Go wish Huw some luck as he attempts to ingest a gallon of milk in an hour.
Here’s what happened to me when I did it.
Archive for October 27th, 2005
1) “Waiter?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s this dragon doing in my soup?”
“It looks like early nineties indie rock.”
Ha ha ha. I was listening to the aforementioned band on the way to work this morning, and I suddenly heard a siren fast approaching. I swiveled my head around to see where it was coming from before I realized that those tricky Scottish bastards had pulled a fast one on me. Touche.
2) When I got to work, I watched a woman get out of her car and close the door with the keys in the ignition and the engine running. She must have had something on her mind. So I hit her with my Corolla.
I’m just kidding.
I drive a Tercel.
3) The pants I’m wearing today are pretty much the greatest pants in the world. Say what you want about Tommy Hilfiger (that he’s a racist, that he exploits workers overseas, that he uses underage women in sexually suggestive and potentially abusive poses and situations to market his wares, that he invests heavily in the secret government project to clone the devil and use his clones to create the most destructive army the world has ever seen, that he has gold-plated bidets that squirt chocolate-flavored soy milk installed in all his stores just in case he decides to stop in and has to use the bathroom) but he makes a hella fine pair of pants.
I got mine at Value City (holla PLD!) for like 9 bucks, and I think the number that they blacked out on the tag was 45 hojillion dollars and 95 cents, so I paid an extremely reduced price.
The pants feel like they were broken in by my identical, evil twin. They fit like a sock. A tube sock. Get your mind out of the gutter. Furthermore, I may have mentioned to you before that I frequently make my daily dalliances sans undergarments. Today is no exception. Yet these pants have some sort of special built in section of fabric so that my delicate bits have all the warming comfort of boxers, but none of the restriction.
In conclusion, I will kill you if you try to take my pants, and I think my pants are probably built for killing, what with Tommy Hilfiger’s predilection of sacrificing the first-born children of his employees.
