My usual jaunt down Strawberry Way (the road for pedestrians that asshole motorists continue to use against my will) a few weeks back and I noticed the eyeballs had been replaced with … well … I don’t know what the hell with:
You can’t tell from that fuzzy, craptastic camera phone shot, but when you stand right in front of the thing, it kind of looks like a jelly fish? I don’t know.
A little further up past the HYP Club (which ironically, you don’t need to be an alum of Harvard, Yale, or Princeton to become a member), you’ll find this one:
What is that? The literalist views that PittGirl takes toward art means that I have no idea what I’m looking at. The eyeballs, I got. Eyeballs. The balls in our eye sockets that let us see. Got it.
These? No idea. So forget the eyeballs being the new Kaufmann’s clock. From now on when I tell you I’ll meet you at the eyeballs, I’m talking about these ones. Got it, Hines?