While this is a good example of satire…

…it also effectively reduces my interest in ever visiting a restaurant ever again, even in the absence of a pandemic. I don’t think that’s what was intended.

For some reason (and this post will probably make it worse), social media have been slamming me with ads for model rockets. Maybe they’re digging way, way back into our commercial history, because I was last personally into them back in junior high — the early ’70s. I do have to admit, though, that these latest models look pretty sweet and tempt me into trying.

I’d probably face the same problem I did in junior high, though: I’d scrimp and save to buy a model to fuss over, and then I’d have no money to buy the engines you need to launch them. There were also all these accessories you needed, like an ignition system and a launch pad, and I couldn’t afford that, either.

Oh, well. Just mentioning this ancient interest means that Big Brother will helpfully dig up all kinds of pretty pictures of spaceships to sprinkle into my mentions. That works for me! Especially if they displace all the crappy ads for insrnce and fnerl services and mle enhncem*nt services I usually get.

Those of you who tuned into my youtube livestream yesterday know that the presentation was terrible — the audio was thoroughly screwed up. I think I fixed the problem now, though, so I’m going to test my setup tonight at 9pm, and just open the floor to any questions. If no one shows up and I only do an audio recording test, that’s fine too.

My wife is obsessed with our lawn, and I hate it. She sends me out to mow the stupid useless thing in the morning, a task made even more difficult because it’s covered with dew-speckled webs, and I have to destroy them.

It’s like a regular village out there, with all these little spider homes everywhere. And if you look closely…is that a hobbit hole?

Surely it is. It’s gone now, though — I scoured this little shire thoroughly, and now it’s just a wasteland of stubby, wounded grass weeping volatile semiochemicals into the air, the grieving survivors rallying and swearing to rebuild and maybe planning their vengeance.

Against me. Am I the implacable, inscrutable monster in this scenario? Would Sauron have felt a sense of relief when the oppressed rose up and destroyed him? I don’t think I would have minded if a swarm of spiders had scurried up to end my reign of terror.

I just returned from the optometrist, and it’s the last piece of the ensemble I need to complete the look.

I don’t know why Charles is hovering over my shoulder like that, but he keeps whispering, “Turn to the Dark Side!”

In addition to spawning a swarm of cute spider babies yesterday, I wish to announce that my oldest human spawn is having a birthday today. He’s cute, too. I think he’s turning…11? Maybe 12? I’ve lost track. Anyway,

Happy Birthday, Alaric!

Speaking of cute, another long experiment in genetics is developing nicely. The grandchildren are demonstrating that their grandfather’s homely genes have been successfully fully repressed, and only the maternal beauty genes are being expressed.

I’m beginning to wonder if my wife reproduced parthenogenetically, because these grandkids are too adorable to be mine.

More like Mickey Rat, am I right?

And that poor child’s name was Roy Cohn. He was never the same afterwards.