C: [Knocks on door.]
Man: [Opens door]
C: [Rubs against door frame, licks ass. Looks at person who let him in]
Man: Hi.
C: [Eyes get enormous. Flinches, cowers. Crouches, ready to flee.]
Man: Oh, calm down, would you?

C: [Takes a step back, then another]
Man: It’s only a haircut. It’s still me. See? [Smiles, shrugs.]
C: [Cowers, with a very serious expression on face.]
Man: What is it with you and heads, anyway? Whenever my head changes it freaks you out. I wear a hat and you have a heart attack. It’s just a haircut, dude.
C: [Jumps straight up and darts under kitchen table when man raises hand and runs fingers through short, stubbly hair. C's eyes glow in dark.]
Man: Sorry, was that a threatening motion? You and heads.

C: [Flinches, ready to run]
Man: BOOGABOOGA! GRAAAAGGHH!

Ever notice how the coefficient of friction of spaghetti noodles is lower when you are dining with a charming Romanian diplomat, making them* harder to keep on your fork? Why is that?

Ever notice how, when you drive some VIPs somewhere in the Mercedes, and they were already joking about you because *they* had to give *you* directions, when you get out and press the button on the keys to lock the door, the trunk lid pops open instead?

*the noodles

Unfortunately, the recent amnesty for irregular immigration to the United States does not apply to you if you are a talented, popular piano teacher with all your family — including husband and small child — in the United States and none back in Russia, and you were tricked by a former boyfriend into making false and even fraudulent statements in your immigration papers.

The letter of the law says she has to return to a life that no longer exists. This is really sad. I urge the authorities to let her stay, and I urge “mainstream” “media” to look further into her story.

[Via Vex]

Neat way to waste 45 seconds or so.

We’re about two weeks, just a couple decent catastrophes — asteroid strike, plague, ice age, starlet die-off — from hunting and gathering. Our so-called “civilization” is that fragile, buddy, and don’t you forget it.

Two weeks of collapse, then the milk-man stops coming around. No more junk mail. Heating with the last of the firewood, then the furniture. Two weeks, then all the meat in the stores is spoiled. All the good cereal is off the shelves. The bananas are brown — although the genetically-modified tomatoes still look fine, until you slice one open and red mush oozes out.

Two weeks in a nice warm house until thick-necked thugs come around and kick you out. Two weeks until you realize maybe a gun would have been a good idea because all you have in the cellar is a pointy stick and how much game you going to catch with that? It’s too dull to stick into an animal, even if you could sneak up on one.

No, you’re reduced to running over animals with the car, until you run out of fuel.

“What, dad, dog again?”

“You think you’re unhappy, you should have seen the lady on the other end of the leash.”

“Save me any?”

“Nah, she was way too lean.”

Two weeks, and you’re trying to explain to someone not only what a blog was, but what the Internet was.

“What, you mean you wrote hundreds of pages of wonderful texts? So where are they?”

“Eh, stored on servers somewhere in California, I believe.”

“California, I heard of that.”

“Stored in the form of magnetic patterns or something.”

“Hey, nice stick.”

Leftist propaganda.