Hanging hammock chair
Magazine subscription
Battery powered magnifying glass/lamp
Molasses cookies
Bin (bucket-o) whoopee pies and cash
Plate of whoopee pies
Sleeve of Mountain Dew
Borders gift card
Two Dilbert books (not Gilbert, as the bookstore clerk was apparently trying to help my aunt find…)
Sherman’s Lagoon treasury
Front door knocker
Long johns

All in all, an extremely good haul. More than I ever expected for such a non-event as the 33rd birthday. My sister will turn 25 next month, and my mother told her “a quarter of a century.” Well, I’m a third of a century. Funny how those things work out.

For other interesting age-related numbers, My mother is 16 years older than me. I’m 8 years older than my sister, who is 4 years older than my brother. So when he was 4 and she was 8, I was 16, and mom was 32.

What? No, I haven’t been looking at your medical records. No, I just assumed you were depressed. And quite often, too,

What do you mean it’s none of my business? Are you around here moping all the time and complaining about how much your life sucks? See, there you go.

No, I’m not telling you to stop coming over. I’m telling you you have a problem.

No, I don’t have a problem with you coming over! You’re not listening!

Hey, I didn’t say you never listen. You’re just not doing it right now.

What? I’m not kicking you when you’re down. I mean, it’s not like anyone could kick you any other time…you’re never up…

Look, I…no, I…seriously now.

*sigh* Why don’t you just go home?

I started because some people from work were talking about it and made it sound interesting. They generally gave a good impression. Then they flaked out.

I was invited to join a little text-based game and started spending more time on FB. If you befriend me, expect a request to join the game with me.

I have reconnected with old friends that I didn’t know how to get in touch with, so overall I consider FB to be a success even if I don’t ever find another productive use for it. But maybe I’ll see you around.

The caves seemed to go on forever. As far as they could tell, the group had been heading roughly south for quite some time. That was the direction the cave system started in, and, though winding, it was the general direction the tunnels continued.

The enormous chamber, which had recently been filled with a goblin army, was a smelly mass of urine and excrement. Foul smelling puddles dotted the expansive floor. Piles of fecal matter littered not-so-private nooks. The stench would repulse a troll.

If the cave system really was spreading out to the south, that meant it opened up directly under Hobbly proper. The group found out for sure when they found a tunnel spiraling upward to the surface. The tunnel ended with a wooden door. No light shined around the edges.

“Here, let me listen,” Frendei offered. He snuck forward and set his ear against the door. He paused. “Nothing.”

“Let’s open it and find out what’s on the other side.” Dorian wasn’t too happy about traveling underground. “Llew, get ready in case there are more goblins around.”

The door opened with some difficulty. It seemed to be pushing something else out of the way, evidenced by a light rattling noise. Frendei thought it sounded like glass.

The party slid through the partially opened door, Llewellyn first with her sword drawn. They looked around. “Basement,” Dorian whispered.

“Alchemist, from what I see,” Frendei clarified. “See all those glass vials, flasks, and tubes? Also, looks like there are some finished concoctions over here.” He picked up a vial labeled “Trollbane.” “And newly made, too. Must be for me.”

Francis spoke up from the wall opposite the hidden door. “And who lives on the other side of the alchemist? I think this goes to Danica’s basement.” The hole wasn’t finished, but he could see into the cellar next door, with help from his flickering torch. “What, exactly, were these goblins planning, anyway?”

Now, back to my book!

Bullies, waiting in ambush to harass those who are too young…or too old…disappear when a knight arrives. So do the snakes and many beggars, which probably means something sinister.

The goodwives come out and try to catch his attention, waving handkerchiefs and calling well-wishes. Neighbors remain on the streets and mingle, putting aside their natural reticence and distrust, at least until the knight is out of view.

All this I have seen, and more, when a night rides into Moussillon.

Russian squirrel pack ‘kills dog’

Squirrels have bitten to death a stray dog which was barking at them in a Russian park, local media report.

Passers-by were too late to stop the attack by the black squirrels in a village in the far east, which reportedly lasted about a minute.

They are said to have scampered off at the sight of humans, some carrying pieces of flesh.

A pine cone shortage may have led the squirrels to seek other food sources, although scientists are sceptical.

The attack was reported in parkland in the centre of Lazo, a village in the Maritime Territory, and was witnessed by three local people.

A “big” stray dog was nosing about the trees and barking at squirrels hiding in branches overhead when a number of them suddenly descended and attacked, reports say.

“They literally gutted the dog,” local journalist Anastasia Trubitsina told Komsomolskaya Pravda newspaper.

“When they saw the men, they scattered in different directions, taking pieces of their kill away with them.”

Mikhail Tiyunov, a scientist in the region, said it was the first he had ever heard of such an attack.

While squirrels without sources of protein might attack birds’ nests, he said, the idea of them chewing a dog to death was “absurd”.

“If it really happened, things must be pretty bad in our forests,” he added.

Komosmolskaya Pravda notes that in a previous incident this autumn chipmunks terrorised cats in a part of the territory.

A Lazo man who called himself only Mikhalich said there had been “no pine cones at all” in the local forests this year.

“The little beasts are agitated because they have nothing to eat,” he added.

© BBC MMVIII

While the systematic overthrow of the northern hemisphere by black squirrels continues unabated, the US media focuses solely on Joe the (wannabe) Plumber. Is the media on black squirrel payroll?

What they don’t tell you is that Obama’s health care plan has no provisions whatsoever for a black squirrel attack. As a matter of fact, if you were to seek treatment for such an attack while under an Obama health plan coverage, your insurance company would not take you seriously. This is exactly the kind of blind eye that we’ve come to expect from this candidate.

McCain-approved health care plans would, indeed, pay for the hospital bills associated with a squirrel attack, and also up to four years of related PTSD visits. McCain himself has received extensive martial training to protect himself and his family in the case of an attack. The fact is, John McCain is the only candidate certified to handle a Russian black squirrel attack physically, emotionally, and economically.

Unless you count Chuck Baldwin.

Damien’s next challenge was to move the rack of empty flasks away from the wall. He had straightened up his dad’s rack one day when bored, though, and had all the flasks well stabilized. His dad had been pleasantly surprised, and Damien had silenced one more potential warning. The rat-men should be thankful, if they had capacity for such feelings. He moved the rack slowly and gently. Then he walked through the illusionary wall to meet his conspirators.

“Good, good. Manling shows on time. We not have to eat your innards while you watch.” The rat-men always greeted Damien this way, encouragement followed by subtle threats. “All clear for exit quick, quick?”

“Yes. The doors are all unlocked. The town’s all asleep, exhausted from fighting off the orc horde. Now is the time to show them the power of the Horned One.”

Now the only official project that I haven’t completed is the one someone else is helping me with. I should find another project for this week, but I’ll probably skip that until next week.