Hi Everyone,
I just wanted to introduce my new lab assistant Charles. I have noticed how much smarter and more productive the rest of you guys are that have Minions. Since I want to be smarter and more productive too I applied for a Minion too but Charles was the only one to show up for the interview. A correct answer goes to the first person to tell me what Charles has in his left hand.
John
Actually, these are the remains of the late, great Screamin' Jay Hawkins' familiar, 'Henry.' John W. traded for them at a yard sale around Memphis while driving on down to Honduras on a mission about which the purpose and sponsorship of, well, the less said the better. I think John was lightened of a large block of cheddar, some utility-grade brandy and a pair of Packer' tix. I think the fact that the seats wound up being behind a pillar up so high that the swirling winds would blow the soul out of a lesser man may have to do with the tingling he has been feeling lately in his toes, soon to engulf him in waves of anguish and woe. Or maybe it was the pickled eggs, with a 'sconnie, it can be hard to tell in the early stages, demonic possession or over-indulgence at the local.
All of the fresh air and mandatory 24-7 optimism of Wisconsin have taken their toll on our dear Henry, he is a shadow of his former self. It is as if the penetrating mists of blandness the state is so famous for have inculcated themselves into his very being. But Henry is from the South, thusly having soul.
The objects? Why Henry is beginning to cobble together his own familiar, Hans. When Henry is finished with the project, John W. is going to pay and pay. Pay for making him listen to his stories of winning the state football championship, back before the system was perverted by all those division levels based upon school enrollment. Pay for making him sort all of those resistors. Pay for trying to turn him into a soldering jig.
Shame on you John! You shall pay for your sins!!
Actually, these are the remains of the late, great Screamin' Jay Hawkins' familiar, 'Henry.' John W. traded for them at a yard sale around Memphis while driving on down to Honduras on a mission about which the purpose and sponsorship of, well, the less said the better. I think John was lightened of a large block of cheddar, some utility-grade brandy and a pair of Packer' tix. I think the fact that the seats wound up being behind a pillar up so high that the swirling winds would blow the soul out of a lesser man may have to do with the tingling he has been feeling lately in his toes, soon to engulf him in waves of anguish and woe. Or maybe it was the pickled eggs, with a 'sconnie, it can be hard to tell in the early stages, demonic possession or over-indulgence at the local.
All of the fresh air and mandatory 24-7 optimism of Wisconsin have taken their toll on our dear Henry, he is a shadow of his former self. It is as if the penetrating mists of blandness the state is so famous for have inculcated themselves into his very being. But Henry is from the South, thusly having soul.
The objects? Why Henry is beginning to cobble together his own familiar, Hans. When Henry is finished with the project, John W. is going to pay and pay. Pay for making him listen to his stories of winning the state football championship, back before the system was perverted by all those division levels based upon school enrollment. Pay for making him sort all of those resistors. Pay for trying to turn him into a soldering jig.
Shame on you John! You shall pay for your sins!!
