July 2015 Calendar

It is late (or very early, depending on your point of view) and I am tired. 

I know, I know . . . people have come to expect amazing words and pictures introducing the monthly calendar. 

Sorry; I’m all tapped out, can hardly keep my eyes open, and my brain has retired for the night.

I even struggled with what photo I should use to best represent the month of July. Nada. Niente. Niets. Nihil. Ingenting. I probably got some of those wrong, but what I am trying to say is that I have zilch; a big dead log . . . say, that give me an idea.

Many things to see in this log. Animals, tortured visages, lumbering giants, fallen creatures . . . you pick.

Here’s the calendar.

Right-Hand Click anywhere on the pictures, and Choose “Save Link As . . . “.

Note that clicking “Save Image” will download the resampled image (640×954, 72dpi) WordPress created for the post. Suitable for viewing on the screen, but not suitable for printing.

“Save link as” downloads the native size of 11×17, 300dpi, but can be printed smaller. Printing larger may have mixed results depending on how knowledgeable you are.

Of course, saving is not required . . . one can just ignore the post.  If you are adventuresome, and it does not work, let me know, and I’ll try to fix whatever WordPress screwed up.  

Disclaimers:  I do not guarantee the accuracy of the calendar. My general understanding of time is limited to it being (mostly) an arbitrary demarcation of the unidirectional flow of existence. Many instances in my life demonstrated to me the disconnect between any hard measure of intervals of time and the perception of said time intervals.

Why so tired, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. We went on a trip to check out yet another possible relocation site. Less than a day there and we accomplished something; we are not moving to Evanston, Wyoming.

It’s good to scratch something off the list, you know, like Illinois and most of the Central and Southern states.

Speaking of motorcycles, did I ever mention each day I more and more dislike people who buy loud motorcycles? Like now, as I listen to a pezzo ti merda gun the engine as they go up Monument Hill on I-25. You can easily hear him for at least two miles around, and probably more. People ask me why I am not against the death penalty . . . isn’t obvious? It’s after midnight, and that piece of inconsiderate slime not only gives no thought to others but probably purposefully bought a loud bike so that he (or she) could do that very thing.

Remember, you don’t have to use the calendar portion . . .  you can cut out the bottom part, and you have a picture to hang on your wall.

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Astute persons might have noticed these doodles, and correctly surmised they hold some significance for me, and perhaps for humanity at large.  

If you click on the doodle, and nothing happens, this is the link it’s supposed to go to: https://disperser.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/palm-vx-and-i/.  

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Note: if you are not reading this blog post at Disperser.Wordpress.com, know that it has been copied without permission, and likely is being used by someone with nefarious intention, like attracting you to a malware-infested website.  Could be they also torture small mammals.

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Please, if you are considering bestowing me recognition beyond commenting below, refrain from doing so.  I will decline nominations whereby one blogger bestows an award onto another blogger or group of bloggers.   I appreciate the intent behind it, but I prefer a comment thanking me for turning you away from a life of crime, religion, or making you a better person in some other way.  That would actually mean something to me.

Should you still nominate me, I will strongly suspect you pulled my name at random, and that you are not, in fact, a reader of my blog.  If you wish to know more, please read below.

About awards: Blogger Awards          About “likes”:   Of “Likes”, Subscriptions, and Stuff

Note: to those who may click on “like”, or rate the post; if you do not personally hear from me, know that I am sincerely appreciative, and I thank you for noticing what I do.  

. . .  my FP ward  . . . chieken shit.