The other day, a nondescript phrase to indicate at some point in the recent past, I purchased from one of my favourite vendors, a delightfully cheap apple juice. "Mmm!" I thought, eagerly anticipating my tiny carton of happiness. "An apple juice will really set me up for the day! And it's only 25 pence! My, could life get any better?!" ran through my head as I queued an agonisingly long time to exchange my money for the sheer joy of apple juice. I very nearly burst it open in the excitement.
As I was walking to my class holding aforementioned apple juice, I opened it eagerly, and began sucking it out.
This is where things take a turn for the worse.
As I am drinking, my joy turns to horror as I realise this juice was 25 pence, not because they are so skilled and talented at making it that they can do so for a reduced price, but because it is horrendous apple juice. "Ah well." I thought, my sunny disposition only slightly sullied by this, "I'll know for next time". As I continued suckling on it, however, it soon became apparent that the straw was TOO SHORT to reach the elixir of horrendousness with lay within a carton of disgust.
"I guess I must have drawn the short straw that day."
Anyways, this ruined my mood, and instead of setting me up for the day, it instead plunged me into the icy depths of a bad mood, from which childrens' laughter sounds like the cackling of demons, and benevolence fills me with distrust, where I stayed, all day. All in all, a poor experience. Worst 25 pence I've ever spent.
Thanks, EuroShopper.
(Who here can tell I only wrote this because I found a good pun?)
Friday, 5 March 2010
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Spotify Ads
I've been listening to Spotify, and there's a new ad, which is anti-cocaine, in which a train is calling at "Stroke" via "Impotence". I found this advert a lot more terrifying when I thought cocaine would lead me to end up eventually in Stoke, despite its excellent Monkey Forest. Maybe that would be the draw. "Are you a coke addict? Do you like monkeys? This train is going to Stoke!".
Okay fine, they can't all be winners.
Okay fine, they can't all be winners.
Mastercrafts
"Hey, let's make a show about archaic manufacturing techniques! We could get Monty Don to present it! And let's show it on Friday night primetime!"
These are the words that must have escaped a BBC executive's mouth at some sort of meeting, presumably the same one where they decided to give Jonathon Ross several million pounds a year for one TV show and one radio show, and then smoked inside blatantly disregarding the new non-smoking laws, lighting up with £50 notes we gave them in our licence fee and complaining their daily champagne was rather too warm.
I jest. Forgive me.
Anyways, as I settled down in a typically student way to watch Monty Don talk to me about woodwork on a Friday, I reached for my Werther's Originals and put on my slippers, then complained in my head about the noise my raucous neighbours make, I realised two things. First of all, I am secretly a lonely 87 year old man, but more importantly, "Monty Don is talking to us about woodwork at NINE PM on a FRIDAY".
In all fairness, the show had me glued to it for an hour, ironic, because they were learning these woodworking skills so they would never have to use glue. We had three plucky newbies attempting to learn how to use green wood in a good manner. Since this was the BBC, these people all had a human element, and we learnt their back stories, we had the lovely single mum, the supply woodwork teacher who wanted to learn something new, and the creative designer/architect fellow who cheerfully showed us a basket he made back in the day, and noted it was still working, then told us a merry little tale about how he was throwing away his dad's things after he died, and realised he actually made the lamp that was beside him on his deathbed.
Charming.
Anyways, we now had our assembled group. I didn't care enough to write their names, this is hardly a professional operation I run here, but for ease, the single mum is going to be called Jane (She looked like a Jane.), the woodwork supply teacher is going to be called Will (He looked like a Will.) and the designer is going to be called Archibald (He didn't look like an Archibald, I just didn't like him very much and am feeling childish). They also had a teacher who was equally cheery and depressing at the same time. Let's be devils and call him Geoffrey. We also had Monty Don keeping the whole thing in check. Joyously, we also had the single greatest character in television history, in the man who came along to judge their work, but more on him later.
So we've learnt about Jane, Will and Archibald. We're sitting anxiously, waiting to learn about them learning to make stuff out of wood. They start with a spatula, just to get to grips with the equipment. I feel a little cheated, I was rather optimistically expecting them to create more than a slightly smaller stick of wood from a stick of wood; Alas not. We learned of the greatest challenge our three heroes were to face, building their own chair!
Or at least, two of them would be making their own chair. Jane was pretty much condemned by Geoffrey (The teacher. Remember?) for being not particularly good at it. We had tears, we had drama (Dear BBC, tears =/= Good television.) and then we had resigned acceptance. She would make a stool while the boys made chairs. But from nowhere, Monty Don slides in from the right, boosts her confidence, and she changes to make a stick-chair using slightly different techniques (Geoffrey, morale boosting as always, opened with the line: "Some green wood-workers look down on stick-work as easier because, well, it is." I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist).
Joys abound, all three are making chairs! But it's a race against the clock for Archibald, who took three days to start, while Jane and Will were merrily carving away.
I don't want to ruin the tension of the event for you. But eventually, Jane and Will made chairs, Archibald succeeded in making some bits of a chair, but not finishing, and my favourite character, the judge, came along and tested them with a degree of vigour I enjoy watching people attempt to break things with. He even tested the incomplete chair by randomly picking bits and twisting them with horrendous eagerness. Archibald's face was a mask of pure horror diluted slightly with disbelief. "It's very firm, but this joint's all wrong." as he said, and we got a shot of the gaping abyss that was at least half an inch wide. That's like, 2 nautical miles in green wood-work.
I would say I'm looking forward to the future installments, but I'm not a liar, so I'll say I could have wasted that hour of my life in other, probably better ways, like writing an angry letter to Euroshopper about my Apple Juice. I'm still mad, I don't even want to talk about it.
Essentially, it was a fundamentally decent, vaguely entertaining show, which should never have been broadcast at 9pm on a Friday. It's more 9 till 10 or REALLY, 8 till 9 on a Wednesday kind of show. But then, when have the BBC been logical?
These are the words that must have escaped a BBC executive's mouth at some sort of meeting, presumably the same one where they decided to give Jonathon Ross several million pounds a year for one TV show and one radio show, and then smoked inside blatantly disregarding the new non-smoking laws, lighting up with £50 notes we gave them in our licence fee and complaining their daily champagne was rather too warm.
I jest. Forgive me.
Anyways, as I settled down in a typically student way to watch Monty Don talk to me about woodwork on a Friday, I reached for my Werther's Originals and put on my slippers, then complained in my head about the noise my raucous neighbours make, I realised two things. First of all, I am secretly a lonely 87 year old man, but more importantly, "Monty Don is talking to us about woodwork at NINE PM on a FRIDAY".
In all fairness, the show had me glued to it for an hour, ironic, because they were learning these woodworking skills so they would never have to use glue. We had three plucky newbies attempting to learn how to use green wood in a good manner. Since this was the BBC, these people all had a human element, and we learnt their back stories, we had the lovely single mum, the supply woodwork teacher who wanted to learn something new, and the creative designer/architect fellow who cheerfully showed us a basket he made back in the day, and noted it was still working, then told us a merry little tale about how he was throwing away his dad's things after he died, and realised he actually made the lamp that was beside him on his deathbed.
Charming.
Anyways, we now had our assembled group. I didn't care enough to write their names, this is hardly a professional operation I run here, but for ease, the single mum is going to be called Jane (She looked like a Jane.), the woodwork supply teacher is going to be called Will (He looked like a Will.) and the designer is going to be called Archibald (He didn't look like an Archibald, I just didn't like him very much and am feeling childish). They also had a teacher who was equally cheery and depressing at the same time. Let's be devils and call him Geoffrey. We also had Monty Don keeping the whole thing in check. Joyously, we also had the single greatest character in television history, in the man who came along to judge their work, but more on him later.
So we've learnt about Jane, Will and Archibald. We're sitting anxiously, waiting to learn about them learning to make stuff out of wood. They start with a spatula, just to get to grips with the equipment. I feel a little cheated, I was rather optimistically expecting them to create more than a slightly smaller stick of wood from a stick of wood; Alas not. We learned of the greatest challenge our three heroes were to face, building their own chair!
Or at least, two of them would be making their own chair. Jane was pretty much condemned by Geoffrey (The teacher. Remember?) for being not particularly good at it. We had tears, we had drama (Dear BBC, tears =/= Good television.) and then we had resigned acceptance. She would make a stool while the boys made chairs. But from nowhere, Monty Don slides in from the right, boosts her confidence, and she changes to make a stick-chair using slightly different techniques (Geoffrey, morale boosting as always, opened with the line: "Some green wood-workers look down on stick-work as easier because, well, it is." I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist).
Joys abound, all three are making chairs! But it's a race against the clock for Archibald, who took three days to start, while Jane and Will were merrily carving away.
I don't want to ruin the tension of the event for you. But eventually, Jane and Will made chairs, Archibald succeeded in making some bits of a chair, but not finishing, and my favourite character, the judge, came along and tested them with a degree of vigour I enjoy watching people attempt to break things with. He even tested the incomplete chair by randomly picking bits and twisting them with horrendous eagerness. Archibald's face was a mask of pure horror diluted slightly with disbelief. "It's very firm, but this joint's all wrong." as he said, and we got a shot of the gaping abyss that was at least half an inch wide. That's like, 2 nautical miles in green wood-work.
I would say I'm looking forward to the future installments, but I'm not a liar, so I'll say I could have wasted that hour of my life in other, probably better ways, like writing an angry letter to Euroshopper about my Apple Juice. I'm still mad, I don't even want to talk about it.
Essentially, it was a fundamentally decent, vaguely entertaining show, which should never have been broadcast at 9pm on a Friday. It's more 9 till 10 or REALLY, 8 till 9 on a Wednesday kind of show. But then, when have the BBC been logical?
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Since I left those puns up first for ages, I feel it is time to move on from former glories, and focus on the new elements to life. So here we sit, you and me, idly gazing at eachother, when suddenly, and without apparent cause I vehemently, vociferously shout directly into your poor, unsuspecting face "TWITTER! ARGH!"
You'd probably be rightly confused, but since I find Twitter only slightly less hateful than when a company delibrately sells me an apple juice (Little carton) with a straw that is too short to reach the shoddy goods which lie within aforementioned carton (You may by now, have worked out that this did infact occur, and filled me with a deep rage. The carton was only 25 pence, so it wasn't so much the money wasted, I'd already wasted it by optimistically expecting the juice to be nice, it was the PRINCIPLE. If you're going to sell me something crap, only make it crap one way. I'm so furious, I don't even want to talk about it).
Anyways, Twitter, for those of you who are immune to these new-fangled internet phenomenons, is essentially a person writing things about themselves in 140 characters or less. Now, I would normally launch into an angry tirade about how huge swathes of the population are completely unaffected by the fact you had Coco Pops for breakfast instead of Rice Krispies, and it's really set you up for the day, but since, if you were to boil it down to 140 characters, this is me doing exactly the same thing, that argument would be deeply hypocritical.
In the interests of fairness, I read that Twitter was very helpful for conveying information about the Iran elections at a time when they found other outlets hard to come by. Fair does, however, I find it hard to take genuine news and world events from a website which, when it crashes, cheerfully displays a "Fail Whale". It's very rare I go "Huh, The Times online is down, the fail whale is telling me so."
Twitter is, of course, populated by celebrities. People following them, then going "Wow, Stephen Fry is much less exciting than I imagined him to be". It's always going to be the outcome if someone tells me the mundane, insignificant events of their life, I have to disregard the vast majority of what they say as crap. Celebrities are interesting precisely because I assume between appearing on my TV and irritating me for my licence fee, they do little but eat caviar out of gold dishes and watch the animals in their home zoo.
Twitter is nothing more than the textual equivalent of soundbites. *Sigh*, it's like a blog for people who have very little to say.
You'd probably be rightly confused, but since I find Twitter only slightly less hateful than when a company delibrately sells me an apple juice (Little carton) with a straw that is too short to reach the shoddy goods which lie within aforementioned carton (You may by now, have worked out that this did infact occur, and filled me with a deep rage. The carton was only 25 pence, so it wasn't so much the money wasted, I'd already wasted it by optimistically expecting the juice to be nice, it was the PRINCIPLE. If you're going to sell me something crap, only make it crap one way. I'm so furious, I don't even want to talk about it).
Anyways, Twitter, for those of you who are immune to these new-fangled internet phenomenons, is essentially a person writing things about themselves in 140 characters or less. Now, I would normally launch into an angry tirade about how huge swathes of the population are completely unaffected by the fact you had Coco Pops for breakfast instead of Rice Krispies, and it's really set you up for the day, but since, if you were to boil it down to 140 characters, this is me doing exactly the same thing, that argument would be deeply hypocritical.
In the interests of fairness, I read that Twitter was very helpful for conveying information about the Iran elections at a time when they found other outlets hard to come by. Fair does, however, I find it hard to take genuine news and world events from a website which, when it crashes, cheerfully displays a "Fail Whale". It's very rare I go "Huh, The Times online is down, the fail whale is telling me so."
Twitter is, of course, populated by celebrities. People following them, then going "Wow, Stephen Fry is much less exciting than I imagined him to be". It's always going to be the outcome if someone tells me the mundane, insignificant events of their life, I have to disregard the vast majority of what they say as crap. Celebrities are interesting precisely because I assume between appearing on my TV and irritating me for my licence fee, they do little but eat caviar out of gold dishes and watch the animals in their home zoo.
Twitter is nothing more than the textual equivalent of soundbites. *Sigh*, it's like a blog for people who have very little to say.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
List of Mock puns, as inspired by this new-fangled Mock pun to introduce a round on Mock the Week.
Me and Mevan came up with a selection of puns around the word "Mock". Cringe and weep openly at their combined dreadfulness.
Mock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels
Mocky Horror Picture Show
Birds of a feather Mock together
Meet the Mockers
Mock Wan's Fashion Fix
We will Mock you
Mock 'n' Roll
30 Mock
Chris Mock - If he's ever on the show, which is unlikely, let's be honest.
Mocky Balboa
Mock Mock Mocking on Heavens Door
Mock Mock, Who's there?
Mock Horror!
Mock on Mock off (In the form of Wax on wax off, because I'd love to see it.)
Quantum Mockanics
Mockadile Dundee
Mock Ness monster
Otto von Bismock
Angela Mockel (...Germans appear to have an easily punnable name. Two.)
Mock the Hoople (If you haven't heard of Mott the Hoople, I don't know how you live)
Mockney rhyming slang
Xmock(s) 360
Mockzilla Firefox (A little nerdy, perhaps.)
Zelda: Mockarina of Time (VERY nerdy.)
Kamockaze Warrior.
There should be a logical system to these, but there is not one. Fear my chaotic ordering.
(Opera was such a depressing browsing experience. They should have called it Mope-ra.)
Mock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels
Mocky Horror Picture Show
Birds of a feather Mock together
Meet the Mockers
Mock Wan's Fashion Fix
We will Mock you
Mock 'n' Roll
30 Mock
Chris Mock - If he's ever on the show, which is unlikely, let's be honest.
Mocky Balboa
Mock Mock Mocking on Heavens Door
Mock Mock, Who's there?
Mock Horror!
Mock on Mock off (In the form of Wax on wax off, because I'd love to see it.)
Quantum Mockanics
Mockadile Dundee
Mock Ness monster
Otto von Bismock
Angela Mockel (...Germans appear to have an easily punnable name. Two.)
Mock the Hoople (If you haven't heard of Mott the Hoople, I don't know how you live)
Mockney rhyming slang
Xmock(s) 360
Mockzilla Firefox (A little nerdy, perhaps.)
Zelda: Mockarina of Time (VERY nerdy.)
Kamockaze Warrior.
There should be a logical system to these, but there is not one. Fear my chaotic ordering.
(Opera was such a depressing browsing experience. They should have called it Mope-ra.)
Friday, 5 February 2010
I'm sure the vast majority of you know what facebook is, but incase you accidentally stumbled onto the internet in a web-cafe before going back to your professional career of living under a rock, it's basically a method to connect with your friends.
The key word here, however, is "friends". What it actually means is "People you met once and haven't spoken to since that one meeting" or "People you see occasionally but have no real connection with". What it doesn't mean, by the vast majority of people who use it is "People I would have round my house".
"Timothy Smith has 196 friends", it boldly claims. "Wow," I think "Timmy must be really bloody sociable." and I definitely don't think, ever "Timmy's a bloody liar, I bet he speaks to at most, half of that and only likes a quarter." because that'd be childish of me. But Timmy isn't even the most audacious of friend-whores, desperately accumulating "Friends" in the vain hope that at some point his utterly meaningless existence will be mourned upon his passing by more than 7 people. I have seen some astonishing figures for friends. 324 friends. NO-ONE has 324 friends. Even Barack Obama has, at most, 200. You couldn't even remember 324 names, let alone PEOPLE!
There's people adding ME as a friend on facebook. People I spoke to, cumulatively throughout all the time I've known them, for about 6 minutes. "This is clearly the basis of a friendship. So let's add them! 392 friends now! Woo!" is what must pass through their minds. I've spoken to some shop assistants longer than I have spoken to them.
Facebook whores itself out to me as well. "Here are some suggested friends" it cheekily advertises to me. "I know them!" I think, cheerily. "I saw them once, at a function where I spoke to him/her for maybe 2 minutes. Good times..." and of course, add them with merry abandon, since I had some sort of terrible brain injury, and think these total strangers are in some way my friend because I already know their name. Ridiculous.
"Hey, let's be facebook friends!"
"We just met, but since I'm desperate for friends, okay!"
"Oh my God, we have SO much in common!" is how I imagine the conversation goes. Then they play "Who can run into the wall the fastest", or maybe a rousing game of "Who needs a helmet?!", or any other sport where their brain is gently rocked to and fro gradually losing consciousness, before they pass out due to brain damage.
Thinking up a pithy response is tricky, so I recruited Andrew Bigathy, a man with 412 friends on facebook. I added him as a friend (He accepted, clearly) and asked for pithy ending. He mailed one back to me:
"Ok, pithy ending, go away now, I are finish-ed". I hasten to add, the r was backwards. As was he.
The key word here, however, is "friends". What it actually means is "People you met once and haven't spoken to since that one meeting" or "People you see occasionally but have no real connection with". What it doesn't mean, by the vast majority of people who use it is "People I would have round my house".
"Timothy Smith has 196 friends", it boldly claims. "Wow," I think "Timmy must be really bloody sociable." and I definitely don't think, ever "Timmy's a bloody liar, I bet he speaks to at most, half of that and only likes a quarter." because that'd be childish of me. But Timmy isn't even the most audacious of friend-whores, desperately accumulating "Friends" in the vain hope that at some point his utterly meaningless existence will be mourned upon his passing by more than 7 people. I have seen some astonishing figures for friends. 324 friends. NO-ONE has 324 friends. Even Barack Obama has, at most, 200. You couldn't even remember 324 names, let alone PEOPLE!
There's people adding ME as a friend on facebook. People I spoke to, cumulatively throughout all the time I've known them, for about 6 minutes. "This is clearly the basis of a friendship. So let's add them! 392 friends now! Woo!" is what must pass through their minds. I've spoken to some shop assistants longer than I have spoken to them.
Facebook whores itself out to me as well. "Here are some suggested friends" it cheekily advertises to me. "I know them!" I think, cheerily. "I saw them once, at a function where I spoke to him/her for maybe 2 minutes. Good times..." and of course, add them with merry abandon, since I had some sort of terrible brain injury, and think these total strangers are in some way my friend because I already know their name. Ridiculous.
"Hey, let's be facebook friends!"
"We just met, but since I'm desperate for friends, okay!"
"Oh my God, we have SO much in common!" is how I imagine the conversation goes. Then they play "Who can run into the wall the fastest", or maybe a rousing game of "Who needs a helmet?!", or any other sport where their brain is gently rocked to and fro gradually losing consciousness, before they pass out due to brain damage.
Thinking up a pithy response is tricky, so I recruited Andrew Bigathy, a man with 412 friends on facebook. I added him as a friend (He accepted, clearly) and asked for pithy ending. He mailed one back to me:
"Ok, pithy ending, go away now, I are finish-ed". I hasten to add, the r was backwards. As was he.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Eddie Murphy
Now, Eddie Murphy, as far as I am aware, peaked with "Doctor Dolittle" back when I was an infant. That film was the pinaccle of his film career, I mean, it had a drinking monkey, something I've found lacking in all future Eddie Murphy films, and indeed, all childrens' films.
However, for some bizarre reason, people keep putting him in movies despite, as far as I'm aware, the logical progression for a film star of his calibre being "Fade to obscurity, then sitting on a rocking chair in front of a reasonably sized house aged 70, he should tell kids about his film star days".However, sadly, his approach was "Star in movies of gradually decreasing funniness until I die doing a single person film".
With "Meet Dave" and "Norbit" I found Eddie Murphy change from a beloved childhood memory about talking to animals into some sort of horrifying vision of a world inhabited only by Eddie Murphy, so I thought "Hey, I'll watch some older stuff!" but with the exception of Beverly Hills Cop, I found it rather bad. Even Beverly Hills Cop was merely "Acceptable".
I felt I was being perhaps a little hard on the guy, and supposed that, if he made his fame through stand up comedy, that must be his forte, right? Wrong. I watched "Raw" with the sneaking suspicion that Richard Pryor was playing an elaborate practical joke on society and re-releasing his stuff under a new guise(I get that same feeling when watching Chris Rock now, it's like Pryor just left a book full of stuff he was going to say lying around, and black American comedians all get a look).
Doubtless Eddie Murphy will release a new film at some stage, which stars him, and only him, as some insane, poorly thought out character. I could watch that film, I think to myself. Then I realise I would rather take on the world record for "Most kicks taken in the crotch" or perhaps "Most sledgehammer blows endured before succumbing to the ravages of the hammerhead and expiring, a broken wreck".
So this is why I'm not going to see a new Eddie Murphy film, I implore you to think likewise, and society could perhaps point out to film producers that we're not idiots, instead of flooding to cinemas to watch another money-grabbing piece of tosh.
However, for some bizarre reason, people keep putting him in movies despite, as far as I'm aware, the logical progression for a film star of his calibre being "Fade to obscurity, then sitting on a rocking chair in front of a reasonably sized house aged 70, he should tell kids about his film star days".However, sadly, his approach was "Star in movies of gradually decreasing funniness until I die doing a single person film".
With "Meet Dave" and "Norbit" I found Eddie Murphy change from a beloved childhood memory about talking to animals into some sort of horrifying vision of a world inhabited only by Eddie Murphy, so I thought "Hey, I'll watch some older stuff!" but with the exception of Beverly Hills Cop, I found it rather bad. Even Beverly Hills Cop was merely "Acceptable".
I felt I was being perhaps a little hard on the guy, and supposed that, if he made his fame through stand up comedy, that must be his forte, right? Wrong. I watched "Raw" with the sneaking suspicion that Richard Pryor was playing an elaborate practical joke on society and re-releasing his stuff under a new guise(I get that same feeling when watching Chris Rock now, it's like Pryor just left a book full of stuff he was going to say lying around, and black American comedians all get a look).
Doubtless Eddie Murphy will release a new film at some stage, which stars him, and only him, as some insane, poorly thought out character. I could watch that film, I think to myself. Then I realise I would rather take on the world record for "Most kicks taken in the crotch" or perhaps "Most sledgehammer blows endured before succumbing to the ravages of the hammerhead and expiring, a broken wreck".
So this is why I'm not going to see a new Eddie Murphy film, I implore you to think likewise, and society could perhaps point out to film producers that we're not idiots, instead of flooding to cinemas to watch another money-grabbing piece of tosh.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Less of a "Pun"
My sister said she was going on a date to this fancy new restaraunt, and then I said "I thought they didn't let guide dogs in."
Yeah, the guy has a guide dog, therefore he's blind, you see, which is why he would go out with her, see? He didn't, but that's beside the point. Or rather, it is the point, wholly and completely, in fact, it is the whole basis of it.
On a side note, they probably let guide dogs in everywhere. So this is redundant in modern times. Probably not kitchens, actually.
Yeah, the guy has a guide dog, therefore he's blind, you see, which is why he would go out with her, see? He didn't, but that's beside the point. Or rather, it is the point, wholly and completely, in fact, it is the whole basis of it.
On a side note, they probably let guide dogs in everywhere. So this is redundant in modern times. Probably not kitchens, actually.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Dreadful Joke #3
Did you hear about the bear that won the elections? I don't think it was really fair, because the bear had a lot of propopanda.
...Propopanda, yes, you're getting the hang of these now, aren't you?
...Propopanda, yes, you're getting the hang of these now, aren't you?
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Another dreadful joke.
I once stole a candle from a girl in a power outage, and she cried, so the next day I gave it back and said "Look, I'm really sorry" but she was still really torchy about it.
For the terminally stupid, the pun is on torchy. Feel free to deride this latest poor effort via the medium of comments.
For the terminally stupid, the pun is on torchy. Feel free to deride this latest poor effort via the medium of comments.
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