Sputnik's Saga

So, having slain the giantess who killed her father, Sputnik's family was avenged.

That's how it *should* end, anyway.

I got a call from the mechanic just as I was walking out the door today- the tensioner had broken, which is what caused the timing belt to loosen. Amazingly enough, the engine itself is fine. She should be all fixed up by tomorrow.

Now, I just need $500 more dollars. By tomorrow. Without resorting to selling Mya on ebay.

Pants.

In other confusing news, I seem to have two extra boxes of Thin Mints. How? I don't get it. I mean, not that Thin Mints are difficult to get rid of, if it comes to that, but they *should* belong to someone.

In other hilarious news, Evelyn Waugh is funny.

...Paul, firmly grasping the walking stick, faced his form.
"Listen," he said. "I don't care a damn what any of you are called, but if there's another word from anyone I shall keep you all in this afternoon."
"You can't keep me in," said Clutterbuck; "I'm going for a walk with Captain Grimes."
"Then I shall very nearly kill you with this stick. Meanwhile you will all write an essay on 'Self-indulgence.' There will be a prize of half a crown for the longest essay, irrespective of any possible merit."

(Decline and Fall, Penguin Books Ltd, New York. 1978.)

the hedge abides.

Really, kids

I am so *fucking* serious. I am sick of all you people and your having fun in the not-crappy city/state where you live. I am pissed off that every time I want to send something to you via the mail (and don't act like you're too cool to get excited about snail-mail, because you're a rotting liar) I have to either dig through months or YEARS of lj entries to find the *one* post where you announced moving or some event at your place, or else ask you, which not only means that I have to wait for your lazy ass to reply but also that the surprise is TOTALLY RUINED.

I am not amused.

So, seriously, folks. Put a friend-locked entry as the chronologically first entry in your journal. Mine is my birth date, but you could make yours be the date of Wat Tyler's suspicious death, for all I care (15 June 1381, for those of you who can't use wikipedia). In this entry, put your mailing address, the e-mail address you use the most, and a phone number. Hell, put emergency contact info there, too. And a poem. And a picture of your cat/rabbit/kid sister/strange rash. Whatever. Just do it. And then update it whenever that info changes.

Then, tell your friends to do the same.

I'm hedge, your guide to the world of GETTING YOUR ASS KICKED IF YOU DON'T COMPLY.

the hedge abides.