Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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Like my brownhouse:
   thinking of uterus
Friday, February 2 2018
This morning a friendly UPS delivery guy dropped off two packages. One was Gretchen's Vitamix blender, which had received warranty servicing (getting a new plastic jar and whatever that little donut-shaped fitting is that connects it to the drive shaft). The other was a small mystery parcel. The UPS guy arrived while I was taking Neville on his morning walk, and he seemed excited to give both dogs the treats he carries.
Back in the house, Gretchen opened the other package and discovered an unexpected birthday present from our friends Julianna and Lee. I should remind you, before detailing what that present was, that during Gretchen's hysterectomy, she'd had a medical tech take a picture of the pile of female organs removed from her body, a picture that Gretchen had forwarded to the less-squeamish of her friends. Julianna and Lee had sent us a coffee cup from one of those places that can stencil any design on a large array of everyday objects (including yard signs). And on that coffee cup was the disgusting pink pile of lady parts I've never been able to look at more than glancingly. It was captioned, "Thinking of Uterus..."
A good piece of news that came late in the morning was the news of the lab tests of the mass removed from Neville's face. Whatever it was, it wasn't cancer. The vet had noticed that hair follicles had grown into deep tissue where they wouldn't normally be, and this had set off a feedback loop of irritation. But what had caused them to do this? It really all might date back to the summer porcupine quilling.

[REDACTED]


For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?180202

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