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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got that wrong
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Like my brownhouse:
   not quite the roof rack limit
Wednesday, May 9 2018
Ramona's left leg is still not 100% after whatever she did to it some weeks ago, and Gretchen has, as you know, mostly not been taking her for the daily walk with Neville. This morning, in an effort to mask what she was missing out on, I took her with me on a lumber run to the Home Depot, where I got three 14 foot two by tens (for girders designed to hold up rafters) and nine 12 foot two by sixes (for collar ties and boards to butt them on). I also got 20 long self-drilling quarter-inch lag bolts and a gallon of roofing tar. As usual, I gave Ramona the run of the Home Depot parking lot while I painstakingly strapped down my load. Someone had thrown some buttered bread onto one of the islands in the parking lot, and I was suspicious enough of it to put it out of Ramona's reach in the branches of an otherwise-useless little shadeless tree. The birds had more need for that bread than Ramona.
Today's load of lumber was a heavy one for strapping to the roof, but I felt like I must've done an equivalent load recently in treated lumber, which is sold wet (and therefore 50% heavier). Still, on the drive home, I was careful to avoid potholes and not to round corners too fast. The last thing I wanted to do was wrench a corner of the roof rack off the car (or however roof rack failure is likely to manifest). As I drove, I was munching on a bag of original Fritos-brand corn chips, those greasy salty things from before the American arrival of the tortilla chip. Sometimes I crave a Frito, but there's always too much salt and grease in a bag of those things, so I liberally shared them with Ramona. She loves them.

[REDACTED]


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