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The Dog Ate My Serial

on September 11, 2007

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Episode 8.

The Dog Ate My Serial

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Blogs Never Truly Die or Who Even is Lloyd Cole

I was reading a book about a woman with a blog when the message arrived. Please restart your blog . Lloyd Cole. Housemartins . The message was not sent by Lloyd Cole of the Houesmartins. It remains unclear to me why Lloyd Cole was mentioned but I'm assuming it has something to do with drinking. The message could have been mystical, except that it was incorrect. Blogs never truly die. I admit writing on my blog is not something I ordinarily do, but it does still exist. See - here it is. I can't restart what never stopped. It slowed, sure, slowed to the pace of a pre-global-warming glacier, but it exists. It atrophied, and much like my person became ridiculous with age, but it didn't stop. Blogging is not a thing I will admit in public to have ever done, despite the many perks, friends, and "career" opportunities it has made possible across the years. Blogging, like American court-sanctioned misogyny, is something one ought to be heartily ashamed of and stop doin

Help!

aeon Bhumibol Adulyadej cereal djibouti eye Felindre gnarled hermes iacocca (as in iacocca foundation) jarlsberg knife llanfairpwllgwyngyll mnemonic Ngaliema Mountain oedipal pseudonym quesadillas Rzeszow shilling tsetse urn voortrekker writer xylophone ytterbium zwitterion

Are trains electric?

It was curious but I found myself to be nervous. At first I was unsure as to why I was covered in a light sheen of sweat, had a heightened awareness of sound and a general inability to finish my piece of banana bread but it soon became clear that I was nervous. I harbor no real desire to become a train driver, my motivation for undertaking this lengthy and trying process is more complex and unreasonable than the jurisprudence of equity, and I think you might find that equity has more to do with reasons for taking train driver tests than you first thought. I was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, to find myself standing in a crowd of men dressed in their smart casual best. Their hideous hair was tied back, gelled down or spike upwards. They all wore pale button up shirts,ill fitting trousers and awful shoes. Somebody else had ironed their shirts. There were about 170 of us, we were herded, inspected, marked off on lists. I was not uncomfortable, not once the pencils came out

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Yes I hate you you were right all along. I love you (c) Dale Slamma