Well, if I’m going to ride this roller-coaster market, I’d better do some reading…
Let’s see… Making the Most of Bull Markets, see page 92… Surviving Bear Markets, page 107… Investment Tips for Bad Times, page 210… for End Times, page 666…
Heck, I might as well hide my money under the mattress and hope for the best…
Sell, Dorie H., sell!
Pup: What have you brought me?
Kid: Mastaaah, I have failed to bring you Snausages as you wished.
Pup: Did you seek the cupboard as I instructed?
Kid: Yes Mastah.
Pup: Did you use your mad crawling skills?
Kid: Yes Mastah.
Pup: Then how could you fail?
They learn so fast, Todd B.
And now for something completely amazing: Petey the border collie, who serves up volleys in vast volume, using what must be the world’s most resilient nose.
~I dweamt I was a fwuffy cwoud, fwoating acwoss the sky~
Count one more sheep and kitty will turn into one, Julie L.
Jennifer H. proposes a new rule of cuteness: When you cover your eyes, it’s cute.
And for Exhibit A, she offers: “This is a picture of our cat, Tippy (so named for white tip on the end of her tail). She sleeps like this all the time and it cracks us up, so we caught it on film!”
What say you, peeps? This picture rules — but is it a new rule? Vote below!
Whut’s duh mattuh? Cat gawt yur tongue?
You can say that again, Niles and Ryan A.
Jure T. writes us to say: “This is my new puppy (female) called Tara. I’m not really sure what kinda information do you need to make a post on the site but the most important part is that she prefers swimming in her water bowl instead drinking from it.”
Dear Jure: There’s a perfectly rational explanation why she doesn’t want to drink from the bowl. It tastes just like a dog’s been swimming in it.
Lottery ticket, cough drops, scrunchie, banana, measuring tape, ketchup packets, ice scraper, parking ticket, knitting, a fan belt, tarot card, chunky key chain, pizza delivery guy, guitar pick, rubber ducky, mints, a spork, stress ball, sewing kit, gloves…
A-ha! French fries!
Looks like Poptart is he who holds the purse strings, Mary K.
As I descended into the dungeon labyrinth, a foul odor assaulted my senses, the stench of freshly rotting corpses mingled with the dank mold of eons, and a hint of vanilla. I whispered the chant the elders had taught me — tarath n’Ghol nabisco blayvin — and held aloft the Divine Eggplant of Protection.
And there, as foretold, was the ancient basket, wherein lay a horror so wretched that the elders could not speak its name without making a “hlgrrlph” sound. I had hoped to take it asleep, but was too late; the demonic eyes glowed from within. It had seen me.
Tara N. confesses: “I think that deep down in, Guinnie knows she needs baskethab, but she’s not quite willing to admit it yet.”