Well shit. Today I’d need an even better excuse for not flashing and I seem entirely bereft of excuses both better and worse. Unless one accepts weird ass as a reasonable excuse. It’s been my personal experience that to use the weird ass defense one must lay all the cards on the table, put up for scrutiny that busted straight or four card flush to be examined. Even so, it’s not iron clad, not like “My grandma died” or “the dog ate my homework and/or grandma”.
On a side note (yes, this whole entry-shaped thingy is on its side, covered, just barely, by a wet towel) That’s one hell of a damn piece of evolutionary wonder right there; the empathy twixt boy and dog to the degree that an entire species develops a hunger for homework while the other develops a damn near adversarial (albeit passive/aggressive) aversion to homework. Oh Symbiosis!
Grandmas, on the other hand, are, as I understand it, yummy. That’s just good eating there. Forget about your baby back ribs; it’s the senior hog maw where the real piggy connoisseurs congregate. Hmmmm, maybe that’s why the dog ate the homework, I should probably quit wrapping hog maws in it.
Flipping to the other side note, so the burn is even of course, when you hand in homework wrapped in a hog maw, you don’t need an excuse. It’s either a gift so endearing that your poor ass, dumb ass essay on the efficacy of grape Kool aid in a squirt gun death cage match is forgiven or the homework and maw go immediately into the bio-hazard bin that, as I understand it, every classroom has these days, and you are given an instant A+ to cover for the fact that your teacher is a big old whiney tittty baby bitch ass.
Rolling back onto front notes; um, ok, there is no teacher or homework (which I’m sure is very Zen); I just haven’t done a flash, yet. It’s usually just a coincidence when I do flash Friday on Friday anyhow. That’d be my story for the teacher, too, if there were one “My homework was wrapped around a hog maw? Huh. I hadn’t noticed. Good thing the dog didn’t get to it.”
A question the poor bastard who is still here, clinging to the hope that some small scrap of entertainment might yet be left on this plate, might be “So, um, if there is no flash, will there be an entry? I mean like any time soon? I have this thing … um … with these people … so … you know …”
This is a bad place to stall. That’s how a motherfucker gets wrapped around a hog maw. There’s an old saying in Jailhouse Spades “Go high or Go Home.” It’s a taunt. It means if you don’t bust out with your biggest and baddest trump card it shall get et and that trick you were counting on will tumble down the wrong side of the fence. Most parole officers don’t care, but I think ones parole review can be shit canned for refusing to go high and thus unable to go home. It sounds like a judge’s idea.
Q: what do you call an attorney with an IQ of 50?
A: Your Honor.
A circuit court judge trying conservatorships in LA County told me that joke in chambers. You have to laugh under those circumstances. I don’t know what happens if you don’t, but I suspect it would be a grievous error. You might wonder how I came to be sitting in chambers with a circuit court judge trying conservatorships in LA County (um, the more accessible name for a room wherein conservatorships are decided is ‘Crazy Court’, see, the idea is men in robes decide whether you are crazy enough for the county to spend it’s hard earned cash on protecting you from the citizens who are, likely as not, bound to wrap you in a hog maw. Hmmm. No. Use you as a hog maw wrapper.) . The answer; I wasn’t on trial if that’s what you’re thinking.
And look at the pot calling the kettle a kitchen utensil. Like you’ve never been in crazy court chambers laughing at something that might not really be all that funny or at least not out-loud funny.
Yes, y’all have heard all my rants on LOL, I usually leave out the most obvious rant; you are not laughing out loud. Not only are you being trendy (though that boat sailed, sunk and has been salvaged) with the worst of chat speak, but, and more to the point, you are lying. It’s a wonder there aren’t scorch marks on the hems of all your pants.
So in lieu of a flash, at least as of ten something Anti-meridian, you’ve got this shit which has, mercifully, come to an end.
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