Flying home in the PM after a few days of action-packed getting together? Is sort of like a full day of partying your ass off, except without any of the partying part.
Bonus fact: the Airport MAX doesn’t run past 11:37 pm on Sundays.
I may have coined a word, today. As with any coining, the odds for persistence aren’t great, but a fella can dream.
Empasture, is the word. As in “to put out to pasture”, specifically. In a couple days, this post and a metatalk thread will probably be the only legit hits on google. A year from now? Probably still the case.
Right now, though, google does give one hit, but it’s for one of those spammy long-tail pages that uses a big list of randomized misspellings of extant words to, I presume, trawl for searchers with bad typing skills. Love that spirit of innovations, even if the spammers themselves could use a good empasturing.
[Update, two minutes later: there are about a thousand google hits for "impasture", however, most at a glance seeming to cite a 1913 Webster entry:
Im pas ture
v. t.
1. To place in a pasture; to foster.
Not exactly the same meaning as I'm intending—to empasture, as far as I'm concerned, is more forced-retirement and less fostering. Sorry, 1913.
Google, for what it's worth, recommends "temperature" for empasture. Bah.]
I am, at my basest, nothing more than a ruiner, and that is why I can’t stand by and let Dorothy Gambrell hog the as-yet-unclaimed google hits for this (shockingly plausible) phrase:
A hipster walks into a bar.
Yes, she was there first, and better, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that I enjoy getting non-monetizable hits for specific search strings.
But let’s get productive. Let’s make something of this. Let’s find out what the hell that hipster was doing walking into that bar.
Let’s make some punchlines.
Setup: A hipster walks into a bar.
Punchline 1 (the Gambrellian Riposte): He says, “this place sucks. It’s full of hipsters!”
P2: The bartender says, “Please take off that trucker hat. You look like an idiot in it, and regardless we cater to a demographic of genuine truckers who have expressed discomfort with your wardrobe choices.”
P3: The bartender says, “get you a beer?” The hipster says, “what’s popular? Because I’ll have not that. Seriously.”
P4: Pabst grabs a phone and begins screaming hysterically for the police.
Okay, so Dorothy is better at this than I am. If you can do better, lay it on me.
Hiccup cure discovered just now:
This is the cutting edge of science, folks.
Could this spam comment be a more perfect summation/mockery of blogging?
I haven’t gotten much done these days. So it goes. What can I say? I’ve just been letting everything pass me by. Basically not much going on lately, but it’s not important. I’ve basically been doing nothing worth mentioning.
I mean, shit. I had to check the links in the username field to verify it was spam.
I made a rather silly recording, dubbed Sgt. Pepper 2.0, working from a parody of A Day in the Life written up as a metafilter comment by tremendously clever fellow mefite It’s Raining Florence Henderson.
So go listen to it.
