… and it was at that fortuitous, once-in-a-lifetime moment, as the stronger members of her party struggled vainly against Fractallicus the Crystal Doom Lord, that Princess Priscilla Poofypants, lowly second-level witch, saw her chance to use the +12 Shard-Shattering Screech of Scheherazade.
Cathy O. writes: “This is Faith, a kitten who is at our no-kill shelter in Cincinnati Ohio (Save the Animals Foundation). She’s recuperating from various broken bones. The good little witch!”
“Hey, I’m not a slacker. Y’know, I got things I wanna do with my life. Maybe study design, or go to Europe, sort my head out. It’s not like I’m going to be living in mom’s basement my whole life, y’know.”
Via Ina Fassbender/Reuters
I lof dees leetle fan. Ees perfect for cooling my leetle nose.
I don’t like the beeg fans. They make my ears go flippy-flappy.
At first, nightclub audiences in 1963 were delighted by “Randolph and Mr. Flopsy,” the world’s first canine ventriloquist act. Their enthusiasm cooled, however, when they inevitably noticed Randolph’s jowls moving.
Via Eselsmann.
Now let us see how well you entertain my… robot ninja death squad!
This is the city: Los Angeles, California. There are over ten million dogs here, most of them hardworking, law-abiding citizens. But not every dog plays by the rules. Some are seduced by the twilight world of easy “kicks,” and end up knocking over trash cans at four AM, or leaving little surprises on the Griffith Park lawn. When that happens, that’s when I go to work. My name’s Friday. I carry a badge.
Via John S. Quarterman. (apologies to Jack Webb.)
Engineering student Andrew Gray tried everything to keep his parrot Pepper from squawking. He built a squawk-activated squirt gun; Pepper liked it so much he squawked even more. At last, Gray saw an answer. He built a bird buggy that allows Pepper to roam around the house.
Are you lookin’ at me, huh? You lookin’ at me?
Are… you… lookin’… at… me?
Well, whaddya know, you are lookin’ at me…
Pic and vid of Lacey by jelene.
The new upstairs maid was impossible, fumed the Major. His afternoon tea had been an iron ritual among the staff: Oolong, one sugar, in the East Westfordshire Hunt Club china cup, 3:47 sharp. And here it was, four o’clock, and no tea.
Outside his window, the clatter of automobiles replaced the clip-clop of the surrey, while the grating strains of some infernal racket called “jazz” emanated from the parlor downstairs. Anarchy, that’s what it was — a world gone mad.
The clock in the hall finished chiming. Still no tea. His eyelids grew heavy. He would speak to Mrs. Grimby tomorrow about the gramophone, he resolved, yawning. Tomorrow would see matters put right, and all… all would be… be well…
If you’re still reading, Sarah S., thanks for the pictures, and sorry it took so long.
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