Dude and dudettes, I do believe I've used up all my funny-juice. No, don't be disgusting, I don't mean that kind of funny-juice, I mean the kind that makes me amusing even when I'm not drunk. I've never been drunk, so I can't honestly say I'm a funny drunk, but let's just assume that I am for the sake of this post, shall we? It could well be that I'm an angry drunk, or a lush drunk, or maybe even a drunk drunk, but since we'll never know, we're just going to have to pretend. Pretending is using our ima-gi-nation, you know, the thing I used to make you all up, my dear figments.

I'm finding it very difficult to be amusing or have anything amusing to write about. Perhaps it's because I have yet to switch into summer gear, or it could just be that I was never funny to begin with and it's finally dawning on me. In fact, nothing funny has happened to me in days. Stubbing ones toes, almost falling down a flight of stairs, and being Shanghaied do not count as funny.


Oh little piggy.

My house smells like sausage, yet,
I have eaten none.

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