Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Goodnight, moon
Fucking deliverables. Hey, maybe I'll be out from under tomorrow.
Every time I write that headline, I hope—or is it fear—that I'm going to see some response from the farmer, like last evening's special gift to the blogosphere, or Goodnight, Rove (yech).
It doesn't happen very often, but that just makes it more fun.
I don't know how many of you remember Captain Kangaroo, but I do. The show had a running gag—actually, it was so slow it was more like a crawling gag—where, every few months, ping pong balls would rain down from the sky, sending Mr. Moose, and Bunny Rabbit, and me, watching, into ecstasy. Farmertoons are like that: If they happened every day, they wouldn't provoke the ecstasy that they do.
Every time I write that headline, I hope—or is it fear—that I'm going to see some response from the farmer, like last evening's special gift to the blogosphere, or Goodnight, Rove (yech).
It doesn't happen very often, but that just makes it more fun.
I don't know how many of you remember Captain Kangaroo, but I do. The show had a running gag—actually, it was so slow it was more like a crawling gag—where, every few months, ping pong balls would rain down from the sky, sending Mr. Moose, and Bunny Rabbit, and me, watching, into ecstasy. Farmertoons are like that: If they happened every day, they wouldn't provoke the ecstasy that they do.
