Stuff your pilgrim thinks is cool

(via Jezebel's Doug Barry.)

This is so Fan-Freakin-abso-Fuckin-lutely-All-Kinds-o-AWESOME-tastic you guys.

Here's the deal. These young women (click-y the link-y, watch-y the vid-y, prepare-ye to be all happiez-y. Runtime: 3:47 of nonstop amazing, with the coolest music cue.), these women who are 7th graders, They Did This Science-y Project Thing. Which was awesome, yr pilgrim, duly sworn, testifies and swears.

They, these awesome young lady-persons, made this rocket-shaped payload (a la the retro hokey 1940s-1950s conceptions, back when some movies actually portrayed fast-blowing atmospheric winds, IN SPACE). They designed this lifting lofting apparatus, and set up the video to record the mission.

And this whole awesome cool thing which These Girls, who are awesome young WOMYN, yay, which they, did we mention, designed and made: It went to SPACE, people. IT WENT TO FUCKING SPACE. (nerd/tech note: it passed the boundary known as Karman Line, defined as 50 miles above surface. Prolly at the Wiki Thingie, accessible somewheres on the intertubes, where y'all can look it up. )

But here is yr Pilgrim's most-est favorite-est part, which grants his face and his everythings the sooper surpassing happies, about this most awesome very cool thing, which these awesome-young-Double-X-Chromosome-having persons So Totally Did:

It is the *Cool de Grace*, y'all. Ready?

HELLO KITTY was the passenger who went to space. How awesome ADORABLE is that?

Anyways, that is all, you guys. Love y'all truly I do. Gonna go now and haves me a happiez cry at the Awesomes.

Um, kthnxbai.

Shit Yr Pilgrim Makes Up because funnies

My skeet gun is short-form, not long. (Triple Score! Ripped-from-the-hedlines; wing-nut mocking. And: PENIS JOKE! Booya-shakalaka!)

Shit your pilgrim says

Republicans currently are interested in only two things. The Deficit is not one of them.

What I did "New Year's, New Year's Eve"

Your pilgrim: Wrote Code. He did, blatantly, and in front of god and everybody, because he is such a shameless blatant programmer-writer, who loves programming and coding and writing and stuff.

Further, he wrote Lots Of It. (Also, Said code is really good, because your pilgrim Wrote It.)

Further, your pilgrim has been doing it, this code-writing, at big urgent fevered fun creative pace, since like last Thursday.

Anyways ... fun, good, stuff. I think it might work. So, happies, and stuff ...

Good thing I finished my First Collection of Poems in late November. So like, That's Done.

So, um, The End, and: I love you all.

Feel the love

In writing the hed, your pilgrim was being ironic, cuz what he really wants is: to be funny. Or clever. But also: Mock Those Who Deserve It.

I'm reminded of what Happy Bunny sez: "Hate is a just a *special* kind of love we give to people who suck." But don't waste time on hatin', y'all. Not even this guy, quoted below. (About and because of whom your pilgrim wrote all this.) Hate is for haters. Let them have it.

Anyway, Andrew Sullivan quotes this guy, filed under the Hathos Alert/Malkin Award:

"All family and friends, even close family and friends, who I know to be Democrats are hereby dead to me. I vow never to speak to them again for the rest of my life, or have any communications with them. They are in short, the enemies of liberty. They deserve nothing less than hatred and utter contempt. I strongly urge all other libertarians to do the same. Are you married to someone who voted for Obama, have a girlfriend who voted 'O'. Divorce them. Break up with them without haste. Vow not to attend family functions, Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas for example, if there will be any family members in attendance who are Democrats," _ Eric Dondero, LibertarianRepublican.net.

No problem, dude, you squishy squeakee charmer you. Happy to be dead to you. Grateful, even. Truly.

Meantime: Live long and fester, man.

I'm wondering though, how far Mr Dondero is willing to take this. Would he, for example, fuck a pure conservative Republican woman, if said woman, who was willing to fuck him, had a mother or brother or half-sister, twice-removed, who voted for Obama? Or even marked an absentee ballot for the Kenyan Socialist Freedom Annihilator, but slept late, because poor and one of the *takers*, and did not get to the post office in time.

UPDATE: Your pilgrim swears, he does, that he conceived and typed and crafted and revised and Google-checked a quote and clicked the Publish button too, after reading Sully's post only, (and he might have been at his desk at his job) all of which was so totes before reading this on Wonkette, written by Editrix Extraordinaire Rebecca Schoenkopf, Esquire, whom your pilgrim luvs secretly and from afar. 

Further, your pilgrim would never steal or copy cool funny stuff from her desmesne. (She knows what the word means. The rest of y'all, look it up. Or crack open your brit-lit anthology from college. It'll be in the second volume, Romantic Period.) No. Not without giving gushing praise and credit and all the Wonkers Gay Love I have for Her Editrix, and for all who slave happily too in the Employ of her Empire, which is communist, because she is Commie Girl, awesome daughter of Commie Mom the also awesome. Thursdays, she leads the happy workers in song, I hear.

No, your pilgrim, um, avers. I would only draw inspiration, with most proper linky-thing credit included in me post. (And afterwards maybe a thank-you note and invitation to tea some afternoon) All that, so's I can be: More Funniez. (Yo, Becks: Air Kiss!)

Let us now Enjoy: Very Cool Words

So, your pilgrim has this Most Coolest Awesome-est Friend and Fellow Journalist-more-extraordinaire, and An Awesome Mom Also. This aforesaid awesome friend a coupla years ago posted to her Facebook status what I think must Forever Rank, unchallenged for eternity, or at least until our Sun dies, as: The Coolest Facebook Post Ever:

[S] is making milk. What are your superpowers?

What my friend was doing, most naturally near automatically and most casually miraculously too, was lactating. As in, her mammary glands, known coarsely as Boobs, were: Making Milk, Making Nourishment for her own newly born child. 

Let us all pause now to say: Wow.

Lactation is the usual word for this amazing mammalian miracle. It's the term you will see in medical texts, and in the literature too from the La Leche League, there to help possibly anxious new mothers deal with problems, including physician/family/workplace/culture hostility to the Naked Breast-Baring Audacity of Nursing, which all mammals have always done, but which some in these latter days, have insisted is *so* not appropos for homo sapiens in civilization today. The La Leche lit would also have supportive sensitive advice on what to do about problems like nipple irritation, important stuff like that.

Anyways, all that is very important. But Your Pilgrim Wants Y'all to Know: There is this cooler, more awesome word for this most normal miracle: Galactopoesis. 

Milk-making is the plain literal meaning. But we have our connotations of the constituent words, and therefore think more along the lines of Galaxy-Maker, or Galaxy-Poet.

As astronomy developed, there were fuzzy white patches increasingly observed in the sky. Their census grew in number and detail, as observers' optics developed. Through it all, the metaphor persisted, because it stayed so ineluctable to the observers and cataloguers: Wow: This is so Milky. Hence: galaxy, galactic. [source: Your Pilgrim. Ha!]

Galactopoesis! How cool is that? Us writers and poets and dictionary-lovers so totally Eat This Stuff Up. (And sometimes we *decide* to write 'us' when we know perfectly well that the correct pronoun case to use is the nominative, not the objective.)

Loves me the modern world, I do

Comes now your pilgrim, who affirms and attests, and types on keyboard also, and such significant shit like that:

Around the time relevant when I composed and typed this post: My Android phone, which fits in my pocket, and sleeps by my side at night, charging, was awesomely effortlessly doing the following:

• Giving access to the worldwide intertubes: for my computer and for Marcia's, here at your pilgrim's home, at Rock Creek & P.
• Pushing me favorite stored music to me ears, via that wireless modern also-miracle known as Bluetooth, which I totes Cranked to the Limit. (Alas. Bluetooth does not go all the way to: Eleven.)
• Oh, it counted down also the cook-time on the pasta I'd started in me kitchen here.
• Other miscellaneous ongoing background miracles of which your pilgrim might have been unaware, but he acknowledges gladly, readily, is most grateful for.

All of this reliably ongoing while I wander on important tasks around your Pilgrim's studio home here:  Kitchen to cut onions, prep the sauce for the dinner. To the bathroom for bladder-emptying. Back to kitchen for washing of dishes.  

Writing This Post. Important Stuff Like That.

How Cool is that?

The End.