gentlemens

Holy wow, what the damn. Cheese and crackers.


This is probably one of those videos that everyone but me saw two years ago. I found it linked as a "similar video" when I clicked the A Different Spin youtube account. I WISH we were similar to these madmen. If you like, check out the user's other videos, he has a lot more of the same.

Throw down, Moses. Way down in Egypt land.

Photoshop photoshop ooh laaa la photoshop, photoshop!

Ba doom doom doom doooooom. The computer and I continue to improve our relationship, though I think professional counseling could speed the process along. We've worked out the "pressure-sensitive tablet pen" issue and are now working on "starting up when I goddamn tell you to."

Last night as we were driving back from Spin Jam we observed a license plate, "637 EGO." Someone suggested that perhaps this gentleman (or lady) had intended to spell Eggo™(see that alt-key combination there? Windows and I are high-fiving.) to brag about how many instant waffles (s)he has consumed over the course of a lifespan. But thinking about it further, we realized that 637 is actually not that impressive a waffle body count, as far as lifetime achievements go. I've only been around 24 years and I think for most of my K-12 years I ate Eggo™ waffles at least once a week, and at least two at a time. All those waffles add up. We do a lot of insignificant things, and we build up some pretty impressive numbers in our lives, if anyone bothered to take note. As Ricky pointed out, I wish the user interface of life had a statistics-tracking feature that let us see exactly how many pine cones we've kicked, dandelions we've blown, and foreign objects we've accidentally hit ourselves in the eye with. Oh no here comes the dangling preposition wagon to take me away to grammar jail get in the grammar foxholes and fetch me a grammar bazooka colonel. Grammar thank you.

a speedboat peels away

Just underfoot, there were dozens and dozens of pancakes. As field day continued, the children gleefully romped through relays and races and water breaks and orange slices. The subterranean pancakes had minimal effect on the proceedings; maybe the displacement of dirt caused by one particular flapjack made Tommy Chumbles lose the three-legged race, or maybe it didn't. It was irrelevant. To Principal Hob, who had spent four dark and silent hours the night before digging up the field, sowing the unassuming breakfast cakes under the topsoil, and replanting the entire field of grass in time for the 7 am bus arrivals, it was the most life-affirming sight imaginable. Because Principal Hob was absolutely, terrifyingly insane.

Horris stands on the roof, looks down, and gives the hushed crowds below a smile. Across the street, a dozen unique and deadly vipers are loaded into the cannon and fired. Horris straps nine pounds of bleeding raw ham onto his bandolier and leaps roaring into the twelve-story high emptiness. Horris and the reptiles clash high above the city streets and begin their deadly dance. The ham, the snakes, and Horris's mismatched limbs and tube socks intertwine and begin choking one another. Blood is drawn and bodies are broken. They plummet through space, none of them able to breathe, and slam into the pavement. The ball of man and meat and serpent explodes, and Horris's gore-drenched cravat lands squarely at the stockbroker's feet.

"Here's the deal:" said the devil, "you tell me how many people you're going to kill. I'll give you two hours to do it, and at the end I'll give you ten thousand dollars for each person. Plus if you manage to kill as many as you said you would, I'll rewind time, set the whole thing to rights. Nobody's dead, nobody remembers you did anything wrong, and you keep the cash. But if you DON'T reach your quota, you don't get the money and you don't get the reset. Sound fair?"