Gas Price Now Low Enough for Rocket Fuel !
Imagine a picture of this guy, Jimmy, here. He's not pretty, but has sparkly eyes and a Long-guy-land accent, and he swears at all the appropriate times. I have replaced my stolen camera, but I am too busy workin' and playin' in the glorious Fall to sit inside and figure out where to plug the little bitch in.
Jimmy is happy. For the first time since early summer, he has been able to set aside enough gasoline to run his blender. In the blender, he mixes four kinds of rum, a few limes, grenadine, ice, and some fresh pineapple. He lives in an extremely remote (but undisclosed) desert community, and has to thwart homeland security to get the pineapple from a local hamlet on the other side of the (undisclosed) border. You see, the danger of children rowing across the (undisclosed) river to go to an air-conditioned school, built from local donations, was finally recognized as a terroristic threat. 'Bout freakin' time, eh?
-But I digress. Jimmy lowers his 700 hp generator into a hole near the Party Site so as not to drown out the banjos, fiddles, and madolins. He waits politely until the sound of straws slurping the bottoms of blue Mexican glasses becomes unbearable, then fires up the blender again, and the desert is filled with the unlikely sound of whirling ice. He calls it Rocket Fuel. Most of the rum is 151 proof, and has no taste under the pineapple. Salud!
Imagine a picture of this guy, Jimmy, here. He's not pretty, but has sparkly eyes and a Long-guy-land accent, and he swears at all the appropriate times. I have replaced my stolen camera, but I am too busy workin' and playin' in the glorious Fall to sit inside and figure out where to plug the little bitch in.
Jimmy is happy. For the first time since early summer, he has been able to set aside enough gasoline to run his blender. In the blender, he mixes four kinds of rum, a few limes, grenadine, ice, and some fresh pineapple. He lives in an extremely remote (but undisclosed) desert community, and has to thwart homeland security to get the pineapple from a local hamlet on the other side of the (undisclosed) border. You see, the danger of children rowing across the (undisclosed) river to go to an air-conditioned school, built from local donations, was finally recognized as a terroristic threat. 'Bout freakin' time, eh?
-But I digress. Jimmy lowers his 700 hp generator into a hole near the Party Site so as not to drown out the banjos, fiddles, and madolins. He waits politely until the sound of straws slurping the bottoms of blue Mexican glasses becomes unbearable, then fires up the blender again, and the desert is filled with the unlikely sound of whirling ice. He calls it Rocket Fuel. Most of the rum is 151 proof, and has no taste under the pineapple. Salud!
posted by K at 2:07 PM
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