Bistro Bijou

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I sound like cocksuckin Tourette's Syndrome hounds my whorish sanity, but I love butt-fuckin you for knowing how it really is you fuckin liar. I don't have to edit my shit fuck puke posts anymore. I'm fuckin blessed.

Either $#*@(#)$@&! me or marry me!
 
Well, aren't WE sticklers for the rules... Besides, if big is the issue, I think that Tzara and his stove pipe might probably be a better...ahem...fit(?)
Now, no one needs to be big to fit, I simply like :eek: the way it looks ... oh my.
 
...and from the world of entertainment...

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Let me interrupt this fascinating chat about fitting pipes with some entertainment news — a synopsis of a program that aired last night.

For those of you who may have missed it, last night's mystery on Cold Case involved the apparent suicide in 1962 of the wife of a struggling poet who later moves on to become Pennsylvania's poet laureate. Forty-six years later, her granddaughter brings her grandmother's suicide note to the detectives, questioning the finding of suicide — the handwriting on the note didn't match her grandmother's handwriting. So begins another fascinating Cold Case program as they wade through the possible suspects:

● the grad student, thought to be stalking her, only to find out he was stalking the husband, for whom he had a crush; the 60's weren't a good time to be gay.

● the nanny who was jealous of the wife for her good looks and the ease with which she had gotten as good a catch as her poet husband. It finally develops that she knew the wife's mother had been institutionalized, so she set about a plan to make the wife think she was losing her mind too.

● the husband who was working on what later became a famous book of poetry and secured his position as Pennsylvania's poet laureate. Everyone swore he was hopelessly in love with his wife.

During the course of the program one of the detectives kept reading the poet's book, while another couldn't understand it; saying at one point that he thought poetry was supposed to rhyme. It was the one detective's familiarity with the poetry in the book that ultimately helps them solve the case, just when they thought it was a false alarm and they couldn't disprove the suicide finding.

The stay at home wife was shown in flashbacks to be rather high-strung and always imagining she was hearing things. She was also seen to be frequently hard at work on a typewriter. It develops that she was typing out her own poetry which her husband-poet was filching. She confronts him and, in a jealous rage, he strangles her. It turns out that the poetry book he later published, which led to his becoming famous and secures his position as Pennsylvania's poet laureate, was her writing. He confesses and admits to being just a mediocre and technically adequate poet, while his wife was knocking out poetry with ease on her typewriter.

Poets can be so wildly emotional.


As an aside, Pennsylvania is one of eight states that has no poet laureate.

Now y'all can get on back to fitting your pipes and whatever...

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Let me interrupt this fascinating chat about fitting pipes with some entertainment news — a synopsis of a program that aired last night.

***snip****

Poets can be so wildly emotional.


As an aside, Pennsylvania is one of eight states that has no poet laureate.

Now y'all can get on back to fitting your pipes and whatever...

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Sounds like Gaslight meets Pale Fire.

LeBroz always brings a little class to the Bistro whenever he stops by. You're welcome to join the pipefitting, though. Like most things in here, it's only as dirty as you want it to be.

Anschul, you missed the part where UYS said that the haircut made it possible to see her nipples. Hence the commentary. And we're still waiting for the pix.

I do like the "fit the stovepipe to the owner" idea, but I think, Witchling, we'd have a hard time getting these sophisticated poet types to play.

They're all so classy and inhibited and shit.

Fool, you're right. Poetry has to rhyme.

bj
 
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Let me interrupt this fascinating chat about fitting pipes with some entertainment news — a synopsis of a program that aired last night.

For those of you who may have missed it, last night's mystery on Cold Case involved the apparent suicide in 1962 of the wife of a struggling poet who later moves on to become Pennsylvania's poet laureate. Forty-six years later, her granddaughter brings her grandmother's suicide note to the detectives, questioning the finding of suicide — the handwriting on the note didn't match her grandmother's handwriting. So begins another fascinating Cold Case program as they wade through the possible suspects:

● the grad student, thought to be stalking her, only to find out he was stalking the husband, for whom he had a crush; the 60's weren't a good time to be gay.

● the nanny who was jealous of the wife for her good looks and the ease with which she had gotten as good a catch as her poet husband. It finally develops that she knew the wife's mother had been institutionalized, so she set about a plan to make the wife think she was losing her mind too.

● the husband who was working on what later became a famous book of poetry and secured his position as Pennsylvania's poet laureate. Everyone swore he was hopelessly in love with his wife.

During the course of the program one of the detectives kept reading the poet's book, while another couldn't understand it; saying at one point that he thought poetry was supposed to rhyme. It was the one detective's familiarity with the poetry in the book that ultimately helps them solve the case, just when they thought it was a false alarm and they couldn't disprove the suicide finding.

The stay at home wife was shown in flashbacks to be rather high-strung and always imagining she was hearing things. She was also seen to be frequently hard at work on a typewriter. It develops that she was typing out her own poetry which her husband-poet was filching. She confronts him and, in a jealous rage, he strangles her. It turns out that the poetry book he later published, which led to his becoming famous and secures his position as Pennsylvania's poet laureate, was her writing. He confesses and admits to being just a mediocre and technically adequate poet, while his wife was knocking out poetry with ease on her typewriter.

Poets can be so wildly emotional.


As an aside, Pennsylvania is one of eight states that has no poet laureate.

Now y'all can get on back to fitting your pipes and whatever...

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It was the bard in the library with the dactyl.
 
It was the bard in the library with the dactyl.

If I hadn't been up til 5 am editing madly for the May challenge, I'd have more brain power to design a full clue game around the PFD and its denizens.


Wicked Eve, in the Blurt thread, with a spreader bar.

LeBroz, in the archives, with a fountain pen.

Anschul, in the bistro kitchen, with a spatula (that gives me ideas. BRB.)

And if the victim is found in the Reviews thread, smothered with a stack of unscored essay tests?

bj
 
I'm the chief cook around here, at least until I get one or two bits of this medical stuff sorted out. Tonight at this stove and griddle we'll be prepping some tasty garlic/smoked pork sausage, fresh corn fritters (kernels cut off the cob) and a garden salad. I'm cookin' lots so order while there's fritters to be had...

goddagobackson...
 
If I hadn't been up til 5 am editing madly for the May challenge, I'd have more brain power to design a full clue game around the PFD and its denizens.


Wicked Eve, in the Blurt thread, with a spreader bar.

LeBroz, in the archives, with a fountain pen.

Anschul, in the bistro kitchen, with a spatula (that gives me ideas. BRB.)

And if the victim is found in the Reviews thread, smothered with a stack of unscored essay tests?

bj

Anyone who has never done this has no idea what a charmless exercise it becomes. Apparently there's a pretty limited number of opinions to have on a given subject, and after you read them about 200 times you feel like there's a special part of hell reserved for this task. And it's not even so much that the writing is bad: it's just so unremittingly mediocre. If you do this scoring with responses from younger kids, you get to read narrative writing, which is kinda cool. This is oh lol, I just want it to be over. I always forget when I agree to do it how I feel by around the third week of it. :D

I'm even too pooped to cook. I made ee go out and buy lunchmeat. :eek:
 
Anyone who has never done this has no idea what a charmless exercise it becomes. Apparently there's a pretty limited number of opinions to have on a given subject, and after you read them about 200 times you feel like there's a special part of hell reserved for this task. And it's not even so much that the writing is bad: it's just so unremittingly mediocre. If you do this scoring with responses from younger kids, you get to read narrative writing, which is kinda cool. This is oh lol, I just want it to be over. I always forget when I agree to do it how I feel by around the third week of it. :D

I'm even too pooped to cook. I made ee go out and buy lunchmeat. :eek:

Looks like Champy has you covered, with the fritters and all... (not literally, I mean, although that would be amusing too.)

If it were me, I'd promise myself that at least ten percent of what I'm making on the job would be dedicated to buying something that is completely frivolous and unnecessary, but that would make me totally happy.

That's what tithing looks like in my religion.

bj
 
Looks like Champy has you covered, with the fritters and all... (not literally, I mean, although that would be amusing too.)

If it were me, I'd promise myself that at least ten percent of what I'm making on the job would be dedicated to buying something that is completely frivolous and unnecessary, but that would make me totally happy.

That's what tithing looks like in my religion.

bj

I don't need to promise myself anything to do that. I'd probably spend it anyway. Unless my daughter gets to it first. :cool:

Oh Champ, cover me in corn fritters and read this essay, k?
 
I don't need to promise myself anything to do that. I'd probably spend it anyway. Unless my daughter gets to it first. :cool:

Oh Champ, cover me in corn fritters and read this essay, k?

*grabs the camera*

this will be a nice addition to the Bistro Wall of Shame.

bj
 
Pensylvanian oddities

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Let me interrupt this fascinating chat about fitting pipes with some entertainment news — a synopsis of a program that aired last night.
<SNIP!>

Poets can be so wildly emotional.

As an aside, Pennsylvania is one of eight states that has no poet laureate.

Now y'all can get on back to fitting your pipes and whatever...

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.

And were the above not fictional, Pensylvania cops would have to be sorely incompetent. I'd not previously heard of a suicide by strangulation...

the Snood, geek of the plains
 
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And were the above not fictional, Pensylvania cops would have to be sorely incompetent. I'd not previously heard of a suicide by starangulation...

the Snood, geek of the plains

So auto-erotic asphyxiation isn't familiar to you, then.

That guy from INXS (which I prounounced inx-es for years until someone corrected me) died thusly.

Hey Snood! What'll ya have?

bj
 
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