WTF, climate, it’s almost the end of April. The sun finally came out today, and the sky is blue. But it’s cold. It should be 65 degrees and breezy outside. May’s coming up, you fucker, now make some effort out there.
An advertisement for the Kantine bar in Augsburg, Germany. It’s a bar located in the abandoned American military base close to the town.
According to legend, the city was threatening to shut them down for years. Once, they even had a closing date. But they were given a reprieve. This postcard is an invitation to the celebration party.
It has been raining cats and dogs. And there are snails. Snails and slugs are everywhere. They creep around the garden at night, as expected. But they’re also shameless, flaunting themselves all throughout the day.
When I go out to smoke at night, there’s all too often the crunch underfoot, another escargot falls to the Croc, crushed to paste in his little home. I usually feel pretty bad about that.
Indeed, there’s a veritable snail plague underway over here in England. I guess one should expect it, with rain every day for a quarter-year straight. I’m alright with it, to be honest, they don’t bother me much. Except when I accidentally crunch them, that is. Then it kind of gets to me, makes me feel bad and clumsy.
But the little lady, she’s a gardener, and sees things a bit differently. Gardeners tend to have that ruthless, detached streak in them that you only otherwise see in serial killers and cattle farmers. If some creature might get in the way of their ultimate goal, be that a coat made of women’s skins or a milk quota, well, God help whatever that creature might be. Measures will be taken.
A couple of days ago, she decided it was time to spruce up the edges of the garden. Plants were bought, packed in little plastic grids, destined for a lifetime of loving care. For she’s a generous gardener. New homes were made for them, all along the boundaries, between the other flowers. There was just one problem: The snails would be coming, and everybody knew it. She knew it.
She brought more than tulips home from the garden shop that day. She brought snail pellets, little bright blue nuggets of horror that she could strew about the garden. They looked scary enough on their own, but there should have been a warning on the bottle. A warning to all, that it contained scenes of Armageddon, of the End Times.
Since that day, a week ago, the garden has become a charnel pit of loathing. A multitude of nails and slugs and gastropodes of all descriptions lie writhing in their own secretions outside my house at this very moment.
Whenever I dare venture outside, their blank little eyestalks stare up at me, quivering, begging my help yet hopeless of salvation, dying in a pool of slime that used to be their bodies. And they have lain there since the butchery began. Every day, there are new piles of empty shells scattered on the flagstones, settling down into the horrifying masses of goo, the remnants of dozens or even hundreds of the slugs and snails that were drawn to the Blue Death before them.
I hope her flowers survive, I really do. But I can’t help wonder: at what cost!
Looks like the little lady and I will be making a rare appearance at one of these here “blog” meetups. Looks like I’ll need to get my tux out of the mothballs and polish my spats.
Anybody coming who might still have my blog in their RSS feeds?
Taco Bell is being sued for using the word “beef” in the advertising for their “beef” tacos.
Now, I’m not one of these people who would eat a beef taco in any restaurant without expecting there to be actual, honest-to-jeebus beef or some kind in it. I’m just not that cynical. I expect things to be what they say and do as they’re told.
Careful analysis reveals, unfortunately, that Taco Bell’s “seasoned beef” filling is duplicitous and not worth your trust:
“Taco Bell’s definition of ‘seasoned beef’ does not conform to consumers’ reasonable expectation or ordinary meaning of seasoned beef, which is beef and seasonings,” the suit says. Beef is the “flesh of cattle,” according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture.
Dear me. We should have seen this coming. Nevertheless, I feel unaffected as I haven’t eaten at the Bell in years, and even then I was usually enjoying the (relatively harmless) Bean Burrito, with added sour cream to ensure receiving bespoke food items (Taco Bell ProTip).
So now we’re left wondering: If it ain’t beef. What is it then?
A second opinion may not be exactly what you’re looking for. What for you is flawless and sublime might be unremarkable to those whose opinions matter to you. They might find the object of your opinions quaint, lackluster, or, worst of all, not worth commenting upon.
These things can be borne somewhat when the knowledge is yours alone. This is why you must carefully consider with whom you’re going to share your likes and your dislikes. Or anything, really.
Take a good, long look before speaking.
My god sits in the back of the limousine
My god comes in a wrapper of cellophane
My god pouts on the cover of the magazine
My god’s a shallow little bitch trying to make the scene
I have arrived and this time you should believe the hype
I listened to everyone now i know that everyone was right
I’ll be there for you as long as it works for me
I play a game
It’s called insincerity
I am every fucking thing and just a little more
I sold my soul but don’t you dare call me a whore
And when i suck you off not a drop will go to waste
It’s really not so bad you know once you get past the taste, yeah
All our pain
How did we ever get by without you?
You’re so vain
I bet you think this song is about you
Now i belong i’m one of the chosen ones
Now i belong i’m one of the beautiful ones