My mom was in town for the holiday weekend, so we took my niece and nephew up to Pasadena for some fauna, flora and blog fodder:
With its high humidity and jet-propulsion mist, the Tropical Rainforest Room is supposed to make you feel like you’re in a rainy, year-round summer. In actuality, you feel like romaine lettuce in the produce department getting spritzed every 30 seconds.
The problem with the “catch a whiff of a stinkbug” exhibit in the Rainforest Room is that it’s overpowered by the B.O. of the visitors to the Rainforest Room.
Termites inside your home are a bunch of MFers who cost you thousands of bucks and make you pack your shit into weird cellophane bags before rendering you homeless for three days. Termites not inside your home: science exhibit.
I’m going to return to this place late at night, throw this thing into the trunk of my car and commission an artist to turn it into a toilet.
After their mom flapped its wings and threw a shitfit at these baby ducklings because they weren’t hanging over by their brothers and sisters, I slipped them the number of my therapist.
If there’s one group who will abide by a tersely-illustrated sign, it’s teenagers.
With its high humidity and jet-propulsion mist, the Tropical Rainforest Room is supposed to make you feel like you’re in a rainy, year-round summer. In actuality, you feel like romaine lettuce in the produce department getting spritzed every 30 seconds.
The problem with the “catch a whiff of a stinkbug” exhibit in the Rainforest Room is that it’s overpowered by the B.O. of the visitors to the Rainforest Room.
Termites inside your home are a bunch of MFers who cost you thousands of bucks and make you pack your shit into weird cellophane bags before rendering you homeless for three days. Termites not inside your home: science exhibit.
I’m going to return to this place late at night, throw this thing into the trunk of my car and commission an artist to turn it into a toilet.
After their mom flapped its wings and threw a shitfit at these baby ducklings because they weren’t hanging over by their brothers and sisters, I slipped them the number of my therapist.
If there’s one group who will abide by a tersely-illustrated sign, it’s teenagers.
