Sippican Cottage

The Internet Is Finished. You Can Go Home Now

Move along. There’s nothing to see here. Go about your business. The Internet is finished.

That was it. I just finished the Internet. I just finished the last block in the Intertunnel’s Sudoku. I’ve completed the HTML 5 equivalent of the London Sunday Times Crossword –in pen.

Post no bills. Keep your hands inside the basket, because if you don’t they’re going to get scorched where you’re going for laughing at that. I didn’t laugh. I wept. I gnashed my teeth, and I actually pronounced the G in gnash when I typed that. I type these aloud, you know. Of course you didn’t know that, but I wrote, “You know,” in that sentence anyway. I don’t know why I did that. It doesn’t matter. Will the last one out of the Intertunnel please get the lights?

You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. The end is nigh! Save yourselves, before it’s too late. Maybe we can all get a Pinterest page and try to atone for our sins by posting nothing but pictures of artisanal cupcakes and shoes for the rest of our godforsaken lives, but this one is going to leave a mark. This is wronger than a fan dancer with an Adam’s apple. It’s wronger than a trailer hitch on a Renault LeCar. It’s wronger than a Gilbert O’Sullivan tribute band.

It’s over. It’s not you, it’s me. On second thought, it’s you. It’s always been you.

Ladies And Gentlemen, I Give You: The Intertunnel

It is a silly place.

The light at the end of the Intertunnel is a dumpster fire. An Intertunnel in the hand is worth two in Kate Bush. I think that I shall never see, an Intertunnel take an arrow to the knee. The Intertunnel is the place where, when you have to go there, you’re likely to be taken in. Do not go gentle into that Intertunnel. The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing but look at the Intertunnel. There’s a sucker born every refresh. And so my fellow Americans, ask not what your Intertunnel can do for you—ask if you can upload a mariachi band serenading a beluga whale.

Call An Ambulance! Does Anyone Know The Number For 911?

What is this I don’t even.

It’s got a hint of: My hovercraft is full of eels, doesn’t it?

Okey dokey- Let’s hear from the experts on such matters. Luckily they’re all wearing Depends now.

Trouble in the rising sun,
Ladies dialing nine one one
Yeah, she needs to see a physician (Stat!)
For rumbles in her nether parts

That woman from Tokyo
Ate Boyardee
That woman from Tokyo
Smells no good to me

Looking like an eastern Queen
Smelling like a hockey team
Oh, I hope you live a bit upriver
She won’t be flushing Perrier

That woman from Tokyo
Ate Boyardee
That woman from Tokyo
She’s no good to me

Double Trouble: The End Of The World. The Birth Of Bumpits

A person who doubts himself is like a man who would enlist in the ranks of his enemies and bear arms against himself. He makes his failure certain by himself being the first person to be convinced of it.

-Ambrose Bierce

… a man that goes around with a prophecy-gun ought never to get discouraged; if he will keep up his heart and fire at everything he sees, he is bound to hit something by and by.

-Mark Twain

Tag: Seriously–WTF?

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