Letters to the Editor
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Sigh!
Wonderful.
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brilliant
love it!
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Ol Berk's missin' his mom today
Me too. It'll be five years next Thursday when she slipped away from this monstrous joke called mortality and went somewhere, I don't know where.
Thanks Berk, ya bastard! You made me cry. Happy now?
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Good job
That was a great one!
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Results of a genius at work.
Now we know what his Mom looks like. Poor Opus.
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sigh, indeed
When did progressives become so relentlessly neo-Luddite?
When did we decide that technology is automatically the nemesis of society and the environment?
I make use of texting and cellphone calls when interacting with my friends, relatives and girlfriend...
...AND I also *gasp* interact with them all in person, and dole out hugs, smiles and other intimate forms of social interaction which Breathed laments had died due to the existence of eeeevil text messaging.
Yours modernly,
A Progressive who does NOT hate technology as much as Ted Kacyzsinski
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That was lovely
Thanks, Berk. You get it.
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Garry Owen ask...`~` ...Happy now?
Owen. It's too early for me to comment about your aunt, dear mother, poor father, and Opus...yet...your gonna be bedridden!
big crybaby. boo-hoo. o, g.o. crocodile tears?
When Gary Owen ask B. Breathed, 'Happy now?'
I say, 'No' and what would make me happy is if you'd give the State of The Planet Earth Speech Monday. eh.
Forget the high-tech spring-loaded gadgets.
I feel like smashing you upside the noggin.
You want a toe nail knuckle sandwich, do ya?
When I get to use a rot-wood leg like theta',
Alas! You become # ten. You met dead dragon!
You wanna be a Bush's bed post? You can be full-time at the foot of Bush's bed and see who slips under his sheets. okay. You get to be a quiet observer and hush up!
You need a pegged leg? You wanna save dough?
Garry Owen. Buy only one shoe. You still are getting annoyed at two feet people in the whole woe world?
Don't drink alone. Don't fall from a boat if you moon a moon. None may miss ME/GO? G. Owen. If you'd take the canoe oar from your YKW, I bet you'd be less cranky? I would not touch that wood ore with a 10-foot pitch-fork. Owen and Opus are dang tempestuous and need to act like a bravado male.
Now G.O. can expect a boogie man to arrive soon and hold a snot-tissue for you snot-face Owen cry baby. You messed up?
You got one of those bonkers gazes? It's a screwy 10-foot PTSD far-off look. Be careful Owen and Opus. Holy cow. Soon you'll be flashing back about the swinging tree monkeys? You'll begin to chatter at the river bank with 'Nam monkeys and water buffaloes. You'll be as confused and haywire as a mule-dick.
huh? I made that up because of whatever the gadget is? It's no good dear heart. hint. He'll have a big smirk-face while he listens to your Monday speech.
And remember how the 'Nam-Moon always was a pleasant sight?
It lit up the jungle so no damn grunt Occidental woke up and pissed on ya's or pooped on your ruck-back-pack. Yea. A tumbling in rat shit on fire-base L.Z. Grant was a doozie sandbag filling duty place. Owen. You still refuse to hold the green plastic sandbag wide-open so Glenn can shovel sand at you? I like GG because he reminds me of a smokin' shake and bake Gary Pillard. He studied law and knew how to read a glossy Time magazine.
We grunts got hi busted for puffing dinky-weed from a ivory bowl. That aspiring law student may be dead too? Who knows?
We made up nicknames. Owen-snot-Knows! That's you today.
That L.Z. rear-base had rotten zapper skeletons in the barbed wire for weeks.
O, tell the truth? The dead laid in rolled-up satchel charged wires forever. Whoever thought that the America dung-pile whorled~to~be~transformed into all the present d.c. GOPS?
Holy H20. O Moon glow.
Be Happy to be Alive.
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FBI fib
Some teen got run up on terrorism charges associated with a flight from LA to Nashville. My guess, is he had some songs that were blocked from being uploaded to YouTube or other free content distributors because of speech restrictions. Music industry doesn't want trouble unless it makes the usual suspects look bad, so Los Angeles and Nashville were no places to go. Some yucksters at a TV news channel claimed he wanted to crash a Hannah Montana concert.
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Let your lud light shine and shine
I remember when answering machines were new in the 70s and a lot of people spent a lot of time complaining about how impersonal and machine-like it all was, how it was destroying this and that and leading to god knew what for our future. Hard to believe for those not even born then, I know. Because in fact over time they just became part of the landscape and more or less invisible, just another tool to use, and often a tool to use in order to become more connected and in touch and intimate, not less so.
This cartoon reminds me of some old codger who corners you at a family gathering and goes on about how much better it was before these newfangled whatchamacallits (enter whatchamacallit of your choice) an exchange which leaves you thinking you know, I'd rather receive a thousand text messages from more positive less cranky people than to have to listen to one real in-person reminisince on the good old days and how terrible it all is now from you.
The alternative to text messages or e-mails from Mom is not a hug, but silence. I keep in touch with family from afar by e-mail, text and even fax and it makes me feel more connected, not less. And when I visit I still get the hugs, which I would have gotten anyway, I just don't miss them quite as much during the periods in between.
I've never really understood it all myself, and I may be close to Breathed's age. Just to prove it's not entirely about that. I find the idea that technology will make us lonely and impersonal so odd, when in fact the alternative is just a phone ringing with no one answering.