Roasted.
Mother of pearl. Is that the time? I thought the sun was getting kind of bright in here. Pull the blinds. No blinds? Arrgh. Hang another sheet over the window.
Rolled out of bed a little tardy today. Who can blame me? After a gut-full of grub, a man's thoughts turn to hibernation. Big Green doesn't ordinarily celebrate major holidays, but we did relent this year and enjoy a modest Thanksgiving feast, prepared by the steady hand of our confidant Anti-Lincoln, who has elected to stay at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill while he considers his next steps. (I think he's contemplating some brand of global domination, but no details yet. Can't rush a genius!)
Some of you may recall that Lincoln's favorite dish was Chicken Fricasee. Well, that obviously meant something to Anti-matter Lincoln, if only in the sense that he wanted to run in the exact opposite direction with his holiday meal plan. What's the opposite of Chicken Fricasee, you may ask? In anti-Lincoln's twisted mind, it's dry noodles with tamari sauce sprinkled lightly over them. I think he dropped a couple of mint leaves in there, but that may have been an accident - we keep the tamari right behind the mint leaves. Coincidence? I don't think so!
So bloody hell, you never saw a band tear into a plate of noodles like we did last night. And when I say "plate", I mean one modest plate. Two forks on every noodle. Pretty feisty little dinner, but at least we were together. Stupid togetherness! I think only Marvin (my personal robot assistant) got his fill at our holiday table. And that's only because he takes his nourishment via two leads from a dry cell under his chair. Note to self: I've got to get him another cell for Christmas this year.
No "Black Friday" shopping for us, friends. After that singular repast, we will just stick close to the mill for a couple of days and do a little work on our annual Christmas podcast. I'd tell you what we're planning, but that would be telling. (It would also require us having planned something, which we most certainly have not.)
Rolled out of bed a little tardy today. Who can blame me? After a gut-full of grub, a man's thoughts turn to hibernation. Big Green doesn't ordinarily celebrate major holidays, but we did relent this year and enjoy a modest Thanksgiving feast, prepared by the steady hand of our confidant Anti-Lincoln, who has elected to stay at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill while he considers his next steps. (I think he's contemplating some brand of global domination, but no details yet. Can't rush a genius!)
Some of you may recall that Lincoln's favorite dish was Chicken Fricasee. Well, that obviously meant something to Anti-matter Lincoln, if only in the sense that he wanted to run in the exact opposite direction with his holiday meal plan. What's the opposite of Chicken Fricasee, you may ask? In anti-Lincoln's twisted mind, it's dry noodles with tamari sauce sprinkled lightly over them. I think he dropped a couple of mint leaves in there, but that may have been an accident - we keep the tamari right behind the mint leaves. Coincidence? I don't think so!
So bloody hell, you never saw a band tear into a plate of noodles like we did last night. And when I say "plate", I mean one modest plate. Two forks on every noodle. Pretty feisty little dinner, but at least we were together. Stupid togetherness! I think only Marvin (my personal robot assistant) got his fill at our holiday table. And that's only because he takes his nourishment via two leads from a dry cell under his chair. Note to self: I've got to get him another cell for Christmas this year.
No "Black Friday" shopping for us, friends. After that singular repast, we will just stick close to the mill for a couple of days and do a little work on our annual Christmas podcast. I'd tell you what we're planning, but that would be telling. (It would also require us having planned something, which we most certainly have not.)
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