“We should revive and develop the ancient spirit of righteous indignation,” the speaker argues. “The citizen who through indifference or cowardice is as reprehensible as the wrongdoer.”
How do you put something back together? How do you keep it from falling apart? How do you stand up out of bed if your bed is the wall and you’re already standing? These are some of the questions Grain of Sand Theatre is asking in rehearsals for its latest production, Tell-Tale, which will be playing this July as part of the 2013 Capital Fringe Festival.
I invested in a subcutaneous GPS this year, having finally wearied of the whinging over the occasional small navigational cul de sac. I think we're somewhere over Belarus. For some reason this thing only speaks in a near-incomprehensible Glasgow accent. Time to start nipping into Uncle Rudolph's Special Sauce to allay the misery of this yearly haul.
I feel compelled at this time to make a public service announcement. Like Shaggy said, it wasn't me. I appreciate body-shaping undergarments as much as the next middle-aged C-lister, but I've got a supplier of my own. I'm reasonably sure mine aren't stolen.
Now, for this week's drink. It's a mean one, if you're allergic to watermelon. When you're feeling fruity, or when you're feeling the humbug (as I often do) this one's for you, you illiterate knuckle-dragger you.
HANG ON HANG ON. Thissislike a rap batle right. whoa too drnk to type with hoofs. Sec. This mah mad vers skills.s. Frickin' Prancer thinks he can taek me. I'll show 'im. One of him.
Bumble, that magnificent hirsute bastard, had me thinking that was exclusively a stripper name from the time I was 8. Little did I know it was also a delicious cocktail. I found out the real story by accident when I was celebrating my 27th, getting hammered by myself over at The Naughty List. Like ya do. Always take care of your bartender kids, by any means necessary.
I have what you might call a turbulent relationship with tequila. Lately. The Channu-rita. Man. I got problems, and they're blue murder.
I'm feeling something a little more un-challenging this week. This one's simple like Vixen, but not half as hot... I mean you serve it chi... ok, what? I'm four shots deep, and sometimes I just need to snuggle something that ain't too discriminating. I can't have layers?
I am a firm believer in celebrating the holidays of all faiths, because why would I not extend my annual December Bender for a few weeks? Channukah is a fine damn holiday. It's about important... uh... spiritual... things. That I can't remember right now.
Ok, so Manischewitz may taste like Dimetapp and rat poison, right, but it's cheap as hell.
As everyone knows, you can't have a proper party without a cake. Not counting the kind of party that just needs a two-by-four, some rubber gloves, and a jar of vaseline, but it's been ages since... uh... yeah.
The following post is an informal analysis of the character Wild One in the play Raising Cane: A Family Portrait by Stephen Cedars, as it relates to my specific interpretation of the character. It is also to disprove that the character in question is a "wild child", that term referring to a child that is raised from a very young age with little to no human contact and is then assimilated into the society of a species of animal.