Once An Hour, Every Hour, The Richest Person On Earth Dies. This Continues Indefinitely

Once an hour, every hour, the richest person on earth dies. This continues indefinitely…

Friends, it's that time of the year again: I am engaged in a feud with my garbage-services professional. He has refused to replace my little wheelie-bin, which is in a terrible shape. Sure, that's mostly because of me using it as a mobile workbench. I'm not very good at hitting nails the first time. Also, I'm occasionally dropping an entire 8-3/4" Mopar rear end in there, but it's within the weight limit so it shouldn't be falling apart like this anyway.

I've been on and off the city help line for the last few weeks, trying to convince them to swap out my busted-ass wheelie-bin for a nice new one. It's hard work: you have to phone someone. How it should work after that is a city inspector has to come and agree that the bin is fucked, and then some amount of time happens, and some greasy contractor pulls up in a van and drops off a new wheelie-bin. Where things have broken down is that last part.

You see, I live in a very geographically complex part of the city. When they founded the town, the concept of "the grid" had not yet been invented. And they didn't stop there. Because of the actions of the city forefathers (and the city foremother,) our address system was both cutesy and designed by someone on cocaine.

This year, they turned up and replaced my neighbour's bin. And then my other neighbour's bin. And then the guy across the street's bin. You can only put up with so much of this before it becomes personal. So I did what any enterprising low-tax-enjoyer would do, and helped myself to a bin. No, I didn't take my neighbour's bins. They get up too early for that kind of thing, and they seem like the kind of busybodies who would remember whose bins are whose.

No, I went about things the old fashioned way: using a cordless angle grinder to let myself into the city parking lot, and wheeling out a bin. Don't worry, I took a couple spares, too. I don't want to do this shit again next year, and I bet I could turn two of these into a pretty cool go-kart.

The Machine Mind said, "Repeat that." Private Able pointed at the maps of the war's two fronts, which the Machine Mind provided tactics to, and said, "These maps. They're the same troop layouts." "I fail to understand." "I think you're… running both sides of the war. Against yourself."

The Dwarven economy is based on mining and metalworking. The human economy is based on agriculture. Human economists have always wondered about the Elven economy, until they realized something: Their economy is simply slower, due to their much longer lifespans. Time to ask some elven merchants.

How the media depicts the Apollo 11 mission:

Actual quotes from the Apollo 11 mission: