Wally needs to go a little faster.I find her ability to outrun him to be most unsatisfying.
After this masterpiece, there are no other sites!
This site goes all the way to 11
But how many websites have Ann Althouse being pursued by a giant mutant beaver? SO FAR NONE.
Reptilians are real!~
It figures that a book with a mutant rodent theme would be from Badger books, showing mustelid superiority. Also, too, that beaver looks like he's trying to remonstrate, Santorum like, with the young lady for offering some lap basketball to the suited man. Giant radio-active rodents are famous prudes.Honey badger doesn't care.(Maybe y'all are too far from New Orleans to catch the honey badger craze. It's the hottest hair dye job going, thanks to LSU cornerback Tyrann "Honey Badger" Mathieu. I knew you'd want to know.)
But how many websites have Ann Althouse being pursued by a giant mutant beaver? SO FAR NONE.It'd be hard to get those legs moving. Roller-skates? Jetpack?
Giant though it might be, the giant beaver is simply not terribly frightening.Perhaps if it was to bare its teeth?
Yeah, it does look as if it wants to nuzzle people to death.
Just wait until you have a wooden leg and see how scary it is then.
Ann Althouse being pursued by a giant mutant beaver?Yeah, this is exactly the phrase you want to utter on a blog that made a goatse potato chopper. /eyeroll
The BLOG made it.I am off the hook. Automated processes, y'see.
Fully automatic, high velocity armor piercing GOATSE!!!
Yeah, this is exactly the phrase you want to utter on a blog that made a goatse potato chopper. /eyeroll I am confident that Substance will use his powers only for good.
But how many websites have Ann Althouse being pursued by a giant mutant beaver? SO FAR NONE.wow. Some people are never satisfied. That being said, I think a truly full-service website would also too offer pedicures and back-rubs. Just sayin'...
My preferred method of RSS comment-reading does not show authors, so it's fun to guess who wrote what.I was trying to figure out the mikey/pedicure connection: maybe a habit picked up from Grace Slick after parking the demolition-derby entrance vehicle at a party in Marin?
Giant though it might be, the giant beaver is simply not terribly frightening.Perhaps if it was to bare its teeth?Triggering.
Roller-skates? Jetpack? Paraplegic fish would look good with a jetpack.Not to swim on all fins -- that is the Law.
Somewhere I've got some animated flames that were intended to take the place of the fishy walking sticks.
Civilization staggered, indeed.
I was trying to figure out the mikey/pedicure connection: maybe a habit picked up from Grace SlickIt was I, mikey. I just forgot to write a story about it. And what a story it is! Let's just say Jeremy Lin and Vegas showgirls are involved. Whew!
After all the sounds of madness, the roaring engines, the rending metal, the more intimate sound of leathers on asphalt, there was finally a sudden silence, expectant, with breath held too long and eyes squeezed too tightly shut. When I forced them open, I was looking at the bottom of a metal fence post, overgrown with brown weeds. It was an odd vantage, one I slowly realized was due to my position in the gravel at the bottom of a roadside drainage. I carefully turned my head, and there was the Trusty Triumph, lying wounded on her side in the middle of the two-lane. She looked small, as if she was embarrassed for being rubber-side-up for all the world to see. Cars had pulled off the road but nobody seemed to want to determine the extent of human carnage that was represented by my motionless form."Fuck" I groaned. It is mandatory that the last thing you say before a crash and the first thing you say after be profanities. That is written in the real book, brothers and sisters, and these are not laws to be violated casually. I slowly got to my knees, carefully feeling each joint, bone and muscle, waiting for the part that refused to follow orders, or the structure that would not provide support. As I got to my feet the doors of half a dozen cars flew open and the people inside, grateful to be able to offer care and support before they returned to their lives feeling that much better about their contribution to their community rushed over to offer me a hand. My right wrist and elbow felt weird, and there was an odd looseness to my left knee, but I was upright and seemed to retain all my parts and most of their functionality. I thanked people for their kindness, accepted a clean towel from a man with a beard and a wide-eyed daughter, and shrugging off their solicitous hands I walked over to the Trusty Triumph. At first glance she wasn't in bad shape, a bent brake pedal and busted mirror, scuffs and scrapes on the white lacquer and chrome, but the pegs folded up as designed and the crash bars stood the engine off the pavement, and even as I heaved her up I knew she'd run. Fucking Brits. Can't cook, and have NO idea from sports, but the pasty little bastards can build scooters, fer sure."You ok, man?" There was something familiar in the husky, throaty voice. I turned around. A brightly painted bus had stopped a few dozen meters down the road. She was tall, with dark hair in her eyes, wearing jeans and sandals and a brown suede vest that was laced up in front with a leather thong. I smiled in spite of myself. "Yeah" I said. "Typical. Idiot in a Caddy couldn't figure out what lane he wanted. I ended up with the shoulder." She smiled, and surprised me by stepping closer. Most people, between my eyes and my vibes, they tend to want to back up. Not her."Whatcher name?" she asked. I told her, and she nodded. "Are you gonna go to the hospital?" "Nah, I'm ok" I told her. "I think I need a mechanic, though". She laughed, a quiet, dusky laugh you have to hear for yourself, and when you do you realize it could only come from her. "Call me Grace" she told me. She looked at me with an intensity that was unusual, and I felt I needed to stand up under her gaze - to wilt, to look away, to glance down was to fail. She tilted her head to one side and said "Why don't you come with us tonight?"I walked the Trusty Triumph down into the ditch, near the spot where I landed. Synchronicity. "Where?""We're going into The City to get a pedicure."I took one last look back at the scuffed but still proud Triumph, and I nodded. "Yeah. A pedicure would be nice" I said...
I am unworthy.
Wow. That was an introduction worthy of a pedicure. I laughed. I cried. It's such a welcome treat to see a story giving foot care and spa-type activities their proper due. I'd like to read the "War and Peace" of hand and foot care, and I think you--- Mikey--- have the chops to make that happen. Maybe it could be called "Hands and Feet".
Government hands off my pedicure!
Dear FSM mikey, that was glorious! And I don't just say that because I own a Triumph.
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