The pancackes at the B-Line taste exactly like the ones my grandma makes. Wonderful eggy buttermilk pancakes with crisp edges, served with hot, thin homemade syrup that splashes over the lot and soaks in. All these years away from home and the cakes have been lurking mere miles away. The bonus at the B-Line is that, unlike at Grandma's, nobody keeps pushing you to drink orange juice that will be an ungodly sour chaser to the syrupy bliss on your plate.
Watching World Cup soccer is infinitely better on Univision, even if your Spanish isn't rapid-fire good. Give me the excitement and GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLL of the Mexican guys over the American dorks any day.
Soaking the garden in the morning, misting right after work, and lightly watering at night keeps the cucumbers from drooping.
Sceloporus lizards don't like to be misted.
The Iraqi government is granting amnesty to Sunni insurgents who "only" targeted American soldiers rather than fellow Iraqis. I'm sure the families of the thousands of soldiers and marines blown up or maimed by those fuckers are thrilled in equal parts by, first, the amnesty resolution and, second, by the vociferous support it's getting from Republican congressmen. Cutting veterans' benefits, dragging their feet on up-armoring soldiers and vehicles, and applauding the release of the murderous goons who have put 2,500 Americans in the ground is certainly an interesting way of supporting the troops.
Folger's coffee is bad enough, but year-old Folger's is even worse.
Sometimes when Dad calls me at work in the middle of the day, the purpose actually is not to ream me a new asshole.
Smooth sailing the first dozen times you use the SSH protocol to access the network at the office does not mean you can ignore that "transfer in progress" message even when it looks like all your transfers were completed ten minutes ago. Goddammit.