Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Things my Housemates Do

Taking this blog back to its roots: a place to complain about things.

Things my housemates do:

Moldy milk at the bottom of a "clean" cup
  • Throw silverware in the silverware drawer without regard to knives, forks, etc.
  • Stack plates on top of bowls (instead of putting them with the other plates).
  • Hoard any cup larger than 8oz in their room.
  • Leave hair in the shower drain.
  • Stack the five? ten? pound cast-iron dutch oven on top of a tupperware container.
  • Use the last of a common item (e.g. aluminum foil) and not tell anyone.
  • Break something (e.g. many, many pint glasses) and not tell anyone (and just leave the debris).
  • Keep the TV on at all times.
  • Keep the TV tuned to reality television at all times.
  • Throw plastic bags in the recycling bin.
  • Leave change everywhere.
  • Leave time on the microwave.
  • Complain, but never strive to improve.
  • Leave cold water on the coffee table, so condensation makes a huge puddle.

Saturday, October 28, 2017


"Oy! Slinks!"

"Slinks? Fuck." The bastrabots trudged toward us, guns armed and aiming systems active.

"Wove livt if we hised earlier." My caddy wonced. I felt the same, but knew better than take him in.

"Nah, will live still! Holep, raliket." I holept raliket fuckin' out, scurry scrounge down the alley, rite far from the bastrabots. Jack rocketed up my ass, raliket.

Weez got to some guvvie bins, what we know the bots won't touch. Grantya, wir rectere to touchem, what we smellem, but our choices ain't aboundin. Wove hised elsewhere if we could, but meetcha whereat. We dug in abrip.

Breathin ain't easy in a bin - don't want the bots to findya, don't want the tummy wasions none neither. We wait, hopin, prayin, and tryin not to toss.

Bastrabots aren't the smarts none though and they past soonish. We smelt, but we livt.


A fifteen minute sprint using markov-chain generated words.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

On the Level

"I swear it's level," I shot back, level-in-hand.

"It doesn't look all that level - it looks like the left side's just a bit higher than the right." Hands-on-hips, covered in small splotches of paint, my wife had assumed the 'I'm going to win this argument' pose. I sighed and let a beat pass before responding.

"By all objective measure, the painting is level. The bubble was dead center. The measuring tape shows that it's exactly the same distance from both floor and ceiling on both sides. This thing would win awards for being level. I should win an award for leveling it! I can't believe you don't agree."

"Well, it still doesn't look level to me, and that's what matters." I knew where this was going to end and I knew I had to play my part. After one more round of objection, I gave in and began to move the damn thing around. Naturally, I had to move it as she watched from a few feet away - had she adjusted it it wouldn't count as a win in her book.

"There! Perfect!" She delighted after fifteen minutes of directing me to bump one corner, then the other. I was released from service, having hung an obviously crooked painting. It was a small price to pay for a happy wife.


A fifteen minute sprint, written 8 October '17.