Rooster Roundabout: This week’s music highlights
The Daily Word in Furbies, UFOs and Sting.
Obama has 99 problems.
Internet addiction is a mental illness.
Let’s watch some Target training videos.
Joss Whedon is making a S.H.I.E.L.D. TV show.
Loitering teens can wreck your business.
Here are GPS coordinates to a bigfoot place.
Ben Radford gives us a history of religious hoaxes.
Sexy celebrity photoshop guys.
Tinfoil hats amplify mind control rays.
Councilor Michael Cook says balloons need more places to land.
Burglary is on the rise in Rio Rancho.
Tucanos got in trouble for where they put their signs.
Thanks to Nayder and Maliskas for the assists.
Rowdy’s Dream Blog #146: An Upscale Women’s Boutique
Nick Brown Edition
I work covering a shift at an upscale women's boutique. A girl with facial pierces and two suitcases keeps trying to steal things and I chase her away repeatedly. She makes a game of it which makes me furious. Finally, I hear the bell and run to the front to see that the cash register is missing. (It is the same cash register that I earlier knocked over while riding my bike in the store, when I broke the owner's favorite laminated paper mug.) I rush into the alcove to see the pierced girl leaving a neighboring boutique, carrying the cash register. It's raining outside. The woman from the neighboring boutique throws me her green jade antique-looking cell phone and I dial 911. "Burglary in progress!" I yell into the phone, but I can't remember the address of the name of the boutique. The girl speaks to me calmly the whole time that it was a joke and I'm over reacting. Eventually, I agree and put the phone down, relieved. The boutique owner and other helpers return and I try to tell them what happened but none of them will listen. They're having a brunch and have their own stories to tell. I eventually give up when some other workers pull me into a discussion about Robert Plant. "He's a very powerful singer," I concede, to make a point for one side of the argument, "but that doesn't mean you have to like him." The other party seems vindicated. I notice Sting is eating a bowl of cereal nearby, and I raise my voice a little so that he might hear. "Ultimately, a singer's affectations are more important than his voice." Sting ignores me. "I like your singing, Mr. Sting," I say. "That makes two of us," he replies, and as he looks at me, chewing, his face boils over with thick wax and takes on the form of a cash register. My friend says, "don't worry about Sting, here's a ring," (it rhymes.) It's a friendly joke. The ring is so small it can barely fit on the tip of her pinky finger.