Whatever IV

One of my Dilbert favs.

Good grief. This one is like a cross between the next two. What were they thinking?

Good grief. “Just imagine what he’d do as your governor.” I guess he’d “bring some passion back to Albany.” Toth to Hotline.

From underwater, porpoises can accurately perceive things above the water’s surface, however much optical distortion the waves introduce. Apparently their brains are wired up to decrypt the mess and get it right.

They can leap into heaven and grab rings held high over the chaotic surface of their immersed reality.

Whether such prophets’ accounts of the world above are scrutable to the less gifted critters of the deep, I couldn’t say.

The default background for this page is one of many created by Blatte; they are freely accessible here. The artist allows for liberal use of the images, provided they remain unmodified (which is why the load time is a bit longer than you’d think for this simple blog).

Scores of beautiful images are available in many screen resolutions; they make excellent desktop wallpaper.

Bob was a research scatologist with the museum until he went bonkers. One night after his forced retirement he broke into the facility. The next morning, his former coworkers noticed that one of several carts full of dung samples was missing. Guessing what had happened, they also knew why the other carts weren’t taken: one turd gurney serves a nutter.

(I’m afraid I have to take full blame for that one)

There must be very few companies using the VOIP system we have, because a Google search for “who the hell composed this hold music” yields no hits. Unbelievable what we’ve been subjecting our callers to. We’ll have to address that post-haste.

Listen to the whole thing (read: abandon hope all ye who enter here).

Ever concerned with relevance, I asked a colleague this morning whether he was aware that according to Google, the number of web occurences of “chortling mightily” and “giggling timidly” are statistically identical. I wondered whether this signified some balance between the forces of masculine and emasculate humanity. But then I realize that these were not the only two divisions of humankind. There are also the bozos. So I searched for “guffawing uproariously,” and lo — statistically identical to the other two.

What are the odds?

We have a mulberry tree between ours and the neighbor’s house. I let it grow a few years ago, despite misgivings about its roots being so close to both homes. Each year I’ve pruned it in accord less with expertise than with intuition, in order to keep its growth under control and maximize berry production. Something fun for the kids to pick, I tell myself.

Actually it’s entirely for me, as it turns out. I find myself walking by the thing with my mind on a million other things, and I’m drawn to it. The berries are frequently difficult to see — but they’re there, and there’re lots of ‘em.

When I’m looking for mulberries, it’s an exercise in leaving the world behind. I can’t penetrate the hidden recesses of this tree without feeling a sense of privacy impossible in the world of instant messaging, fast commuting, and blog comments. It’s like discoving that the secret hiding places of childhood have never really went away. The secrets, however, are no longer my own, as in childhood. They’re the trees — and the tree isn’t speaking much about it all. Just offering its fruit, as ever, to any comer willing to leave some things behind for a while.