What the HELL is WRONG with you: The Gas Installment
What is wrong with the owner of this Garden City, MI Marathon Station?
The station owner says he hasn't had gas in three weeks, so why does he have the sign up? NBC Detroit reporter Paula Tutman was tossed out on her happy ass before finding out.
Actual prices aren't this high yet, but this may be a sign we'll be getting used to soon.
Scoop That Poop
While I don’t expect a vet’s office to be absolutely perfect, I sorta do expect not to see gobs of shit in the parking lot. That’s what I saw when we took the Beaglet in for her paw yesterday. No sooner did I step out of the car after Honey got the Beaglet off my lap (thirty-three POUNDS of Beaglet–no wonder I felt like someone beat me up) than I saw them. Three moderately-sized logs.
Nice. Who in hell doesn’t clean up after their dogs? The one time one of my dogs crapped at the vet (right on the welcome mat, no less!) I was mortified and got right on removing the offal! What is wrong with folks? It would have taken only a moment to just grab something paper and flip it out into the grass.
While we were waiting for Dani to have her dewclaw removed, Honey and I decided to take turns catching a smoke. I went first, and sat in the car to make using the ashtray handy. I stepped carefully around the small pile by the car door, making note to miss it on the way out.
Ten minutes later, I got out of the car, took a couple steps, and WHAM! Sliiiiiiiiiiiiide on what I thought was bare asphalt. It’s times like these having little feeling in my left foot works against me–I didn’t hit the pavement, but the wrench from my foot moving out from under me in an unplanned event didn’t do my already-aching back any good.
I spent the rest of the trip back to the exam room dragging my foot in an effort to remove the poo. Fortunately, by the time I got back, the Beaglet was almost ready to go, complete with Victrola horn over her little monkey head.
Honey didn’t say a word, fortunately. He’s such a smart man–he had to have known who stomped right into that doggielog but said absolutely nothing.
Nice man. Nice man.
Less Fun
Well, we're back from the vet's, with one freaked-out beagle, complete with e-collar (e for extended–if you think that means the little cone jobbie, you're right) and antibiotics. It seems the dewclaw she'd broken off had grown back in a circle and attempted to go back in the space it came out of. That combined with incessant licking produced a gross little abscess. Fortunately we caught the abscess early, so once the dewclaw was taken out and flushed, we have her home until her recheck in three days.
Meanwhile, we get to see how she takes pills, twice a day, with a peroxide rinse daily. I took pics but my camera is acting schitzophrenically, so I'll post a pic when it behaves again.
No, not of the abscess, just the wacko-looking cone on her dippy little head.
Gee, you're twisted.
UPDATE: The cheese trick both ESC and Celti were kind enough to leave in the Comments section of this post worked like a charm! I wadded the pill up in half a piece of plastic cheese and held it out to her. She sniffed, then chowed! So the beaglet will get her pills no problem. That's good because Honey didn't want to blow in her little nose because her sense of smell is so sensitive.
UPDATE: She's having trouble eating and drinking because of the cone on her head, so we're hand-feeding and giving her water in a cup she can stick her snoot in. She's doing well and I'll get a better look at her paw when I clean it this morning.
Fer Crying Out Loud
It's Tuesday, and the day's off to an annoying start:
- The daily bitching has already gone into full gear. It seems that the well's water tank needs more air and the one person who's ever put air in a well water tank will not even look at it. Instead he's upstairs doing whatever his strange ass does, while Honey is down attempting to mess with it while H'sMa rags and nags from up here.
- I thought I heard a jet landing behind the house. It turns out that it's only the biggest riding lawnmower I've ever seen, driven by one of the drunks next door. It's big enough to chew up both of their kick-me dogs (the little shit factories that think their own lawn is too good to poo on) so there's always hope for the hopelessly lawn-addicted.
- I'm pretty much fenced into the computer area thanks to Honey leaving things I can't move on my own behind my chair while he tinkers with the above well. I don't dare try to move the chair because sure as shit someone will bitch about it.
- The beagle goes to the vet's today–she broke off a dewclaw back in June and it's curling and growing into the pad of her paw. Yay, since she hates car rides with a passion and will pee all over me during the fun trip there and back. Yippee.
- I'd dearly love to get some food, but since the dishwasher isn't a built-in model and it's running, I can't reach anything but coffee, which I've had my limit of already.
And it's just barely noon…
The “What the HELL were you Thinking?” Department, installment 1
In the interests of learning from my mistakes, I'm going to be editing old posts here and there, with this being the first. Those of you who ship things for a living can also please make notes on how NOT to ship shit.
From December 2004
Un-fucking-believable!
The winner for the Worst Packing Job this holiday Season Award is in my hands, right now. And it couldn't have happened to a worse package.
I'm a soapmaker. Also an incense maker, occasionally a candlemaker, and generally if it reeketh, I maketh. Since I can't get reasonably priced fragrances and essential oils (the tools of my addiction–I mean hobby) locally without promising my firstborn (whom I'm very fond of), I mail, eBay and otherwise cause to have sent to me these fine drugs–I mean scents. Most of my suppliers pack very, very well. But today's proud winner does not have the sense Dog gave an ant.
I just opened a Priority Mail Flat Rate envelope that has so much Mulberry fragrance oil (FO) leaking from it that the entire house reeks, as does yarn I have ordered, the rest of the mail, the mailbox, my comforter, my hands, and now my poor Beagle, who just begged for petting from Mama and I couldn't say no to those limpid brown eyes.
There was a 1/8" bubble wrap envelope expected to hold 18 oz of FO–three plastic bottles not-sealed with packing tape (SOP whenever liquid is shipped), and the envelope itself. WHO on God's green earth expects such flimsy packing material not only to absorb the FO in case of failure of seal or in the event of squeezing by machine? I have to add that the USPS also requires absorbent packing, which wasn't present.
Maybe it's just me, but I assume a gorilla wearing a red, white and blue nametag reading "Masher" is gonna single out my little package and jump his silly ass all over it, and I pack for same–heavy tape on all liquids, absorbent packing, bubble wrap and peanuts (ask Jav–he buys my goodies). And liquid NEVER goes in those niftoid Flat Rate envelopes, no matter how much the person getting the stuff wants it to, since the USPS employs mail-sorting machinery with "Masher" in the manufacturer's title. I'm certain of it now, since it do look like something mashed this envelope I'm telling John, my faithful fiance, to remove from the house NOW NOW NOW.
~Sighs~ Argh.
I can offer you a great deal on Mulberry FO right now–but no Flat Rate Envelope ship please.
***In fairness, I have to say that the supplier did re-send the shipment, in a real live box, with craploads of padding, about two weeks after the original shipment came in. While it was far too late to do anything with it then, I did appreciate his making amends.
Snickering Like A Crazy Bitch
…because I just did a suprise for someone!
No bitching about it either, when you get it!
Sunday Funnies
And now for something completely different:
From Fark
John Cleese sells pieces of his colon
John Cleese wants to share himself with his fans.
He means that literally.
The Monty Python alum is having surgery to cure diverticulitis – a procedure that will excise portions of his colon. But instead of consigning the tissue to the medical-waste incinerators, Cleese plans to offer the spare parts to high bidders on his Web site, TV Guide Online reports.
The proceeds, he adds, “will be divided between (myself) and the very nice surgeon.”
Special note to BeoJavBoBeoBoBeoJav: I don’ wan’ none for my birfday! Could I please have some Crunchy Frog ice cream instead?
Thank You!
One great big, heartfelt, soon-to-be-caffienated THANK YOU to Seamus! This wonderful guy sent me a bag of yummy yummy Kona coffee! Thanks from the bottom of my coffee cup, and my heart.
Go see Seamus and the Bufflepup–they're always a treat!
Ask Your Psychic Fiend: See What Happens on Good Coffee Version
Well, it’s going to be a short version of Ask YPF this week—you’re awfully quiet out there for a bunch of opinionated folk. Let’s make with the disclaimer and I’ll let YPF out of her Pringles can:
As you begin your journey with Your Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. Your Psychic Fiend must be mindful of copyright infringement issues just like everyone else, especially considering that Serra’s the copyright Nazi unless it suits her to be otherwise.
2. All answers are for entertainment only. If you don’t want to be entertained by smartass answers, don’t ask serious questions. Hell, don’t ask questions at all—anyone expecting serious answers on Ask Your Psychic Fiend Day will just piss themselves off.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those inbred slunts who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch whoremongers like Miss Cleo and her ilk should be strangled with a telephone cord.
Hellooooooooo race fans—it’s Your Psychic Fiend here once again, with all the answers to all the questions in the Undyverse! Let’s just get started—the HomeCafe is working once again so I’ve got a decent cup of coffee to work with and I can rip up the little pod for scrying material. Did y’all know Gevalia makes its coffee in PODS now? I want a subscription and so does Serra! Now, there’s a great birfday present, since Serra ages again in about a month.
Shut up, ho-bag, it’s too early to troll for pressies—Serra
AliceBabylon is up first:
Will I ever get off this stinking island?
Answer: The Little Podful O’Luv says yes, but if Kryptonite becomes too necessary to the job he does it could be awhile yet. Meanwhile, it might not hurt to find a fun hobby, like sending Serra Japanese Koh, she loves that shit and it’s not cheap. She’ll pay for it and the shipping if it turns out to be cheaper in the long run.
Sluntface, I told you not to troll for goodies, didn’t I? Do I have to get out the Pringles can already? –Serra
No ~sighs~ you don’t. I’ll behave.
Bitch.
Paige (Serra just loves her blog and wishes it had an RSS feed) has another good one for YPF:
Now that I threw up my stomach acid from the fast and had to stop, do you think I’ll stick to this gym thing and lose the weight I intend to lose?
Let’s play Toss the Grounds over a nice piece of paper towel and see what pretty stuff it does…
Answer: You need to find your motivation—YPF isn’t saying that’s why you had to stop the fast, lack of motivation, because YPF’s convinced those fasts can be harmful and is glad you had the sense to stop when your body told you to. Don’t feel bad about that—those fasts are a shock to the system (which is why some folks find some help there) and they’re not for everyone. There’s no way in Hell Serra should try one, f’rinstance, and YPF will slap her shit up if she entertains the idea.
But do find yourself some good, healthy rewards for sticking to your plan—set milestones and a juicy reward for hitting each one. That should go a long way to helping you stick to your workout regimen.
NEXT!
Hiya Dan! You’re the next contestant on Ask Your Psychic Fiend!
Is my shrink right? Or is she just blowing smoke up my ass to get me to stop whining?
Answer: The Coffee Grounds of Podland say your shrink might be partially right but she’s missing something major, something’s not clear to her. She has a slightly skewed outlook due to lack of information, so think hard on what she might be missing the point on and see if improving her information base might help.
Hugs and Serra’s wondering how the home-search is going?
Seems the Brigadiere’s missing a password, because ol’ Smiggins snuck onto Master’s computer:
yPffffffsss….
Me have question for youuuuu fiendie… Master Brigadiere allllll asleeeep. He get questions while asleep… does Smiggins answer them for him and let him sleeeep? Or does Smiggins wake Master Brigadiere to answer questions all groggy-faced and sleepy-eyed? Does Smiggins make messes if he answers questions?
-Smiggins
Answer: YPF doesn’t need a crystal ball for this one…starting to hum that song as a background to this answer…Smiggins could easily make big messes for Master Brigadiere if he jumps his happy ass into Master’s business. I’m sure Master’s friends will wait impatiently for the Grenku Friday awards, so just let Master sleep. You know how hard Master works to pay for your whips and the closet you sleep in, don’t you? Shouldn’t he get as much sleep as he can, and not have to wake up to your silly fuckups when he does get rested up? Yes, Smiggins, he should. So don’t answer his mail unless he tells you to. It’ll save the skin on your back if you do…bringing up the volume on the background music for the chorus…Crystal balllllll, so many things I need to know–crystal balllllll–so many things I gotta know….
UPDATE: Smiggins is one fucked-assed camper–he went ahead and did answers for his Master’s blog. Smiggins, it was nice knowin’ ya.
MooCow has a question—yayyyyyyyy!! We like MooCow around here—he’s our kind of twisted!
What kind of music does DJ Lovely play? Is it more of a trance house vibe or more of an Inxs meets Paul Van Dyke kinda thing?
DJ Lovely (whoever the hell that is cuz neither Serra nor YPF is admitting to shit) is so old school that she rarely spins anything recorded after 1990! Classic Rock, all DinoRock, All The Time for this one! Just get those old records off the shelf, she’ll sit and listen to ‘em by herself! This old bag not only OWNS vinyl worth listening to, she has a turntable to play it on! She’s still pissed off about the liberation of her best CDs due to an old roommate and is thinking about hunting them down the old-fashioned way—yep! Go to a party at the offender’s house and stealing her shit BACK!
ROCK AND ROLL NEVER FORGETS, MOTHERFUCKERS!
YPF starts slaughtering another great oldie moldy rock song while dressed in a white shirt, boxers, Wayfarers and sweat socks…misses the stop on the slide across the floor and thwacking into the refrigerator, right next to where the cat slid to a stop, both looking confused and slightly pissed off. Ohhh, Bob Seger’s gonna kick a bitch out of Michigan for this…
Mona made it on time today, which is tres cool:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
I totally suck. I can never get my ass in gear to ask you a question BEFORE Friday morning. Because I suck.
Can you tell how much longer I will suck, and what sort of ass-kicking it’ll take to make myself a g.d. post-it note reminder to submit earlier???
With all apologies,
Mona
Hm, let’s deal up some Tarot cards and see if we can get a number out of them…nooooo, spirit of the Tarot, no one’s going to believe that nice Mona has anything to do with the number 666! I am NOT getting out the Cold Duck this early in the morning—it’s nowhere near Christmas and my mother’s not even in the same state as I am so blow me! She’s the only one who appreciates Cold Duck on Christmas morning, you know! Now, make with the forecast….ahhh, finally…you just have to know how to talk to the Elvis that lives in your deck…
Answer: You’re not going to quit sucking, as you put it, until you get your mind off the college guys down the block, and off Sergei’s awe-inspiring balls, and off sex in general. In other words, Mona darling, you’re destined to suck for a long time to cum. Have a blast!
All right, now that THAT’s out of the system, YPF’s work is done! Just leave the usual rewards and YPF will be a happy bitch.
Comment Me Now!
Especially early for all those of you who tend to miss it…
It’s that time again, folks–time for another round of Ask Your Psychic Fiend! For those new to the phenomenon, Ask Your Psychic Fiend is a Friday feature where the insane little pseudo-psychic inside of me takes your questions, plays with something to find the answers, then posts them for your shits and grins. Anyone may ask, the only charge is an occasional comment or vote on Top Blogs (that UPS-colored thingy under the cat in the sidebar).
Here’s the fine print:
Note that the “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” feature is for entertainment purposes only. Use “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” for skin use only in diluted form, as it can cause irritation and sensitivities if used uncut. Do not ask questions which might expose any confidential issues, identities, relationships or other sensitive topics. If there’s a remote possibility you’ll read YPF’s response and think, “That’s not funny motherfucker!” then don’t ask that fucking question. Do not taunt Your Psychic Fiend. Psychic Fiend is a trademark-pending product of Knightdreams, Inc. All rights and copyrights are reserved to D. J. Lovely. All answers are meant in good fun–in other words, if you can’t take a joke then don’t Ask Your Psychic Fiend anything because you won’t like the answers.
Oh, and fuck you if you can’t take a joke.
Answers will be posted Friday and this post will be stuck to the top of the blog until 6 am Friday. New posts WILL appear under it, meaning I’ll write them, eventually, once my stomach stops going on strike every time I try to eat.
Giggling and Dialing 911
As some of you know, I used to have the glorious, glamorous job of working in a convenience store, an occupation I took up after my orthopedist, chiropractor and boss all put their foot down on my returning to the nursing home. I pretty much lucked into my job, since my roommie already worked at the QuikStop and when I went in to pick up an application the manager strong-armed me into staying there to fill it out so she could put me on the schedule for training.
This is another of those jobs that's just filled with funny shit–granted that it's not funny at the time, but it gets funny once you have some distance from the incidents. It doesn't hurt to put a couple bongs in that distance either, which used to be a nice way to deal with it. I did straighten up a couple months into my first stint with QuikStop (which ultimately led to my first layoff from the place, as probationary employees can pretty much kiss their asses adieu when they're hospitalized for drug detox on a weekend when they're scheduled for three shifts in two days).
This particular batch of funny shit was brought to mind after a comment to my post "I have a bad feeling about this", about the Stormtrooper mistaken for a robber at a sci-fi con in Janesville, WI. The roomie that had gotten me hired at the store had just gotten off work, come home, popped a brewski, and we were about to begin the giggles.
"So, how'd work go? Anything fun happen?" Usually this is followed by a description of which cute customers came in, which pain in the ass customers he was able to get snarky with, and just who'd stopped in in general. Um, not this night.
"Well, I got held up."
"You fucking WHAT???"
It turns out that after my beloved roomie had explained that our store's not allowed to sell beer after 12 am, not even if it's sitting out in nifty little displays and not chained up like the cold beer must be by law, a very drunk (and very stoopid) customer asked what would happen if he pulled a gun on my buddy.
After being told that he'd laugh at him and call the police, the customer pretended to let the conversation go and finished getting the smokes and condoms he and the slunt with him had stopped in for. As he turned to go, he whipped back around with something pointing out of the pocket of his jacket. "This is a holdup," was how he announced this new entry into the "The Dumbfuck Thing I Did While Drunk" contest.
My roomie did exactly what he said he'd do–he giggled and turned to pick up the phone, then dialed 911. Dumbfuck stood there, thinking up funny jabs at Roomie like, "You're not really talking to the po-lice, you're just playin'" and "Yer fulla shit, you ain't talkin' to no cops." Meanwhile, Roomie's telling the nice 911 dispatcher where to find the store (like the cops didn't know where to find the only decent fucking coffee in downtown Eau Claire at the time), what the guy looked like, the guy's name, the slunt's name, and everything else the operator asked for. Then he hung up and started waiting on the next customer.
Dumbfuck kept up the abuse until he heard sirens, and even then it took him awhile to realize that they were converging on the store. Once his booze-dimmed mind grasped the concept that he was about to be in twouble, he and Sluntface left the store running. Roomie said the cops caught them about three blocks away and they were in the County Joint awaiting arraignment.
"When they brought him back to the store for me to ID him, he kept saying, 'I can't believe you called the cops, man, you know I was just kidding around!'"
"Roomie, did you tell him you don't get paid for him to kid around about robbing you?"
"Yep!"
"Good! I'm going to ride his ass about this–what a dipshit!"
I did, too–HARD. Threaten MY buddy with a fucking gun and see what happens–I don't care if it was just your uncoordinated finger in your pocket. The law says if you say it's a gun, it's a gun no matter what it really is. The guy eventually quit coming in, which was fine with everyone, including the manager, since legally we couldn't not let him in once the restraining orders were off and he'd done the 90 days he'd gotten in court.
Yep, one less Dumbass around the place just wasn't noticeable, since there were so many others. Maybe I'll tell you about them soon.
It Can Only Get Better, Right?
It's been a shithole of a year here. I've tried not to blog about it, but something tells me the pain in my tummy is partially the result of trying to play nice. That "something" is the fresh flashes of said pain each time something else adds to the pile of shit that is my life. Even so, I'm trying not to load it on the blog, because if you all want to be depressed, I'm sure you can fill a blog of your own with your personal troubles and wouldn't come here just to read mine.
That said, even tho I still can't get enough counter space to make anything (piss me off piss me off) something might happen that'll be great! Honey's talking about a Labor Day excursion to the Renaissance Festival in Holly. We used to go every year, when we had money to play on and a little more flexibility in the financial picture, but since he lost his engineering job and especially since we lost the house, there's been absolutely no way to even figure on our yearly trip as my birthday present.
This year, however, Honey is sure he can manage it for Labor Day weekend. He usually gets holidays off, money looks promising with all the hours he's putting in, and it'd be really nice to do it. I'm trying hard not to get excited about it–if it falls thru after I get my hopes up, I'd be feeling worse than I already do. It's hard not to get excited, though.
Wish me luck!
Buy This Guy a Pound of Wax
From Bizarre News
———- Man Raises Eyebrows With New Record ————-
SARANAC, N.Y. – Almost two years ago, Frank Ame's co-worker
suggested that Ames try for a record for his bushy eyebrows.
Now, Ames has earned himself a spot in the Guinness Book of
World Records for his 3.78 inch long eyebrow hairs. The
category of longest eyebrow hair never existed until Ames
made a call to Guinness and filled out forms to officially
earn recognition. "I don't know why it grows like that; it
just always has," Ames told the Press-Republican of
Plattsburgh. Ames and his long eyebrows can now be found on
page 24 of the 2006 edition, in the "Body Parts" section.
I think this guy has a built-in hobby–waxing them weapons of mass destruction eyebrows!
Totally Whoring Out
If you like what you read, vote for this blog on the Top Blogs website by clicking the little Brown and Orange icon underneath the kittykitty over there in the sidebar. Please? Pretty please?
/me ends whoring out
Oh Hell No Again
Yep, I still go to Hel*Mouth, mostly due to a total lack of choice. While H'sMa is generous about allowing me to use her car, the $2.79/gal gas prices keep me on a short leash, since I do put gas in the car every time I use it. Putting gas in every time I use the car causes her to cuss and yell (mostly the words "I told you not to do that!"), but she doesn't play Bingo so she needs another reason to cuss. Like the nice daughter-in-law in training that I am, I do aim to keep her happy, hence the gassing of the Lumina when I use it.
Anyhoo, I usually catch a ride to the Hel*Mouth with Honey, and once there I try to limit the pain shopping can put me in by using one of those motorized carts. I've found if I decide "I'm doing fine, I don't need the cart" I'm in hellacious pain by the time I'm done shopping, so I just say screw those who don't like it, I'm using one. This particular story picks up toward the end of tooling around the store a few weeks ago, just as folks are settling in for the siege that is back-to-school shopping, and one woman's got four children with her, all in various stages of rip and tear about the store, in and out of the cart, all yelling "Mommy Mommy Mommy" simultaneously.
I'd missed mowing down each of those wild-grown children several times during the shopping trip, and I'd finally passed them one last time and was headed to the checkout lanes, Honey in front scouting out a decently short checkout line. We'd just about made it when….
CRASHTHUNK!
I let off the throttle immediately, which I'd had going full-bore in an attempt to get the fuck out of Dodge, mostly because I'd just been shoved violently, cart and all, from behind. Cussing and not giving a shit what anyone thought of the words, "What the total fucking…" as I turned around, I see the woman dumbassed enough to bring four children into the store and not smart enough to make the little bastards behave like they weren't raised by wolves. She'd run full blast into the ass-end of a cart moving at top speed, hard!
I looked at her, saying something stoopid like, "What on Earth…" I was just floored. How in the HELL do you miss me when a 6'3'' man is directly ahead of the cart? I'm not short, these things don't sit all that low (they'd be hard to use if they were, since a lot of mobility-impaired folks have trouble standing up from low seats), and my plus-size ass is very hard to miss. She still rammed me from behind.
She had the nerve to look at me and say, "Oh–I didn't see you there."
No SHIT you didn't see me there, you classless dipshit! You didn't SEE me because you weren't facing FORWARD while shoving that cart as fast as you could move it while yelling at your kid! Yeah, that yelling's been working SOOOO well so far tonight–keep it the fuck up, you dizzy yuppie moron! That's something else she'd been doing the whole time she was there–pushing the cart while trying to track her hellspawn. Why didn't you just make the kids behave or take them the fuck HOME where you should have left their Mowgli asses in the first place?
She stared at me a moment more, then resumed the bitching and pushing routine. No apology, not even an "Oops, my bad."
I'd have blown it off as a freak accident if it hadn't happened again, about a week later. THAT entire excursion was spent with me trying to stay in front of Honey, while he tried desperately to stay behind me, to prevent a reoccurence. The moment he stepped in front of the cart to look at something in a refrigerator case, some jackass and son rear-ended me again!
It's enough to make me want one of those stoopid flags to plant in the back of the cart, just to keep shit-for-brained asshats from trying to run me over.
I'd spring for one, but shit, if these trainable but mentally-impaired jackasses could miss me, Honey, and a 500 lb. cart, one little dumbassed flag isn't going to improve the situation.
Weird-assed Hit Of The Week
Whiplash Smile is the #2 hit on MSN Search for “Wisconsin Mushrooms Grown In Horse Shit“
Oh, for fuck’s sake, what next?
Calling all Twin Cities Area Runners
Here’s the deal:
I have a friend in Wisconsin who wants to run the Twin Cities marathon, but online signup is full. Is there another way to sign up? Feels free to email me at serrathescented at gmail.com or leave a post in the comments section.
Thanks!
I Have A Bad Feeling About This
I do love Fark, I do I do! Only in Janesville, WI could the following happen!
'Armed robber' was really a Stormtrooper at JVL-CON
The Force wasn't with a Stormtrooper-clad attendee of the JVL-CON science fiction convention on Friday at the Ramada Inn in Janesville.
Instead, it had him surrounded.
Janesville police got a surprise when they responded to a report of an armed robbery at the Ramada Inn, 3431 Milton Ave.
The alleged suspect was dressed as a Stormtrooper, a soldier for the Galactic Empire in the science fiction movie series "Star Wars."
"Apparently some people who saw him felt there was a threat," said Sgt. Kay Nikolaus of the Janesville Police Department.
The Stormtrooper was really a vendor participating in the weekend convention, held annually at the Ramada Inn, said Joann Lewandowski, who lives with event organizer Ray Norton.
"It was kind of silly but kind of understandable," Lewandowski said.
Whoever called police must have missed the Ramada's marquee out front, which announces the convention being held there, Lewandowski said.
The Stormtrooper got a warning from police-leave the plastic laser gun inside.
So, if you're passing the Ramada this weekend and you see a little green guy with pointy ears and wearing a robe, it shouldn't be an alien concept.
The convention continues at 9 a.m. today and Sunday. For information, visit www.si-fi-nut.com
Now I ask you, oh literate, educated, smart folk out there–who in blue Hell would mistake a stormtrooper outside a Sci-Fi convention for a damned armed robber? Considering that the occasional gun is seen in the wild in Wisconsin, why would the presence of one automatically mean a robbery? I just don't get it.
