Saw this a couple days ago, so it’s, like, so old. But good! I bet no one’s blogged about it yet at all.
So maybe you see the twist coming from the faraway hills o’er yonder, but then it’s like BAM: Grandmother! Life! Love! Equality! Oh shit! These damn allergies keep acting up.
Concept, execution: A+. Would recommend to a friend. Yet another example of how advertising is always used for the betterment of mankind.
Today in Important Findings
After a careful Google Maps comparative analysis, I determined the nearest Premiership club to my family’s old house in England to be Tottenham Hotspur. I am OK with this.
Determining the nearest pub was much easier and nearly as important. This one is just down the street, and after some further research I determined it to be maybe the best pub in the world.
According to my mom, my dad and his merry friend Dale met some people in the bathroom there one New Year’s Eve and invited all of them and their wives to our house for more merrymaking. But the big news? The building ”was once the court of the manor where cases concerning the estate of the Earl of Sandwich were dealt with.”
Did you read that?? Earl of Sandwich! As in “invented the modern concept of sandwich” Earl of Sandwich. My patron saint. And the local pub of my 5-year-old self was the court of the manor of the estate, which is basically the assistant to the assistant to the regional Earl’s Manor. Sandwiches!
Ironically, the pub seems to be famous for their pies.
And in Austin news…
I always hear Lady Bird Lake is too shallow for these kind of antics, but I guess that’s a vicious rumor spread by people that hate fun. Now, who wants help me tie a rope swing from Congress Bridge?
There are two things that guide my drink selection at the liquor store:
a) Price, and
b) sled dogs pulling a sled-less Canadian.*
This one wins every time.
*Which of course reinforces the long-held belief that Canadians, being Canadian, have no need for sleds other than aesthetics, as they are, in fact, sleds themselves (Canadian ”Facts” v.121 pg.47).
Sorry everyone, for I am but a man. A mortal of flesh and blood that must watch some or all of LOTR each year and maybe get wide-eyed and lumpy-throated and quickly and quietly behead anyone who talks during the Ride of the Rohirrim. But to be fair, everything that comes out of King Theoden’s beard is a goddamned poem. Don’t you want your king to be a warrior poet? Don’t you want to ride into battle cheering death and the end of the world? Don’t you??
Forth, and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise, Riders of Theoden! Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword day… a red day… ere the sun rises! Ride now!… Ride now!… Ride! Ride to ruin and the world’s ending! Death! Death! DEATH!
Whoa!, right? If they used this version in the book on tape I’d veer into oncoming traffic immediately.
I honestly thought the first dozen or so times I watched this he was shouting an uncharacteristically illiterate “DAAA! DAAAAH! DAAAAAHH!” at the end but now that I know it’s not some strangely stirring allusion to the VW Golf I no longer fear death.
God bless you, Poet King of Rohan.
I awoke today with news that Jimmy John’s was selling subs for $1. Problem: only 30 minutes of this promotion was left on the clock. How long will the line be? How many sandwiches can I order at each Jimmy John’s? How many Jimmy John’s are in Austin? No time, just go. I stepped astride my beloved bike, whose middle name is Shadowfax, and we rode like the Meaning of Haste was our favorite movie that we had seen so many times we were kinda over it.
First JJ’s: Oh shit there’s a line. Of course there is. How do I wait faster? I go up to order. I fluff my lines. I want a #5, as many as possible, but how many is too many? Will I seem a rude opportunist if I order four? Maybe I should throw a #3 in there so it seems like I’m not just ordering for myself. OH GOD THE MOB BEHIND ME IS GETTING ANTSY. The cashier staunches the flow of excitable garbage coming out of my mouth to tell me there’s a limit of one per customer. I accept because I have to, feeling cheated although I am getting a tasty sandwich for a dollar, and soon the meat torpedo is out of my dreams and in my hands, into my bag and I’m ready to hit the next JJ’s.
Second JJ’s: There is a man outside with a dire warning: “Two minutes left! Two minutes!” By the time I dismount Z. Shadowfax it’s down to one minute with oh god how many seconds?? No time to lock up. Sandwiches. I make the cut, just: I am the last $1 customer! I get to the counter and order, “Five #5’s, please.” Fuck the rules. They give me one and I take it greedily. I rush out the door and my bike is not stolen.
The day is won.
I’m biding my time between Austin residences (til Thursday) at my parents’ newly built home in San Antonio and, as they never miss an opportunity to employ me as a cheap day-laborer, they now have a new flagstone patio.
I’m almost as proud of it as my mom is of her running kinda racist but oh-well-she’s-my-mom “joke” of calling me Juan.