h a l f b a k e r yExperiencing technical difficulties since 1999
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//Protection// or palliative? |
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HSPVSs can be donned at any point in the sunburn process, from the crimson itch stage to right back in a Luton Airport bar, shitfaced on Stella. |
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But yes, that should read Relief, not Protection. Changed. |
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"Oh nooooo, my feat, my feet they are shrinking!I see Roy Estrada, Lowell George, Richie Hayward, Bill Payne, Paul Barrère and Sam Clayton are all jumping from my radiator! it's burnin I tell ya!" |
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I'd rather have the hallucinogens mixed with ASS 81mg and in a cigarette ready for quick delivery, since all that sun will give me a heart attack. |
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*Falls off chair laughing* |
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Hilarious, [zen_tom], absolutely fantastic: ). |
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The pub had had enough of the three and communicated such to them by sprouting a most ferocious argument at one of the back tables
(it seemed ferocious to them, but it was probably a mild argument over some sports team or another).
The one who ordered the drinks declared that one of the others would need to get a cab.
The shorter one sloshed up to the yellow pages he had spotted by the phone and began fumbling through them.
After forgetting several times what exactly it was he was looking up in that oppressively yellow book,
he managed to find his way to the pages with things on them starting with "C".
There's no listing for ANY cabs in the book he notices.
This bothers him. He thinks of about 42 different reasons as to why this could be in the next several seconds until it occurs to him that cabs are usually listed under a different name in the yellow pages.
Unfortunately, the word taxi has escaped his head for the brief time he needed it to be there so he mumbles to the angel at the bar
"I'm not really feeling so well, Is there any way you could call a cab for me?"
He knows she is in fact an angel now as she smiles and tells him that of course she could an proceeds to dial the phone without laughing out loud at him. |
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(Was she being obtuse? Was she a cute one?) |
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Good idea, great story. No idea what it has to do with sunburned feet. |
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(she was right to call a cab - perhaps if he talked to her she would be complementary) |
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I misspelled it angel twice (and spell check, well..). I must have a thing for angles, or I was still thinking about work while typing? |
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sorry about your feet [calum] I'd be happy with a constantly cool aloe mix. |
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btw this wouldn't happen if you wore socks with your sandals. :P |
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Blearily, I stepped out of the shower this morning and discovered a large distended pouch of skin bulging at my angle - sorry, ankle - it seems to be filled with a clear liquid, so obviously, I panicked. Timid and close inspection revealed that the bulge was just a popped blister, filled with water, and not a throbbing and pustulent buboe, as I had feared. Sunburn is the pits, physically and psychologically. |
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Cheers, dentworth, but I will never wear sandals with or without socks, just as I will never wear flipflops. Neither is a look for a man of any social standing. Rather, they are a look sported solely by those with a latent criminality and a blatant disregard for proper deportment and dress. |
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I take it that you aren't a fan of the beach [callum]. |
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I like the beach, I do. Particularly the beach at Sanna (link), which is (a) in the shadow of a massive (miles wide) volcano (b) composed of soft white sand (c) broken up with volcanic rock spurs, which house exellent rock pools and (d) is miles and miles from anywhere, so there's rarely many people to ruin the stunning views of the Small Isles. That's where I got my sunburn. |
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I get disturbing images of junkies
wandering around town, diving towards
any old sock left on the street, trying to
suck the last drops of acid out. |
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Also, would experienced users need more
socks? |
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Walking back to his booth, his eyes followed the cracks and spaces between the red ceramic tiles composing the floor. the lines seemed to dance...the tiles seemed to dance...flicker...flame...
the floor was on fire, his feet were on fire. hopefully his friends has more magic socks... |
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One of the men gazed out the brown and green stained breathing window and noticed the cab had arrived. After a 12 mile, jelly-filled walk to the front of the bar, the short man intended to thank the barmaid for her kindness. As he approached the glossy, textured countertop, he found himself falling into the endless abyss of woodgrain. Violently squeeking his hands in large circles, staring with his face harshly pressed against the beer circles. Wide-eyed, he peered up, face still against the bar, only to find the golden-haired angel looking at him, trying to hold back a chuckle. He then, imediately stood up strait and smiled as he humbly announced, "ssshhhubbba la fffffruubbba bbbbubbble bye." He walked out, with a proud smile on his face, having thanked her for her hospitality... |
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The sun beat down with an impenetrable force. Cracks in the sidewalk were opening like fissures, all the sound was there. It boomed before it screamed, and howled before it cried. Then it sang. It sang about the sliding grasses in Pompeii before the stars aligned to spell out 'Socrates'. It sang about his mother, and he wept. Cityscape geometries fluttered and twisted, looked something of an organ, the type you have in your chest. Clockwork periodic patterns settled across his mind. "It's just the socks", he muttered. "It's just the damn socks..." |
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I'll have a pair of your finest socks please [calum]. |
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This will come in handy after watching the sun set for 9 hours.
(got the idea from an interview with Paul Kantner) |
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