Showing posts with label MATH. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MATH. Show all posts
Friday, June 5, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Caveman Cartoon with Original Caption!
The Original Caveman Puberty/Evolution Cartoon with Original Caption! Just like momma used to make! Selling for $5,000 on Ebay! Embrace this touching awkward family moment at your own risk! (careful, it's sticky)
Friday, May 22, 2009
Update from Molly's Vacation, No. 1
Many things have happened since I bid you all a drunken farewell at the Last Final End-of-the-Year Hyena Party Part II. I have consumed a number of questionable substances to varying degrees of success (varying between 'awesome' and 'awesomekickasserton') but I have neither the time or short-term memory to relate them to you here - check them out in my forthcoming memoirs "Nicotine and Willpower" due out in fall '10 on Regnery Books. That's a political joke, chucklemites.
This, however, happened about 10 minutes ago over our second poorman's pina colada (for future reference, what makes them milky-colored? Is it milk? I hate milk. Mine's disappointingly orange in color but delightfully rum-my.)
Apparently, all varieties of drugs hit suburban Delware in the 50s and 60s with sudden force and my devil-may-care mother indulged her fair share. What does this mean, exactly?
My mother was born in 1952.
She was 15 in 1967.
Why is this relevant?
My mother tried heroin. Intervenously. When she was 15 years old.
Now, I've never injected heroin, but my surviving peers who have insist its like this:
(i.e. Totally sweet)
My mother, on the other hand, insists that it was more like this:
(i.e. Passed out from five hours)
Enough! I have more drinking and eventual driving to get to! I was mostly just tired of checking this blog with such high hopes only to see Alex's damn dinosaur puns again.
This, however, happened about 10 minutes ago over our second poorman's pina colada (for future reference, what makes them milky-colored? Is it milk? I hate milk. Mine's disappointingly orange in color but delightfully rum-my.)
Apparently, all varieties of drugs hit suburban Delware in the 50s and 60s with sudden force and my devil-may-care mother indulged her fair share. What does this mean, exactly?
My mother was born in 1952.
She was 15 in 1967.
Why is this relevant?
My mother tried heroin. Intervenously. When she was 15 years old.
Now, I've never injected heroin, but my surviving peers who have insist its like this:
(i.e. Totally sweet)My mother, on the other hand, insists that it was more like this:
(i.e. Passed out from five hours)
Enough! I have more drinking and eventual driving to get to! I was mostly just tired of checking this blog with such high hopes only to see Alex's damn dinosaur puns again.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Fun with Paintbrush (a fond farewell to terbush)
Jon is a Blockhead. Molly is surprised.
Jon is a Luddite. Molly is in it for the fashion.
Jon is not amused. Molly is irrelevant.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
<<<<<<3
So I was in the bathroom today, thinking about Jon (not erotically asphyxiating myself) and I was so overcome (come) with emotion that I slipped and hit my chin. I promptly had a vision of the flux capacitor. Then I went to the hospital and got stitches. Then I continued to think about Jon and how much I will miss him.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
UPDATE: The Proof is GONE!
I have bad news, all my dear, dewy-eyed Hyenalings with bold aspirations of Presidentship.
It would seem that, like a poorly-dressed thief who never brushes his hair in the night,
Let me paint a picture of you, Hyenogs (you know, in the Hychine):
Imagine you're one "Jonathan 'Crazy Face' Terbush" and you've frittered away your precious afternoon losing at Super Smash Brothers to some attractive, witty female friend of yours who so kindly and graciously invited you into her pristine abode.
With no scholarly aspirations other than sucking as much dick as humanly possible in the next three to four years, you are unconcerned about your looming 6 p.m. class - I mean, fuck it, right? When your charming female companion has to cut the games short because, as a responsible, contributing member of society, she has to go to work, you give her some surly backsass and skulk along your merry way to the library, presumably to attempt reacharounds on unsuspecting nappers.
No one seems to enjoy the sensation of your cold, clammy hands on their genitalia, but you are undeterred and it isn't until 5:30 - remember, you have class in a mere half hour, at the TOP of the Tufte Building - that you realize something: You didn't print out 15 copies of the 13 page story (read: utter tripe) you have to pass out to your peers.
MATH TIME!
It costs $0.07 to print a page on any of the black and white printers on the Emerson campus.
Your story is 13 pages, and you need 15 copies.
That's 195 pages all told!
At $0.07 a page, that's going to cost you $13.65!
Is the Print/Copy Center open? No!
Do you have any money left on your card? Yes! $1.00!
So you're short $12.65 with a half hour left til class!
What do you do?
Remember that lovely, helpful girl from earlier in this tale? Out of the goodness of her large, welcoming heart, she agrees to print the pages out for you - free of charge, of course. Now, pushing through a 195 page print job isn't the sort of thing that generally goes unnoticed, but this girl is as benevolent as a saint, regardless of how feckless and foolish you are.
And how do you repay this kindness?
How can you truly show appreciation to this good samartian who risked her job to disseminate a story about cats that can talk?
PRO TIP: You wait until she's collating the stories (because yeah, she's totally going to do that too, because she's wonderful) and you steal the Hy Times proof out of her backpack! [ Ed. - Actually, it's a messenger bag, to be fair.]
Well, what can you do, HyTimers?
Let's raise a glass to Jon Terbush, the once and perpetual President of Hyena Comedy...
...and join me in smashing them in his smug little face.
It would seem that, like a poorly-dressed thief who never brushes his hair in the night,
JONATHAN TERBUSH
has stolen the one and only copy of Hy Times Magazine!Let me paint a picture of you, Hyenogs (you know, in the Hychine):
Imagine you're one "Jonathan 'Crazy Face' Terbush" and you've frittered away your precious afternoon losing at Super Smash Brothers to some attractive, witty female friend of yours who so kindly and graciously invited you into her pristine abode.
With no scholarly aspirations other than sucking as much dick as humanly possible in the next three to four years, you are unconcerned about your looming 6 p.m. class - I mean, fuck it, right? When your charming female companion has to cut the games short because, as a responsible, contributing member of society, she has to go to work, you give her some surly backsass and skulk along your merry way to the library, presumably to attempt reacharounds on unsuspecting nappers.
No one seems to enjoy the sensation of your cold, clammy hands on their genitalia, but you are undeterred and it isn't until 5:30 - remember, you have class in a mere half hour, at the TOP of the Tufte Building - that you realize something: You didn't print out 15 copies of the 13 page story (read: utter tripe) you have to pass out to your peers.
MATH TIME!
It costs $0.07 to print a page on any of the black and white printers on the Emerson campus.
Your story is 13 pages, and you need 15 copies.
That's 195 pages all told!
At $0.07 a page, that's going to cost you $13.65!
Is the Print/Copy Center open? No!
Do you have any money left on your card? Yes! $1.00!
So you're short $12.65 with a half hour left til class!
What do you do?
Remember that lovely, helpful girl from earlier in this tale? Out of the goodness of her large, welcoming heart, she agrees to print the pages out for you - free of charge, of course. Now, pushing through a 195 page print job isn't the sort of thing that generally goes unnoticed, but this girl is as benevolent as a saint, regardless of how feckless and foolish you are.
And how do you repay this kindness?
How can you truly show appreciation to this good samartian who risked her job to disseminate a story about cats that can talk?
PRO TIP: You wait until she's collating the stories (because yeah, she's totally going to do that too, because she's wonderful) and you steal the Hy Times proof out of her backpack! [ Ed. - Actually, it's a messenger bag, to be fair.]
Well, what can you do, HyTimers?
Let's raise a glass to Jon Terbush, the once and perpetual President of Hyena Comedy...
...and join me in smashing them in his smug little face.
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