Creek Running North

Just to reassure you that it wasn’t the senseless tragedy it seemed to be: That wasn’t a beer truck. It was just full of Coors.

(And your little dog too! Aahhhahahahahahahahaa!)

did you create one of those logical conundrums?  “the following sentence is true. the previous sentence is false.”

how was the fish?

My salmon was perfectly slightly undercooked. I was on my best polite company behavior, so I didn’t sneak any of Michael’s halibut while he and Ward were slamming tequila shooters and arm-wrestling the pole-dancers from the naked women bar next door. Some of the previous sentence is false.

You made me swallow my gum.  I got as far as “esteemed” and “Ward Churchill” in one sentence, then *gulp* it happened.

Frightening.  The sentence, not the gum.

Ah, man!  I just came over from Berube’s blog where he wraps up a post (in which he mentions that he will visit you) mentioning that he will post something today if he has Internets access.  So when you mentioned that he is taller than he appears on the… I SOOO wanted you to say “Internets”!  I think there is a good stupid business term for what was missed — a golden opportunity to “synergize” our dope-mocking efforts. 

I have to do it.

Michael is taller than he appears on the Internets.

Thank you.

No one on the internet(s?) can possibly be taller than the monitor they appear on, so of course they are taller in real life than on the internet(s?). Unless they are oompa loompas.

I am still wondering about the pole dancers. Did they come with the dinner?

I was very grateful that you didn’t touch my halibut, because slammin’ shots with Ward and arm-wrestling pole dancers is hungry work.  Who knew that those women had such formidable triceps?  No one ever pays attention to their triceps!

The good news is that Ward and I finally agreed that leftist academics are really bad at damage control.  “You know,” I said, “first we tried to argue that Paul de Man’s work for that Belgian collaborationist newspaper could be explained away by deconstruction.  Then we insisted that Alan Sokal submitted his hoax essay to Social Text in all seriousness, and if he didn’t, so much the worse for him.  Then we got bogged down in figuring out just which WTC employees were agents of the empire and which weren’t.  We’ve just got to a better job at this kind of thing.” “You’re right, it’s a mug’s game,” Ward finally said, to which I replied, “dude, what’s better than tequila shots?” To which we both yelled, “more tequila shots!!!”

And my halibut was still warm when I got back.

Thanks for a lovely dinner and guided tour of the Earth Island Institute, Chris.  It was great to meet you at last.  And did a beer truck really catch fire on the Bay Bridge?  As if the ordinary traffic around here isn’t bad enough.

So, the good professor is taller than he appears on the Internets. Is he also hotter?

I am still wondering about the pole dancers. Did they come with the dinner?

By god, they better not have!

So, the good professor is taller than he appears on the Internets. Is he also hotter?

You don’t think that Coors truck set itself on fire, now, do you?

(Yes it really did, Michael, and that jam you enjoyed was the result of the lower deck of the bridge being closed completely.)

I initially read that footnote as “This post has been proofread by moonbats”. I’ve been reading too many conservatroll blog comments.

Everything in this blog has been proofread by at least one moonbat.

Q: “I am still wondering about the pole dancers. Did they come with the dinner?”

A: in my experience, most pole-dancers prefer to come AFTER dinner.

-Librarian

I’ve had dinners almost that good. But then I’m not a pole dancer.

The beer truck was a basic semi, reportedly full of cartons and kegs of Coors. No one was injured, including the driver and his Chihuahua. Cop on TV said he suspected brake problems -> friction -> fire. Driver pulled over to the right lane and tried to douse it with a fire extinguisher. That in one hand and the quivering little ratdog in the other, I suppose.

The TV clip showed some really weird-looking yellow-brown smoke. What the hell do they put in that stuff?

Tall?  Hot?  Bérubé is taller than Bill Bradley and more virile than the young Robert Mitchum.  He is more French-Canadian than Céline Dion and more anti-Horowitzian than Michael Eric Dyson.  It is well (well, it is) that he wrote Public Access for he is more public than Paris Hilton and more accessible than the Disability Institute.  This is a man who does nothing by halves, folks.  Nothing.

Hey, you two could have combined your fun by ditching Enrico’s entirely and sampling the cuisine at one of Broadway’s finest strip joints. You can get hot wings and potato wedges with your lap dances, after all!

If y’all were that drunk, you could have at least snuck onto a farm and stolen a pony for Jamie.

But I guess that’s not the kind of thing someone plans.

Love,

Hanna