(no subject)
Yellow,
So, the long-awaited day has arrived. I can officially say I have driven the Volvo (formerly known as the illicit & illegitimate offspring of the Monitor/Merrimack affair) under its very own power. I have a couple more minor things to fix/adjust, and then I can drive it again, daily. Which means I can semi-retire the "other car" except for "special occasions". This is good news. This means I can once again take people into my metal womb, and bring them where their heart desires, namely, my underground fortress lair in Western Europe (sadly, both aboveground and in Winnetka). Once in my fortress lair (Winnetka abode) we can manipulate the political and military machinations continuously underway on an international scale (watch Family Guy episodes). After such endeavors, we normally make our way to a exotic restaurant filled to the brim with fantastic multi-syllabic "ethnic" foods that entice and conquer the palate of each respective guest to their fine establishment (have some (Kyu-Shu) ramen in Van Nuys). After such an adventurous, yet satiating meal, we then conventionally retire to our respective sleeping quarters (carpeted rooms), each lavished with pillows made of the finest silk and down (carpet), where we fall into beds so soft, yet simultaneously supportive, that verily mold themselves not to our bodies, but to our deepest desires (carpeted floor). Almost immediately we fall into the deepest slumber, much like hibernation, but available to the lucky few who are invited to my underground palace-like fortress lair (it's right off Saticoy).
Upon the morning, we are waken by nubile ladies, each dressed in a different color, yet when stood side by side, they complement each other like the rays of the sun through a prism of feminine perfection (ROYGBIV). These ladies gently roust us from our zzz's and usher us to the feasting hall, where heaping plates of omelettes with cheeses too grand to name, and bread so fresh, that eating it would be a crime unparralelled. After the first bite into this heavenly cuisine, nirvana is finally achieved. Accompanying this king of meals is orange juice, the likes of which has never been seen. Juice so pure, and fine, that they long for the trees they will never see again - but accept their fate stoically.
After this gala breakfast, we are, as one, brought to the entertainment room, by burly man-men who carry us as easily as if we were roses, and as lovingly as if we were there very own babies. There, we exclaim as we see the proceedings before us. Individual Dance Dance Revolution machines have been erected, one per person, in an arc so that from the proper vantage point, anyone can appreciate the talent of the players. But rather than make us sweat, trained midgets have been hired to play in our stead. Each one has been dressed in the fashion of its chosen model. They are instantly identifiable, yet inoffensive and sweet in their apparel. They begin playing, and make everyone present look so damn good. Everyone begins to cry, weeping tears of unadulterated joy.
So, the long-awaited day has arrived. I can officially say I have driven the Volvo (formerly known as the illicit & illegitimate offspring of the Monitor/Merrimack affair) under its very own power. I have a couple more minor things to fix/adjust, and then I can drive it again, daily. Which means I can semi-retire the "other car" except for "special occasions". This is good news. This means I can once again take people into my metal womb, and bring them where their heart desires, namely, my underground fortress lair in Western Europe (sadly, both aboveground and in Winnetka). Once in my fortress lair (Winnetka abode) we can manipulate the political and military machinations continuously underway on an international scale (watch Family Guy episodes). After such endeavors, we normally make our way to a exotic restaurant filled to the brim with fantastic multi-syllabic "ethnic" foods that entice and conquer the palate of each respective guest to their fine establishment (have some (Kyu-Shu) ramen in Van Nuys). After such an adventurous, yet satiating meal, we then conventionally retire to our respective sleeping quarters (carpeted rooms), each lavished with pillows made of the finest silk and down (carpet), where we fall into beds so soft, yet simultaneously supportive, that verily mold themselves not to our bodies, but to our deepest desires (carpeted floor). Almost immediately we fall into the deepest slumber, much like hibernation, but available to the lucky few who are invited to my underground palace-like fortress lair (it's right off Saticoy).
Upon the morning, we are waken by nubile ladies, each dressed in a different color, yet when stood side by side, they complement each other like the rays of the sun through a prism of feminine perfection (ROYGBIV). These ladies gently roust us from our zzz's and usher us to the feasting hall, where heaping plates of omelettes with cheeses too grand to name, and bread so fresh, that eating it would be a crime unparralelled. After the first bite into this heavenly cuisine, nirvana is finally achieved. Accompanying this king of meals is orange juice, the likes of which has never been seen. Juice so pure, and fine, that they long for the trees they will never see again - but accept their fate stoically.
After this gala breakfast, we are, as one, brought to the entertainment room, by burly man-men who carry us as easily as if we were roses, and as lovingly as if we were there very own babies. There, we exclaim as we see the proceedings before us. Individual Dance Dance Revolution machines have been erected, one per person, in an arc so that from the proper vantage point, anyone can appreciate the talent of the players. But rather than make us sweat, trained midgets have been hired to play in our stead. Each one has been dressed in the fashion of its chosen model. They are instantly identifiable, yet inoffensive and sweet in their apparel. They begin playing, and make everyone present look so damn good. Everyone begins to cry, weeping tears of unadulterated joy.