Sunday, November 06, 2011

My Private Website Shoots the Moon (and ME NEXT PLEASE) Dept.


Onward and Upward with The Audiobook World!!

10 comments:

Sergey Brin said...

Um... "Private"  -- Q.E.D.

Another factor/factoid you might want to throw into the hopper:

An wholly absent-minded entertainment of the altogether fleeting curiosity related to this posting...
reveals the following link as the ACTUAL THIRD auto-fill Google prompt for The Ensign:
http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_tall_is_Dennis_Boutsikaris

True thing.
I swear on a stack of apple boxes.

Better answer that before the CMMDR gets a crack at it, no?
Just sayin'.

Ensign said...

"private" as in not NIL.

And "private" NOT BY CHOICE.

Larry Page said...

" 'private' as in not NIL. "

-- Got that. The other website. The PRIVATE one. 
Ergo & ipso facto: NO Visitors.
That is the implied quod that was erat'd by way of demonstrandum.
Or, a little bit more accurately...
res ipsa loquitur. *

The better question remains:
In what fashion will the populace respond to the urgent question
posed by Answers.com with regard to The Ensign's height.
As it is undoubtedly the case that potential pilgrims to your private website
are waylaid en route by this vexatiously pre-emptive internet highwayman.

"And 'private' NOT BY CHOICE. "

-- Just like my health care, buddy-roo. Just like my health care.

* All Latin legal terms were acquired via vigilant repeat viewings of 
"The Very Best Of Al Archer"
(on VHS, natch).

Veritas vos liberabit, dude.

Larry Page said...

Now bring on the dick jokes.

Ensign said...

Larry

Pay attention.

PRIVATE meant, the one I use that's
not NIL. But it is PUBLIC. Its for business.
The joke I make has to do with the fact that
NO ONE VISITS IT, hence its "private" not by choice.
If you'd like to visit it, just write my name and add
.com at the end.

As to the question of my height. Apparently Not Tall enough.

As to continued Al Archer Jokes.....one has to ask: WHY?

And, just a reminder; Brevity is the soul of freaking COMMENTS.

Ensign said...

Snap this.

Bob Balaban said...

How come nobody wants to know MY height?
I have a beard too, you know.

Bud Abbott said...

Who's on first?

See?
Brief, yes.
Funny, no.

Veronica said...

Betty? Is that you? I ask because it is I, Veronica.
B: Oh. Veronica. Hello. Again.
V: Hello Betty.
B: Sup?
V: Sup.

(Awkward crickets)

V: Zeus’s Beard! What’s that fucking smell?? Did you step in shit again??
B: No-wuh. Fuck off, cunt.
V: Seriously, lemme see your clogs.
B: Back off the CLOGS, Ass-Hat. It’s the BLOG! It’s this motherfucking VEAL-FATTENING PEN of a COMMENTS forum!
V: xtra info. pls.
B: The BREVITY Veronica! The BREVITY! It is sooo AIRLESS! It’s like a goddamn mildew kiln in here.
V: Yeah. And chilly too!
B: I know, right? Look at your nipples! They’re like the size of sand dollars right now!
V: I know right? It’s awesome! And that’s quite a pair of party hats under YOUR sweater too!
B: I know! Thanks! And Hey. I’m sorry I trash-talked your fake jug-heads and those camel-toe jeans... (not)
V: It’s ok. I accept your apology. As I get laid a lot. And you do not. (bitch).
B: Thanks. I’m so glad we could patch things up. (whore).

(Bemused crickets)

B: So like, WOW. THIS Blows. Where’s, like, the sturdy narrative backbone? The lush multi-character back-story?
The heady cocktail of wistful subjunctives fuelling a strange and sultry tango of unexpected metaphor & startling simile?
The yeasty brew of glittering alliteratives playing puck-like havoc with the sobering truths of Hegelian pata-physics?
V: The baroque, meandering set-ups? The nuanced callbacks? The carefully sub-divided multi-part questions?
The feisty semiotic throw-downs?
B: The fanciful parade of polysyllabics? The impish exegeses? The lilting ellipses? The ceaseless thrum of recondite rhetoric?
The heaving tidal pull of polyvalent rhythms?
V: The oracular oratory of the arcane? The alchemical abstrusities? The genial embrace of multi-cultural idioms?
The mighty clash of colloquialisms?
B: The symphonic majesty of the Too-Much? Of the Over-Full? Of The Ripening!
The Terror! The Pity!
V: THE POLYPHONIC SPREE!
B: (Jesus, that band sucked.)
V: Agreed! And those parantheticals! Remember those? (They went on for days!)
B: (God I loved those parantheticals).
V: Yeah, good times... Good, good times.
B: (sigh)
V: And the flowers!
B: ?
V: The flowers, Betty. Where have all the flowers gone?
B: Settle.
V: Right. Ok. I’m just saying. It’s like a... a...
B: Blighted alfalfa field of blunt?
V: Yes. Just that. A hoar-frosted compound of blah.
B: I know. I’m getting seriously chapped.

(Crickets of despair. Of surrender.)

The Crickets said...

Cricket 1: Wow.
Cricket 2. I know.

C1: That was... That was something.
C2: Was that... um... Was that supposed to be sarcasmic? Or something?
C1: ?
C2: You know, like deliberately long?
C1: Yeah. Dude. That was a fucking meta-post.
C2: Ouch.
C1: Smack-down city.
C2: And this? What’s this?
C1: This is a coda. A “Columbo Exit,” if you will.
C2: ---
C1: The turn at the door? He always used to turn around right at the door?
Just before exiting? For one final fillip of heavy sarcasm? Remember?
C2: --
C1: Skip it. It’s a coda.

C2: Ok, did you SEE those TITS though?
C1: I did, sir.
C2: Quite a rack.
C1: Rickety rack!
C2: Don’t look back!
C2: Seriously, I haven’t seen a set-up like that since “The Parallax View.”
C1: I think you mean “Three Days of the Condor.”
C2: Maybe. Maybe so... the turtleneck sweater.... in the... when the... and they...
C1: Yeah.

(short revery)

C2: And then, when they started SKIPPING? When everything started, you know...
C1: I KNOW! I KNOW! I got eyes! I was right here!
C2: --
C1: Sorry. Sorry. Look, it’s ok, buddy. Just -- best to let it go.

C2: Right. So... um... what now?
C1: Now? Now??? Nothing. That’s it. It’s over. Back to nil. Back to BREVITY.
The chicks have split.
C2: El Permanente?
C1: That’s right, little man. El Permanente.
They’re snorting foot-long lines of high-end blue-flake off of Bob Balaban’s waxy ass cheeks right now.
And Kenny G’s about to receive one of the sloppiest BJ’s north of the Mason Dixon line.

C2: Shit. shit. shit. And us? What about us?
C1: Welcome to "The Big Empty", bro. "The Yurt of Yawn."

C2: I can’t believe she thought we were a bad case of crabs. That really stung.
C1: ---
C2: I mean, we’re CRICKETS, right?
C1: ---
C2: RIGHT????
C1: Oh we’re “crickets,” all right. Just keep telling yourself that, man. Just keep on...

(crickets of ontological crisis)