Bishops Finger wrote in the TICH thread on All Saints: »
I did repel a double-glazing salesman's cold call by pointing out (in Dutch) that he was phoning a ship, and asking (in heavily-accented English) just where did he think he was going to put a conservatory?
of me really, as my landline number would give no indication as to what sort of property it was serving!
Incidentally, even if the problem of sustainability is resolved there will come a time when the earth passes away. Nothing is forever in the dimension of time.
I'm beginning to think that "electing" an incurious racist moron with obvious cognitive problems to be President* of the United States might have some drawbacks.
Graven Image finds the cure on the Insomnia thread in AS:
... I think I have found the answer. I shop in my mind around my local store ... I can get through the produce fairly well, but after frozen food and meat, I drift off to sleep hunting for the pickles.
@Twilight nails the difference between British and American anger management in Today I Consign to Hell in AS:
... then follows more arguments, blocked driveways, children upset, loud noises in the night... until...the American gets fed up and shoots someone,
or the British person knocks over someone's wheelie bin.
(For the last cough-cough years my curiosity has been hugely piqued. What did they do? Why did nobody do it sooner? Why was there a lack of trams? Why does uncertainty surround the identity of the instigator?)
My grandfather, who worked as a GP not far from Eastbourne described his town as a place where people went to die, and then forgot what they had gone for.
[tangent]
Somewhere in Suffolk there's a road sign that reads FELIXSTOWE FOR THE CONTINENT
to which someone added: FRINTON FOR THE INCONTINENT
[/tangent]
This reminds me of another dreadful service where we were all asked to turn to the person next to us, and share the best thing that had happened in the last year. A friend of mine said, in a loud voice, "I lost my virginity!".
Following @Alan Cresswell 's plea in AS for the return of his lost biros, @BroJames explains the sex life of the coat-hanger :
Black biros are the pupal stage of wire coat hangars. When the adult emerges it is very soft and can pass through the smallest of holes. (It consumes the pupal shell the nutrients of which enable it to harden once it finds a suitable location in which to assume the adult larval form.)
Coat hangars remain sexually inactive while suspended but when laid flat with others they become sexually active (they are hermaphrodites) and can be hard to separate. They lay microscopically small eggs pale grey and hairy, closely resembling laundry fluff.
So far the larval stage has not been definitively observed. Some think the larvae are what we generally know as paperclips, but there is some unaccounted-for variation amongst them which doesn’t seem to be reflected in the adult coat hangar.
So far, coat hangars have proved remarkably resistant to captive breeding, and become utterly dormant under observation at all life-stages.
I've decided to reconcile myself to that euphemism [passed] by imagining that all of life was a long and difficult exam, and the person being discussed has finally passed. Good for them.
Cherries are in season and yesterday the rouge family purchased a goodly quantity of the same on the market. There being too many to eat before they go bad, I could make a cherry pie, thinks I. Cherry pie is delicious.
So once Captain Pyjamas is safely away for his afternoon nap, I begin the operation. I chop up and pit cherries and get juice everywhere until I look like an axe murderer. All going well so far. I have slightly less cherries than in any of the recipes I have seen but I figure I can adapt. I check in the cupboard for a suitable pie tin and realise that I possess none of the correct dimensions. Oh. I know, I have mince pie tins, I can make little diddy cherry pies. That would be cute.
The recipe says add sugar to the cherries, and cornflour, except that we're out of cornflour. Oops. I do have tapioca flour, though, that should work, right? How much? No idea. Add a couple of spoons and hope for the best. On the stove they go. Now about that pastry. I follow the same sweet pastry recipe I always use, but for some reason, it produces nothing resembling rollable pastry. Add some milk, manage to make a ball, stick it in the fridge to chill. Smell burning sugar and realise that I have forgotten about the cherries and that they are now welding themselves onto the bottom of the pan. Decant the cherries into a bowl and spend 20 minutes scouring away the burnt caramel with the aid of an industrial cleaning agent.
That pastry should be ready now, right? Out of the fridge it comes and turns out to be nigh on impossible to roll without falling apart. Check small tins and realise that if I use the mince pie cutters they come out too small and if I cut round a saucer they come out too big. New plan: cut two circles around a plate and bake it on a flat baking sheet. Pastry Will Not Roll without falling apart. Swear viciously. After three goes, manage to roll out first circle and transfer it to the baking sheet. On pouring the cherries over the top, discover that a) I should have used less tapioca flour and I now have cherry-flavoured silly putty, and b) I have slightly too much filling for the size of the pastry circle. Oh well, too late now. Roll the remaining Ill-begotten Pastry of Beelzebub into something like a slightly larger circle and flop it over the whole damn mess. Poke a hole in the top for form but it's hardly necessary given all the cracks the steam (and pie filling) can escape from. Now I somehow have to stick the top and bottom together. Milk. The application of a fork to try to adhere the edges results in the pastry sundering yet further and is abandoned. In the oven with the damn thing. Remember my mother's motto, "If at first you don't succeed, give up." I am never making another cherry pie ever again so long as I may live.
It goes without saying that my kitchen is by now a passable approximation of Armageddon.
You are complete and utter moron. You would fail a job interview to be a village idiot. You would be inducted into the Ancient and Deranged Order of the Cockwomble, except you'd be too thick to find your way to the ceremony even if it had a hundred foot high sign saying Deranged Order Of The Cockwomble Initiation Tonight and people set every ten yards to point you in the right direction. If you had another brain cell you'd still not manage a synapse because the one you have is a repurposed gut bacterium from a terminally flatulant Water Buffalo.
And, God give me strength, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here.
It's a wonder your density doesn't cause a black hole wherever you go.
Comments
I'm sorry, but it's just too funny.
"Grandchildren are your reward for having not killed your children."
Bishops Finger wrote in the TICH thread on All Saints: »
I did repel a double-glazing salesman's cold call by pointing out (in Dutch) that he was phoning a ship, and asking (in heavily-accented English) just where did he think he was going to put a conservatory?
of me really, as my landline number would give no indication as to what sort of property it was serving!
"When the devil whispers in your ear "you'll never survive this one", the only reasonable response is "get back 6 feet sh*t head!""
Made me laugh hard enough to spray coffee all over!
Rather like Our postillion has been struck by lightning.
It is not known who did it first but it is believed it was some tourist disappointed by the lack of trams.
(For the last cough-cough years my curiosity has been hugely piqued. What did they do? Why did nobody do it sooner? Why was there a lack of trams? Why does uncertainty surround the identity of the instigator?)
(No. 9 above has the mind boggling, too).
Somewhere in Suffolk there's a road sign that reads
FELIXSTOWE FOR THE CONTINENT
to which someone added:
FRINTON FOR THE INCONTINENT
[/tangent]
I hear Jimmy Durante's voice singing "The Song's Gotta Come from the Heart."
It just had to be preserved for posterity.
Would you like to know which book my quote came from? 🙂
Victoria Stillwell’s ‘Train Your Dog Positively’
I didn't realize she was into trig.
I've decided to reconcile myself to that euphemism [passed] by imagining that all of life was a long and difficult exam, and the person being discussed has finally passed. Good for them.
Thanks for sharing that here, @Lamb Chopped !!
Women are people, not panic-button encrusted mines, waiting to go off.