Okay now, this "face" job required I don one so thick I was like a soothing automaton of pure upper-class public service. Truly repulsive--felt like a pane of Plexiglas between me and my soul.
I live in Piltingdon, a beautiful hamlet located roughly sixty miles off of the edge of my roadmap. A place as quiet as it is remote, Piltingdon's local economy consists solely of our duck pond, into which people lose more money each year than NASA does on its rocket launches.
As I you may know, nobody lives forever. For those who don't, you?re going to die. No, that?s not a threat, so please refrain from a lawsuit (but if you must the average settlement is you kicking me in the nuts really hard).
I have given up on late night television. Sure, the programming sucks major smegma - there is only so much a person can tolerate of Jack, Janet, and Chrissy engaged in the 1970's version of comical misunderstanding, all at three o'clock in the morning - but that's not what I'm talking about.
Five years ago I submitted an article to CoN detailing how, during a bout of depression, I began a search for Mr. Muggs. Mr. Muggs, being the hero sheepdog of a series of books I read as a child at St.
I wrote these lyrics while planting trees up in Northern Ontario. Basically it's a song for people who like tree planting, and who also like The White Stripes.