There is yard work, and there is, um, yard work:
(From Bad Newspaper, which used to be Criggo.com.)
There is yard work, and there is, um, yard work:
(From Bad Newspaper, which used to be Criggo.com.)
I spotted this on Derpibooru, tagged “Seems Legit,” and went hunting.
And the following turned up at Windows Phone Central, supposedly in an email to a forum poster:
I’m getting highlights for the upcoming Nokia Press Conference:
1. The Nokia Tablet will named “Nokia Harmonia” and it’s powered by Windows 8.1.
2. The Nokia Lumia Phablet and it’s powered by Windows Phone 8 GDR3.
Why the Nokia Phablet still part of Nokia Lumia series? it’s because of Nokia Lumia 625.
3. (For the brony fans.) It will unveil the MLP:FiM Season 4 Nokia Exclusive Trailer showing Nightmare Moon Returns.
4. Your favorite apps such as Instagram, Vine and My Little Pony will coming to Windows Phone.
5. Nokia Lumia 1020 will promote MLP:FiM Season 4.
Guess whose wireless contract just ran out?
It would be difficult, I think, to get much wronger than this:
This photo was duly pasted into a reprint from Bloomberg News: however, the article is credited to Jonathan Weil, and it’s pretty obviously Weil, not Virginia Postrel, in the picture.
I’m hearing laughter in the background:
For the record, that is not me. http://t.co/pQFe4QCCrU
— Virginia Postrel (@vpostrel) September 9, 2013
I should say not.
Before the weekend, Nancy Friedman put out a call for “corporate or product names [that] make you shudder and cringe,” and I admitted to having, namewise anyway, a love-hate relationship with Cuppies & Joe on 23rd; the name itself was, I said, “awfully twee,” but not enough to discourage visiting the place, which serves up a decent joe and very nice cuppies.
If that’s twee, though, this is not quite ate:
I used to work in the Midwood neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York, where I often walked past one of the best worst business names ever! It was a restaurant named “Half Price Day Old Sushi” — Mmmmmmmm … what could possibly go wrong?
I think I’m just going to leave it at that and tiptoe quietly away.
Truly a grabber:
As the sun dropped below the horizon, the safari guide confirmed the approaching cape buffaloes were herbivores, which calmed everyone in the group, except for Herb, of course.
A wonderful story opening by Ron D. Smith, which inexplicably did not win the 2013 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.
Then again, Chris Wieloch did himself proud with this one, which did:
She strutted into my office wearing a dress that clung to her like Saran Wrap to a sloppily butchered pork knuckle, bone and sinew jutting and lurching asymmetrically beneath its folds, the tightness exaggerating the granularity of the suet and causing what little palatable meat there was to sweat, its transparency the thief of imagination.
Sounds like the detective has been hitting the sauce, and I mean A.1 Sauce.
This competition always leaves me in something of a funk, since my own story openings are never, ever terrible enough.
This is not the first offensive display — and probably not even the worst. I pretend to no authority but have seen enough to know that MTV videos often resemble soft-porn mini-movies. Children marinating in a culture of online porn, sexting, rainbow parties and worse have little experience with other ways of relating emotionally.
Someone actually pretending to authority, I suppose, would have known that MTV doesn’t show videos and hasn’t for years. (Not that their “reality” shows are any less noxious.) And has anyone ever actually attended a rainbow party? Snopes seems skeptical.
She: Oh, yeah. We have lots of hybrids. But not full hybrids.
Me: [silent, puzzled]
She: You know, they still need gas.
Me: [not sure I heard correctly] But … isn’t that what a hybrid car is? Gas and electric?
She: I mean, they’re hybrid but not completely electric.
Are there varying stages of hybridity out there? Not that I’m aware of, but then I’m often the last to know.
I wondered whether for her, and maybe for a whole cohort of younger drivers, “hybrid” had lost its original “combination-of-two-things” meaning and now signifies “less than 100 percent gas-powered.” Or, perhaps, just “nontraditional in some nonspecific way.”
I haven’t rented a car in about half a decade. Maybe next time I’ll wander into the storefront, point to something Mopar, and ask “That thing got a Hemione?”
Seems too dense to be actually trolling:
Ten-point IQ deduction for the unironic use of the term “rims.” They’re wheels, forddamnit.
I’ve long suspected that Nancy Grace was out of her depth, and this tells me that there wasn’t that much depth to begin with:
Geography. Look into it.
(Via this Wendy Suares tweet.)
A letter to the editor, published in the Oklahoman this morning, is headlined this way:
The writer, of course, was talking about the Republican party, but the proofreader, or the auto-correct gizmo, had it right. If the Democrats are the Me Party, clearly the Republicans are the Me Too Party.
Suzette bought a discontinued food processor — a Cuisinart from last decade — because it had large, pushable buttons, which she trusts, instead of some slippery touch pad, which she most certainly does not.
The illustration she provided shows the stark contrast between the two machines, and also includes a piece of earlier equipment: a GE food processor with “little ass buttons.” It reminded me of my thirty-year-old Osterizer, in the beigest possible beige, which also has little-ass buttons, as distinguished from little ass-buttons. And in fact, I left her a comment to that effect, which WordPress.com refused to accept; evidently it pushed their ass buttons.
Meanwhile in Michigan, somebody’s hiring, or at least somebody was hiring:
(Another example of superior proofreading from the Criggo.com collection.)
From Car and Driver‘s take (8/13) on the Nissan Juke NISMO:
There are no logical reasons for it to look the way it does, so clearly drawn without conventional aesthetic considerations in mind. And its 1.6-liter turbo four is an overachiever, imbuing this automotive non sequitur with the verve to match its shape. There’s not a cynical bolt or negative bead of adhesive in the Juke’s batrachian body.
The online version of this same half-paragraph is a lot less scintillating:
There are no logical reasons for it to look the way it does; its aesthetics are so clearly drawn without concern for what critics would think. Its 1.6-liter turbo four is an overachiever, imbuing this automotive non sequitur with the verve to match its shape. There’s not a cynical bolt or bead of adhesive in the Juke’s spunky, amphibian body.
I have to assume that someone in the Web department choked on “batrachian,” and that’s a shame, unless you’re Miss Piggy.
(Title from this recording, a copy of which I have owned for close to forty years.)
In parts of Orange County, California, you’d better be a tantalum hafnium carbide-based life form:
If it makes you feel cooler, they’re predicting only 4090° Celsius in Irvine.
Or, you know, not:
You probably shouldn’t drink that stuff. If you won’t believe me, perhaps you’ll believe Bill Gates.
The first Jeep Cherokee, the SJ, was built by AMC starting with model year 1974; there has been a Cherokee (or, more recently, a Grand Cherokee) in the Jeep lineup ever since. The New York Times apparently found out about them just this month:
Someone apparently told white guy Glenn Collins that Jeep’s been naming an SUV of some sort after a Native American tribe for the last forty years. Presumably there are no Jeep Cherokees in Manhattan. I know I’ve never seen one. Mr. Collins immediately leapt into SWPL action, contacting the Cherokee tribe to see what they think about this racist act.
The tribe, while acknowledging that Jeep wasn’t making them rich, said that they took no position on the matter:
In other words: We don’t care about it, you old white man, and we think your time would be better spent agonizing about truffles or font choice. The Cherokee Nation itself is busy participating in disaster relief and improving tribal access to healthcare.
The only possible racist connotation I could imagine would be if a guy carjacked a Cherokee in North Carolina and forced the driver to go to Oklahoma without a break.
Please don’t give anyone any ideas.
This goes without saying:
The worst name for a hospice pic.twitter.com/rhfLs15FyH
— Matt Dawson (@SaintRPh) June 19, 2013
Just the same, it was said.
Now I realize that Allstate is advertising on Equestria Daily, not to reach ponies, but to reach the human fans of ponies, who, unlike ponies themselves, are likely to have actual hands. Still, seeing this at the top of the EqD sidebar ad block made me emit very silly giggles.
And since ponies presumably do things that might require insurance — well, I wouldn’t expect much of a change should Allstate decide to set up shop some day in beautiful downtown Canterlot. From my short-short (2000 words) story Dead Pony Flying, the one and only Rainbow Dash tells of anointing her successor:
At least the Element of Loyalty is in good hooves. I’ll never forget Scootaloo’s face when they told her. “It’s the happiest day of my life,” she said. And then she looked at me and said “Oops.”
And “you’re in good hooves” produces enough Googlage to tell me that this would work as an Equestrian advertising slogan.
That’s the plan, anyway:
(Via Criggo.com, home of many arcane clippings.)
I’m just going to assume the poster of the original sign wasn’t Jewish.
Whatever “maintance” is, apparently you get two years’ worth on your new Impala.
Actual Nissan ad from Fark.com, screencapped on Sunday, 2 June 2013 at just after 11 pm:
Hope they can unload some of these before the ’14s start showing up.
Councillors in Richmond Hill, Leeds have decided that your street address cannot be 4 anything:
The Chinese word for death sounds similar to the number 4. This has led to superstitions surrounding that digit (known as tetraphobia). In China, for example, floor numbers often skip the number 4.
Under Richmond Hill’s street-naming and address guide, the number 13 — which some consider unlucky — is currently not used for street numbers and Ward 1 Councillor Greg Beros, who presented Monday night’s [13 May] motion, thinks similar steps should be taken for the number 4.
The vote of the Council was five to, um, four. Fortunately, all other problems in Richmond Hill have been solved.
(Via this @syaffolee tweet.)
Not so deft, guys:
Due to @nytimes “editing errors…this article [earlier] misstated the group’s name…. It is Daft Punk, not Daft Puck or Daft Pink.”
— Jonathan Padget (@dcjpad) May 30, 2013
(Thanks to Twitchy.)
Tuesday, science writer Jennifer Ouellette tweeted thusly:
— Jennifer Ouellette (@JenLucPiquant) May 21, 2013
I sent up a response: “She was quite lovely — and downright brilliant. I pity those who believe someone can’t be both.”
The next day, this vision was visited upon us, or upon some of us anyway:
Meet Laura Fernee, a 33-year-old academic who claims she was hounded out of her work because of her beauty.
Fernee, who has a PhD and worked as a scientific researcher, has been unemployed for two years and now lives with her parents, who very kindly pay for her flat, shopping and expenses — to the tune of £2,000 a month.
The Daily Mail, always cattier than thou, notes that her research job paid only £30,000 a year, presumably taxable. And this quote seems a tad disingenuous:
She said men left “romantic gifts” on her desk and she was “constantly asked out”, which she found “sleazy”.
“Even when I was in a laboratory in scrubs with no make-up they still came on to me because of my natural attractiveness.”
You know, somebody ought to do some research into this sort of thing. Can’t be Hedy, because she’s dead; can’t be Laura, because she’s writing a book about how horrible it is to be gorgeous. What’s Samantha Brick doing these days?
When Ruth Levy went online to create a personalised birthday card for a 90-year-old friend called Dick, it turned out his common name of yesteryear has been banned as a modern profanity.
After typing in her message to her friend of 50 years, 77-year-old Mrs Levy was turned down and warned by the Marks & Spencer website against using bad language.
Horrified, the tech-savvy grandmother closely checked the e-card for typing slip-ups, but still could not get approval for: “Many happy returns on your significant birthday.”
But after complaining to the store, she was told her card had been banned simply because her friend’s name was Dick — the shortened version of Richard.
Marks & Sparks were total farks: they suggested Mrs Levy call poor Dick instead — on the phone, fercrissake — and insisted: “We must ensure [our] system is robust to protect our content standards.”
(Another newspaper oddity from the vast archives of Criggo.com.)
If you think the weather here has been weird — and let’s face it, if you don’t, you haven’t been paying attention — it’s been equally so elsewhere. This is what was going down in the 417:
The Ozarks broke a record today in measurable snowfall. According to John Gagan, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Springfield, the last time the Springfield-area saw measurable snowfall this late in the spring season was May 2, 1929.
But that’s not the only record expected to be broken today.
The last time there was even a trace of snow in May — meaning flurries, but no accumulation — was May 6, 1944.
The temperature will also be significant. Currently, the record low for the coldest day in May was May 4, 1935 at 43 degrees.
Actually, a trace of snow does not necessarily mean flurries, but that’s not the problem here. This is:
One must infer, then, that on May 6, 1944, and on May 2, 1929, it snowed when the temperature was 44 degrees or warmer, must one not? If May 4, 1935, was the coldest low temperature on record, then these other recorded days must have had higher low temperatures, ainna?
Just to clear this up: The record low for the coldest day in May was 29 degrees, on May 6, 1944. What happened on May 4, 1935 was the lowest high temperature ever reported for any day in May, which was 43 degrees. (May 3, 2013 will break that record; the high that day was apparently 36.) The meteorologist at NWS Springfield knew this, or could get the data quickly enough — it didn’t take me too awfully long to find it, and my weather-geek credentials are just a hair above marginal — so I conclude that this was just another case of Gannett wetting their nest.
You should definitely read this story of Robert Stacy McCain’s, since it’s an incisive look at one example of one of the weirder phenomena of recent times: the imaginary hate crime, invented for inexplicable political reasons. And you should also read it because it’s staggeringly popular, according to Disqus:
I figure, if this guy can get over a billion reactions to a single story, the very least you can do is hit his freaking tip jar.