Handwritten. All caps. Black marker on white paper. Taped on a door, just above an OPEN sign...
 
If your car is leaking oil, please park across the street in the sand.
 
Now imagine a scene in which someone knows his car is leaking oil, decides to drive anyway, parks in the parking lot, walks to the door, notices the sign, reads it, remembers the oil leak, turns around, locates the sand, and re-parks the car obediently.

This article is from 2000, which, on the internet, seems like a ridiculously long time ago, but my guess is that scientific fart research moves pretty slowly, so I think we're safe to assume that most of this info is pretty up to date.

Here are some informative and/or thought-provoking excerpts:

-While Levitt [the world's leading authority on flatulence...in 2000, anyway] says he has never treated someone who held a fart in too long, there are dangerous side effects (including dizziness and headaches).

-Pumpernickel, the dark-grain bread, means "goblin that breaks wind" in Old German.

-"Noisy farts can smell just as bad as silent ones," he says. "That's another myth that needs to be put to rest."

-It's a strange thing, though, farts. Take, for example, the expression "old fart." It's a term of insult when spoken in the third person, but one of pride when spoken about oneself.

That last observation's a little suspect if you ask me, but, then again, my dad and his siblings used to refer to their dad and his third wife as the Old Fart and the Fartress, and when you make it a title and capitalize it all fancy, yeah, sure, I can see people getting excited about it.

Just thinking about the fact that having your ducks in a row is almost the same thing as having your shit straight.
 
And that reminds me that someone told me the other day that he wasn't going to do something until he'd crossed his Is and dotted his Ts.*
 
And the adaptation of that from its original takes me back to English class in 11th grade and the teacher asking for patience by suggesting that we "jump off that bridge when we come to it."
 
*Note: Inconvenient that capital Is don't have dots, and capital Ts don't get crossed as much as capped. Lowercase letters wouldn't have looked right, though. And I'm a bit conservative with my apostrophes. Possessives. Contractions. Alternatives to quotation marks. Fine. But plurals? 7s works. 7's is unnecessary. Just sayin (no apostrophe needed).

I don't know anything about this new Michael Phelps scandal except...
 
(A) I saw a headline that read:
 
If Barack Obama Can Admit to Smoking Pot, Why Can't Michael Phelps?
 
And (B) I was invited to join a Facebook group called:

Michael Phelps smokes POT which makes him cool. Fuck the British Tabloids.

So I clearly have no real reason to comment, but, since blogging is blogging, I will:

If Michael Phelps has, at any time during his high stakes swimming career, won a big race while stoned, then I have a whole new level of respect for his swimming skillz.

Note: One sentence post? One sentence post. Not the most traditional (grammatically legal) capitalization or spacing scheme, but I think it works. Party.

Word is that these dudes write their songs based on conversations with homeless people. 

The band is called Give it to me rusty.  The album is called Give it to me rusty.  The song is called Give it to me rusty.  And I think the capitalization is supposed to work like that on everything.  I figured it wouldn't be right to call the blog post anything else.

I'm pretty sure both the video camera and the internet were invented with situations like this in mind:

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

A. Someone please teach me French.

2. Giuls, my darling sister, it's time for you to settle down and start a family so I can have little nieces and nephews and spend every free moment of the rest of my life telling stories with them.

d. The hippo was allergic to magic.

Note: My capitalization ok on that title? Tricky when all that separates one word from another is an apostrophe.

Jenny the Bloggess is hilarious and probably totally ridiculously gorgeous in real life, so my plan is sweep her off her feet with love comments and convince her to marry me.

I made my first attempt last Thursday when she posted a transcribed conversation in which her husband called her the world's greatest grampa (with an m) and refused to buy her a new curly straw...

Please dump Victor and marry me. I'll give you hats and straws and burritos AND zebra stripe gum. If you're not sick of zebra stripe gum, of course, which I guess you would be if you smell it all day long. But that would imply that you smell your feet all day long, which I don't mean to imply, because I'm pretty sure you'd never do anything weird like that. Though it isn't weird if you do it, because I can imagine that if my feet smelled as good as yours, I might strategically slip out of my shoes and let the zebra smells waft more often. But I wouldn't really know how these things work because my feet smell like feet (I think), and I don't even know what zebra stripe gum is. Which I should never have admitted because if my friend Danny is right that he'll never marry a girl that's never heard of A Tribe Called Quest, then there's no way you'll marry a guy that's never heard of what's probably the best gum ever invented. Man. Bummer. Tell Victor he wins for today. But I'll try again…

No response.  Yet.  Which is ok.  I don't expect one.  Yet. 

I will continue commenting.  And hoping and dreaming.

Her most recent post is about ground squirrels and spelling mistakes, however.  Not the most romantic subject.  Which makes it tough to comment effectively. Which is a worry.  But I realize that these things take patience.  So I'm going to go to sleep and think about it and see how I feel in the morning.