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I sit here in a somewhat elevated state of awe after consuming a lovingly slathered Everything Bagel while running my tongue along the bottom row of my grill trying to dislodge stubborn particulate which remained intact in the aftermath of masticating that bad boy. As I intermittently introduce glugs of coffee flavored energy drink into the envi….
*Pauses about 20 minutes*
Okay, I’m back.
I’m on call this week where the auxiliary office is concerned. As I was creating that troubling mental imagery for you in the vanguard paragraph to yet another brilliant contribution to the internet, a phone call came in from a number I initially assumed was a wide eyed, optimistic type bent on convincing me that solar is the way to go.
*Pauses 24 hours*
Okay, let’s try this again.
Did I mention I was on call this weekend?
Of course I did.
Shortly after the aforementioned twenty minute diversion derailed my bloggery and an Everything Bagel, another call came in yesterday morning which put my optimistic plans of composing my first annual TharpSter New Year’s Post into imminent peril. When all was said and done some four hours later, some ill-planned server changes had been reverted and a few files had been retransmitted. On top of that, I had racked up some overtime cash in which to spend on additional solar panels for the dog house out in the backyard starter kit.
As you may or may not recall, that dog house is constructed from the left over fence slats of a portion of the northern barrier that Dad and I assembled years ago.
It gets more use by the squirrels that live rent free in the skull of a certain 9 3/4 toed LabJack Terrorist than it does by the 9 3/4 toed LabJack Terrorist.
Anyway, after putting in some work yesterday morning, I just didn’t have it in me to conduct another session of The Tharpening, so I moved onto other things like laundry, left over chicken enchiladas, and streaming television services.
Now that we’ve set aside yesterday’s unpleasantries, I’m back at it. This morning’s bagel has been consumed and washed down with the coffee flavored energy drink which shall go nameless since it’s manufacturer doesn’t provide advertising dollars to either line my pockets and or power auxiliary structures constructed of discarded fence wood around the domain.
Various seeds and other debris line my grill for the time being, but will soon be dispensed.
Let’s get back to the somewhat elevated state of awe.
Here’s a little tidbit for you to squirrel away, ladies and gentlemen. Among the search terms that have landed those who long for verbal brilliance on an otherwise dull internet here at my own little corner of the internet is the word ‘panty‘.
I know, right?
Please understand that the following assessment of those who have searched out that word on the search engine of their choice and opted to select a link to one of my efforts to Blog America Great is made with nothing but love and adoration.
Freaks.
All things being equal, unique search terms which point you to my website isn’t the intended subject matter of this post, so I’m going to move on.
Last month, while doing some research on a 2400 word rant about student loan debt, I kept encountering hits on an individual born in the 19th century by the name of Joseph Pujol.
It would seem, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr. Pujol had incredible control of his abdominal muscles. So much so, that the guy could fart at will.
At will, on Will, take your pick.
Find something that you love to do and you’ll never work a day in your life, right?
As a result of the incredible control that Mr. Pujol had over his boom tube, the man created a life in show business literally blowing it out his ass. His stage name was Le Pétomane, which translates to “fartomaniac”.
One can only wonder until they do a little searching on the internet to determine if Mel Brooks had this little kernel of knowledge when he assigned the governor in the film Blazing Saddles with the same name.
So I’ve told you all of that so that I can tell you this.
Today, June 1, 2019 is the 162nd birthday of Le Pétomane.
Today, June 1, 2019 is the 51st birthday of TharpSter, which I solipsistically declared as New Year’s Day some time back in an open revolt to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s use of provocative yet dooshy tweets in an effort to remain relevant.
In honor of the French flatulist and all who have been inspired by his works, let’s all invoke an alternate method to blowing out the candles by letting one rip.
Happy New Year’s y’all.
