Monday, June 22, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
*snort* Change! *guffaw* Hope! *snicker*
Now, before he stops laughing and gets serious, get that nickel out of your pocket and poke it into the coin slot on your
Friday, April 17, 2009
The ants are coming in over the kitchen windowsill at 3--but you didn't hear that from me!
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Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Call me "kooky birdily bird" one more time, and I'm putting YOUR drumsticks on the menu for tonight!
...sometimes, attitude is ALL you need...
Okay, now, before you get sent to your room, check that famous attitude problem at the door, dig deep in the dark recesses of your hip pocket, pull up a nickel, and toss it in the general direction of the eighteen story skyscraper that is the NickelAtATime Corporate HQ...or just send it via PayPal, to email@example.com!
Select * from tblBeer
Where [imported] = True
and [Temp] = 'Cold'
Group By [twelvepack]
Select * from tblGirls
RU / 18 = QTpi
Okay, okay, a snip from the female programmer's brain, too:
SELECT * from tblGuys
and [looks] >= 'Pretty Good'
ERROR: No Results!
If this glimpse into the alien thought processes of your average programmer-type-geek hasn't totally warped your own mind, bend open your wallet, tease out a nickel, and slide it into the PayPal slot on the side of your computer! Address it to Nickelatatime@gmail.com!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
You can see Elvis in the spot over the cat's eye!
...okay, okay, if you insist...let's zoom in a little closer...
...you wanted a better view...?
It's a Miracle...!
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Or: What happens when a knight sleeps through Dragonslaying 101
Sir Gregor of Denth was the bravest of knights
And many a tale was told
Of the many opponents he did dispatch;
But perhaps he was too bold.
For Gregor's teachers did warn him:
"Someday the fight will come.
And on that day you will much regret
Sleeping through Dragons 101."
"A knight is a knight is a knight;" said he,
"Whether it be morning or noon.
And any Wyrm that thinks to defeat me
Comes flying to his doom."
A messenger came one midsummer morn
Seeking a knight of renown;
Sir Gregor answered before he knew
It was a dragon that had been found.
"A knight is a knight is a knight" said he,
"No matter the time of day."
He lowered his visor and lifted his shield
And swiftly rode away.
Gregor attacked on the following dawn,
And it was a terrible fight;
For the one lesson our knave never learned
Is that dragons are blind at night.
"A knight is a knight is a knight," he gasped,
"No matter the time of day."
And with those gallant words of wisdom
Did brave Gregor pass away.
So forget mathematics, and governing, and law;
With those, nothing need be done.
The one class none ever should miss
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Tuesday, April 7, 2009
"Greetings, you poor pathetic person. I'm here to save you from your horrible life." The man fiddled with buttons on his belt, and gently settled to the ground.
"Huh?" Jim said.
"I am PittSean vin Brangelino de Winfrey," the man said, "and my people have returned." At Jim's puzzled frown, he continued "From the stars...?"
When that didn't seem to make an impression, he said "Four score years ago, my ancestors set sail through the sky. We abandoned you pitiful lesser beings to destroy yourselves. Now, I, the greatest of our species, have returned to bequeath upon you the wonder and glory of my benevolent rule."
"You really shouldn't..." Jim said, but the stranger cut him short.
"Shouldn't?" PittSean put his fists on his hips and struck a dramatic pose. "Shouldn't? You DARE try to tell me what I should or should not do? I, and I alone, survived the trials of leadership! I alone made it through the 197 hour marathon retrospective of Showgirls, Ishtar, Shortbus, Pink Flamingo, Caligula, and Steve Urkel reruns!"
"I didn't mean..." Jim said.
"And I alone," PittSean said, a bit louder this time, "was able to recite the classics from memory. All of them--Shakespeare, Salinger, Nabokov, and even Gore! I ALONE survived the battle recreations of both Braveheart AND Gladiator!"
"No, I mean, they changed the law after you left, and you need to..."
"You needn't worry about laws," PittSean chided. "I will be writing your laws for you, from now on. You may report to the President that his new ruler is..."
At that moment, a passenger car blasted through the intersection where PittSean was standing. The impact hurled him over a hundred feet through the air. The car's onboard computer registered a collision with a pedestrian, and immediately docked the driver's record with two points. Then, following procedure, it analyzed the accident, and noted that the pedestrian was a full forty-seven feet from the nearest crosswalk--and restored the two points, since the accident was clearly the pedestrian's fault. Next, it automatically diverted a generous amount from the driver's insurance fund into an account to cover hospitalization and/or funerary costs, and notified local emergency crews of the accident. The driver didn't slow down, but she did turn on the windshield wipers.
"...get out of the Autobahn," Jim finished.
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Thursday, April 2, 2009
In hopes of scoring a bailout of their own, members of the "Meerkats are NOT the Other White Meat" lobby turn on their Cute Factor for members of Congress today..."
Isn't this burst of cute overload worthy of a cute little nickel shoved under the door of the Nickelatatime Corporate Highrise? Hey, you can send one via Paypal, too, at email@example.com!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
As Sir Epididymis squirmed on his rude straw bed and sought warmth in the tattered rags of his old saddle-blanket, he caught a glimpse of the rising harvest moon through the stable window, and once again the vision of that jaundiced, pock-marked orb reminded him of his lost love, fair Princess Gwenrowundelwynne, she of the twelve teeth. Oh, happy the legions of lice who dwelt in the forest of those greasy golden tresses!
His view of beautiful Luna was eclipsed by the short and stubby form of the farmer, who like many of the peasants in North Umborgringlugrand had the gift of understanding the language of the animals.
"Sorry, guv," the farmer said, as he leaned in through the window. "I'll 'ave to ask you to move to the sty. The 'orses are complainin' about 'ow you smell."
"That's quite all right, sir, I understand," said Epid, as his friends called him. He had long ago given up on sleeping in fine taverns and comfortable beds. Normally he would have found a place to camp, but with the rains, it had been as muddy as a pig wallow and dangerous to travel any further.
An hour later, he took pity on the pigs, and let them out of the enclosure. One collapsed and refused to move, and was lying there still, breathing raggedly, when the farmer came to rouse him at dawn. Epid stood at the well, dumping bucket after bucket of cold water over his head. The muck of the sty came away on the third splash; the dirt of the road only took one more. The stench fought an epic defensive battle, and defeated twelve buckets of water.
Epid was shaking water out of his hair and face when the farmer left the pig to stagger back into the sty. "You said you were cursed," he said. "I didn't realize 'ow badly. Poor Widlinn says she'll be running in terror every time a bubble wells up in the mud of 'er sty."
"Aye," the prince said. "Myself, my father the King, all of the royalty of the kingdom." The farmer went to step away, but Epid continued speaking, and the farmer stayed out of courtesy, though it was a near thing. Dealing with pigs and cows since before he could walk gave him a certain...tolerance...but even that was being tested to the limits; his eyes were already beginning to burn, and he blinked a dozen times to clear them.
"Seven years ago, my father threw a great feast, and invited all of the noble families to attend. It was...it was our betrothal," he said, with a quaver in his voice.
"An old woman came to the door, hungry and poor, but my father turned her away. And as she hobbled away, he laughed at her, and threw his bread at her, mocking her. All of the nobles laughed along with him.
"But she disappeared, in a great blast of lightning, and reappeared on the table. I could see the platter of venison between bony ankles splashed with mud and covered in blue and purple veins. She spoke with the shriek of a mad woman.
"'You dare to mock ME, you besotted flatulent fool of a king? I have more power in a lock of my greasy hair than you have in your entire kingdom!' She waved a bony claw at all the assembled nobles. 'ALL of you, witless as a spoiled child, with no sense of what lies outside your own halls!'"
"'Curse you, I do! I curse you all with all the ills of your people! Happy will they be, with the weight pulled from their shoulders and settled onto yours!'
"She vanished then, leaving behind naught but a green smoke that smelled of month-old eggs with cabbage. The wine had turned to vinegar and the cheese had grown mold, and the dogs--and even the rats--refused to eat what had been the venison.
"On the following morn, the nobles began to see the results of her curse."
Tears welled up in the prince's eyes as he remembered his family. "Brave Uncle Theonororffurus...trying to speak through a never-ending flood of snot. Duke and Duchess Whaltingsport, covered in pimples and boils and boils with pimples that rupture in purple pus.
"We dare not speak of the savage monster that dwells just beyond Lady Dentrifficus' pearly gates...and my own lady Gwen, who waits for me, all these years, with all her insects for company...
The wistfulness of his voice turned hard with determination. "And my father...who cannot speak without letting out a belch so powerful that all within a score of yards are knocked senseless and unconscious."
The Prince turned to gaze at the rising sun, and the animals for twelve furlongs behind him snuffled and wheezed and moved to other pastures upwind.
"And so...I am on a quest. A grand and glorious quest, to rid my father's lands and family of this horrible curse." He picked up his sack, and flung it open, showing a hundred small, neatly wrapped scrolls. One seemed to be covered in dried mucus, and two others were burned at the edges. "Apologies all," the prince said, as he slung the pack over his back. "I have travelled to the home of every noble who was there that night, and all have written an apology to the witch. No horse would have me, or allow me to ride in a carriage without panicking or fainting dead away, so my travels are on foot. And no tavern would let me past the gate, because all of the other clients would leave, so I spend my nights deep in the woods, far from anyone who would be disturbed.
"It took two years to get them all, and I've spent two more searching through all the land for the witch herself.
"You don't know of a witch who lives herabouts, do you?"
The farmer could only shake his head; the lack of oxygen in the area was making him swoon.
The prince sighed, and moved off towards the dawn light. The farmer watched him go, leaning heavily on the well with a rag over his nose, but the stench that followed the cursed prince remained until the sun was fully in the sky, long after the figure himself was lost to sight.
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Fluffy, just before learning that the huge new tobacco tax also applied to his catnip stash...
...tax increases are hurting EVERYONE...
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Monday, March 30, 2009
We want everyone to know that we haven't spent the last weeks kicking back, relaxing, and counting the nickels rolling in to the Nickelatatime Paypal account! Quite the contrary. We've been flexing our fingers, sharpening our mechanical pencils, and making sure that the jokes just keep on joking.
We've got some appetizing jokes that we hope will leave you hapless readers rolling in the aisles with something besides heartburn. We'll follow up the jokes with some funny pictures for dessert, lay down a nice slab of melted cheese across the top, and leave it to slowly simmer under the stiflingly hot lights of your local email server. Just make sure to very carefully remove the cheese-covered shrink-wrap plastic from your browser before reading it...wouldn't want any reports of burned fingertips coming back with those nickels.
So, while you're chuckling under your breath, loosening your belt, reaching for the antacid with one hand and the burn ointment with the other, don't forget to open that virtual wallet and tip your digital waiter for the heaping helping of hapless hilarity that is the mid-to-late-morning brunch known as Nickel at a Time.
B-uuu-uuu-rrr-ppp! Ah, excuse me.
See you in the funny papers!
Ben Bernanke shows off the scars he received the last time he went up against Ron Paul in committee in the House.
Ben Bernanke. Ron Paul. Cage Match. 'Nuff said.
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Sunday, March 29, 2009
The fine young warrior Snorf was born without much common sense.
Fact of the matter, truth be told, he was more than a little dense.
When faced with a foe of fearsome size,
He'd draw his sword and gaze in it's eyes,
...and say, "Are you my mommy?"
The dreadful dragon perched atop it's mound of hoarded gold
And glared in fury at one who was both foolish and too bold,
It blasted him with frightful fire
When his words drew the dragon's ire,
...Snorf asked the dragon, "Are you my mommy?"
The endless horde of trolls and orcs was a deeply terrifying sight
And their battle with the warrior Snorf lasted far into the night,
He slashed and hacked and sliced again
Until the monsters all died or ran,
...and "Are you my mommy?" was his battle cry.
The talking tree was mortified when Snorf asked his famous line,
And swung one long and leafy branch to swat the oaf aside,
Snorf swung, and chopped, and sparked a light,
The bonfire burned for three straight nights.
"You're firewood. You're not my mommy."
So to the tavern Snorf did go, to drink his worries away,
"He's ugly! His mama must have been a troll!" a drunk did say,
Our hero Snorf took offense to that,
took out his hammer and squashed him flat,
Finished his drink, and that was that.
"Don't talk about my mommy," he said, as he glumly walked away.
If your mommy lets you play with nickels, then take them out of your mouth, and kick them this way, via PayPal, to email@example.com!
What do you mean, you voted AGAINST Ron Paul...?
Just a word from our political correspondent...
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Friday, March 27, 2009
- Arwen and Galadriel *so* much hotter than Professor McGonagall.
- Getting rescued by a giant eagle...or getting rescued by a flying Ford Anglia...?
- Army of the Dead...or Moaning Myrtle...?
- Legolas can take down an Oliphaunt single-handedly.
- Which is scarier, getting trampled by Saruman's Uruk-Hai army, or losing House Points to Snape...?
- Treebeard could take the Whomping Willow with one...um...branch...tied behind his back.
- Where would you rather live? Under the stairs at the Dursleys' house, or under the hill at Bag End?
- Legolas is still the prettiest.
- It took a flaming Balrog to take down Gandalf, and he didn't stay dead.
- Gandalf, miles underground in a magnificent dwarven kingdom, battling millions of enemies and one colossal flame demon, shattering the massive stone bridge with his staff while shouting "You Shall Not Pass!"...or Ron, in the secret and forbidden territory of the Girl's Bathroom, facing down a troll and staring at the troll snot covering his wand.
Top Ten reasons why Harry Potter is better than The Lord of the Rings
- Frodo only had one giant spider to escape from, not an enormous horde of them, and he couldn't even do it.
- Three wizards in training can beat a troll in less time than it takes all nine of the Fellowship to beat one.
- Sure, Eowyn killed the leader of the RingWraiths. But can she recite the text of every book in the Rohan library...?
- Voldemort actually has the guts to come out and fight, while Sauron just hides in his tower.
- Harry can take down a dragon AND a basilisk single-handedly.
- Dobbie attracts a...very interesting...following to the theater.
- Invisibility cloak from father is a much better gift than a dead rabbit from Gollum, and doesn't have "Property of Sauron" in burning letters inside.
- Everyone has an aunt or uncle they'd like to see puff up and blow away, but not many people actually get to make it happen.
- Ron makes a much better travelling companion than Gollum, but is he as good a cook as Sam?
- Buckbeak could take down a Ringwraith without losing a feather.
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...I don't know about you, but I'm having horrific flashbacks of great-aunt Petunia at last year's family reunion...
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Thursday, March 26, 2009
Yes, every day is a circus.
Starting from the top, we have a twelve year old daughter, eleven year old daughter, five year old son, four year old daughter, four year old son, and a one year old daughter. And a partridge in a pear tree.
The twelve year old is Ms. Einstein. She's a senior carrying a 12.9 GPA in high school and is working on picking out her college. She was reading medical textbooks when she was three and disagrees with Alex Trebek twice a week. In her spare time, she's rebuilt the toaster to work in a tenth the time and hacked the cable box so that we get Russian traffic reports and game shows (and she only had to sacrifice all the foreign language, golf, Nascar, and remedial basket-weaving channels to do it, no big loss). Her next projects? Rewiring the house to run on macromolecular solar cold fusion and curing her mother's asthma.
The eleven year old? Ms. Music. She plays the trumpet, baritone, tuba, harmonica, and mouth-harp, and will be touring with Mangione next spring. She keeps trying to teach me to play the trumpet, even though the noise that usually comes out inspires local farm animals to run over and claw at the walls of the house. Did you know you can get three different notes out of a trumpet without even pushing any of the buttons? Well...she can. I can actually get twelve, but calling those noises "notes" would be an insult to any decent self-respecting musical note anywhere.
The five year old thinks he's Spiderman. He leaps from the top bunk, out the second-story window, onto the top of the family bus and bounces into the farmer's field next door, with absolutely no fear. His magical mystical spider powers are apparently triggered by chocolate, hot dogs, and fluffernutter sandwiches, which fuel his exploits for a full twelve hours. We had to draw the line, though, when we found the four year old daughter wrapped up in a cocoon and dangling from the ceiling fan. We're not quite sure what she did to end up there, but interpreting from munchkinnish leads us to believe that it somehow started with the sentence "Spiderman isn't real!"
Four-year-old daughter is going to be a chef. How do I know this? Because she doesn't like anything we put on the table and will loudly proclaim "Daddy messed up dinner. AGAIN. Me need to teach you how to cook." The fact that it's true doesn't necessarily give her the right to say so, does it? This is also the art major of the bunch, who will happily decorate the house in purple and orange crayon. Taking the crayons away and scrubbing the wall leads to panoramic art in watercolor. Repainting the wall in white and taking away the paint set results in artwork in chalk...wiping the wall down and crushing the chalk in punishment promptly leads to masterpieces painted entirely in chalk dust. We're debating just giving her oils, interior latex, and a roller, and letting her paint and repaint whatever she wants.
Four year old son, on the other hand, says he's changing his name to Batman. I wouldn't mind so much except I must be playing the parts of the Joker, Riddler, Penguin, and BullseyeTargetMan, based on the number of times he's accidentally head-butted me in the crotch. He's a good kid, though. He says he wants to grow up, so he can drink coffee, stay up late, drive cars, fly planes, and play poker. None of that scares me except maybe the poker part; I already can't beat him at Memory, Monopoly Junior, Uno, and Blackjack, so I've been hesitant to teach him Texas Hold-em. I only bring home so much paycheck, you know?
And the one-year old only has two kinds of toys...those that can be dropped so Daddy will pick them up...and those that can be used to inflict pain and punishment on Daddy. A WhackDaddy is any item not nailed down that can be dropped, swung, hurled, or otherwise applied to the most sensitive areas on a Daddy's body, and she's got quite a collection of them. And now that she's mastered the art of walking without falling on her face, Daddy has no place to hide anymore. Spidermankid's bunkbed used to be the ideal spot, but she's also recently mastered the art of climbing ladders... and as she's working her way up the ladder, why does she mumble something that sounds distinctly like Elmer Fudd's "Gonna kill da wabbit...?" Strangely enough, she gets along beautifully with the dog, though I've never understood why his eyes get wide and his tail goes down every time she comes within three feet.
My sweetie...bless her heart...is locked into a madhouse with these six, all day, every day, trying to get some semblance of home-schooled learning into them. I have no doubt this is difficult, since I'm sure that one of the children tries to emulate whatever she reads to them. Which kind of explains why we no longer have any fish ("Put me down," said the fish, "this is no fun at all! Put me down," said the fish, "I do not wish to fall!" --The Cat in the Hat).
"I would really like some quiet 'US' time," she told me a few days ago, right after I got home from work. I gently removed the cream pie from her eyes, combed the peanut butter and bubble gum out of her hair, untied her hands, kicked the burning sticks away from her feet, and reminded her that we have SIX kids. "Us" time requires
- three and a half months advance notice
- three babysitters
- two more babysitters on call, for whichever of the first set run screaming from the house
- Eighty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents worth of pizza, popcorn, lemonade, Irish whiskey and ultra-industrial strength Sta-Wake tablets
- two fully charged and prepaid cel phones (one spare, to replace the one that will either get flushed down the toilet, dropped in the blender, or fed to the dog)
- written consent forms (in triplicate) from each of the munchkins that has mastered the art of signing their own name (you'd be amazed at how high this percentage is...and should I be worried that a five year old with the same name I have knows how to sign contracts...?).
But no, I'm not complaining or anything. Really. Please, ignore the Ebay ad titled "Great kids, Cheap!"...because they made me take it down.
Editor's Note: Any similarity between this essay and real life is strictly coincidental, unintentional, and otherwise especially unintended, though it must be added that all of the nickels received by NickelAtATime are currently covering college costs for a twelve year old.
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Little Mikey wasn't like other swans. While his siblings were perfectly happy to chow down on grass all day, Mikey was seriously craving some KFC.
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