Tag Archives: i don’t even know


Make Quentin Tarantino temporarily change his name to Pent-In Quarantino during the COVID quarantine and have him make pandemic-related movies. Who’s with me?

A Thought:

I propose that they officially change the name of Big Ben to “Large Benjamin.” It just sounds so much more British.

Also, “Big Ben” sounds like a name that bullies on the playground would come up with.

This is why I have no friends.

Roses are red, violets are blue

Other flowers are other hues.

(Sorry, I dreamt that goddamn stupid rhyme and I don’t have anything else to say today. Also, I’m a month late for actual Valentine’s day, THANKS BRAIN YOU SLACKER.)


You guys, I bought these today ‘cause I thought they were cute.


Li’l spongies!

Do I have a problem?

I sPeNt WaY tOo MuCh TiMe On ThIs

I drew the pommel horse equipment guy from last night’s dream because I couldn’t get this damn image out of my head.


(Sorry for the crappy quality, I haven’t drawn in approximately 40 years and perspective is hard.)

[insert stupid title here]

Can this feeling of utter hopelessness be over now, please? I’d like to get back to all the lighthearted whining I usually do rather than “wah, I’m sad” whining.

In This Blog Post: A Silly Blog Post

This picture has been my desktop background for a while, so I made a thing out of it.




(Ignore me, I’m feeling lousy and this was pretty much all that was in my head.)

Have some maps.

Claudia’s Miscellaneous Blog of Blogging and Miscellany (mostly internet stuff)

Hello reader(s)!

I was on campus from 7 until about 5:45 today, so all I wanted to do was screw around on the internet tonight. Hence, you get yet another craptastic blog! I doubt you’re surprised. BUT…I’ll change it up a bit and give it to you in numbered parts, how about that?

PART ONE: Vines!


The last time I played GeoGuessr (a looong time ago), they just had the world map and I could guess with moderate accuracy.
But now they’ve got a United States map (among other specific maps) and I’m MUCH better at that.


I totally forgot to post Irrational Exuberance that day I posted all those early-2000’s videos.


Massive crab. Massive damage. (Sean showed me this like six years ago and for whatever reason it was brought to my mind again today)

PART FIVE: FartParty McGee
I REALLY want to draw, but I can’t think of a good enough idea.


Do my crappy posts get you down? Don’t despair! I have a “serious” post I’m working on that I’ll probably post soon. Lucky you!

Claudia’s Pointless Blog Post of Pointlessness

So I have a metric crapton of pictures on Vaio.

But I think this one is still my favorite.


(Yeah, that’s all I got for today, sorry)

Random Thought of the Week

If “Anscombe’s Quartet” isn’t the name of some statistics department’s barbershop quartet somewhere, then there is something seriously wrong with this universe.

My Atmosphere

Idea: some company should make a type of gnocchi and call it Fibonocchi. The box would have to have some sort of mechanism where it would only dispense the gnocchi in quantities of Fibonacci numbers. Like if you shake it five times you get 0 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 3 = 7 gnocchi.

And it could only be served with rabbit.

I think I need to sleep.

Sleep Deprivation Makes Me Cooooool.

Theory: Cinnamon Toast Crunch is Cap’n Crunch’s estranged son who, rebelling aginst his father’s wishes that he join the Navy, took up a life of stripping. His real name’s like Gary or something and “Cinnamon Toast” is just his stage name.

I’d like to know how that went down when Cap’n Crunch found out.

Like one day The Cap’n comes home from a long day of Crunchatizing and finds li’l Gary taking off all his cinnamon in a bowl of milk to the tune of “You Sexy Thing.”

“Dad! I uh…what are you doing home so early?”
“Son, what are you doing?”
“I, uh…just…”
“Get out of the milk, son.”
“But da—”
“Get out of the milk.”

Completely unrelated:

Oh crap…2007…


Also, today is yet another blog anniversary. I’m not even keeping track anymore, dangit.

Anyways, this one’s for you, Maggie:

The explanation as to why Spork=Insanity
Bacon=”inside” a pig. Use the “in” and put it on the left “side” of “sbacon.”
Bacon can sometimes be unsanitary. Replace “bacon” with “unsanitary.”
The sun has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Delete it.
To rid the word of the “a” and the “r”, think of something that starts with those two letters. Like AR (accelerated reader) books. Did you have to read those in junior high? Didn’t you hate that? Don’t you want to rid your mind of the experience? Yes? Good. Delete the “a” and the “r.”

How long can these subject headings be, anyway? I mean can you just ramble on and oh here it is

I’m calling this a game, but it’s more of a psychological profiling type thing I devised last night in a moment of strangeness (one of many!).

You are given this question:
A quantum physicist, a lawyer, and a cat are placed into a white 10×10 room. They are given the question: “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, does it make a sound?” and asked to answer it. They are locked in the room and given no food or toiletry items. After twenty-four hours, the door is unlocked and the subjects are removed. Who is the victor, the quantum physicist, the lawyer, or the cat?

Your task is to answer the question with a full and complete (a sentence or so) detailed report of how you came to your answer and why you think you are correct.

The first person to answer correctly wins a free lap dance!



I’m not kidding!


Aneel, you already have a head start, but I suggest you get moving. I know you want that lap dance.

What I come up with on a bus at midnight

What happens when you dance but you’ve got no pants and then you’ve got a fire in your pants and your legs burn and you’re scarred with awful 3rd degree burns that ruin your chances for being a sock model (unless the socks are long enough that they cover the scars, which is unlikely) and you feel desperate so you go light your dog’s pants on fire and it’s not until it’s too late that you realize that your dog isn’t wearing any pants so in truth you set your dog on fire and the police come and the firemen come and the animal police come and you’re forced to “spread ’em, punk!” in front of the whole neighborhood who has just come to the conclusion that you’re some awful dog-burning pantsless hooligan and you’ve just realized that you don’t really care for chocolate ice cream?

Don’t even freakin’ ask, man. Don’t even freakin’ ask.