Eh, I got tired of that.
New York R
New York I
Or something like that.
Anywho, I guess it's safe to say my blog is back. (Woop doop doop doop, back where it belongs) I think we'll both just have to learn to live with less-than-regular updating. Clearly, this hasn't been another successful 365-blog, so I'll have to figure out some other goal for a successful "end date" so this doesn't become one of those "eventually get bored and peter out" blogs.
But enough about me! Today is all about Dave-O. I can't say enough amazing things about Dave. He's been a constant encouragement and inspiration since I stepped onto OBU campus as a frosh. It's unbelievable to realize the things God's taught me through this big, loving, gracious, wise, hilarious friend.
Someday, when I publish my autobiography, I'll go into more detail. For now, I'm about to leave for Dave's place for a short birthday Outgehangen, so let's jump right into the Mad-Lib!
Hamlet's SoliloquyTo laugh, or not to laugh -- that is the wit:
Whether 'tis nobler in the goatee to teach
The glasses and flip flops of hilarious book
Or to take arms against a suburb of tweets,
And by studying end them. To host -- to share;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural stairs
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a loyalty
Devoutly to be wish'd. To host, to share;
To share -- perchance to give: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of compassion what dreams may dance
When we have wrote off this mortal baseball,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pop culture references of despis'd creativity, the law's delay,
The dependability of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy cooks,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a quick Superman figurine? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and rock out under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after faith --
The undiscover'd sea monster, from whose bourn
No writer returns -- reads the will,
And makes us rather play those ills we have
Than think to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make editors of us all,
And thus the charming hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the manly Compy of thought,
And blogs of poetic pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of hulked-out aeros fist. Affable you now!
The good-natured Contentious Dan! -- Nymph, in thy das Biesten
Be all my comics remember'd.
Happy 30th, bro.