There's a question as to whether this is real or a sham, but if it isn't real here, it is in some alternate universe. Because it's funny.

Note that on the website, there is a notice that they have made contact with Jenny. So we'll soon know.

I'm guessing everyone has likely seen this photo already, but oh well. I think it's cute.




The story behind the snap here.

Despair Inc makes laptop skins now.

It's like potato chips. I can't pick just one...

Courtesy of Jim Macdonald, by way of sazettel:

Things I Learned from British Folk Ballads
by Jim Macdonald

Don't ignore warnings. If someone tells you to beware of Long Lankin, friggin' beware of him. If someone tells you not to go by Carterhaugh, stay away. Same goes for your mother asking you not to go out hunting on a particular day. Portents about weather, particularly when delivered by an old sailor who is not currently chatting up a country maid, are always worth heeding.

A farmer in Redhill, Great Britain, built a castle, then hid it behind hay bales. He skirted some zoning regs, it seemed, and tried to take advantage of a loophole by hiding his castle for four years, after which he thought it would be grandfathered in. Or something.

The council wants the building near Redhill some 30 km south of London to be demolished, along with an associated conservatory, marquee structure, wooden bridge, patio, decking and tarmac racecourse.

"It looks like a mock-Tudor house from the front and it's got two turrets at the back," the spokeswoman said. "I understand there is also a cannon."

Working...

The report is due tomorrow at 0900. Some things don't wait. The news reports don't matter. Fewer and fewer of us showing up at the office? Doesn't matter. The roads must roll. Meetings go on. The investors demand. The vice presidents.

I string the last bone, then knot the end of the string, and tie the necklace around my neck. Small skulls. Wishbones. One bag of birdseed and an air rifle and an afternoon. Mom's old stockpot. The kitchen stinks, and I don't dare open the windows. Night is falling and that's when they're the most active. The stench would draw them all, and I only need one of them. One in particular...

From my home office, the sounds of a keyboard. Morry. What's left of Morry. It enters the data. Makes the tables, the charts. Even after all that happened, all it's been through, it still remembers Excel.

I spread the feathers over the living room floor. The bones click as I move. I begin the chant. The internet never ceases to amaze. Someone had scanned the books, the old parchments. There were even clips on You Tube, so I could see the dance being performed. Hear the songs.

Lena's out there, somewhere. The Queen of StatGraphics. She could make the numbers sing any tune you wanted.

The report is due tomorrow at 0900.

Come to me...


BLITEOTW

All jpsorrow's fault, by way of difrancis.

Who would I kill?

1) that person in the checkout line who doesn't pull out their checkbook until the checker gives them their total

2) drivers who do not use their turn indicators

3) drivers who wait to turn on their turn indicators until they are into the turn

4) other drivers, period. couldn't I just pick 'em off at random, just to keep the rest on their toes and off my ass?

5) female announcers with squeaky voices. Lauren Bacall learned to modulate, and so should you.

Not that I have a PhD that requires expunging, but it's good to know that services such as these are available if required.

LETTER FROM WAL-MART

( swiped from Susan Shwartz's SFFNet group )