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...
One: Folsom, California.
People are constantly getting twisted off at you for being in their way, when you aren’t. And then they get in your way. When they think they aren’t. Yes, that has a certain recursive quality to it…it means the place is Zombie-Land. I feel myself becoming one of them. An urban jackass.
But I know I am not imagining it, because when people are about to get in my way they move like prize stallions. And then they get in there…the deceleration is noticeable. Measurable. Christ, some days I swear there are skid marks on the pavement — and they have all the time in the world. It’s like a dick measuring contest. Struttin’ around, ooh yeah, look at me, I’m big n’ bad…I’m in this guy’s way.
Two: California in general. We love communication. It’s all-important, we live it and we breathe it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If a little-school tyke has what it takes to communicate and doesn’t know jack about the academic material, don’t worry, he’ll make it to the next grade. If he has a sturdy command of the academic material but can’t communicate, or won’t communicate, they’ll hold him back or put him in a class for learning-disabled cases. Communication is everything! It does everything! We need to sit down with our enemies and talk out our differences!
And yet, whenever I hit this state’s highways…I’m constantly guessing what the fuck the other guy is going to do, every second, every inch, until I park. Nobody signals for anything anymore. Communi-fucking-cation my left nut.
This is common for me. We just got the reservations made for the post-Christmas-unwinding at our favorite spot, and sometime in the 24 hours afterward it hits me how much I need to take a break. Maybe I’m getting soft.
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