Ten minutes, apparently:
Imitation is said to be the greatest form of flattery but for one Melbourne driver, taking to the streets of Albert Park has turned into a great form of foolery.
Just 10 minutes after purchasing a 2013 Porsche SUV, a 37-year-old Yallambie man was pulled over after allegedly being clocked at more than 60km/h over the speed limit and had his new car impounded.
The enthusiastic driver filmed himself on a mobile phone while travelling at more than double the speed limit along Aughtie Drive, part of Melbourne’s Grand Prix Circuit.
I’m guessing he thought the police never, ever look at social media. But they didn’t have to, since they caught him in person.
Forget the Colonel’s eleven herbs and spices. This stuff supposedly tastes like the inside of Toru Hagakure’s socks:
At first glance, the menu at Japanese takeout chain Tenka Torimasu looks incredibly simple. They serve karaage (Japanese-style fried chicken), karaage bento boxed lunches with rice, cabbage, and potato salad, and that’s all. But there’s a hidden depth of variety at Tenka Torimasu, because of how many different flavors of fried chicken they offer.
Want teriyaki fried chicken? No problem. Neither are curry, wasabi, sweet chili, ponzu, or plum. And as this month, you can also try girls’ sole flavor.
Just to make that clear, that’s not “girls’ soul” or any other representation of the concept of youthful femininity, but “girls’ sole,” as in “this fried chicken tastes like the bottom of a young woman’s foot.”
Definitely don’t get the extra crispy.
No one has attempted to scare me off WordPress.com; it’s not my primary site, but it has its uses, and I would not consider giving it up no matter what goofy stories I am told. If someone’s tried to scare you off, you should read what Ms Peters has to say.
It’s been almost a quarter-century since I was thirty-nine, same age as hometown homie Jack Benny, but I remember spending a lot of time thinking about being forty. So I can still appreciate this observation by Shailaja V:
When I make up my mind to learn something, I go all in. It’s almost as if this ‘learning demon’ possesses me and I fill myself to the brim with everything possible. Don’t worry, it’s a harmless creature.
I am not known for going all in. Still, at the age of 42 I got this insane idea that I ought to have my own little section of the World Wide Web, which barely existed the year I was 39. And, demonically enough, I still have it.
“That song isn’t mine anymore,” said Trent Reznor after hearing Johnny Cash’s cover of the Nine Inch Nails song “Hurt.”
Wonder what he might have thought of this?
And I’ve gotten raspier over the years. Wonder what’s going to happen to this young lady?
I mean, God forbid she should end up sounding like me.
“The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore,” recorded at a Four Seasons session in 1965, was intended as a Frankie Valli solo release. It didn’t go anywhere, but the Walker Brothers, a British Invasion group who were not from Britain, not brothers, and not named Walker, topped the British charts the next year with a splendidly-overproduced cover.
Last week, we got to hear the song in a suitably bleak arrangement, courtesy of Saddest Clown Ever Puddles Pity Party.
Has this fine feathered fellow found his one and only?
Far more polite than that big honker in the middle of your steering wheel:
A friend of mine hasn’t actually blown her top, but she’s definitely had it up to here:
Listen. Really, listen. I don’t care how much melanin content you’ve got, who or what you want to consentually rub your gooey parts against, or how you’d like to identify yourself. Are you useful? Can you make me a sandwich? Mow my lawn? File my taxes? Massage my feet while painting my toenails? Entertain me?
Then why for any deity’s sake should I give a flying flip about your well being? Because you feel discriminated against? Show me.
I’m a woman of color in flyover country. I’ve never been able to pass. I’m a survivor of many things I never deserved, but the sun just keeps rising so I better keep on.
The world has crapped on me and my own over and over and yet, we persevere. You, my dear snowflake, really can too. Yes, you too can own a tiny house in the suburbs with innumerable plumbing problems and mice so your children can go to the right schools and you’ve got the bragging rights of living in the right suburb.
What’s that? Your point is being missed?
So you’re a socialist? That’s awesome. What, exactly, are you contributing to society? From each according to his ability, yes? So, what are your abilities? What are you throwing into the pot for redistribution?
Oh! You have a bowl.
You really should read the whole thing.