Instead of Yelling at the Television by Charlie Rogers

Sometimes you just want to try something new.

Last week I embarked on a project – growing a beard – and tonight, instead of trimming the Christmas tree I never bought, I trimmed my new beard. The electric clipper vibrated too close to my ear, drew blood, and snagged a chunk of my hair. So tonight I also shaved my whole head. It’s fine. Waiting to go bald is exhausting. Now bristly black stubble covers my head and I resemble a mugshot on the news.

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Week 266 – Eleven Stages Of Being (A Marshmallow), Respect Due To Connie Francis And Hooch Makes A Cracking Shandy.

Here we are once again guys.

I was wondering about our physical development time line. I think it went something like:

Baby. Toddler. Kid. Teenager. Adult.

Now-a-days we have:

Baby. Toddler. Pre-School. Young child. Older child. Pre-Teen. Young teenager. Teenager. Older teenager. Young adult. Adult.

This is very apparent in attitudes, as in, it takes the fuckers a helluva lot longer to grow up.

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The Ragged Frenchman by Matthew J. Richardson

Here! Follow my voice! Over here, I say! For God’s sake, man, come over to the fire. What in heaven’s name are you doing, out in such a storm? Come and warm yourself before you freeze where you stand. There, it is only a whistling nook amidst the snow and the cruel wind, but it affords us some small respite and the luxury of civilised conversation. Here we will wait for a break in the weather.  I would share with you a morsel, but I have none. Rest and talk must serve as our sustenance. I note that you are hardly dressed for being so deep in the mountains. A light jacket? Such flimsy trousers? I know I must look a fright, unkempt and unshaven, but I am something of an exception. Those who linger in these hills generally know the value of good boots and a winter coat.

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Advice From the Otherside: How to Avoid Literary Success in Life and Be Considered a Genius in Death By The Late Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender (Leila Allison)

But First a Word From Judge Montague’s Great-to-the-4th Granddaughter

Whenever a woman is constantly besieged by unseen faces and disembodied voices, it is for the best that she believes that the legions of non-violent hoo-doos and haints that only she experiences are real, and are not indicative of a mental illness (technical name for the affliction: scewious loosiest). Such is the case with Yours Truly. And although you may think that my thinking “it is for the best…” is misguided, I assure you that the hoo-doos and haints (whether they be actual or of my own creation) want only happiness for everyone.

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Appropriate By Steve DuBois

The poster bore an image of a tiny kitten dangling from a clothesline, hind legs kicking desperately against the abyss.  HANG IN THERE, the caption read.  Horatio Salazar, Westside High School Appropriations Officer, had hung the poster in an attempt to reassure the students who were summoned to his office.  Occasionally, it even worked.  Xinyu loved that poster, Salazar thought, back when she was Consuela.  Back before her third strike.  A sweet girl.  But she should have known that piñatas originated in China, and that they only became “Spanish” through cultural appropriation.

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