Archive for March, 2010

Dumb WordPress

In the last post i made, i spent time crafting, caring for, and loving my idea. I spent 3 minutes fixing my spelling, grammar, and punctuation to give you the ULTIMATE reading experience. After i had posted it, i took a look on my blog (i always do that to make sure it got posted properly) and that’s when i saw the thing that said, “Password Protected. Enter your password to see the entry.” I thought to myself, “Wow that’s terrific! What kind of moron would even protect a post?!? Why would you spend the time typing it in, if your just going to be queer and put a password on it?!?” But there was nothing i could do about it… I spent 30 minutes trying to take it off of the “Protected” preference. I just couldn’t do it. Normally i wouldn’t care if it protected my post, because most of them are pointless anyway. But this was no regular post. This was the post of all posts. I might even say this was a bishoplicious post. That’s why i am so angry at my stupid blog domain holder. I am considering leaving WordPress, and going to Blogspot. The only thing holding me back from doing that is the fact that it would require more work than occasionally reposting the previous post that i password protected by mistake. So without further ado… I present to you…. The long, lost post:

I eat frozen pizza. Not because i’m poor, but because they taste good, and i’m to lazy to go out and get pizza from a restaurant. I bake this pizza in the oven. Partly because it’s tastes better, but mostly because my microwave is possessed by Satan. I put the pizza in the oven for about 15-17 minutes. That’s a LONG time, when you’re as impatient as me. After the timer beeps i run into the kitchen to try and turn the timer off before it beeps again. (most of the time i don’t get it). I have a 3 of 5 probability of burning myself when i take my pizza out of the oven. After i burn myself, i get a plate to put the pizza on. I get the spatula to take the pizza off, and that’s when at least 1 piece of pizza hits the floor. I’d eat it, but there’s dog hair all over the floor. I’m going to Pizza Hut.

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Protected: My Pizza, And My Problem With Hand/Eye Coordination

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