I decided to make a video and update my song called "Super Bowl Sunday". It's about eating and drinking anything you want on that special day each year and completing ignoring your household chores.
So when you're eating wings dipped in chocolate pudding during the game tonight, be sure to think of this video.
Well done. Well done! Thanks!
Maybe it was the fact it has been a most stressful week, or maybe it was watching online on the smaller screen, but either way, the finale of 30 Rock just didn't seem funny.
It reminded me somewhat of the last episode of Seinfeld, where the characters all end up on trial for violating a specific ordinance and yet equally on trial for the totality of their character.
What a marvel is television.
The story of the widow's mite described in Mark 12:41-44 and Luke 21:1-4 is a fascinating and intriguing one. Most of us have heard or read this story more times than we can remember, yet most of us have missed the essential point--selflessness.
God bless us - one and all!
(CNN) -- One could say this photo shoots down any remaining skepticism.
The White House on Saturday released a photo of President Barack Obama shooting skeet last August, backing up a claim he made in a recent interview that some Republicans questioned.
The End of the Raven (s)
On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more.”
Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents worth -
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.
Then my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!”
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty.
Put an end to that damned ditty – then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped – and smashed it on the floor.