I saw the sign…

♪𝅘𝅥 and it opened up my mind…  ♪♫

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Hmm. I’m trying not to read too much into this sign… but its hard. For some reason it reminds me of that Randall Munroe…. eh… Monroe? (I’m going to have to look it up) Munroe comic.

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I have a complicated relationship with these six panels. I realize you can’t (really) do a deep dive on free speech with a medium like this… and some days I think thats okay. Other days this comic irritates me, especially when its bandied about like an excuse for bad behavior. It likely depends (like most things in my life) on my caloric intake at that particular moment and my state of caffeinated-ness… both of which, if maxed out, make me much more genteel and accommodating.

In any event. I too want to exist.

 

The greatest of Danes

Scooby Doo does not automatically (for me at least) conjure up some deeper philosophical layering that needs to be ruminated upon while smoking a cigar and sipping cognac in the bath*.

*actually I wouldn’t recommend this, having once gotten having gotten very inebriated imbibing more than the recommended daily allowance of Hennessy and smoking an entire  Romeo Y Julieta No.3 while soaking my plus-sized carcass in the ol’ claw-tub. (I used to channel Denny Crane as my spirit animal) In any event, ones ability to extricate oneself from said bathtub post event is harder than one might imagine.

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I always thought the message entrenched in this particular Saturday morning Hanna-Barbera  was that doing lots of drugs would turn you into some form of Shaggy Rogers. And that was… you know… a bad thing. Much better to wear a neckerchief and drive the paedo-van. Fred… eh… was supposed to be the role-model right?

Also, I’d like to point out (at this critical juncture) that a great Dane is actually a German breed. Those Danes… always taking @#$& that doesn’t belong to them. (actually the Danes may just been bystanders in this particularly etymology… but they rarely get blamed for anything… eh… since, those early day amphibious shenanigans I mean… so I feel we need to get our kicks in anywhere we can)

In any event. Scooby Doo. Greatest canine meta-physicists of our time. Who knew?

Reading corner

My Saturday nights have really changed. Gone are the days where I’d be lacing up my sixteen hole Doc Martins round about this time (while chugging a preemptive Red Bull). Now I stay in and put the finishing touches on my three year old daughters reading corner (while I ease myself into the evening with a mug of Rooibos)…

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It’s only a matter of time before we find the Basset hound camped out in here… spread eagled (or spatchcocked), junk pointing skyward and snoring loudly. To be fair, that is sorta my ideal end game for evening. Only in my bedroom. So maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on him when it happens.

For the glory of Bast

Whats creepier than a hairless sphynx cat?

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A creepy robotic sphynx cat!

Stuff of nightmares, said the dog-person, giving an involuntary shudder. I mean if the supreme AI would want to take on a physical form that invokes a (negative) emotional response in its servile human thralls… this might be a good choice. You know… in the dystopian future where the machines have risen up, taken over the world and homo sapiens have been shortlisted as a superfluous organism.

My three year old has recently come out as a cat-person. Her mother and I are… well… I mean we still love our child… but its been hard. How does something like this even happen? (on the plus side she may be spared by our feline overlord… so maybe its not all bad)

She keeps asking us when we are going to buy her a cat. Who… *sigh* will apparently be named ‘Sugar-lips’. Admittedly, this is progress… for a long time she named every single one of her Teddy bears, ‘Charlie’. (I tried to point out that our daughter was channeling the collectivism of the Borg… my wife however is not a geek and so my grand analogy fell flat). Also… I suppose… who are we to judge, our bassets name is Napoleon Dynamite. (and our next basset will be called Montgomery Burns)

In any event. We have broadly decided that if we are going down this route we will get her a Maine Coon. Which, after some research and googling (which cat breeds are more like dogs) seems like a good compromise choice.

 

Planetary undo

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Hmm. Anyone else notice how that USB slotted right in on the first try… and you didn’t have to turn it over? Like when does that EVER happen?

*crickets*

That happens to other people right?

I also struggle with HDMI cables…

And sometimes keys.

 

Unpopular logic

Let me start by saying that I love Neil deGrasse Tyson. And it would likely require him ripping the heads off puppies, daubing himself in their blood (while naked) and then dancing around a campfire and howling at the moon for me to say an unkind word about him. And those unkind words would likely be relegated to asking him to keep it down. And maybe cover his junk with a sock.

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You can I suppose argue some disconnect to the general mood or perhaps a lack of empathy. But I don’t think you can argue that he’s wrong.

Of course the mob has now come for him and he’s apologized. I wouldn’t have… (I say with some level of bravado that likely doesn’t exist)

Judged by people who send ‘thoughts and prayers’ via twitter.

Yeah..