Oh my God. Sam's Club has
Combos.
Salty, cheesy, hard as a rock... perfection, thy name is Combo.
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Don't mind me, I'm just hilarious:WAITER: "There's an extra chair in the back."
ME: (laughing) "The sex is
where?"
WAITER: "No, there's a
CHAIR. An
extra chair."
ME: "Ah."
R: "Nice."
ME: "Well..."
Don't mind me, I'm just a genius:OTHER E: "So, when we're in Washington are we gonna get to see that mountain?"
ME: "... Mountain? Do you mean Mount Vernon?"
OTHER E: "Is that the one with all the faces on it?"
ME: (insert wide-eyed condescension and patronizing tone) "Honey, that's Mount Rushmore. And it's in
Wy-om-ing."
R: "It's in South Dakota, Estella."
ME: "..."
ME: "Really?"
Drinking outside in Arizona during the day is the equivalent of crawling into your oven and eating a bag of sand. I think that does it for "Bar Wednesdays" for a while. Not to mention that I had to pay entirely in quarters. Awesome. Oh, and all the panties were gone from the bathroom. As well as most of the hooks, so... I don't know. Either someone is stealing hooks and panties or the establishment is reassessing. I'll keep you posted. S wasn't interested either way, disappointingly. She's not really the "leave intimate apparel behind" type. Shame.
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The Best Part About Rain In Arizona:1) Washing the cars in the garage. Because obviously you can't wash the cars on the 357 days it
doesn't rain. I mean, come on.
2) Watching the evening news team completely freak out; all actual news is put on hold for a day so that newscasters can stand in puddles throughout the metropolis interviewing fallen trees and announcing, "Yes... yes, it's raining here too, Bob, as you can tell by the water falling out of the sky... how about where you are, Cathy?" The Head Meteorologist, heady from the attention, will spend the next week re-resigning himself to the fact that his life is meaningless.
3) Listening to Other E running at a high-pitched squeal from her car to the house sans shoes, then hearing that squeal abruptly stop contingent to her rather forceful, slippery contact with the garage door.
4) Patting yourself on the back for all of those things that you
almost did today that would have ended in rainy catastrophe: "Whew! I'm sure glad I didn't irrigate the lawn today! Good timing!" And then stretching those things that make sense into things that don't make sense at all but that make you feel better: "Man! What if I'd done the
laundry today? Damn. And I almost went to the grocery store!
That was a close one!"
5) Laughing at your neighbor who left his convertible with the top down in his driveway. I mean, you know,
fixing it, but laughing your ass off watching it fill up first.
6) Sitting on the back porch with a big bowl of pistachios and a pitcher of sun tea, enjoying the breeze and the clouds and the cool reprieve, talking about flowers and pointing out birds, and not telling anybody that you already licked all of the pistachios.
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After blasting spiderwebs and spider eggs and spider babies and spider mommas and all the rolled-up moths that spiders get excited about
off of the house yesterday with the gas powered pressure washer, I came to the calm realization that one day giant spiders are going to come to me and demand my children. That I will be doing laundry one day and there will be a foreboding knock at the door. My children will run to answer it (I will scream for them to ask who it is before they open the door but they won't because my future children don't listen for shit) and there he'll be; a giant spider with a contract in one hand and a suitcase in the other and a pen in the other and a set of giant car keys in the other and a beret in the other and a diet Pepsi in the other and a lightweight sport coat in the other and waving. And I will have to sign that contract and give my children to the giant spider because that's what happens when you fuck with karma and my children will scream, "BUT WHY???" and I will answer, "Next time SEE WHO IT
IS FIRST!"
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This is the coolest, most involved interaction animation I've ever seen. Just keep clicking around. You'll catch on. It takes a while too, so do it at work.
Thanks to
Styrofoam Kitty for the link.
My friend M is in town (the infamous, archived queen of the pregnant belly and purple velvet tube top) with her perfect and perfectly round baby boy, and we're spending all week driving around eating foods that she relentlessly craves but no longer has access to. It's the best, most fulfilling thing I've ever done. I
live here and
I've added stuff to the list. The baby wrote down "wings at Hooters" while we weren't looking... he swears he likes the sauce, but I don't trust him as far as I can throw him.
Which, now that I think about it, is really really far.
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Google Fiction: Searches Incorporated Into Brief and Awesome Tales.Bob and Carol slunk around the building, their black facepaint smearing with sweat. The fear was palpable.
Bob hugged the sturdy concrete wall and struggled to make out the face of his wife.
"Carol?" he whispered. "Are you okay?"
Carol was silent for a while, their labored breathing the only sound between them.
"I... I just..., " she started, her voice shaking. "I just didn't know it was going to be like this."
Bob reached for his wife's gloved hand. "Honey. We can still turn back. It's not too late." He meant it, he would turn back, but privately Bob prayed that Carol would stay strong. They'd come so far already... they'd risked so much. To give up now when they were this close was almost unthinkable.
Carol was quiet. She tried to collect herself. "No," she whispered, the conviction strong in her voice. "We keep going."
Bob clasped her hand tighter. "That's my baby. That's my fighter. It'll all be worth it when we're safely inside the
Costco secret sale."
"I'm goin' up to the A n' P... ya'll need anything?" Bertha's voice resonated through the singlewide like an airhorn.
"Ummmm! Yeah! Hold on!" Bertha waited, watching the hollow bedroom door pulsate with the nefarious activity behind it. Finally Reggie stepped out, pulling the door quickly closed behind him. Bertha heard the young woman still in the room giggle.
"Yeah," Reggie said, zipping up his fly. "Pick me up a pack of Winstons, a pack of Capri 120 menthols, a bag of water balloons, some silly putty, four cucumbers, a roll of Seran Wrap and some silly string."
Bertha was appalled. "What in the world do you need with all that stuff?"
Reggie opened two bottles of Original Coors with his teeth. "We're gonna finally find out... just
how deep is a vagina?"
Maria surveyed the mess around her, disbelieving. The bedroom was a shambles. The floor was littered with half-empty cans of condensed milk, the sticky sweet liquid oozing into the carpet. Whipped cream cans lay crusting among the sheets, while pudding remnants of all flavors began quietly solidifying in unseen places. The man lay naked next to the dresser, his face unrecognizable behind the smeary mask of food stuffs. Maria slowly got to her feet and stretched, kicking the Hershy's syrup bottle out of the sleeping man's clenched fist. Her head hurt, and there was something nasty in her hair that had obviously been out of the refrigerator too long. Ugh. She needed to get her rotting hair, her fudgy thighs and her
cream cheese licked boobs into the shower. It was the mornings like this one that made Maria want to quit the business.
"Wow!" yelled Sara. "That's the coolest car EVER!"
Greg smiled forgivingly. "It's not a
car, Sweetie; this is a HUMMER. Big difference." He patted the hood of the machine lovingly.
"Oh! Sorry," said Sara, sheepishly. "It's the coolest thing I've ever seen! It's so big!" Her eyes roamed across the slick yellow surface of the behemoth auto. "I mean, it's really the biggest thing I've ever seen! This is the HUMMER 2, right?"
"No, no, no, no!" corrected Greg, adjusting his tank top. "This is the original HUMMER, the big one! This is a HUMMER 1."
Sara's eyes widened. "Ohhhh! Well, what can it do? Can this
HUMMER 1 float on water?"
Greg smiled. "Fuck yeah, it can! This thing can float on water, it can fly up to five hundred miles laterally, it can launch itself into the orbiting atmosphere of Mars, AND it can bury itself two hundred feet under the surface of the earth."
"Oh my God!" Sara gasped. "That's incredible! You must have the smallest cock of any man on the PLANET!"
Greg smiled. "Fuck yeah, I do!"
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No posts today! I'm over at
B's Blogathon Site.
All day.
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Well, I finished Shelters of Stone. As expected, the sex scenes were both ample and aerobic. I'm pretty glad Auel left off at another cliffhanger, seeing as how I'm sure I'll have to wait a DECADE for the next book to be published. Nine hundred pages is a heavy fucking book, by the way. I took it with me to the gym thinking I could read it on the stair-stepper; next time I'll make it easier on myself and just read an anvil. At least anvils don't have obnoxious pages to turn. Anvils keep it real.
I have to get out of my pajamas now. And then I'm going to go kill a auroch with my spear thrower. Or else knap some flint. I haven't really decided.
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Things I'm Not Going To Do Again Tomorrow Probably:1) Be the very first person at the bar. So very first, in fact, that the... "rag-in-back-pocket" guy had to unlock the door for me. He looked at me quizzically, like "um, it's eleven?" I don't know why I thought that explaining that I was meeting someone would help clear me. All
that did was make me a tandem freakish bar girl.
2) Contemplate (after three beers) taking my underwear off and hanging them on the wall because the new sign in the bathroom said I should. They even provided the pegs. I thought that my having picked out the Victoria's Secret black satin thong with SEXY spelled in rhinestones on the front might have been fate saying to strip those puppies off. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Mainly because the only other panties on the wall were sporting the logo of the bar across them, and I got the feeling that some waitress somewhere was eagerly anticipating someone jumping into this fun new game. No one needs to know that I took my underwear off and hung them on the wall. At eleven in the morning. (panty-hanging really seems more like an
evening sport, doesn't it? Because then after the bar you no doubt have to go the grocery store or pick the kids up or whatever, and the whole time you're thinking that you put panties on for a
reason, and that reason was primarily so you wouldn't feel like a
HOOKER WITH NO PANTIES ON.)
(Side action: What's with the bar having it's own
panties printed up??? Is there a big
market for bar logo panties?)
(I-just-figured-it-out-maybe action: MAYBE you're supposed to take
your panties off, and put
those panties
on!!! Maybe it's
TRADING! Or... maybe it's not. Ew. How would you know? I need to make a phone call.)
3) Watch Signs, Blow, and Boys on the Side all at one time in five minute increments. That's fucked up. I'm not doing that shit again.
4) Clean my teeth with the nail file on the nail clippers. Seems like it would work. I'm pretty glad I just did that one.
5) Try to explain to someone else why it's so crucial that I read
all of Shelters of Stone RIGHT NOW. I made the mistake of recounting the whole "Eighth Grade Mythology" story to R when he asked what was up with the 900-page tome, and then when C asked me
today, I got all ready to launch right back in (complete with basketballs and Ra), but R leaned over and goes, "DON'T ASK." Ass. Then he laughs and smiles all conspiratorially at me, like "ha ha! Aren't we an entertaining team? Look at C laugh!" No, we're not cool. Ass. See if I tell
you any more semi-pathetic and verbosely self-absorbed stories from my youth. Ass.
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I'm going to start my own Classmates.com. But I'm going to call it "Dude,guesswho
Isaw.com", and instead of learning what kind of
car someone drives or their "political affiliation", you'll be able to find out the shit you
really care about when talking about people you barely know and sort of hate. I'll compile a database full of people across the nation that have been seen by fellow students; like, "that Stephanie girl who sat behind you in chemistry? Yeah, I totally saw her at Walmart last week. She was fully cracked-out and had like four screaming kids with her and they all smelled like cheap-ass daycare. She was putting a crib liner on lay-away." Or, "yeah, Jack? Dude, that 'indecent exposure involving a minor' shit
stuck! After the second DUI he was just really out of wriggle room with the DA. He's living in a van selling pleather car seats on the freeway on-ramp."
I'll be honest: all I really want to know about people I vaguely knew ten years ago is who got pregnant, who got arrested, who got fat and who got gay. If you can't tell me that you saw the Homecoming Queen stripping at "Les Girls" with a cesarean scar, I'm just not going to be that interested.
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Bad Boys II is the best movie I've ever seen in my life.
If you're thinking that this is just some arbitrary statement and that I throw out "best" judgments like trophies in teeball, then you best check out the list of qualifiers below. I think you'll agree that Bad Boys II is, scientifically and indisputably, the best film ever made.
A Little Something For The Fellas
Number of automobiles that are destroyed: 78
Number of those automobiles that have a retail value of more than $75,000: 34
Number of $150,000 watercraft that are demolished during an automobile chase: 1
Number of times slithery, quasi-naked women intimate that sexy women love threesomes: 19
Number of times they do this while holding a firearm: 1
Number of times they do this while counting, ingesting or buying narcotics: 7
Number of people cut up into parts and then crammed in a tortilla flour barrel: 1
Number of third-world cities that lose a third of their housing during a twenty-two second Hummer ride: 1
Coolness factor of the oath "We ride together, we die together" on a scale of one to ten: 12
Coolness factor of the phrase "Shit just got real" on a scale of one to ten: 36
Believeablity of Martin Lawrence's wife as a beer-toting mother of three with six-pack abs and killer bombs on a scale of one to ten: N/A
Number of times Sid's boobs look like they might fall out the bottom of that bikini top: 14
Number of times the word "titties" is spoken: 11
Number of dead titties involved: 2
Number of times Martin Lawrence helps ease the embarrassing pain of real-life impotence: 4
Number of bullets that are showcased "CSI"-style careening
through inanimate objects before careening
through an animate object: 5
Average number of shots it takes an evil trained assassin with a scope to hit a cop: 2,041
Average number of shots it takes a chick in a Prada suit driving an SUV to hit a trained assassin behind her: 1
A Little Something For The Ladies:
Number of slow motion shots of Will Smith settling a $9,000 sport coat onto his shoulders: 6
Number of times Will Smith says "Naaaawwww": 37
Sexiness factor of Will Smith's earrings, multiplied by the dogtags, multiplied by the white tank top: INCALCULABLE.
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I got up reluctantly this morning, already dreading the inevitable stand-off between myself and the Costco box of Snickers in the freezer. Brushing my teeth, I stared myself down in the mirror.
"You are in control of your own breakfast foods," I told myself. "Eat the cottage cheese. You
love cottage cheese! If you don't eat the cottage cheese it will go bad. Don't be a cottage cheese waster."
"This isn't working," Mirror E replied. "There aren't any peanuts in cottage cheese. And there certainly isn't any nougat."
"Look," I snapped. "You're not doing it. Stop giving in to this hedonism! What, are you going to have a frozen Snickers every morning for the rest of your
life?? Show some control, Woman! Stand up to that candy bar! Snickers is a tool of the Satan!"
Mirror E had to agree. Snickers was, in fact, a tool of the Satan. This was made unerringly clear five minutes later when the freezer opened to reveal the Snickers wearing nothing but a black bikini, cowboy boots, and a really tiny feather boa.
The cottage cheese was wearing a two-day rayon number from Rampage that had a bacon stain on the hem. And plastic Payless sandals.
Tool of the Satan.
Not a tool of the Satan.
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Some notes that aren't cohesive enough to deserve a more specific list heading:
1) Instead of lying around trying furiously to get Link through that goddamned Swamp Palace and feeling all melancholy because nothing's going on, maybe I should leave the house. Because today, when I jumped up and threw my clothes on while sliding Gameboy under the bed because I thought I heard someone open the front door (at 1:45) and finally
did leave the house, I stabbed myself in the eye with my car key. First thing. And hey-- that's something.
2) When the guy on the Isabella Allende aisle of the library struck up a conversation about authors, and I recommended T.C. Boyle's "After the Plague" as a good post-modernist start, should it have been
endearing or
scary that he then sang the first quarter of the alphabet song while searching for it?
2.5) And... if you voted "endearing"... who doesn't know that "B" comes after "A"??? I mean, if you need the
song, you're generally in a desperate "w" or "p" situation, you know?
2.75) If you voted "scary", I don't blame you. Especially when I tell you that he waited outside for me (it's 109 today) to hand me a piece of paper asking me to email him after I finish the book that
he recommended. But you'd have to change your vote like I did if you had seen his little fist-pumping "right on!" dance when I told him I would. He actually
said "right on". It was the highlight of my day. (Meaning... it was better than Gameboy.
And sticking a car key in my eye.)
3) Even though the DMV appears to be an unholy and thoroughly disorganized disaster area, they totally know if your speeding ticket gets paid a couple of days late. And they waste
no time suspending your license,
and telling your insurance company
allll about it. I'm renaming the DMV the "STT"-- for "Stealthy Tattle-Tale". Fuckers. It took them seven seconds to suspend me, but I'm betting money that it takes six weeks to reinstate me. That's after they "never receive" the thirty copies of bullshit dismissals I am no doubt required to send.
4) B Squared, I still can't do the little "2" deal, and I've been really, really trying. I may need a "2 deal tutor".
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I moved to Arizona when I was fourteen- smack in the middle of my eighth grade year. My new honors English class had
just embarked on this "research project" paper that was, for an eighth-grader from Bullshit School System, FL, fairly ambitious. It was the first paper I'd ever been assigned that had to be typed, had to be ten pages, and had to include sources. I was mortified and overwhelmed. And also pretty pissed, since I could have avoided the stupid project completely if my stupid dad had been transferred from his stupid company in stupid March instead of stupid February. Stupid.
I decided that I would do a comparison/contrast paper (oh, how I long for the always steady "comparison/contrast" papers of yesteryear! Explicator! I hear your two-paragraph synopses calling!) on Egyptian versus Greek and Roman mythology. Every day after school my mom would pick me up from school (generally from the office of either the nurse or the principal as there were a group of girls who thought that the pointy new girl needed to have basketballs thrown at her skull EVERY AFTERNOON) and drive me to the public library so that I could do research. She would drop me off, run whatever "secret crack run" errands moms see to, and then gather me up a couple of hours later. What
I would generally do is about nine or ten solid minutes of mythology scouring, and then I would read two hours worth of Jean Auel's
Clan of the Cave Bear novels. I was transfixed! Would Ayla survive alone outside of her clan? Would little Durc be alright without his mother?? I had to know. And then, as the eighth-grade deadline loomed closer; would Ayla and Jondolar make it back to his people, beyond the Great Mother River??? Argh! I finished the third book in the trilogy (positively white-knuckled at the thought of having to wait a whole
year until the latest sequel was published), sighed, and started writing the mythology paper... that was due in twelve hours. My poor mom had to sit up all night at the typewriter and transcribe my longhand accounts of Zeus and Ra thanks to my inability to focus or prioritize. When the paper was through, I remember having to fill out this weird checklist for the teacher: what were the strong points of my paper? What were the weak ones? What grade would I give this paper? Sitting in class with a paper that I had spent
maybe a cumulative five hours on, I was awash in personal anguish and disavowal. "Why hadn't I worked harder??"... "MY PAPER
SUCKS!"... that kind of thing. I checked that I thought my paper deserved a B-minus or a C. I was devastated. Stupid Cave Bear! Stupid Ayla.
I got that paper back. The teacher gave me an A+ and recommended that I skip freshman English.
I was in the library today ambitiously looking up source material for my "narrative reliability in the female protagonists of Anne Tyler" thesis. And did you know? It took Jane Auel TWELVE YEARS to publish that sequel! Shelters of Stone. I'm on chapter four.
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Hey! Let's do a list of things that make me really uncomfortable!
1) The increasing level of specificity and privacy infringement that those damn quizzila quizzes are reaching. I was just reading a blog in which some 10 year-old lower-case anime fanatic had discovered that she was, in fact, the Maya Angelou of poets. I'm sure Ms. Angelou would be honored that her life's work has opened this MOMENTOUS avenue for her. I'd like to see some genre-shifting in these quizzes, frankly. I want to take the "what kind of anime boobs are you?" quiz and get, like, Sylvia Plath's boobs. Let's mix this shit up a little bit.
2) The Giant Mystery Chicken. He makes me very uncomfortable almost all of the time. He's actually a rooster, but Giant Mystery Rooster lacks a certain... je ne sais "chicken". I was okay with the Original Chicken Crew (Harry and Winston, as I affectionately dub any creatures that wander around in pairs including scorpions, ants and other indiscriminate insects) because they were pretty mellow. Except for that time that Harry (Winston, whoever) stepped on the Terminex bug-catcher sticky pad and had to "fwap! fwap! fwap!" around the yard for a few days until the sprinklers jumped in, they were generally pretty cool. Now they've got this dude around. This James Dean of a chicken. And he's not down with chillin' in the garage, or out by the irrigation ditch, oh no. He wants to chill IN the flower pots. He wants to chill in ALL of them, and turn some of them OVER. I can see Harry and Winston out there, hesitant, heads together... feeling pretty bad because they remember how I tried to get that sticky pad off with the broom handle, and even though it scared them shitless they knew that I was trying to help out. So they don't stand in the pots like The GMC, but they still break their unspoken bond to me five or six times a day in order to shellac the patio in chicken shit. Let's just say that I'm uncomfortable about the Giant Mystery Chicken on all sorts of levels, not the least of which are bossing around the other chickens and not being a good mentor.
3) I'm uncomfortable after eating chile con queso and Snickers for dinner last night. As a unit. Chile con Snickers.
4) It was 119 degrees yesterday. I'm uncomfortable standing near a window.
5) I'm uncomfortable with the Immaculate Yard People across the street for two reasons: 1) no one should be able to do that much manicuring to a lawn. Not a day goes by that Mrs. Immaculate Yard isn't outside bundling unsightly yard trash into Hefty bags. It makes me feel inadequate, frankly, and like someone over here should get the broken wheelbarrow and rusted out weed-whacker out of the circular drive soon. I don't need that kind of pressure. And, 2); ever since C brought up the fact that the Immaculate Yard People USED TO HAVE a teenaged son to do all of the Bundling, but that this son mysteriously vanished around the same time that the burned-out car with the sheet on it appeared in their garage, I've been uncomfortable. For the sad and obvious reason, yes, but also because I don't think those people ever had kids. And I'm pretty sure that the burned-out car is a riding lawnmower. It makes me uncomfortable that C is crazy.
6) I'm uncomfortable with the knowledge that I have to go to some cavern this weekend and crawl around because R can't believe that I've never been in "a big ass cave."
7) Did I tell you that I never called Professor Vagina after the paper fiasco? Yeah. No. What do you suppose the odds are that she'll sign on to chair my thesis committee, say, two days into the semester? It's cool though; it's not like I kick myself in the ass about it CONSTANTLY.
8) Jo Jo, the window treatment specialist at Home Depot, has about three times more mouth liquid than she needs. This makes me uncomfortable.
9) The APA writing style makes me uncomfortable in it's inherent wrongness and lack of wit or zeal.
10) Men who get noticeably introspective and announce, "This is
my song," whenever they hear "Depserado" make me uncomfortable in an eye-rolling "weak and lame" kind of way.
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"The suspense is killing me!"Will E decide that a Drumstick ice cream cone is totally fine as long as it's eaten in the car on the way to the gym???
Will E take a shower today, or will The Legend of Zelda for gameboy once again confiscate E's hygiene time???
Will R stick to his Atkins diet now that E is supporting it rather than scoffing at it? or will R eat nothing but fatty pork products at home and then eat Mexican food for lunch everyday like he usually does when "on" the Atkins diet???
Will E be able to get in and get her teeth cleaned before this calcium deposit turns into a full-scale chalkboard???
Will the Giant Mystery Chicken freak out and kill E if E sprays him with the hose to get him out of the flowers???
Will E ever find out where the sexy chick terminator got that gold necklace that E's obsessed with now???
Will it get any FUCKING HOTTER???
Mmmm. Frozen Snickers.
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I think it's time that I address my googling audience... that is, those who are looking for something else entirely and are thus utterly disappointed when they see the Microsoft paint girl with the fantab grille missing an arm.
For all of you people made out of bullets or rusted-out car parts who flock here under the misguided hope that I can teach you
how to float in water, I'm sorry to say that I cannot. Having recently humiliated myself by enrolling in a year-long swim class in which the instructor actually leaned down and whispered, "From now on, when I say, 'everbody do a hundred of the butterfly,'
you need to hear '
breaststroke,'" I can only offer you pool-side empathy. I
do know personally that flailing doesn't help. So maybe, you know, stop flailing.
For the person who was curious about
birthmark removal San Diego... can't help you. I once got a tattoo by a guy named Crash on Mission Beach... he seemed like a cool guy. But I have to warn you; he insisted on talking about the biker chick who had a peacock tattooed over her coochie and the miraculous pleasure and subsequent problems thereof
the entire time. So if you don't want to hear about peacocks, coochies or subsequent pleasure problems, maybe skip that. (In the event that you decide that Crash is the man for you, I would highly dissuade you from asking any questions concerning "fluid". Just... don't.)
For the guy who searched for
chilled water bottle guinea pig and
dislocated hip guinea pig ON DIFFERENT DAYS... you are either the most compassionate small pet owner ever or you're a scary weirdo freak. Here's what I know about guinea pigs: they're bad at chilling water. They try, they do, but every time I've ever asked a guinea pig to chill a water bottle for me I ended up with a frozen plastic ice log. I don't know what that's about. I think it has something to do with guinea pigs not having any sense of time... or maybe it's that once they start watching M.A.S.H. reruns they're as good as worthless. I don't know. But I would just give up now and start chilling my own water bottles if I were you, because otherwise you're just going to spend a lot of time bickering and then you won't be able to get your guinea pig to make you a grilled cheese sandwich (which, as I'm sure you know, he's a goddamned genius at.) And as for the dislocated hip thing... I'd just flush him down the toilet, personally.
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I'm leaving town, guys. I know that's not much of a shock. I've been writing about it like once an hour. But, you know, it's here. I'll be gone until the 11th. And for you, I'm sure, no big deal. For
me?... I've been trying to figure out a way to get an internet connection in the middle of fucking
nowhere. And it's true what they say about plugging computers into a sand-hill... no go. The hair dryer will run on sand, but not the laptop. Whatever.
So I'll be gone for a while. B (squared), I wish I could Blogathon with you. I was going to blog for the Obnoxious Birthmark Removal Centers of Greater Santa Monica. They'll be disappointed, I know. I would hand down apologies to everyone, but there are some of you who hit this place up regularly who haven't introduced yourselves yet. And I know you're out there. I think that you should sign my new guestbook... I signed in as *earl* to get the ball rolling... a week and a half ago. Sign the guestbook, and then when I get back I can abuse you like all of these other people that I'm already really missing.
(Angelo State University! I love you! Sign the guestbook! Put a name to the college.)
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