Alarming News: I like Morgan Freeberg. A lot.
American Digest: And I like this from "The Blog That Nobody Reads", because it is -- mostly -- about me. What can I say? I'm on an ego trip today. It won't last.
Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler: We were following a trackback and thinking "hmmm... this is a bloody excellent post!", and then we realized that it was just part III of, well, three...Damn. I wish I'd written those.
Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler: ...I just remembered that I found a new blog a short while ago, House of Eratosthenes, that I really like. I like his common sense approach and his curiosity when it comes to why people believe what they believe rather than just what they believe.
Brutally Honest: Morgan Freeberg is brilliant.
Dr. Melissa Clouthier: Morgan Freeberg at House of Eratosthenes (pftthats a mouthful) honors big boned women in skimpy clothing. The picture there is priceless--keep scrolling down.
Exile in Portales: Via Gerard: Morgan Freeberg, a guy with a lot to say. And he speaks The Truth...and it's fascinating stuff. Worth a read, or three. Or six.
Just Muttering: Two nice pieces at House of Eratosthenes, one about a perhaps unintended effect of the Enron mess, and one on the Gore-y environ-movie.
Mein Blogovault: Make "the Blog that No One Reads" one of your daily reads.
The Virginian: I know this post will offend some people, but the author makes some good points.
Poetic Justice: Cletus! Ah gots a laiv one fer yew...
Contrary to popular belief, I do have sympathy for the misfortune of others. There is a fine line between lacking sympathy for one’s misfortune, and lacking sympathy for one’s misfortune due to one’s negligence.
In fact, I even have sympathy for the misfortune of others due to their negligence.
Up to a point.
Allow me to state that which is embarrassingly obvious to all red-blooded American men: This panel was drawn by a Canadian woman — and if it was somehow her desire to make it a secret, or just something obscure, either her nationality or her gender identity, then she has failed.
This is…assuming it’s based on any kind of real-life event…just one of many thousands of little costs that all add up over time, of failing to give masculinity its proper respect. Such a scene would never — I repeat never — occur in any household over which I preside as Lord and Master, or that prospers from the benevolent patriarchal wisdom of any similar Real Man.
How do you forget the rope?
In the castle of which I am King, the rope is the star of the show. Actually, the hooks in the rope, and the really cool knots that are used to secure them, that only a Real Man can tie. The point of the trip is to use the knots…and the hooks…and the saw (only for a few brief seconds)…and the really manly genuine-leather gloves.
And to march the woman and the whelps around in the chilly winter air, for only that tiny handful of minutes, in token honor of the ancestors who had to live out their entire lives in it. So the hot apple cider or hot chocolate tastes that much better to them an hour later. That is what Christmas is all about.
Manly men don’t forget the rope. They wouldn’t. It’s not because we have better memories, it’s because it isn’t logically possible to do so. You think like a man, getting a tree becomes synonymous with getting a rope.
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I am reminded of the beginning of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation: “Dad, did you bring a saw?”
- Andy | 12/14/2008 @ 13:17