One just needs to be a bit creative to give deep meaning to this fortune. Perhaps your friend has always wanted to go to bed with a Middle Eastern beauty with magnificant breasts. Then there’s the mystical “power of the pyramids”, which, among other things is reputed to prolong, um–well, anyway, it could be the cookie’s way of saying your friend wants a sustained relationship in bed. Or maybe he or she was marked for life at a tender age by seeing Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Cleopatra and now associates the ultimate is bedroom satisfaction with Egyptian pyramids.
Just saying’–don’t mess with the wisdom of the fortune cookie.
Unfortunately, there is neither a Mr. or a Ms. Winnie in my life right now. Just me and my cat. It’s sad, really. And, since **Welby ** broke my heart by being married and insisting on staying that way ( , just in case he shows up here), I guess I’ll just have to look into being a nun. It’s that or throw myself into a life of mindless debauchery. Tough choice, really.
TheFaeire should have clarified this. It is too early in the day for a beer before one has had one’s morning coffee. We all know that one must have coffee first. Following it with a beer chaser is, of course, perfectly acceptable.
BTW, I think “Nuns With Leather Chaps And Riding Crops” would be a great BAND NAME.
OK, take two - stoopit hamsters. Let’s try this again.
I got to ride in a limo once. I was a junior bridesmaid in my cousin Connie’s wedding when I was about 9 or 10. My brother was the ring bearer. We had to ride on the jumpseats, since we were the littlest. Still, it was a limo.
I don’t want fried hot dogs. The very thought clogs my arteries. Ick.
swampy, I watched the Twilight Zone on and off all weekend, too. Eerie, huh? :eek: :eek: :eek:
I just wanted to remind Ex that if there’s ever an MMP party, he offered to come pick me and Mr. Lissar up. We expect a jet-propelled car, with flamethrowers and a daquiri maker.
And poutine. I just ate some. Now I weigh eight hundred pounds.
Whee! I’m listening to a cd that Driving Husband lent us- it’s the latest Assemblage 23, Storm. Very bouncy EBM dance-y stuff.
I’m betting fried hot dogs would be nasty. I base this on the wicked bad fried twinkie I ate at the fair. Frying always makes things better I thought, then I ate a bite, blurgh. But I’d still try a fried hot dog, because you just gotta.
I have no limo experience at all. That’s okay, because I’m listening to Ween’s VooDoo Lady and now know that B is for Basil assaulted by bears. The screen thingy says that Ween is post-modern pop. Post-modern is a stupid term, because if modern is now (has to be, right?) then how can you be now and not the future if you’re post-modern? And if post-modern equals the future (because I say so) then how can you make music for now, in the future? Huh? Are you happy to see me or is that a time machine in your pocket?
Or maybe I should learn to read the japanese on the label of these candies before I eat any more of them. “Plum-blossom candy-- now with extra hallucinogens!”
Ashes, it gets even worse. I went to dictionary.com to look up postmodern…just to see what they say:
Of or relating to art, architecture, or literature that reacts against earlier modernist principles, as by reintroducing traditional or classical elements of style or by carrying modernist styles or practices to extremes: “It [a roadhouse]is so architecturally interesting… with its postmodern wooden booths and sculptural clock” (Ruth Reichl).
So now we’re throwing in the past (earlier modernist principles?!?) - sheesh.
Being involved with an artsy type, I had to bone up on WTF postmodern means, as well as dystopian (an imaginary place where people lead dehumanized and often fearful lives). This is why I like numbers, people.
Ha Swampy! I gots the book, a poster, and a t-shirt of them! Plus a watch of his suspicious neighbor (or something, looks like a long legged penguin with a scarf), another two t-shirts, all of his amphigoreys, and a desk calendar. Yes, I like Edward Gorey and boy does my mom know it. Every christmas she shows me.
But this is okay, because I would marry him. If he weren’t dead. And not particularily inclined to like either boys or girls when he was pre-deceased.
You should read The Curious Sofa. It’s terribly dirty and absolutely innocent. Now I will go a searchin’…
Well pooples, I can’t find the Curious Sofa on line. It might be because my security filter objects the the word ‘pornographic’ in the subtitle. Stupid dog! But come over to my house and we will sit on the floor and <snerk> over my copy whilst eating peanut butter crackers and sipping hot cocoa. Minimarshmallows anyone?
And scout, if you want your head to really spin, try dadaism. Not even the most pretentious artsy fartsy types can explain it so it doesn’t sound more than a little crazy.
F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech. My favorite! Lookit the little leech sneakin’ up on her!
, just in case he shows up here), I guess I’ll just have to look into being a nun. It’s that or throw myself into a life of mindless debauchery. Tough choice, really.