Sunday, July 31, 2005


There are those rare moments of genius which, if you are not quick enough, will slip away like a lollipop from a careless toddler's fingers. Therefore, Tolbs and I have decided to chronicle our most recent brilliant event here, on our blogs. What follows is no less than pure comedic ingenuity and utter hilarity.

It begins with a lengthy messenger conversation...

[16:56] bobifro: Rutger Hauer in Batman Begins and Anthony Hopkins
[16:56] tolbs7: oh he looks just like him?
[16:56] bobifro: well... kinda
[16:56] bobifro: ah, fuck it
[16:56] bobifro: no
[16:56] tolbs7: Ron Perlman and Gary Busey
[16:56] bobifro: dammit!
[16:57] bobifro: The Poor Man's Gary Busey is Nick Nolte!
[16:57] bobifro: anyway, Rutger Hauer kinda looks like Anthony Hopkins, but only in Batman Begins
[16:57] tolbs7: ahh
[16:57] tolbs7: lol used to be the other way around
[16:57] bobifro: lol
[16:58] tolbs7: Ron Perlman is a poor mans Gary Busey is a poor mans Nick Nolte is a poor mans Patrick Swayze whom was a poor mans Jesus Christ and somehow Kevin Bacon fits in there some where because he was in flashdance.
[16:58] bobifro: lol wtf!?
[16:59] bobifro: how is Gary Busey a poor man's Nick Nolte is a poor man's Patrick Swayze!?
[16:59] tolbs7: dude
[16:59] tolbs7: way back when
[16:59] tolbs7: Nolte looked just like Swayze
[16:59] bobifro: no way
[16:59] tolbs7: and Bacon was in flashdance which was a psuedo-ripoff of dirty dancing
[16:59] bobifro: hahaha
[16:59] bobifro: omg
[17:00] bobifro: the first hits for Nolte are those prison shots
[17:00] tolbs7: we should make a 6 degrees of a poor mans
[17:00] bobifro: with the hair
[17:00] bobifro: YES
[17:00] bobifro: dude, that's awesome
[17:00] tolbs7: see if we can like derive Lindsey Lohan from Nick Nolte
[17:00] bobifro: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
[17:00] bobifro: who was in that movie she was just in?
[17:00] bobifro: that lovebug movie or something
[17:01] tolbs7: Herbie Reloaded
[17:01] bobifro: Fully Loaded
[17:01] bobifro: Michael Keaton
[17:01] bobifro: Matt Dillion
[17:01] bobifro: Dillon*
[17:01] tolbs7: oh right i'm thinking of the sequel
[17:01] bobifro: Breckin Meyer, he sounds familiar
[17:01] tolbs7: what how do Matt Dillon and Michael Keaton relate
[17:02] bobifro: Breckin has to be a poor man's somebody
[17:02] tolbs7: he was on ER
[17:02] bobifro: and Road Trip
[17:02] tolbs7: i think
[17:02] tolbs7: no no road trip
[17:02] tolbs7: not er
[17:02] tolbs7: he looks like the guy from er
[17:02] tolbs7: so he's a poor mans guy from ER
[17:02] bobifro: who's the guy from ER?
[17:02] tolbs7: looking it up now
[17:02] tolbs7: Noah Wyle
[17:03] bobifro: So Lindsey Lohan was in Herbie: Fully Loaded with Breckin Meyer, who is a Poor Man's Noah Wyle
[17:03] tolbs7:
[17:03] bobifro: ok, link Noah Wyle
[17:03] bobifro: yeah, that works
[17:03] tolbs7: yeah but if you saw noah in er
[17:03] tolbs7: you'd get it
[17:03] bobifro: DUDE
[17:03] bobifro: He was in Donnie Darko!
[17:03] bobifro: So was Patrick Swayze!
[17:04] tolbs7:
[17:04] tolbs7: omg
[17:04] bobifro: and if Nick Nolte is a Poor Man's Swayze...
[17:04] tolbs7: so lindsey lohan was in Herbie:Fully Loaded with Breckin Meyer, who is a Poor Man's Noah Wyle, who was in Donnie Darko with Patrick Swayze to whom which Nick Nolte is a poorman's
[17:04] bobifro: HAHAHAHAHAHA
[17:05] tolbs7: so this is how the game works
[17:05] tolbs7: you take someone in the same movie as the someone you are trying to link
[17:05] tolbs7: and then find the poor man's of that person
[17:05] tolbs7: and then find every movie he appears in until you find someone who is a poor man's of who you are looking for
[17:05] tolbs7: and there you go
[17:05] tolbs7: dude i can totally write that code
[17:06] bobifro: hahaha
[17:06] bobifro: ok, you need to write that a bit clearer, but I think I get it
[17:06] tolbs7: it's like a combination of 6 degrees of kevin bacon
[17:06] tolbs7: but the front and the end have to be poor-mans of
[17:06] bobifro: wait
[17:06] tolbs7: the hard part is going to somehow start a data base of who is whoms poor mans
[17:06] bobifro: Lohan isn't a poorman's
[17:06] tolbs7: if you can get a large data base of poormans
[17:06] tolbs7: i know
[17:06] tolbs7: you first find someone else in the movie
[17:06] bobifro: but she's the start
[17:06] tolbs7: and then find their poor mans
[17:06] bobifro: ohhh
[17:07] bobifro: so we start with whoever
[17:07] tolbs7: wel it would be far to hard to link lohan to nolte
[17:07] tolbs7: because it's hard to poormans a woman with a man
[17:07] bobifro: the first person in their movie needs to be a poorman's
[17:07] tolbs7: yeah
[17:07] bobifro: then the next-to-last person is a richman's to the last person?
[17:07] tolbs7: although you can use hillary swank as a universal bridge between man and woman
[17:07] bobifro: ROFL
[17:07] tolbs7: richmans or poormans
[17:07] bobifro: Write that as a bylaw
[17:08] bobifro: "Hillary Swank shall be considered a Universal/Unisex Bridge between men and women"
[17:08] tolbs7: yes
[17:08] tolbs7: so if you are going between man and woman
[17:08] bobifro: ok, we need similar pics of Nolte and Swayze
[17:08] tolbs7: you have to find someone who appears in a movie wtih hillary swank
[17:08] tolbs7: and then bridge out
[17:09] bobifro: dude, I think you're right
[17:09] tolbs7: we can have more unisex bridges
[17:09] bobifro: young nolte does look like swayze!
[17:09] tolbs7: this way we don't have to find a poormans to start out with lohan
[17:09] tolbs7: we can just poormans lohan up till we find a bridge
[17:09] tolbs7: and then when one of thos epoormans is in a movie with swank
[17:09] tolbs7: find antoher actor who satisfies poormansility
[17:09] tolbs7: with someone else
[17:09] bobifro: poormansosity
[17:10] tolbs7: so it will be completely independent from kevin bacon as long as there is no man-woman comparison
[17:10] tolbs7: however when there is we break out the bacon

Having bridged Lindsey Lohan and Nick Nolte, we set about visualizing it in a flowchart, the end of our game of "Poor Man's".

And there you have it. Enjoy.


After a short, several-day hiatus I am back and blogging once again. Not much has happened in that a bunch of stuff happened. My buddy, Tolbs and I went golfing Friday which kicked ass. We didn't kick ass, but the event, in general, kicked ass. It were, as they say, enjoyable. In fact, it were so enjoyable that we took a few pictures to share with you, the faceless masses of the online infrastructure known as the Internet.

Now see if you can guess what's wrong with this next picture.

I assure that I did, in fact, hit that fucking ball. Little cocksucker. Also, as a little added treat for you, I took the liberty of throwing together a small video of ourselves in the midst of the golf game. I assure you that this video is totally serious and everything contained therein is unedited, especially the audio. Take a gander, if you will, at this.

After golf, we nipped up to the cities where Dane and a mutual friend, Judd, were waiting for us. We went to some place called The Lone Tree or something. That was ok, but there was dancing involved, so Tolbs and I got the motherfuck out of there and wandered over to Gameworks, where the wonderous powers of Alcohol and Arcade combine to form the splendiforence of Drunken Air Hockey, Drunken Racing, Drunken Shoot Shit On The Screen, and of course Drunken Skeeball. It was fucking awesome and the bartendresses were hot. So that was awesome.

On Saturday I availed myself of my air-conditioningless room and cleared out a space in my largish closet, turning it into a makeshift sweat room. I have to say, it was an experience bordering on religious or at least spiritual. Indeed, it was... cathartic. I'm going to start doing that more often, because I felt great afterwards. Then I whipped up some food and watched movies until I passed out. Hey, there are much, much worse ways to live.

And now it's time for Alan Rickman.

Mr. Rickman is a feared Mob Boss and must be bowed to thrice before his amazing visage may be looked upon. Bow, street filth! Bow!

Damn, don'tcha just want that? You know you do, you sluts.

Thursday, July 28, 2005


For the love of God, somebody help me! I've run out of music... I have nothing new to listen to!

And it's driving me nuts! I actually rooted around in my pile 'o CDs and am re-listening to Something Corporate!

I realize posting twice in a day might be a tad... let's say "sad", but I really do need some inspirado here. I'm taking a look at some stuff Tolbs is raving about, but I need something edgy. Something with power chords or at least two stringed instruments playing simultaneously is all I ask.

Also, there was something I wanted to find in the wide world of torrents. Anybody remember what it was? No?

Sheesh, big, fat help you guys are.

Alan Rickman was unavailable to comment on this post as he was "sleeping it off".


Mr. Rickman is a world-renowned journalist, famous for bringing to light such diverse news events as Wee Willy Winky's Wild Weekend of Wanton Women and George, The Wonder Gerbil's Heroic Struggle With Gerbil Cancer.

Alan Rickman here with a groundbreaking story. It seems that the apartment *hic* currently occupied by three young men named Brian Auron, Dane Booth and Adam Pulchinski are having dinner cooked for them by an unknown young woman, possibly connected to any of the men in some way, shape or form or shomething. It is shush... shus... shuthpected that the young woman, let's call her "Sonja" is creating some manner of pasta, most likely a lasagna derivative. I like pashta. None of the residents were available for comment, and as we see here, Sonja is otherwise occupied with "getting her drink on." You go, girfrliend!

This has been Alan Rickman, more as the story unfolds. Back to you, Doug and Gary.

Mr. Rickman was definitely not intoxicated at the time of this broadcast.

I have really got to stop letting him have at the Schnapps. Anyway, indeed, "Sonja" is cooking us food. Oh, happy day! A home-cooked meal! 'Tis cause for celebration of the highest order! That's right, you guessed it... SWINGING FROM THE RAFTERS TIME!!! But what's this! Something just crashed through the window! What could it be?

Well, that was certainly disturbing. And the grenade freaks me out a bit, too!
Ok, enough of this... it's time for me to savor some delicious home cookin'! Mwahahahaha.... it's OK for everyone to be jealous. I know I would be, but... I'M THE ONE WITH A WOMAN COOKING ME FOOD! BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!

BOBI out.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005


As I'm sure Dane is noting, last night more or less went poorly. By "poorly", I mean it sucked my ass cock fuck shit BLEEAAARRGGGHHH!

I am literally on my knees, swearing before God Himself that this next statement is true. There was some manner of weak tesseract, a bend in the time-space continuum, a temporal rift or other manner of singularity phenomena occuring at Target: Lakeville last night because time (and I am not shitting you on this) drove a Rascal Scooter around in circles for hours on end. I am not trying to say, here, that time moved slowly. No, at certain points, time did not make forward progress and at other times even went backward.

Now, to those few ubergeeks out there becoming excited at the prospect of actual time travel, calm down. There is nothing cool about going back half of an hour in time. Nothing changes except the color of your underwear. Get over it.

It was so horrendous that at several points(or perhaps it was just one that I repeated several times) I resorted to banging my head against a brick wall in a vain attempt to alleviate the mind-numbing monotonous agony. Alack and alas, it was no good. The night moved on as it had, slowly but surely, in a shape I can only describe as reminiscent of a Spirograph doodle.

And now it's time for the weather, with Alan Rickman.
Alan Rickman is an experienced meteorologist and stakes his left testicle on his forecasts.

Monday, July 25, 2005


In regard to my growing urges to just throw it all to the wind and play the Crazy Talking Guy around girls, I've been given the "go-ahead".

According to my cousin, an expert on females (as she is a female herself) girls like it when you just introduce yourself to them. It is not, as I had earlier believed, crazy or weird. In fact, many of them may even have a positive reaction, the act being interpreted as a complement on their appearance or some such thing.

Now I won't say that I don't like random people coming up and starting a conversation to me. This same phenomenon resulted in me actually going to my high school prom with a girl, but that's all I'll say about that. I did, however, think it very odd for someone I didn't know to simply walk up to me and say, "How's it going, Brian?"

Maybe it's just me, though.

Now, for my daily non sequitur, I've recieved what I believe to be some of the best inspirado, as The Daner says, from a book I saw. Some guy wrote the story of the fall of Reach, the SPARTAN II training world of the hit video game, HALO. Now, follow me on this: When HALO: 2 was released, the previews showed earth footage almost exclusively. It was purported to be the last stand of Earth and humankind, indeed one of the greatest battles ever known to this red-haired nut. Unfortunately, there was really only one to one and a half levels of Earth fighting, and then it was back to space.

So how cool would it be to play HALO: The Fall of Reach? The entire story takes place planetside, except for maybe the last level. There are SPARTAN IIs all around you and you race around the planet, fighting a bigger wave of Covenant invasion forces than you could shake and throw a stick at. Personally, I think it ought to be a crime if Bungie doesn't make the game after HALO: 3 which, by the way, I am already salivating for. I have no idea when the hell it will be released, but it will be a joyous day. The people shall feast on the lam and the chicken and the bounty of the sea. Yet the green menace, the Vegetables, shall rear its filthy, leafy head and attempt to render the feast tasteless.

But lose not hearte, good readers! For our good friend, Stax of Snax, shall be there with chips and popcorn and chocolates and pastries and all manner of tasty treats.

Now go, my readers. Go and spread the word of He Who Is I!

Also, read Tolbs' and Dane's blogs. Things is getting a mite silly down that way.

Oh, yeah, one last thing. It's time for "Alan Rickman's Totally Professional Horoscope". Alan Rickman is such an amazing astrologer that he can deliver the 'scope of all twelve signs of the Zodiac in one, all-encompassing and completely accurate prediction. So, without further ado, heeeeeeeeere's Alan Rickman!

Thursday, July 21, 2005


Today has been uneventful, to say the least. After waking up, I watched some "Scrubs" and ate a couple of sandwiches. At one point, I exercised a my right to exercise and practiced my instrument consisting of thin, shaped wood and coiled, malleable steel held taut by pegs. In short, I diddled around on my guitar for a few minutes.

My squadron leader and heterosexual life-mate, Dane, is down in Austin already, so there's really no one to hang around with. Those of you who know me may find this surprising, but I haven't made too many steadfast friends in the Twin Cities. Ah, me.

In other news, I, myself, will be going down to Austin tomorrow morning to get my air conditioning fixed, and who knows? Maybe my stereo as well. Cross your fingers; I know I am.

Also, I've been developing some interesting urges that I am finding harder and harder to hold back. In the last week, I have barely restrained myself from simply walking up and talking to several different young women. I have no idea who they are; they were simply in my vicinity at the time and we all locked eyes at least once. After which I felt a great compunction to say, "Hi. My name is Brian. What's yours?" or something to that effect.

If there are any women out there, has this ever happened to you? Is this insane? Am I, at long last, going crazy? In another week or two, I'm sure I'll just lose it and let it all go: "Hi. My name is Brian. I have a couple of roommates, but I support myself financially and am studying at the University of Minnesota. How do you do?"

Oh, yeah... "Memory" by Shinedown has to be the best song ever. Hands down, no foolies. It makes me shiver everytime I listen; it's an... audiogasm.

One last thing: if anybody reads this and wants more silly PaintArt, leave a comment. I likes doing PaintArt. I likes it good.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005


No Teja's for you, today's listeners! I've got a rare treat that was long-ago promised in a land far, far away to an old friend of mine.

Behold! The Flamiiiiiing EMUUUUU!

There's not a lot to say today... it's the start of my weekend and in a very short while I'll be fast asleep due to a ten hour work night. Then, after my all-too-brief respite (for some reason I'm having trouble sleeping longer than four hours at a time) I'll be out and about, accomplishing great deeds, such as finally going and getting my fuggin' paycheck.

If there's one thing I've learned about living life, it's that money not only helps, it's necessary. Remember that, all you beatnik, commie-pinko, super-leftist nuts out there. Money makes the world go 'round and it makes the food go down my esophagus to my tender innards.

And so I leave you, my dear audience, with a few words:

Tumescent, append, onomotopoeia, and troddle.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005


Last night went horribly. Simply awful, nasty, filthy and such, NAY... abominably.
I'm not quite sure what made the whole situation come to fruition. The results of earlier actions may not have been consequences at all, for all I know... inconsequences, then.
What I do know is that around midnight I began having severe stomach cramps and sometimes stabbing pains just under my ribs. Thankfully, after a mere three hours of this, my boss let my roomy, Dane
drive me home. We stopped at a Cub Foods and picked up some Fleet Phospho-soda, something I had been given to understand as a system-cleaner.

Oh joy.

We arrived back home in the wee hours of pre-dawn and got to work. Mix the HORRIBLE contents of the Fleet Juice with some Sprite, drink, sit back and wait.
This was about the time that Dane informed me that if I did not, in fact, explode out my ass, I would have to go to the Emergency Room because it meant that my intestines were torn and I was hemorrhaging waste into my bloodstream at an alarming rate. Well, when you're leaking literal shit into your bloodstream, any rate is alarming, but I digress. The Phosphowhatsis would take about a half hour to kick in. I sat for an hour, feeling nothing.

At this point, I had a massive panic attack, fearing for my life, oh why God, why, and stumbled into the bathroom, trying desperately to hold on to something.
Thankfully, I power-bombed the toilet with everything I had eaten in the last twenty four hours in a show of vomiting not seen since The Exorcist. After passing out for several hours, I crawled to the bathroom where the system cleanser finally did its job. What Dane had neglected to tell me is that, based on personal chemistry and actual ability to move through the system (the crud in my stomach now being expelled and out of the way, that is), it could take up to six hours for the Magical Phosphosoda to go to work.


If that was just a bit too gross and disturbing for some of you out in TV Land, well, don't worry, here's a picture of my login screen to cheer you up!

Coming next time: A Discussion on the Merits of Chemical-energy Consumption at the Twin Cities Eatery Known as "Teja's"

Monday, July 18, 2005

A Lost Hope

So here it is, the non-awaited return, by me, to the blogging world.
I thought I'd start out with a little depressing rant I wrote out a few days ago.
What say you? Nevermind, it doesn't matter, because the rant is already here.

I wonder how many times I've waxed philosophic (and a bit whiny) on the subject of women.
It's undeniable that they exude attraction unless they are so horribly disformed by any manner of
physical blemishes or in possession of a serious personality fault. On an average day, I am wont to "check out"
anywhere from zero to one hundred women, and that is not counting pornography. Perhaps it is the shape of their
buttocks, perhaps it is their round bosom, perhaps it is their unbelievably beautiful or cute face. Whatever it is,
I cannot help wanting, on a basic level, to see them naked. Herein lies the problem; this wonderful phenomenon will
most likely never happen to me. Even if I, one day, become physically attractive enough to warrant the occasional
attempt at picking up a girl, my upbringing would never allow for such a scandalous act. It is the classic case of
wanting what I cannot have. No girl who I would find attractive and in her right mind would ever want to be naked
in front of me, and I would never allow her to be naked in front of me in the first place. Yet the desire springs
up, unbidden, on an alarmingly frequent basis.

I have reminded myself time and again that these are peoples' daughters, sisters, and possible mothers. I cannot
imagine how angry I would be if someone were slavering at my sisters or mother, yet day in and day out, I mentally
leer at young women, trying to imagine what they look like with their clothes off. Perhaps George Carlin was right;
Catholics must be fucked up to deny themselves such immediate and random pleasures as lust and masturbation.
There is an entire other level of frustration that presents itself to me on a far less frequent basis. Every
not-so-often, I will engage a girl in conversation and find her mental state to my liking, or she will talk to me
out of nowhere, or whatever. The feelings of attraction follow the usual physical guidelines, and if everthing pans
out, the decision is made that the girl may be worth pursuing. Hey, she DID talk to me in a friendly fashion. Maybe
she saw past the flab after a mere five-minute conversation about Star Wars. Of course, there is the doubt to
contend with. She was probably just friendly, or bored or something inane like that. Yet sometimes I take that
absolutely absurd chance and ask her to "do something". We have food, or go to a movie; gentle, insipid, American
traditions in which one feels out the "opposition" as it were. In this instance, I always encounter the supposed
language barrier. Literally, what we say can have no bearing on our feelings unless I make that rare mistake of
just getting it over with and baring everything I have to her, which always gets me nowhere. The "language barrier"
is the result of the common phrase/belief, "Men are from Mars, etc." When a man talks to a woman and vice versa,
there are supposed "signals" being sent out, and I can admit that I have, on occasion, asked a veiled question to
in order to gauge her response. However, the "Men are from..." belief makes it clear that women have their own set
of signals and tests which we are unaware of. Doubt arises from this. Women are obviously so much craftier that
not only are their signals indecipherable to the common man, but in all likelihood they see through our
poorly-woven bullshit immediately and lob it right back at us in another signal/test, the result being that as a
man, I never have any idea how she feels about me. The safest (and most likely) choice is that she wants to be
friends. To be utterly frank, I can't imagine I have the unmitigated gall, in this day and physical
perfection-driven age, to think that any girl I would ever consider "hot" would feel more than a fleeting flicker
for me. But I digress.

I have no idea how she feels and cannot decipher her feelings from her or my "signals". There are three avenues
which arise from the situation. First, we merely continue to hang out and nother ever happens. Second, I get sick
of waiting in Scenario One and bare my feelings to her in a way that cannot be confused and get shot the hell down.
Third, the girl decides to take action and confide her feelings for me in me. Scenario Three is incredibly unlikely,
and I very much doubt it will ever happen, for to my knowledge no woman has ever been this direct for anything other
than saying there is something wrong with someone.

In any event, at any time I get remotely close to a woman, that is, when I cross that line they all see no matter
how I try to sneak, they pull out their emotional baggage. There is always always ALWAYS something dreadfully wrong
with the woman I am trying to "get with". Perhaps she has parental issues and can't go out with anybody. Perhaps
she has relationship issues and can't go out with anybody. Perhaps she had an eating disorder, an identity crisis,
went out with an alcoholic, almost became an alcoholic herself, and dropped out of school for a time, and is right
now evaluating how unimportant going out with someone is, i.e., she can't go out with anybody. It doesn't matter.
I suppose, for all those optimists and nay-sayers out there, that I may have just had bad luck so far. Maybe I'm
looking in the wrong places. Maybe I shouldn't look. Whatever.

If I didn't look, nothing would happen. No girl is going to come out to me out of nowhere and start talking again.
That happened once and I'm almost sure it meant nothing. And as for looking in the wrong places, high school and
friends of friends sounds pretty normal to me.

So what am I, as a heterosexual male, encumbered with these strange and unwanted feelings of loneliness, to do?
It is almost impossible to believe that any woman will ever be attracted to me, and nothing comes of asking a girl
to do anything with me.

It may not be the only conclusion, but I favor the "Do Nothing" card. If women don't want me, fine. I'll butt out.
The only irritating trait in women that I really have a problem with is the "Nice Guy" line. Everybody knows this
one. "I just want to meet a nice guy; I'm sick of the tough guys and bad boys and blah blah blah." Bullshit.
Women love tough guys and bad boys and blah blah blah. Nice guys are too boring for women. If they really want a
nice guy, I know three, including myself, who would never raise a hand to a woman in anything other than a wave.
None of us want to have sex before marriage. We all love women but are too frightened by rejection and scathing
remarks recieved when we are mistakenly identified as regular schmucks "out to get laid".
I don't think I want much. Despite my baser instincts, I really don't want sex. I just want to have normal
conversations; I don't want to always focus on your mental/emotional problems. Or I want to go to a park and have
fun, or go to a movie, or play golf, soccer, or whatever. And after that, I just want a girl who will return
my feelings, hold me, and kiss me. Right now, I would make dinner, buy any movie, rent a limousine, take dancing
lessons or any of a hundred other "date" ideas if a girl I liked to be with would just kiss me once and hold me

What's so wrong with that? I can't imagine anybody turning down a day like that. I know I'd be floored.
But it'll never happen, because women want the bad boys, or muscles, or big dicks. They say they want attention,
poetry, humor and the like... but all they really want is sex.

And I just can't offer that.

With that, what say we get a little picture-posting going?

A tad suggestive, maybe? Eh? Yes?

Ah well. Check some shots of our new, pallatial estate!

Just the living room. 'Tis huge, 'tis. Gyarrr.

Anyway, that's all for now, I'll be harassing the internet a bit more later.
Dane might show up, too. Ya never know.

BOBI out.