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Since the dawn of time philosophers have debated, “What is a bar? What is a restaurant?” Sometimes there are no easy answers. There can be a very fine line between “bar” and “restaurant.”
So what?! Who gives a shit?! What’s in a name?!
Mainly the presence of shitloads of filthy little varmints. That makes this issue one of no small consequence.
As always I will cover all points of view as if to give the reader an understanding of the issue. I will be fair. I will be impartial. I will be partially inebriated.
Also, as always, illumination will be provided by Wikipedia:
A bar is a retail business establishment that serves alcoholic drinks — beer, wine, liquor, and cocktails — for consumption on the premises.
A restaurant is a business which prepares and serves food and drink to customers in return for money …
There we were in a mystery business of some sort. Was it a “bar” or a “restaurant?” Let’s find out. It’s Litmus Test Time boys and girls!
How will my child perform during this year’s Easter egg hunt? How can I guarantee The Win?
P.S. Oh yeah. Almost forgot… Praise Jesus!
What astute questions! Rest easy. You have come to the right place. Clearly if anyone ever deserved The Win it is your precocious child. Something is cracked and/or smells around here and it’s not just the eggs.
The answer, of course, depends on a complex variety of factors including your child’s gifts, level of motivation, and unfortunately, no small amount of luck. With proper planning, however, the nefarious element of random chance can be minimized.
What I mean to say is, just how far are you and your child willing to go? How badly do you really want those coveted eggs?
Which came first? The chicken or the egg flung angrily at the back of someone’s head?
It’s something we’re born with. It’s somehow innate to us. Much like how a kitten without a mommy still knows enough to try to cover his own poo.
It’s something we’re taught by osmosis fro our parents.
And it’s also something we perfect while growing up. We learn by doing.
It’s the circle of life, Simba.
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I tweeted 24 times on Thursday, August 25, 2011. In those tweets I deftly weaved a grand tapestry that captured the limitless spectrum of human intensity. I did it all. I was sweet. I was tender. I was grosser than a fart joke. I was funny. I was witty. I was ironic. I was sarcastic. In short, I was a Twitter version of the Renaissance Man.
Along the way I personally went on a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride of human emotion and, I think, the arc of my tweets reflected this.
The day started like most any other: Literally making myself physically ill at the mere thought of going to work. (I have to face the possibility that I may not have the best attitude about my job.)
But then, something weird happened. My morning was acceptable, I was left alone enough, and somehow I got in a pretty good mood.
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