The Dirty Cheat of Scheduling… Photo Friday ‘On Time’
There’s not a lot of rocket science to be had, just a load of timely misrepresentation. Here I may even begin convincing people I am punctual. (I’m going to post it, then reschedule it for the correct day. Am I sneaky or what?)
Liquor Store, ahoy!
These are pictures that seemed a bit too silly to make it into a Photog Geeks Out piece on Salem, so I post them for Photo Friday.
But…seriously, who wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at a photograph of ‘The Bunghole’? Will I tag that and see how many people come to this blog as a result?
Most likely.
This really is a liquor store just down the way from the wharf and the Pirate Museum. How many jokes are made at its doors each day, I wonder?
“I’m just outside the Bunghole, guys. Wish me luck. I’m going in.”
Well, I would make that joke if you wouldn’t. I’m just cool like that.
Stop the Presses, ladies and gentlemen!!
It’s corn.
Now, perhaps you don’t get so animated when presented with this sweet and starchy delicacy, but I just about implode with excitement every time I see this picture. I want to buy me a bushel of that sweet treat and wrap it in tin foil and throw it in the fire, toss it in boiling water, or skewer it and grill it along side some smokey steak tips. (yes, I am a bit of a culinary aficionado. Eat it. Or me…if you don’t like the premise.)
My father used to live off the stuff. He was 6’3″ and one of five children and my grandmother would cook it several times a week, then let everyone in the household fill their plate first because she knew my father would hit the platter last and take everything that was left.
Remember kids, eat your corn and you too can be a huge lumbering 6’3″ irishman nicknamed ‘Flip.’ I almost got there, but sadly, I bottomed out at 5’9″ or so. I also do not have a willy. Not the corn’s fault though. Don’t blame corn, it tried.
These were hovering in the window of the Witch Museum shop in every color and scheme. I loved them, though I have always been quite fond of glass. Once upon a time, I partook in a fair share of a smoke-able ‘herbal supplement’ that allowed me to embrace and act on my love of glass with a collection of blown glass pieces for the inhalation of said “herbal supplement.” The collection taught me that collecting things you’re going to let your stoner friends handle is just asking for the destruction of your prized possessions.
I had many. I have none. Though, I no longer inhale said substance unless with the right company. What can I say?
I went straight.
Lesbians around the world are weeping at that phrase. No ladies, I was never gay. 
Now, this is a fountain! (Unlike the dohicky over here)
There’s spray and flow and the noise one enjoys, but at times finds troublesome from a white noise machine while you are trying to sleep. (Running water; soothing to your mind, exciting to your bladder.)
And the noise one enjoys was unintended linguistic awesome, if I do say so myself. Can anyone guess what I’m majoring in when I start classes on Wednesday?
I can!
Yet, on the subject of running water when you sleep, has anyone else ever had a dream where you needed to pee so you went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet in order to relieve that urge, in your dream?
Then if you’re lucky you realize you are trying to convince your bladder you are on a toilet when your body and sense memory are screaming, “No asshole! You’re horizontal!”
Otherwise, you wake up embarrassed.
I’m not going to lie, that dream ruined a night when I was preteen. Since then, that dream tries to humiliate me once every five years, but I scoff at its attempts.
TMI!
Well, suck it. You should know by now I have no shame and a penchant for anecdote. It’s the noise one enjoys when speaking to me.
Be excellent to each other…
…and party on dudes.
