Now this is my kind of online gene sequencing company.
Autotuned the cat because he won’t shut up in the mornings. I don’t know how this helps but I did it anyway.
Brian and Nick are back for the first time in, like, forever. Do you remember what happened before this? It was The Faux Pas, two years ago. And before that? And before that? And before that? The short of it is that it’s been a long time since your mom’s butthole was just fine.
(5) As soon as the ceremony was over, people were directed to another area for a wine reception. I slipped away to the bathroom with @AimieRocks, who was helping with my make-up. I shaved off the beard, did my face, got into the clown suit, and pounded one of the 40oz’s.(8) I accidentally shattered a few wine glasses, but I gotta say I brought a real JOVIAL DRUNK CLOWN vibe to the whole affair, so people embraced me pretty quickly, even though I kept drinking their wine.(9) Except for Laura’s dad, who called for security to escort me out. She had to tell him that I was AN OFFICIAL MEMBER OF THE WEDDING PARTY.
Best Man ☑️
Maid of Honor ☑️
Drunk Clown ☑️(10) At some point, we must have gone into the vineyard to take those photos in the original tweet up above, but honestly I was so drunk that I don’t remember taking them.
Anyway, I told you there wasn’t much backstory. It was an awesome wedding. <end>(12) OMG okay so I guess I have to make a SECOND ADDENDUM because @AimieRocks just emailed me some more photos from the wedding. Adding them to this thread…(13) What I wore to the wedding ceremony. (That’s not my hat, that’s @AimieRocks‘s hat, I’m *not* a hat person but wearing it made me feel like Diane Keaton.) Posting these photos so you can see the beard I had before my clown transformation. I shaved that thing off SO QUICKLY.Marvin just joined twitter to tell me that’s his mom I’m hugging in the third photo in this tweet. I’M SORRY, MARVIN. But welcome to twitter. xo(17) ADDENDUM #3: @MarvinSolomon8 just texted me the name of their wedding photographer. Shoutout to SAMUEL POTTER PHOTOGRAPHY in Paso Robles. Here’s his website:
He took the three vineyard photos & obviously has a great eye. THANK YOU SAMUEL POTTER.I was at a party this afternoon and an old friend introduced me to his wife, then told her: “honey, this is the drunk clown I told you about.”
Hello, you have reached the Toddler Feelings Helpline. Please choose from the following options:
— If Mama went to the store for a minute but you are pretty sure she’s never coming back, please mash all of the keys but mostly 1.
— If you still feel pretty messed up about how they were just going to burn the Velveteen Rabbit, please mash all of the keys but mostly 2.
— If you don’t like the way your shirt is right now, please hit a sibling for no reason.
So, a shipment of crickets for the lizard arrived via FedEx today. It was my first time ordering bulk crickets off the internet, and I naively assumed that they would be in like, a bag or some other contraption to facilitate easy transfer to another container. They were not.
They were in a cardboard box. And I cut the tape and opened the box and SURPRISE! Crickets everywhere. It was the middle of the workday and I didn’t have time to deal with cricket logistics, so I put the tape back on the box.
And then I put the box in the upstairs bathroom, the only semi-contained place in the house where I knew the kids and the cats and the dogs wouldn’t be able to get at the box and tear it open and unleash 250 hungry crickets into our warm, semi-humid environment.
About 20 minutes later I’m back at work on my computer, and I hear my wife in the kitchen: “where are these goddamn crickets coming from.” I freely admit I had not kept her fully up-to-date on my cricket purchasing plans.
And at first I was like “okay, maybe one or two got out when I initially opened the box. No biggie.” I kept working.
With the benefit of hindsight, this was a mistake.
I’m trying to wrap up a story but I keep hearing cricket-related exclamations coming from the kitchen. Eventually I get up to investigate. I say, “So uh the crickets got here toda–”
“I REALIZE THAT,” she says. “WHY ARE THEY ALL OVER THE KITCHEN”
I say “That’s a good question. Let me check something.” I walk over to the bathroom. I open the door. There are crickets. Everywhere.
Crickets on the floor. Crickets on the walls. Crickets in the sink. Crickets in the toilet.
For some reason my first instinct is to flush the toilet, as if that will do anything to solve the problem of crickets in all the other places that were not the toilet. I shut the door. “Uh, don’t come in here!” I try to sound cheerful.
Apparently I had not sealed the box shut as well as I should have. I ended up rushing out to the shed, in the 18″ of snow and below zero temperatures, to pick up a spare aquarium we had. I spent about 45 minutes collecting crickets from the bathroom.
Of course by this point many had migrated elsewhere. They were in the closet. In the shoes. Making their way downstairs to the playroom. The cats were having what I can only imagine was the greatest day of their lives.
I tried to collect all of them. It was like the world’s shittiest game of Pokemon. But here we are, roughly 10 hours after the initial catastrophe, and stray crickets are still turning up in odd places.
I make this information public because if I do not send any tweets tomorrow, it is because my wife murdered me after finding a cricket in our bed in the middle of the night.
And that’s the news from Red Lake Falls.
Good afternoon everyone.
I’m pleased to report that I’m still alive, and that my marriage is still intact! You all had so much fun with this that my editor made me turn it into a story, which I present to you here, as a sort of director’s cut of this thread.
To all you monsters who demanded photos of the infestation: believe it or not, while a horde of crickets was marauding through my house I did not think to whip out my phone and start snapping pics
I mean, can you imagine?
Wife: THERE’S A CRICKET IN MY PUMPKIN PIE
Me: This is tremendous content, where’s my phone
But I’m glad you all enjoyed our suffering, we’ve been laughing our asses off at your responses all day which almost makes it all worth it. To my new followers, I look forward to disappointing you in 2019.
Speaking as somebody who’s previously managed to accidentally infest a house with crickets, I feel this guy’s pain. We tried to ignore ours, thinking that they’d die out in the winter, but instead they just huddled into the warmest, least-accessible places in the house, such as under the fireplace and the fridge-freezer, and continued their incessant chirping. It was only when we started putting down ant poison that we began to bring the plague under control.
NEW YORK — Stocks gained momentum on Monday, with the Dow Jones Industrial Average closing up 48 points, reversing losses from last week’s decline.
Experts hailed both moves as a “remarkable, textbook example of pure statistical chance,” chalking up Monday’s gains to a couple random marginal buyers being slightly more motivated than a few random marginal sellers.
“Imagine you pick 1 million random people from around the world every day,” said Toby McDade, chief investment officer of Momentum Fee Capital Management. “Some days, 51% would be in a good mood, 49% in a bad mood. The next day maybe it’s the opposite. Other days, random chance could mean 8% of people are really pissed off for no real reason. This is basically what the market is on a day-to-day basis,” he said.
Satire, obviously, but it might as well not be. I’ve long maintained that nobody, not even (and perhaps especially) economists, understand economics. It’s a fundamentally chaotic system and at best your years of training and practice on the stock market will give you the edge over a layperson; the fact that some people appear to be doing better is most-often a result of the fact that those who’ve been lucky historically are more-likely to stay in the game for long enough for you to observe how lucky they’ve been (I’m reminded of the old “tipster scam” where a scammer would send guesses as horse racing tips for free, and then to the people to whom the scammer had by chance sent good tips they’d charge for future tips, with increasing cost for the punter the more times the scammer had gotten lucky by chance).
But enough of my ranting. Go read this funny article.
“We would have been overjoyed if that many people actually turned up.”
Remember Threatin? Earlier this year, this guy and his band played a European tour to… basically nobody. He’d faked having a successful US career, record deal, etc. and persuaded a handful of session musicians to tour with him to venues to whom he’d promised that a significant number of tickets had sold in advance. And it was all a lie.
The Beeb managed to secure an interview with him and he’s now claiming that this was his plan all along. I don’t buy it, but maybe. In any case, it’s an interesting glimpse behind the curtain and into the mind of this strange, strange man.
A Louisiana woman’s unusual Christmas decorations have inadvertently ignited a beef on her street—because they’ve apparently got her boring-ass neighbors worried that she’s a member of a “demonic cult.”
Author Diana Rowland just wanted to celebrate the spirit of the holiday season by, naturally, setting up a bunch of inflatable dragons on her front yard. Of course, dragons are an appropriate and welcome addition to a lawn at any time of the year, bringing a nice Khaleesi vibe to an otherwise routine patch of grass—but one neighbor wasn’t having it.
Rowland took to Twitter last Friday to post an anonymous letter one of her dragon-hating Grinch neighbors left, calling her decorations “totally inappropriate” and laying on some very thick self-righteous trash about “the true meaning of Christmas.”
Just glorious. The real joy of this story is that after the owner of all the dragons posted online about them (and about the snotty note she’d received from her anonymous neighbour) she quickly received donations allowing her to expand her lawntop collection of the beasts, so now there’s even more of them.
Not Christmassy enough for you yet, anonymous neighbour? Perhaps she can be persuaded to, I don’t know, construct some kind of nativity scene with them or something…
Set a timer. Cook the eggs for precisely three minutes and not a second longer.
Everyone thinks they have a sense of how time passes, but it’s crucial to use a timer. You are never as right as you think. Three minutes goes by more quickly than you expect. Six years even quicker.
Good instructions for poaching eggs. Also for leaving a marriage, for all I know. Surprisingly strong parallels between the two.
One man – who appears to be afraid of chickens – plays Toto’s Africa on a rubber chicken, with backup from a real chicken. Congratulations: if you watched this, you just won the whole damn Internet.
The Prime Minister’s New Bill
Once there lived a Prime Minister, and she loved to wear clothes made of strong international relations. One day a Swindler came to the Prime Minister and he promised that he could equip her with clothes of the best and strongest international relations. The Swindler claimed that all the people of the realm loved the new material he was producing, and the Prime Minister was delighted. She appointed a man to be in charge of ensuring that the Swindler did the job he had promised, and then she got back to her important work.
Her man soon reported to her a most alarming fact: the Swindler wasn’t at his loom. He was just sitting in the pub, sipping distinctly-English beers and seemingly making no progress on the bill at all. The Prime Minister was alarmed, but didn’t say anything: after all, she would soon be on the way to wearing clothes of the most beautiful and strong international relations. Besides, she’d been promised that all the people loved the new material that the Swindler worked with. So she appointed a second man and asked him to keep an eye on the Swindler, instead.
The second man checked in on the Swindler, and then reported that the Swindler still wasn’t weaving. The Prime Minister challenged the Swindler, but he claimed that he’d had car trouble while returning from France, where he’d been acquiring supplies, and would be getting back to his work soon. Clearly the second man had been too hasty in his judgement, so the Prime Minister appointed a third, who’d surely be less-judgemental as he saw the job through.
The third man checked on the Swindler, and discovered that while he was at his loom, he didn’t seem to be working at all and the loom stood bare. “The Prime Minister is concerned,” said the man “That no progress has been made whatsoever on her new clothes of strong international relations.”
“But progress has been made,” said the Swindler, “Can’t you see? I promised the Prime Minister that I would weave, and weave means weave! I am making clothes of the finest international relations; they’re made out of a Bill so lightweight and flimsy that it’s almost invisible. Only the cleverest of people can see it.” The Swindler reached into the loom and scooped his arm under the place where the fabric should appear, and raised it to show the third man.
“Ah yes,” said the third man, “I can see it.” But the third man could not see the Prime Minister’s new strong international relations.
Soon the clothes were ready, and the Swindler brought them to the Prime Minister to try on. She seemed confused at first: where were the clothes? But then the swindler explained: “These clothes are made of the finest international relations, in the fashion that is most-popular with the people,” he said. “Only the most-intelligent of people can see how beautiful, how elegant, how economically-viable they are!”
“Oh!” said the Prime Minister, and examined her new clothes. “I… um… see you’ve put a lot of work into stitching the hem: these borders will surely be well-protected.”
The Prime Minister tried on her new clothes, and observed that they were so light that she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be seen wearing these new clothes because they made her feel naked and vulnerable, but she didn’t want people to think that she was stupid by confessing that she couldn’t see them. She resolved to show them to everybody she could find.
First she went to her Cabinet. “Do you like my beautiful new clothes?” she asked, “They’re made of strong international relations, and only the cleverest of people can see them!” And her Cabinet all nodded and said that yes, of course they liked them. But they could not see the beautiful new clothes. (It’s worth noting that half a dozen of them walked out at this point without saying a word.)
The Prime Minister went to see the Old People, and she said, “Do you like my beautiful new clothes? They’re made of strong international relations, but only clever people can see them.”
“Yes, they’re wonderful,” said the Old People. But they could not see the strong international relations.
The Prime Minister went to talk to the Emperor of America, and she said “Do you like my beautiful new clothes? They’re made of strong international relations, but only clever people can see them.”
The Emperor of America looked the Prime Minister up and down, and made a strange face that made the Prime Minister suspect that the Emperor didn’t even WANT to see the strong international relations, but he said: “Yes, they’re great clothes. The best clothes.” But the Emperor of America could not see the strong international relations.
The Prime Minister went to talk to the Racists, and she said “Do you like my beautiful new clothes? They’re made of strong international relations, but only clever people can see them.”
“Yes, they’re fantastic,” said the Racists, and they genuinely meant it, because they’d already persuaded themselves that because the new clothes had been made in their own country they were inherently superior to any clothes that might have been made by foreigners. But still, they had to admit, they couldn’t actually see any strong international relations nor did they want to.
The Prime Minister went to talk to the Under Thirties, and she said “Do you like my beautiful new clothes? They’re made of strong international relations, but only clever people can see them.”
The Under Thirties stared at Prime Minister, and then looked at each other, and then looked back at the Prime Minister. “You’re not WEARING any clothes,” they said. And the Prime Minister knew that they were right.
JUST LEARNED THERE ARE 16 OUNCES IN A POUND AND I AM FUCKING LIVIDSIXTEEN???WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF NUMBER IS THAT
i have had no reason to actually look into imperial measurements until now and frankly i immediately regret it finding this out it makes some sense though because a pound is defined as being 7000 grains so that makes each ounce a nice round…
437.5 grainsand then, oh my word, oh my fucking actual god
GUESS HOW MANY POUNDS THERE ARE IN A STONEyou’ll never get it, it would be fucking impossible to guess thisTHERE ARE FOURTEEN POUNDS IN A STONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!THAT’S A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FUCKING NUMBER! FYI!!!!THERE’S LITERALLY NO WAY TO KNOW HOW MANY OUNCES ARE IN A STONE!! NO-ONE CAN KNOW THIS “but innes you can just multiply up the fourteen by sixteen and you’ll g-“NOMATHS HAS CLEARLY ABANDONED US. NUMBERS MEAN NOTHING AT THIS POINTWHAT THE FUCK KIND OF ANTIQUATED JOKE SYSTEM ARE PEOPLE WORKING WITHmy mum: wow count yourself lucky you only need to learn your 10 times tables, when i was a kid we had to go up to 12me, a child: oh, for weights and stuff?mum, a liar: sureTURNS OUT NO-ONE ON THE PLANET IS TRAINED TO WORK WITH THESE FUCKED UP NUMBERS. THEY JUST MAKE STUFF UP. NO-ONE KNOWS HOW MUCH A POUND IS BECAUSE IF THEY’D EVER USED THIS BULLSHIT SYSTEM THERE WOULD BE RIOTSand then how many ounces go in a cup?WHICH FUCKING CUP, AMERICA
HOW DO YOU ALL OWN THE SAME SIZE OF CUP
WHO HAS A MONOPOLY ON THE ONE GOOD CUP SIZEPRESUMABLY THIS IS JUST STRAIGHT UP BULLSHIT TOO TO COVER FOR THE FACT THAT NO-ONE KNOWS HOW MANY ANY QUANTITY OF ANYTHING IS
me: so, the recipe calls for 2 lbs 3 oz of flour, you got that?
you: uhhhh, sure. yeah. that’s like… 3 cups, probably. this is a great system.
THEN WE HIT THE BIG NUMBERSPRESUMABLY. I ASSUME THAT’S THE ORDER WE’RE GOING INthough judging from american dates IT IS KINDA HARD TO TELLso what’s heavier, a ton of feathers or a ton of gold?IT’S THE TON OF GOLD BECAUSE UNDER IMPERIAL MEASUREMENTS THESE ARE COMPLETELY FUCKING DIFFERENT SCALESSEE ALSO: WOOL, COINS, MYSTERY ENGLISH ILLEGAL POUND, MISCELLANEOUSTHE ONE JOKE WHICH MAKES IT CLEAR THAT MASS IS A UNIVERSAL METHOD OF COMPARISON REGARDLESS OF MATERIAL HAS NO BEARING ON THE FUCKED UP BIZARRO WORLD OF YESTERDAY THAT IS THE IMPERIAL SYSTEMI AM 30 YEARS OLDI’VE GONE MY WHOLE FUCKING LIFE BELIEVING THE IMPERIAL SYSTEM WAS DIFFERENT, SURE, BUT I THOUGHT IT HAD AT LEAST SOME GROUNDING IN REALITYbut NOI AM SO ANGRY RIGHT NOWI CANT UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’VE DONE THIS TO ME
but if anyone tells me anything other than one hundred here I am tearing this entire fucking place to the ground
Have you ever wondered how many pounds are in a hundredweight? That’s an actual name of an actual measure. Go on, guess.oh my sweet jesus
OF FUCKING COURSE IT DOES
WHY WOULD WORDS MEAN ANYTHING ANY MORETHIS IS WHY IM NOT TAKING ANY OF YOUR SHIT WHEN YOU TRY AND TELL ME FAHRENHEIT IS A MORE LOGICAL SYSTEMHOW MANY FAHRENHEIT ARE IN A CUPi cant take this right now im going for a fucking walkeveryone is just saying terrible number conversions at me i hate thistrying to get to sleep but all i can hear is your voices chanting “pints a pound the world around” over and over in my brainPints A Pound The World Aroundi still don’t entirely know what it means but I am 100% fucking sure it’s not even trueim not sure anything is true any more
At the moment at which he described the machine’s success, I completely lost it.