I’m all about universal, I eat cereal, and both my brothers ride the bus so I’m scant a store’s throw from USB myself, though I refuse to interface with a printer, fax, or digital camera.
I’ve read that USB means Universal Serial Bus, though why they’d spell cereal that way is beyond me. Adults, go figger. They don’t know apples from Newton and they only listen to me when I shriek.
What I do know for sure is that USB is a popular and widely accepted interface between compy’s and anything they want to experience. I’m like a squishy compy with a diaper, so I need my own USB, right?
The way I figure it, my USB is my mouth. Nothing more universal than that, it is “O” where my Cheerios go, which in undeniably cereal. And I’d gladly bite a bus given the chance. Seems to be a perfect match, so I hope I’m not premature in declaring, “ta da!”
LEFT – Pay no mind to the pokey toy in my right hand, the lef’t’s got the USB and that’s what I’m currently all about, I guess… Oh, and lay off the SCSI jokes already, they’re just not appropriate.
Admittiedly, cameras are confused and scanner beds befuddled, but I chalk it up to a hardware problem. I think I need a better driver or something. My current driver is dad and he’s been known to change lanes without signaling. I’m all XP and that behavior ain’t compatible. I’ll do it — don’t tempt me — I’ll upgrade my own dad if it means getting the new version of IE in a tidy, if not illegal, bundle.
Did I mention it’s versatile? Unlike the traditional, rigid rectangle of USB, my progressively toothy cry-hole-pie-hole is roundy and of adjustible aperture, from ping-pong to pinhead. I’ve been busting for busing it all, baby.
Now, if I could figure out what the fax machine is screaming I’d be in business. Of course, the same could be said about Brendan… but that’s a different story.
Holidays aside, we’re not much for religious pilgrimages.* Sure, you’ve got your anticipation at Christmas, your bunny hunting at Easter and the unforgettable costumes of Halloween, but there’s one day too often forgotten from the calendar, and that’s Pancake Day. And there’s no better way to celebrate it than with a free short-stack of those golden flappy jackies from IHOP.
So before I get too far in to the story, let me break the breaking news. Pancake Day is coming up on February 24th, and it’s being honored, once again, by IHOP with a free short stack of buttermilk pancakes for every guest coming in between 7:00am and 10:00pm. It’s not a holiday taken lightly, so there’s a limit of one stack per guest, and it’s only for the dine-in guest, but when it comes to free pancakes, what more could you want?
Pancake Day has a rich and storied history dating back hundreds of years. It’s that day preceding lent when you shrove all your leftover milk and eggs together to make pancakes instead of shoving them in the trash… not a great joke, I’ll admit, but there’s only so much funny I can make on short notice.
If you want to learn more about the history of Pancake Day, or at least our history with Pancake Day, you can read our 2008 coverage or Pancake day, our 2007 Pancake Day Coverage, or heck, why not our 2006 Pancake Day Coverage. What can I say, we’re big fans of Pancake Day.
It’s not just that we’re big fans of pancakes, though we’re definitely that. What’s special about IHOP’s Pancake Day celebration is that it’s a massive effort to raise funds for the Children’s Miracle Network.
Children’s Miracle Network is a non-profit organization dedicated to saving and improving the lives of children by raising funds for children’s hospitals across North America. If you want to know more about them, read their FAQ page.
If you just heard about this amazing event, you know, the one where you can actually get free pancakes just for considering dropping a buck or bunch to kids in need, and you’re wondering if it’s still a real event: yes it is. Read about it on IHOP’s own site or just drop in to any location and ask them. It’s very real, and it’s for a very good cause.
Find an IHOP location near you.
Our favorite restraunt is the Seatac location in Washington State. We’ve been to plenty of good ones, but this one is convenient, it’s sprawling, new and the staff is almost as great as the cakes. It seems like everytime we go in, the manager Jerry is there, and he goes out of his way to make everybody feel welcome. Here’s what a great guy Jerry is: When we were done, we told him we wanted three balloons, you know, to contribute to Children’s Miracle Network. He thought we wanted three helium balloons, so he got those for us.
You know, kids like balloons, and technically we’re still kids, so that was really awesome… oh, and by the way, we took the balloons. We still donated to put our three balloons on the wall though. You can find them down near the west end. They’re easy to spot because we all wrote our own names on them, and they’re really illegible.
And if you were to press me, ok, I guess I can tell you our favorite server. Her name is Amanda. She’s always been friendly, keeps our drinks fresh and full, and even suggests new things on the menu we might like (she said we should try the stuffed French toast next time). She’s the kind of server we really appreciate, and not just because she’s so nice to us and always pre-anticipates our needs, but because she seems pretty much that friendly and helpful to everybody.
* Then again, if not for a holiday, what would be the point of a pilgrimage? Aren’t the two ideas kind of inexorably intertwined anywho?
We’re already pretty much raving fans of PhotoWorks.com, and not just because they’ve got the stalwart professionalism of American Greetings backing them up. When we wanted prints for Christmas, we turned to them, and again when we wanted an oversize print the local shops couldn’t make. But there are a bunch of reasons we use PhotoWorks, and why we suggest them to you.
They aren’t the cheapest shop on the block, but of all the companies that have a good reputation, they pretty much are. They’re a way better deal than that drugstore down the street (I won’t name them, you know me better than that) and the prints come out in better quality, if you ask me.
If you really want to find a place that will quote you a better price, you can find it, but that doesn’t mean it’s real… how about $19 for shipping? PhotoWorks doesn’t charge that, but one cut-rate place I checked out online did, and it almost made me sick.
I ran the math backwards, by the way, turns out the cheaper guys actually cost more than 30% more, and that’s if you can trust them. If that’s how dirty they do their business, I just can’t give them any amount of money for anything.
But then I found out that PhotoWorks kind of does it all. If you want huge prints, a thousand individual prints or a high quality 8×10, they got all that, don’t insult them. Look further. Consider the things you never considered before. They offer calendars, cards, a bunch of different picture/locket-style jewelry (that was a bit surprising,) mugs, mouse pads, clothing and even stuff you can buy with your picture on it to put on your dog.
It’s enough to make my head spin.
Wait… no, I’m alright.
The best thing is that you can upload your pictures online, adjust them if you want to, order them at the best price you’ll find from any legit company, and you’ll have your good in just a couple days.
Super easy. Bam! Done.
If you’re thinking about Valentines, or even just a birthday, nothing says “dad knows you have kids you’re supposed to love” like a photographic keepsake, and nothing says it looks great like the options they offer. I mean, seriously, you should at least check them out. They’ve got tons of stuff I’ve never even seen before.
And I just saw that they’re still running the new-user promo. If you sign up now and place an order you’ll get 50 free prints. I imagine it’s a limited time offer (I don’t work for them) so if you’re interested, check it out now before the seasons change and the promo disappears.
As a man of miniature stature myself, I’m always on the lookout for new things more me-sized than medium. Mostly my size-based pursuits lead to nothing (thanks a lot, jumbo shrimp!) but there is one thing sized to pint that’s true to its name, and it is miniature golf. I discovered it, and I immediately learned to love it.
I’ve been burned on so-called miniatures before.
I saw a miniature dog once on some poorly shot reality show, but my hopes for a greater (or lesser?) world were quickly dashed when I learned that its master, a man named Paris Hilton, was actually a Tokyo-stomping mega monster. I get the joke, the dog is also huge but looks small by comparison, right? Nice joke. Mutt ain’t as impressive based on comparative size.
Miniature golf, however, really delivers on its namesake.
LEFT: Hazards in golf abound, such as those of the water variety. Aparrently there’s more about golf, even mini-golf, to beg your danger, and that’s to say nothing of the high blood pressure and cursing. If you find yourself thusly afflicted, might I suggest cheating? They don’t let you score with a pencil for nothing, I’m just saying.
A traditional golf drive is somewhere in the hundreds of yards. Miniature golf drives, even with the best mediocre coordination I can muster, is only in the range of many feet… that’s miniature all right.
Even the clubs fit me well, so it’s a pretty slick scale-down anyhow you measure the madness.
RIGHT: While I’ll admit I’m no expert at golf, miniature or otherwise, I do know that the easiest hole-in-one is had when you just drop the ball straight in the hole from an extremely close overhead distance… which I did. Very rewarding.
And it is madness, because sometimes I just swing away, and you best have taken shelter by the time I do it.
So I’m not sure if I discovered it or invented it, but in either case I first learned of it on our last mega tour of Montana. We played this scaled-down grand game at two great places. We played it at Qwivals Family Fun Park and Geyser Park. In both cases it was fun, and sufficiently bite-sized for my missing teeth to sink their gums into.
Here are the most fun and exciting aspects of miniature golf:
1 – Old People try to keep score, but it’s no use and there’s no point.
2 – You’re encouraged to hit a ball with a stick, and there are essentially no rules. 3 – No matter how good you do, you’re allowed a do-over, you know, just for fun. 4 – Running off, though discouraged, is largely permitted. 5 – Water hazards, though hazardous, are wicked fun for jumping into. 6 – Balls are color coded for each player, so feel free to smack any ball of any color near any hole (yours or an adjacent one with another family) at any time, indiscriminately. 7 – Since the bathroom really only exists outside of the whole mini-golf experience, use the supposed need to augment your handicap and gain a good 3-30 strokes should you find yourself down. 8 – Only tee off from the designated pad, or anywhere else you like, even if it’s within inches of the hole. 9 – Feel free to lay down on the green when it feels right for you. 10 – Waiting for your turn is for sissies and amateurs, so just run rampant, swing free and smack balls as you feel you must. Same is true for balls of “golf” or “dad” varieties. 11 – If the hole appears too challenging to play, it’s all right to just drop your ball in the hole by hand (as pictured.) 12 – Just like with regular golf, always keep score with a pencil, so changes to the score can be made at will to reflect a more appropriate standing, based at least on your ability to master “eraser” technology. 13 – Assume your antics led you to a victory and that no one can take it away from you.
Golf is a game best enjoyed, so if you have to play it by stricter rules, then do as you must. I insist it gets no better than the way I play, by my rules, but it’s ultimately up to you.
ABOVE: Proper form in golfing is a science as yet undiscovered to applied physicists and mini-golf hobbiests alike, so when it comes to a putt, just do what feels right. For us it’s holding the putt-stick all wrong and bonking it whatever way happens to happen. It’s not very effective, but it’s the best method we got so far.
ABOVE: Sometimes balls get hung up, or at least take a good half-dozen seconds to appear again on the flip-side of the place from which they come… Best advice says don’t bother waiting, but lay your eye down in the direct path of the ball so that, when it finally does appear, you’ll see it first, even if by doing so you damage your own noggin, as I might have… can’t say for sure, what on account of my own noggin damage, but I think purple dishwasher monkey postal fliers… wait, what?
ABOVE: This was shot at a different golf course on a different month, but you can see that even the cranial damage I suffered on the first go-round didn’t dare deter me from making the same mistake yet again.
ABOVE: Here you can see my anticipation as I literally will that ball to fulfill it’s desitny, give up already, and just sink itself into that hole, even though my 9″ putt is somehow plainly undeserving of such a gratifying fate. Oh golf, when will you ever cease to be so wicked?
Since before time even began to exist* there has been this ubiquitous thing called The Children’s Museum. These are often underfunded, though never underappreciated, and frequently enjoyed by all in attendance. The children’s museum in Missoula is one such example, especially considering how hard they work to make their place so much fun.
They started humbly, as all children’s museums do, in a modest space with painfully limited funding despite grand and noble goals.
Let’s skip a couple chapters and just say that, as of our visit, they were already in their third space, and the newest place had grown in really great ways.
There’s a treehouse area, a dinosaur dig area, a soapy bubble lab, a construction area, and even a juniored down kiddy computer area. I didn’t find it fun, what on account of me being busy with my “being five years old” all the time, but senior staff photographer Patrick found it perfectly delightful and fun, apparently according to all that him-being-8-years-old business.
Apparently the exhibits are themed by age, and meant to cover a broad range. I can’t speak for that, but I can say that baby Dominic found fun things, I found others, and my senior brother Patrick found yet others still.
LEFT: Among the many fine features of this place is a station where you can view yourself on a tv screen with a national map behind you. If you ever thought the job of the weather man was an easy one, you can put that theory to the test right here. Turns out there’s a lot more to looking good on television than simply looking good, though my brother seemed to have managed that part of it just fine.
The Missoula Children’s Museum isn’t exactly what you’d call a tourist destination, but if you’re in town and you have youngsters, it might still be a fine afternoon distraction. It’s more than just a respectable staple of the local parentscape, as it’s really a fun place for kids, and it’s also ridiculously cheap for the visit.
And if I could throw out a few bonus points on account of these being such darn nice people, or that they’re trying so hard, or that it costs almost nothing to get in, I’d say on our next Montana tour, you can bet your butt-or-dollar** that we’re going there again, because all of us had to be begged, bribed and cajoled to get us out of there.
There are apparently other, comparable children’s museums in Great Falls and Bozeman, as well as the amazing Exploration Works children’s museum in Helena (though it’s in a whole different league,) but I can’t speak for the Bozeman or Great Falls incarnations… at least, I can’t speak for them yet… I’m young, so give me time and we’ll see.
* Who knows for sure when time first began, but I imagine it was some time since my own birth, so when I say things like this, it just means that something happened to happen around the time I was born or, you know, kind of thereabouts.
Most journalists my age are all about the Mac and the Cheese, but not me, baby, I’m a meat man. I’m a metabo-low-carb man, myself, man. You getting me?
If you wanna hand me a balogna sammich, be advised I’ll strip the meat from the bread and let the Wonder lie where it falls. If it’s PB&J, I’ll crack it open and tongue out the PB and the J, but the unmerry messenger of bleachest-most bread is predestined to be shot dead to languish, expiring by the highchair wayside.
But this odd steak seems so steely and I’m crazily unclear as to why.
This big, beefen-bronzy heifer is so solid and steadfast in her milk-free ways. I’ve gobbled no less than twenty-and-tence my weight in cattlesque delectalights. Whether in ketchup, teriyaki or sauces of barbecue it’s been no matter, this holy cow has been a greatest indulgence of mine. One I hesitate to forsake, even for iron, tin or tungsten considerations.
Is this a powerful purveyor of Hindi-esque message ala moo-style preservation the likes of which the Simpson’s Apu himself would be hard-pressed to convey? I know not, but ponder weightily indeedy.
Perhaps it’s a spiritual expression of bovinity the likes of which me and my omnivorous brethren have narient yet, to this very day, ever imagined to have dreamed of seeing. I can’t say what this experience means, nor do I care to even imagine trying.
You know something — which I imagine you do — all this spiritual and philosophical talk is above me. Not just above me, but way, way above me. I can’t ponder stuff of such heady absurdity… I’m a bit sorry to you, but not very.
Forget about steel. Forget about brass, bronze, copper and marble-esque stonery. Think instead of New York, baseball, center cut, brisket, and the most prime of prime rib. Think Au Jus. Think richest gravy. Think Brazilian tongue on a tong and get back to me if you must, though I can’t imagine you will.
Steel cow or steal cow, but do as you must. You’ve got my vote in the event you should need it.
I may never understand the making of metal cattle, but I do know what I like. And oh dear friends, what I like is rich, Angus protein. How you like me now?*
Last week our business manager came into our office to gripe about a number of things, principal among them was the severe lack of publication pieces in months of late, but at the very top of the list was the amount of money we spent in Puerto Rico compared to our net output of viable articles from it… meh, whatever.
It was pointed out that when we went to San Francisco, we produced 55-articles in just five days, whereas in two full months of Puerto Rico living, we only came out with about 50, while hundreds were expected.
What can I say, we weren’t that taken with the place.
More than that, painfully few of the locals could be bothered to get off their patooties long enough to actually meet with us to perform our journalistic reviews. Compare that with San Francisco where every attraction was gracious and giddy to have us in, in order to tap in to our manys of thousands per day in syndicated readership.
It’s not like we asked for money or anything, just somebody to ask questions of, and still very few felt the inclination to actually get up from their desks long enough to do so.
What, am I supposed to go out and invent stories where none exist just to promote an island nation that can’t be bothered to invent itself just to make a story, even if no such story exists? Nonsense!
Us juniors had a well and good enough time in Puerto Rico and truly loved the time we spent there with all the bugs, runaway humidity and tail swoop of Hurricane Dean, and we especially loved that the out-of-mind bored parents took us to every first run film offered within 100 miles each week, though apparently, and this is just what I’m told, the parents were bored out their minds with that too.
And worst of all, the Daddy Man, who does the majority of the business management and who was there on contract to do more work as well, found it especially infuriating that nobody would actually pick up the phone long enough to tell him he could go in to write up the promotional reviews of them and their businesses that were required of him..
It’s almost as if they think the dollar is still strong (which it is not), that they’re unaware that Cuba will open up to Americans in the next few years (which it almost certainly will) or that they’re a dirty, quasi-American protectorate whose only saving grace is the ease of Caribbean fare without a passport… crazy talk, I know.
So one could argue that our lack of Puerto Rico articles has everything to do with a general malaise that languished atop the family, or perhaps that it was a sweeping culture of incompetence that caused it, but really the net result was just a general lack of interest amongst all involved in sum entirely and nothing more.
Us juniors had a good enough time, despite the conspicuous lack of playgrounds about the island, though it wasn’t for a lack of trying to find them. The parents insist it’s still a great place to take a holiday, but that one should go with a first-world tourism budget in mind, throw any business notions out the window, and instead just follow the guidebooks for the best trip that can be possible, and to do so the traveler must not take local opinion in mind, regardless of how fluently or passionately it’s expressed.
So our Puerto Rican articles will be necessarily cut uncommonly short with the balance of the articles being doled out over the coming year in exclusive license to PuertoRicoLifestyle.com.We had originally intended to put out a book of our Puerto Rican exploits, but so painfully much ended up being worth so painfully little that we’re just giddy to be back home in the land of as few sub-human-head-sized bugs that we are not going to complain and as an additionally great bonus our safe passage home, even though the airline gave us another ounce of misery on the return flight.
At least the passage through security in Puerto Rico’s San Juan International Airport was reasonable. No bitterness of the journey, and I truly mean it… tell that to the parents in a convincing way and you might actually get a stamp of approval, and you can go from there, but in the meantime, just pick your Caribbean destination by desire, get a passport and go there instead, regardless of boundaries and call it a day.
To our greatest surprise, off the southern coast of Puerto Rico, is a once missed, but since exploited beach just off the coast called Gilligan’s Island. It’s nothing new and check any tour book to verify it, but it’s a pretty interesting place. It was once an uncommonly forgotten grotto just off the coast, but now it’s almost as good place that’s still kind of interesting to attend, assuming you do it on the right day.
The whole thing has been written up in just about all of the guidebooks because twenty years ago it was the cat’s meow. That cat has spent its nine lives, and this spit of grotto has been wasted for its lives as well.
We showed up at our previously agreed upon time only to find that nobody knew who we were and so we got to pay out $40+ for our Perplexing gang to have the luxury of writing up the attraction… obviously it’s just that great, right? Well, it’s pretty good, in sorts, but not entirely so.
We went during midweek after summer break had ended so we had the assumption we were going out during an off-peak time. Turns out the rickety, scary ferry was not just late, which is normal, but loaded to the teeth with paying passengers.
We got out to Gilligan’s Island (or Guilligan’s Island, as it’s locally called), only to find the island overrun with other tourists, replete with all the empty beer cans a tourist might hope to trip over all about the beaches even though, as I said, it was mid-week and mid-day and during the school year to boot and so there was no place to place our sandals or blankets in order to enjoy the glorious beach of which invariably is the place called Gilligan’s Island.
Bear in mind that this silly place was only renamed Gilligan’s Island a couple decades back in order to cul in the wayward tourists, and that the place has no bearing on the actual Gilligan’s Island, and that the only reason it’s been thusly named is because of the whole and entire likelihood that a tourist might go out there just because of its name…. which is somehow bearing the title of “Gilligan’s Island” though it pays no royalty and that’s just because it’s technically a real island.
In short, do not ever go there for any reason other than to say that you have, but even then, you really still shouldn’t bother, even though we had a fine enough time out there.
If you want an island excursion, drive out to the ferry that traverses the waters to Culebra or Viequez, both of which are a fraction of the price and either of which will take you to a place so much nearer to paradise than anything you can find even in the backwaters of Gilligan’s Island.
With that said, let’s talk again about Gilligan’s Island, even if it is the one island in the world Gilligan never actually visited.
It’s a nice enough grotto. We spent our afternoon getting sunburns and checking out the assorted dead coral beneath our feet. We found all kinds of dead seashells and a bunch of interesting dead fish fossils too even though we couldn’t find a free square foot of coastline onto which we might place our beachy towels.
By the way, if you do decide to visit Gilligan’s Island, you are strongly recommended to not leave anything of value on the beach, which is a bit sad, since it means that people are paying a solid $8 a head to head out and steal your stuff, which is terrible.
The exclusive purveyors of the island are jerks, as best we can tell, no matter how much fun we had (at tremendous cost), and if you’ve got the nickels to spare, go to a real island or two instead and call that good enough.
Bottom line is that you should never go there. It’s a 4 of 10 experience at a 9 of 10 cost while you can go get far better values with overnight accommodations elsewhere. And that my fellow kiddo travelers is my review.
I probably could be more excited about it but I’m not sure how. Maybe if I knew I was a journalist, what a magazine is or how to read, but no matter what, we at Perplexing Times are very excited about this latest arrangement to spread our young, timeless wisdom to a handful more of the myriad masses.
I can’t go in to detail, and that’s mostly because I don’t actually get to know what the details are, but I can tell you that the Puerto Rico Lifestyle Magazine has come to terms we like to reprint all of our stories from our many adventures in Puerto Rico.
Dollars and cents aside, because I’m not sure how many of those are actually involved, I can tell you one exciting thing is that all of the contextual links we put in our articles will continue to link to Perplexing Times. Golly, that would just make it super if we actually made any money.
The administrative “parent” types decided years ago to keep ads on here to a minimum and to severely restrict the kinds of ads that can actually appear on Perplexing Times so it’s not like that’s a huge boon for anything other than bringing in new readers, but I’ll take it. That alone is exciting enough for me.
I know we’ve been pretty lax about publishing lately, and part of it is that our collective rate of learning things new and newsworthy have slowed and the other part of it is that our adminadaddy has been buried in his own work so one thing we’ll do ti get things running in real time is wrap up the last of the Puerto Rico articles and move on from that “old business” to more timely and interesting things like “new business.”
If you really liked the Puerto Rican articles you’ll be able to read even more of our exploits over on Puerto Rico Lifestyle, so you won’t miss a minute of our journey, if you’re into that sort of thing. We sure were at the time but we’ve been there so we know what makes it cool.
There will only be another maybe five or six articles about Puerto Rico, then I promise we’ll wrap it up properly, move on with our lives, and get right back to bringing you the news that’s most relevant to your lives.
And if you really want to support the Puerto Ricans, do as a third of them say and demand the island becomes a state. On the secondhand (which ticks much faster) you could hear the second third of them and demand independence. With that said, you might be better off listening to the final third and demand no change in status whatsoever. Either way it’s a quagmire, but that’s Puerto Rico for you, a quagmire.
I don’t know syndication from a stranger, but I was writing only a month before a bunch of publications picked up my stuff. This latest one, however, is close to home and as welcome as my matt… even though his name’s something else.
A billion years ago, way after the dot bubble burst like (one of the many of) my favorite balloons under my jumpy-pouncy weight, a bunch of sites syndicated my articles. Studio 8, the Fake News, Uncle Sharky and even Zinos ran my stuff. They didn’t need my infantile insight, but wanted a fresh perspective as only I could bring. Kudos, my loving syndi-gaggle, I approve and appreciate it, every last letter.
Satire Search syndicated my work from the giddy up n’ go, picked us up quicker than an Amsterdam escort, and didn’t drop us until proprietor Pedi-Bob decided he didn’t like my dad*. Better still, the guys at HumorFeed have picked up every headline we’ve sent in for worldwide distribution since then. HumorFeed, baby, how cool is that?
Anyhow, there’s this new outfit in Seattle, my proximate hometown, and they’re coming out with more issues than my crazy aunt Gina (who’s still drowning in her own river of “de Nile.”) They caught wind of me and demanded I share my work with them… A demand? So hostile! Very well, like a true underdog, I concede.
I’m a Pacific Northwest native, despite my farthest travelings, so it pencils out in fine Crayola fashion. I review the cruises, dinner train, museums, zoos, aquarium and more, and let these guys spread my goodly gospel. Who loses? Nobody, that’s who. Who? Nobody! (Pay attention already.)
I’ve never been above begging before, so let me beg once again. Not for myself this time, but for my dear, precious syndiate. A vote for Seattle Sum Times is a vote for Mr. Me-man, grandest Brendan Alexander.
As much as I hate it when you guys leave, I undestand that you do it at the end of every visit to my site. You want more and I can’t blame you. I want more too, sometimes. For me it’s toys, candy and attention. For dad it’s security, a car and maybe a house. Whatever you crave, consider Seattle Sum Times for the total of your online (mis)information needs.
See now, if that don’t make it all official-like, I just don’t know what could do it… yet somehow, not everybody’s got the message that we’re for real, just yet.
* It’s been almost a year and a half, yet despite over fifteen emails, the pseudo-nommed Bob Pferd from Satire Search won’t even aknowledge us. We were so good back then, but despite Our growing success, traffic and attention, not even remotely worthy of even a single word back. Now who’s the child?