... there's place for you.
(A photograph of a photograph in the Stoughton Opera House. This is like "The Shining." But in Stoughton... where I get the feeling all the dogs were named Skippy... and everyone had Olson somewhere in their name... except Lilly... who had a panda... named Skippy.)
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23 comments:
Dog? Way dead.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ju4zkZQQieU
Medford , Wisconsin this time?
I'm a bit surprised Althouse hasn't mentioned any of this. Elections have consequences :)
GAB, Milwaukee County DA bail on key provision behind war on conservatives
In a court filing that one constitutional law expert calls a “stunning reversal,” the Government Accountability Board appears to concede that the “legal theory” driving the secret John Doe investigation into Wisconsin conservatives is legally “indefensible.”
A joint motion filed by both parties on Election Day in U.S. District Court in Milwaukee stipulates that a court-issued injunction preventing the accountability board and Milwaukee County District Attorney John Chisholm from enforcing a constitutionally suspect section of Wisconsin campaign finance law will remain in force.
...A constitutional law expert tells Wisconsin Reporter that the GAB and the district attorney have essentially “rolled over” on the merits of CRGA’s case, and that the accountability board and the DA are coming to terms with the fact that their interpretation of state campaign finance law is indefensible.
Every three years the rear axle on your bicycle snaps, if you have a freewheel rather than a cassette back there anyway.
You'd think they'd have bicycles that hold together.
Monty Python's "Bruces" sketch gets a Wisconsin twist:
"Is your name not Olson?"
"No, it's Johnson."
"Mind if we call you Olson to keep it clear?"
Instapundit has a post about some guy that went to Mexico to commit suicide. Instead, the guy did coke, banged hookers, and came home broke.
Although I really want this to be true, I ain't buying this story.
There’s no Norwegians in Dickeyville.
None in the valley, there’s none on the hill.
There never was and there never will
Be no Norwegians in Dickeyville.
Herregud! Skyltet er helt fylt av nordmenn.
(Damn! That sign is full of Norwegians.)
Early snow this year, apparently, but I hold out hope that it falls north of Madison, not here.
If there's anything to the idea of "narcissism of small differences", I expect all the Olsons to hate all the Olsens.
Radio Derb, the June 10 2005 edition, calls Jimmy Carter the worst US President ever.
Good times.
Not a single person has speculated on that stairway in the back. Does the youngest Olson earn a little extra money from traveling salesmen up there? Of is there a still making illegal aquavit up there? Or does it lead to a portal to another dimension that allows all those Norwegians to end up in sunny California?
Fosheim?
Is America a great place, or what?
To my imposter: Die in a fire, bitch!
The place looks like the bar in Tombstone where the Earp brothers hung out. I've been there.
The bar .
Tables.
Olaf Olson Skaalen walked into the bar as he always did, favoring his left foot after a long shift as assistant supervisor of the Curd Depository. As he approached his usual barstool Olaf stopped: something wasn't right. He instinctively patted his coat and vest to assure himself that his wallet and timepiece were still there, and sure enough, as always, they were.
"Are you all right?" Lilly Johnson Pandaverk asked, hands folded demurely at her waist: she saw the naked unease in Olaf's eyes.
"I'm... fine," Olaf said, but in his heart he knew he didn't mean it. Something wasn't fine: indeed, something was wrong, perhaps VERY wrong.
Mathew Olsen Fosheim, the town's young brass-polishing boy, could somehow sense what Olaf was feeling. 'I normally do not feel this way,' Mathew thought to himself, 'maybe I am still uncomfortable after polishing Lloyd Olson Skaalen's brass: it took much longer than typical this afternoon, and my wrist is very tired and there is now a callus on my thumb.'
From the corner by the stairwell Skippy growled, a low rumbling tumble of suspicion and distress. It seemed as if Skippy thought Olaf was a stranger, and not the man who sat at the bar four nights a week drinking beer, smelling of curds and softly humming Norwegian show tunes.
'There is someone in here,' Olaf thought: 'someone we cannot see. Someone of whom we can only feel the presence, and that presence was... evil.'
Lena Radd Olson Skaalen looked at Olaf and wondered: was tonight the night that Olaf would spill their dark sordid secret? Was tonight the night that their worlds would come crashing down?
'They are all looking at me,' Olaf thought: 'Can they read my thoughts? Can they understand my fear?"
At that exact moment Skippy approached Olaf, sat at his feet, and looked in his eyes: Olaf was sure he could understand what Skippy was thinking. That can't be true -- that cannot be, it is ridiculous to even consider -- but Olaf was sure of it: he could understand exactly what Skippy was thinking. Looking into Skippy's deep brown eyes, this is what Olaf heard Skippy say in his head:
'Olson-Fosheim-Olson-Skaalen-Olson-Pandaverk-Olson: You all are as inbred as FUCK! If you keep reproducing with each other you're gonna have to start eating your young before you all turn into fucking toads -- toads, you inbred assholes -- TOADS!'
Mathew Olsen Fosheim, the town's young brass-polishing boy: he heard Skippy, too, and a shiver of fear slithered up his spine.
'And YOU, Mathew,' Skippy said telepathically: 'You need to stop giving hand-jobs to old men for a nickel a shake. They are your Grandfathers, for fuck's sake, all of them! Everyone in this town is your Grandfather, or your sister, or your Grandfather's sister: you are all soooo FUCKED UP!'
Olaf felt a sense of welcome relief flood over him: the Truth was finally out. Except for the Lena Radd Olson Skaalen-being-pregnant part; he knew his sister-cousin could keep a secret...
Generally, Olson would be Swedish and Olsen would be either Danish or Norwegian. But then, when I've tried to speak Swedish to my relatives in Sweden, they tell me I speak Swedish with a Norwegian accent. So, what do I know.
For thousands of old photos like this one, go over to shorpy.com.
Yes, they've got Civil war stuff, and street scenes, but the "social" pics are really amazing.
And, you can greatly enlarge them to see details... Just what is that thing behind the lady in the rear of the shot?
I see booth seating and a salad bar with sneeze guard. Surprisingly modern.
What none of you numbskulls understand is that these names are the people from left to right. The 'dog' Skippy is standing upright at the bar with his hand on it. There's also a coupla early 1900's cross-dressers present. It's an unholy cabal of transvestite shape-shifters.
Have you heard the song "I'm my own Grandpa"? Look it up on You Tube. It may be based on a true story after all.
Look at those names! Uff da!
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