The travel app I downloaded for the trip to Asia I just began offers translations for phrases of questionable utility, like “You seem confident!” and “Is there a lawyer who speaks English?” In my morning Vietnamese practice sessions — I’ve named the fish who live in the water feature on my balcony for the numbers one through eight, and use them to run through basic math in Vietnamese each morning — I’ve not revisited either of these sentences.
I was on LinkedIn the other day; I’m not sure why, other than it’s a thing I’m supposed to use to connect to people, most of whom I hope never to need to contact and never need to contact me, and some of whom I have already forgotten completely. Networking!
(Not you; I remember you well and would gladly recommend you for content strategy or budgeting or cheese-mongering or underwater basket-weaving, or whatever the hell you do.)
Anyway, this isn’t about LinkedIn; it’s about Microsoft Word.
The tenor of political debate in the US has reached a stunning nadir; if anyone’s wondering what happened to the tone, we shot it, set it on fire, baked the ashes into a cake, ate the cake, shat it out, and then shot and burned that.
Given that, I’d like to suggest that we drop all the pretense, and just say what we mean:
Dear Canine Oncologist,
You were very nice, and spent quite a long time talking with us, which I appreciate. Chester seemed to like you as well, as evidenced by his decision not to express his anal glands all over your expensive shoes. (You’re welcome.)
I bought an apple yesterday, intending to eat it this morning. I like apples cold and crispy, so I left it by the open bathroom window. Then I decided to shower, so I moved the apple to the bedroom window. In the night, it was too cold to keep the bedroom window open, so I shut it, re-opened the bathroom window, and moved the apple back there. This morning, I forgot to eat the apple. As I was getting ready to leave for the day, I heard a gust of wind roll the apple off the sill, but I was running late and promptly forgot about it.
And that’s why there’s an apple in the bathtub of room 909.
UPDATE! When I returned to my room tonight, the apple had been neatly replaced on the sill.
Holy crap, it’s Columbus Day again already! It really snuck up on me and forced me into sexual slavery this year.
It’s already late in the day, so I barely have time to infect all these blankets with smallpox, pack them into my saddlebags, ride my bike until I hit a roadblock, and then set up shop handing them out — to say nothing of finishing up the website for my campaign to change the name of wherever I do end up to California.
“Greetings, Californians!” I will say when I de-bike.
“But this is Paramus, New Jersey*,” they will reply.
Aren’t they quaint? They don’t even know!
Man, I love the holidays.
*I assume I’ll make it about that far before I need to stop for a snack, am lured into an IKEA, or both.
Of all the things you could choose to put in your mouth and savor… what horrible thing happened to you, such that you were driven to think, “Yes, candy corn! That’s what I want to eat!” Especially in a world in which gummi cola bottles exist. Whatever it was, it must have been really bad.
I really want to know. Please, someone explain candy corn, and help me sleep through the night once more.
Two, in fact. I have decided to share them with you, because you seem like right-thinking people.
These opinions, on airplane boarding and Orson Scott Card, may seem entirely disconnected from one another, which would be a correct assessment had I not read Ender’s Game while on a cross-country flight. And now, as with a good rug to a room, everything’s tied together.
I was recently giving a presentation to colleagues, during which I noted that one of my dogs once stole a piece of fried chicken from a sleeping homeless man.
At the time, we had a long talk with him about homelessness and poverty, and how many people are a single paycheck or medical emergency away from sleeping on a park bench and having their fried chicken stolen by a dog who eats food made of humanely-raised, Montessori-educated lambs twice a day. He spent several seconds reflecting on what he’d done before wandering off to urinate on a prize-winning rose bush.
My craw is unusually full this week. Do they make craw extenders?
I bet SkyMall sells them. Hand-hammered copper or prismatic titanium; your choice, only $119.99! Never suffer the discomfort of a bloated craw again!