Redefining misanthropy for a fresh generation. Standard posts begin with a definition from Ambrose Bierce's The Devil's Dictionary followed by a modern adjustment. Miscellany on Wednesday and storytelling on Saturday.
Monday, February 15, 2010
FUTURE, n. The period of time in which our affairs prospers, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.
2010 Update: The coming era of correct predictions.
Update: Happy Bolludagur, Icelanders passing by. A dismal Ogre Day to the rest.
Woe is me, I am undone. I have no future, all of my predictions have been correct but none have been given any attention.
Doug's Dad says: Jim, I feel your pain. By the way, if anyone cares, I am sitting next to Jim in the picture
Bolladagur sounds like our (PA) Fastnacht Day. Only our Fastnacht Day is on Shrove Tuesday, which is tomorrow. yum, yum, yum.
My future grows shorter by the day. (For the orges among us.)
Jim, your middle name would have been Cassandra, if your folks had only listened.
Haha, dad. A rusty morning in S.D.?
Yeah, TLP. I think Fastnacht sounds pretty close, but do the parents get beaten with sticks? To me, that's the key innovation.
Yikes!!!! No beatings of any kind! Just eatings. Get rid of that "B" and just eat sweet and wonderful Fastnachts. (I had no idea that ogres had taken over Iceland.)
TLP, the ogres are the lawnkeepers and construction workers for the elves.
FUTURE: Barack Obama? I wonder
So I may indulge in 24 hours of total excess before the attempted saving of my future soul?
Vanessa. It's your soul. Save yourself.
Is Bistro Ambrose serving cream-filled pastries to non-ogres today?
Happy Bolladagur! Happy Ogre Day! I am with TLP, I am going to celebrate anything if there is good food.
FUTURE -- few sure -- that sums it up.
The future is already here... and my fasnachts are half gone. What shall I eat tomorrow? Hmmmm... maybe I'll eat the stock brokers' slips for breakfast. ...
How cryptic. An explanation is due you in short order. Or not.
correct predictions? If only.
Whatever. I'm going back to it. ;)
And you did a 403 Forbidden Error on my URL, Coop ... Obviously, you're not backing any of my predictions.
Buenas noches, Señor Perro. Este juego no es divertido.
*smiling* Bolla, bolla right back at you...a day late :)
Thom, you're thinking of promoting the president?
Enjoy the carnival, Nessa.
Karen, there are some in the kitchen.
Creampuffs, Ariel. Can you believe a holiday of creampuffs and whacking people? Perfect.
Sure does, Quilly. The way is narrow.
Sauerkraut, I'm not sure they'll be good for Lent.
Karen, I'm not sure what the stockbroker slips are about, either.
Cooper, turn around.
Lo siento, Karen. No te faltas jugar.
Mo'a, I hope your grandson has learned the tradition.
I didn't actually think so, Thom. I read your blog.
She would burn. She would run wild and naked through sun drenched fields of wild flowers. She would gnaw on the raw meat of her desires and take in the vital energy to sustain her beyond a mundane world that threatened to crush out the breath of enthusiasm. She would drop from the highest cliff and free fall into a swirling whirlpool of her unknown future.
stock brokers' slips = futures market.
Beware drive-by comments. They portend doom and ruin.
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