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So I noticed over the weekend that the Columbus Zoo is devoid of hippos. Do you think that they are afraid of me and my cunning prowess of hippo killing? I have mad hippo-killn’ skilz. The problem with hippo-killin’ skilz is that one could be filled to the gills with the skilz and never realize it due to lack of hippo-killin’ opportunites. I, dear reader, am indeed filled to the gills with the hippo-killin’ skilz. I am a whirling dervish of death to hippokind, but my lack of exposure to the hippo population greatly limits my hippo-killin’ potential. Now, Wifey, feels that this is my own latent inadequacy coupled with laziness that has made the hippo my natural enemy, but I tell you that it is nature’s sick sense of humor to place me in a hippo-free environment. If there were hippos in Central Ohio, you know what we would be having for dinner, Wifey? Hippo Flambé, Babycakes, with a mango chutney and asparagus.
On to something completely different… the house inspection is going on even as I type. This means that someone whom I do not know is currently appraising our ability to be stewards of property. Frankly, I do not like being evaluated on how I live. How I live my life is my own business, right? And the inspection process is all pretty subjective anyway. For example, I am sure that the inspection would not go very well if I had a fresh hippo carcass in the kitchen ready for the cleaning and the butchering. My lot in life is to bring death to the hippos; that should not be a strike against my ability to sell my house at a reasonable price. Sure, there is not a hippo carcass in the kitchen, but a ceramic tile floor that needs to be re-sealed instead, but that is beside the point. The point is that it is difficult to have someone rate your performance as a homeowner or a hippo slayer. I’m just sayin’…
Anyway… The back is feeling better. I slept in a better position last night, and the back is not nearly as achy today. My hips still sound like someone is hanging up the phone on my desk, but the back is not nearly as achy. Thanks for all the well-wishes. Oh wait, there weren’t any. Bastards. The lack of love I feel from you loyal readers is appalling. Here I am slaving over a hot keyboard day in and day out for you. Where is the love, I ask you, “where is the love?”
To recap:
If there are no hippos in Central Ohio, have I fulfilled my mandate from God?
Don’t judge me, house inspector, you weren’t there, man… you don’t know what it was like…. You don’t know, man!
I cry out in pain and agony, and all I get is ridicule… stop looking at me!
Where is the love?
On to something completely different… the house inspection is going on even as I type. This means that someone whom I do not know is currently appraising our ability to be stewards of property. Frankly, I do not like being evaluated on how I live. How I live my life is my own business, right? And the inspection process is all pretty subjective anyway. For example, I am sure that the inspection would not go very well if I had a fresh hippo carcass in the kitchen ready for the cleaning and the butchering. My lot in life is to bring death to the hippos; that should not be a strike against my ability to sell my house at a reasonable price. Sure, there is not a hippo carcass in the kitchen, but a ceramic tile floor that needs to be re-sealed instead, but that is beside the point. The point is that it is difficult to have someone rate your performance as a homeowner or a hippo slayer. I’m just sayin’…
Anyway… The back is feeling better. I slept in a better position last night, and the back is not nearly as achy today. My hips still sound like someone is hanging up the phone on my desk, but the back is not nearly as achy. Thanks for all the well-wishes. Oh wait, there weren’t any. Bastards. The lack of love I feel from you loyal readers is appalling. Here I am slaving over a hot keyboard day in and day out for you. Where is the love, I ask you, “where is the love?”
To recap:
If there are no hippos in Central Ohio, have I fulfilled my mandate from God?
Don’t judge me, house inspector, you weren’t there, man… you don’t know what it was like…. You don’t know, man!
I cry out in pain and agony, and all I get is ridicule… stop looking at me!
Where is the love?
3 Comments:
I must respond to the hippo flambe with mango chutney and asparagus menu.
Yet again, your obsession with the hippo furhter weakens your already tenuous connection with reality. We do we not now, nor have we ever, dined on hippo flambe. In addition, we have NEVER eaten mango chutney or asparagus. You'd think you could at least supply realistic sides. In the RH family, our sides would be tater tots and frozen corn.
Sorry, babe, but the Hippo Flambe with mango chutney and asparagus was maninly to sound culturally edified. If I were to "bag a hippo," so to speak, we would most likely have southern fried Hippo with corn and tater tots, but that doesn't sound nearly as diginified. I am, after all, quite dignified.
I gotta see if I can find some hippo steaks for your xmas present.
-Dave...
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