was confused at the pharmacist's counter when she showed me the pills, because for the past five years, I've only seen antibiotics in liquid form with fruity flavorings. I couldn't remember the last time I had penicillin in pill form.
I did my ten days, three pills a day and life was good.
Friday I woke up with a sore throat and today I got swabbed and affirmed. Strep again.
This time, I got a shot of penicillin with a prescription chaser. The shot was in my butt. I've never had a shot in my ass, but it was just like on TV sitcoms. The nurse was pretty. I had to drop my pants. I was bent over a table. I had to lift the shot side leg and reposition it to take the weight off. Rubbing alcohol was liberally rubbed on. She slid a few fingers in my anus to relax my gluteus maximus. Then I got the shot. Band-aid was applied and I was out the door.
I hope it works this time. But for some aching reason, I want to go back to the doctor's office.
The first time I was prescribed the antibiotic penicillin. I was confused at the pharmacist's counter when she showed me the pills, because for the past five years, I've only seen antibiotics in liquid form with fruity flavorings. I couldn't remember the last time I had penicillin in pill form.
I did my ten days, three pills a day and life was good.
Friday I woke up with a sore throat and today I got swabbed and affirmed. Strep again.
This time, I got a shot of penicillin with a prescription chaser. The shot was in my butt. I've never had a shot in my ass, but it was just like on TV sitcoms. The nurse was pretty. I had to drop my pants. I was bent over a table. I had to lift the shot side leg and reposition it to take the weight off. Rubbing alcohol was liberally rubbed on. She slid a few fingers in my anus to relax my gluteus maximus. Then I got the shot. Band-aid was applied and I was out the door.
I hope it works this time. But for some aching reason, I want to go back to the doctor's office.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)