Another year of words has passed us by.
Last year we took a look at the year’s best from Words For My Enjoyment according to me. And now, here we sit (or stand, or crouch, or half-kneel/crouch) by the computer with another 400+ posts in the hopper.
For new WFME readers and those who have stood by in the past two and a half years — I give you, yet again, a look back at some of the best that ever was, ever has been, ever will be and ever can be. (By the way, I’m shedding a tear as I write this.)
WFME’s Best Of…
My Impression of a Doorbell Will So Fool You
Here’s a riddle for you.
When does Friday not seem like a Friday but it’s really a Friday but when someone tries to convince you that it’s not really Friday when it really is the Friday in question, when does it…you know…do that?
The answer of course should keep you busier than a woodchuck doing cartwheels on the top of an SUV going forty in the slow lane of a freeway while I, instead, present to you the very last “Words For Your Enjoyment” of 2005 — where you provide the idea, and I provide the elbow grease.
There’s a reason why America is falling behind the rest of the world.
There’s a reason why the children of the United States are often less educated, more oblivious, extremely stupid, fantastically fantasy-driven, unrealistic, unmotivated and completely uninterested in bettering themselves for the betterment of a better country, better-or-not.
And it can all be traced to balloon animals.
Go to a birthday party in America and tell me what you see. Children, wide-eyed, staring vacantly at clowns and other silly adult-like figures turning their faces red (and potentially giving themselves hernias) as they try to blow air into a long, narrow piece of rubber. Gazing, almost trance-like, as stupid adults twist and turn the rods of colorful death (as I like to call them) into a limited list of six very uninspiring, uncreative, unmotivational objects that include (and ARE limited to):
You may hate me for saying this.
You may become disgusted and horrified and completely frustrated with my opinions here today. You may want to fashion a voodoo doll of sorts with my sparklingly-attractive head-shot (that has obviously been photoshopped) and stick pins in my nether region because of the opinion I want to share with you here today.
But it cannot stop me from telling you that if I happened to go down in a plane crash with a bunch of strangers and we all landed on, oh I don’t know, a desert island or something and you died — I would refuse to go to your funeral.
Apparently, and I had no idea about this — you are not allowed to bring a portable hot-plate on a commercial airline.
Had I lived in the time of hunting/gathering where I was responsible for hunting, killing and providing food for me and my family — any steps necessary would be acceptable in doing so. But when I am faced with a four hour flight from Chicago to San Francisco on which there is no food whatsoever — I am told it is illegal to bring my food-preparation object of choice (i.e. my metaphorical deadly spear) — the portable hot plate.
I will find a loop hole for this rule. I promise you.