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:
   why I don't like baby corn
Friday, September 10 2021
I heard some unexpected noises in the house this afternoon and it turned out that Powerful had returned from Albany for one of the occasional weekend stays he spends to maintain his Kingston-based parole officer.
At the end of my workday, I drove out to Home Depot and returned the well pressure tank and relief valve I'd bought the other day, since it seemed that simply pressurizing the old tank's bladder was all that needed to be done. I then bought an eight-foot step ladder to take to the cabin in the Adirondacks. Gretchen had bought a canoe on Craigslist, so we'd be taking the Subaru on the drive up there tomorrow, and I figured that would be a good opportunity to also transport a ladder.
Later this evening Gretchen returned from her teaching gig in New Jersey and made an Asian fried rice with way too much baby corn in it. About ten years ago I decided I don't especially like baby corn, and today I realized it was because of the flavor of the tiny cob, not the itty-bitty kernals of corn.

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