Featuring writing and comics by grim, shrewd, bosco, and diddlysquat
The time has come for Swants aka Sweater Pants! Your booty deserves to be just as warm as your torso so here is a step by step tutorial to transform woolly sweaters into sassy pants. Selecting a Sweater Don’t spend
Finally, a DIY you can get behind. Do the deed! Be a Swede! Cut a sweater and wear it like a french letter*.
*May reduce need for french letter.
TAKE THAT, ye suburban half-yuppie helicoptering parents of the gold-finching north shore
Finnish bread advertisement, hinted to me by anonymous submitter. “Only in this country you can avertise bread this way.”
This piece has no subtitles but here’s translation:
Father: “Well are you hungry or not?”
KOVAA KUIN ELÄMÄ (HARD AS LIFE)
(And if you’re interested in the last part the guy says that you can get jälkiuunileipä or after-oven-bread in smaller bits too)
"Really unsure about these translations" is the best possible way to end this list.
Savottakämpän säännöt vuodelta 1924 / Old finnish woodcutting worksite hut rules from the 1924
These are useful on this day too:
- You shall not touch another’s belongings even if they’re not behind the locks
- If you own a tool that the other doesn’t have you have to loan it. Doesn’t apply to knives.
- In the hut everyone must sit on their own berth
- If (someone) has whacked a nail to the wall for his clothes, you shall not put there your own clothes
- If you drop tools from the nail, you have to put them back
- He who is feeling cold will light the fire to the fireplace
- He who needs water shall get it if the bucket is empty
- He who needs water first shall open the hole in the ice
- You shall not put your own meats and fats on the ones near the hut or on the roof of the hut.
- You shall not shit to that side of the hut where door is
- Everyone has to use their own shithole
- You shall not pee to the front side of the hut
- Everyone shall cut a lot of firewood on their turn, so there can be fire when coming back from the woods
- Female cook shall not be touched and you cannot sneak to her bed in the middle of the night. She is protected even if she was lustful herself.
- Don’t be loud after 9pm
- Nobody shall say dirty or bad things about their women
- Your own jacket/outside suit has to be keeped in the stables
- Nobody can pee inside at night
- Farting is allowed.
(Really unsure about these translations)
Japan, Slam Capitol of the World.
1. Plane - unlevel surface, clay base
2. Layer of gravel
2a. NOTHING ELSE
3. Event horizon -> space for the enjoyment of the community
4. Canines allowed, but movement curtailed to fixed radius
No one goes there, because it is not possible to enjoy a bare gravel lot, and no enjoyment leads to fines. Alternatively, if your dog enjoys himself, you will also be fined.
mingus did not always love me. love happened slowly, as slowly and lazily as herself, a-curling on a hot day.
if you are keeping tabs, you might interject here and question whether a cat is capable of love, and if she is, how can i tell that she loves me, and not the tuna i feed her?
i can’t. i can’t tell. i don’t know. i am not a doctor of cat psychology. and, as long as we are on the subject, replace “cat” with “human”, and i would be just as rudderless.
mingus loves me now because she kneads my body with delicate paw pads and daggering nails, over and over and over again before bedtime, and she loves me now because when she sees me, she flops her belly skyward in search of my foot, stretching like a lady stepping out of a bath.
when we first met, she only tolerated me. this was, of course, after the initial feline W!T!F!, initiated whenever a new bipedal comes within sniffing range. more accurately: at the very start, she saw me, darted under a furniture, and remained there.
after it was apparent that i intended to stay, she might sometimes reluctantly look to me for a pet. if master was gone, she might even grace my lap briefly, though antsy and malcontent.
the wooing process took years, years, including a transitional period wherein her gray and white brother moved to logan square and was replaced with a scrawny, clueless furball, whom we christened magellan, but call li’l man. magellan has since evolved to the status of Bro Cat, though when we first got him, he was a miserably unteachable kitten, full of excited trust and impossible stupidity.
mingus hated him for about a year. now they cuddle contentedly, as long as they think we are not watching. soon after she learnt to tolerate the li’l man, mingus relented against me as well, as if one adaptation made the other possible. she would even sleep next to me on the bed, smothered in winter light, while i read or crept around on google. in turn, i discovered that her preferred greeting is a delicate sniff, an apertif to love, of extended human forefinger, three to six inches away from her primrose pink nose.
if mingus’s love for me exists, as i suspect it does, it was born of necessity, just as mine was born from gratitude. she misses me when i am not there, or at least she expresses concern when i am returned, as if to say: you left, my life was different. it was not as good, even.
this is more than you can hope for, from a cat as shy and choosey as mingus. luckily, there are no words to ruin our relationship, and nothing she can do that is so against her nature that she would cease to be herself. in this way, loving a cat is much, much easier than a loving human. but i’ll wait and watch, in case it isn’t.