I love horses, best of all the animals
Feb. 21st, 2005 12:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyranoMore scattered posting.
Looks like I'm going to Orlando for Spring Break. (:
Unfortunately, the airline ticket deal I was looking at expired while I was trying to decide if I could budget for it, so now I have to get to SFO at six-thirty on the seventeeth instead of SJC q: (well, and get home from SFO too). Anyway. 17 March to 21 March I will be 'on holiday'.
Passionfruit Altoids: I enjoyed the pun of the St. Valentine's Limited Release (at least I suspect it's limited) and the flavor is definitely tart, avoiding the Sour Apple debacle reviewed here earlier. The taste is a bit musky, and there's a hint of something in the aroma that reminds me of Indian cooking. I'm not sure what. I like them, but given the availability of lemon ginger and cinnamon, I probably won't buy a whole lot of them.
Still sore. Still coughing a little. No yogurt yet. But getting better. Easier to sleep at night. Or whenever I finally get to sleep. And I have actual plot for next week's gaming session! Yay leftovers!
Also, a dear friend of mine wrote something that at least made me feel a little better about Hunter Thompson's suicide last night.
Gonzo.
Hunter S. Thompson ate his gun yesterday.
I have a tremendous urge to leave work irresponsibly, travel by poorly-thought-out means to Aspen while drinking heavily and behaving notionally, and attend his funeral. I should probably try to speak at the service, and to score some drugs from the bereaved, and not leave until I have exhumed the body and viewed it, or offered solace to the surviving family and been arrested, or some such.
Whatever those pills were, they were starting to kick in hard, and were mixing badly with the rum. I could barely see through the seaweed-like heat wave tunnel, and the cemetery was rocking and shifting like a whirlpool in choppy seas. I knew I had to act fast, and decisively, or all was lost.
I wrestled with the priest, trying to gain control of the microphone. "No, really," I insisted, "he would have wanted this. He owed me money -- I was holding for him, and he left me dry. The microphone will help cover my bail." The priest was stonger than he looked, and the rum had been taking its toll on my deteriorating system. Feeling that an unexpected ploy might well deliver the day, I released my grip on the microphone and the clergy's shaking hands and instead wrested his bible from him, as well as his rosary, nearly emasculating him in the process.
My unexpected intimacy shocked him into immobility, and, grabbing the microphone, I leapt into the grave to stand on the casket. Waving the rosary triumphantly over my head, I said, "I just want everyone to know. Dr. Thompson was like a son to me. Or a father. He was important. And I know he would have wanted this - I am available, if his son can't step up to the plate, to console Sandra Dawn, the good doctor's ex. Juan should, by rights, do the honors, but he is well known to be squeamish, and his mom is starting to sag a bit around the edges, in any case. Who can blame him for not wanting to tip her?
"You all look like a healthy bunch; lend a hand pulling up the box, and I'll just take a kidney and go. Gonzo owed me money, and I know he wouldn't mind giving up an organ to see us even before he goes. While we've got him open, we can split his liver; there should be enough residual crap there to get us all fairly stoned, and we can sell dime bags to finance his memorial. Okay, now, pull!"
Perhaps not my best idea.
R. Scott Shanks Jr.
EDIT: Also, the lovely and talented Windrose has just refined my Simon icon for better viewing of teh pretty. Thank you lovely and talented Windrose! (Bok! Bok!)
Looks like I'm going to Orlando for Spring Break. (:
Unfortunately, the airline ticket deal I was looking at expired while I was trying to decide if I could budget for it, so now I have to get to SFO at six-thirty on the seventeeth instead of SJC q: (well, and get home from SFO too). Anyway. 17 March to 21 March I will be 'on holiday'.
Passionfruit Altoids: I enjoyed the pun of the St. Valentine's Limited Release (at least I suspect it's limited) and the flavor is definitely tart, avoiding the Sour Apple debacle reviewed here earlier. The taste is a bit musky, and there's a hint of something in the aroma that reminds me of Indian cooking. I'm not sure what. I like them, but given the availability of lemon ginger and cinnamon, I probably won't buy a whole lot of them.
Still sore. Still coughing a little. No yogurt yet. But getting better. Easier to sleep at night. Or whenever I finally get to sleep. And I have actual plot for next week's gaming session! Yay leftovers!
Also, a dear friend of mine wrote something that at least made me feel a little better about Hunter Thompson's suicide last night.
Gonzo.
Hunter S. Thompson ate his gun yesterday.
I have a tremendous urge to leave work irresponsibly, travel by poorly-thought-out means to Aspen while drinking heavily and behaving notionally, and attend his funeral. I should probably try to speak at the service, and to score some drugs from the bereaved, and not leave until I have exhumed the body and viewed it, or offered solace to the surviving family and been arrested, or some such.
Whatever those pills were, they were starting to kick in hard, and were mixing badly with the rum. I could barely see through the seaweed-like heat wave tunnel, and the cemetery was rocking and shifting like a whirlpool in choppy seas. I knew I had to act fast, and decisively, or all was lost.
I wrestled with the priest, trying to gain control of the microphone. "No, really," I insisted, "he would have wanted this. He owed me money -- I was holding for him, and he left me dry. The microphone will help cover my bail." The priest was stonger than he looked, and the rum had been taking its toll on my deteriorating system. Feeling that an unexpected ploy might well deliver the day, I released my grip on the microphone and the clergy's shaking hands and instead wrested his bible from him, as well as his rosary, nearly emasculating him in the process.
My unexpected intimacy shocked him into immobility, and, grabbing the microphone, I leapt into the grave to stand on the casket. Waving the rosary triumphantly over my head, I said, "I just want everyone to know. Dr. Thompson was like a son to me. Or a father. He was important. And I know he would have wanted this - I am available, if his son can't step up to the plate, to console Sandra Dawn, the good doctor's ex. Juan should, by rights, do the honors, but he is well known to be squeamish, and his mom is starting to sag a bit around the edges, in any case. Who can blame him for not wanting to tip her?
"You all look like a healthy bunch; lend a hand pulling up the box, and I'll just take a kidney and go. Gonzo owed me money, and I know he wouldn't mind giving up an organ to see us even before he goes. While we've got him open, we can split his liver; there should be enough residual crap there to get us all fairly stoned, and we can sell dime bags to finance his memorial. Okay, now, pull!"
Perhaps not my best idea.
R. Scott Shanks Jr.
EDIT: Also, the lovely and talented Windrose has just refined my Simon icon for better viewing of teh pretty. Thank you lovely and talented Windrose! (Bok! Bok!)