Yeah, but I still can't wait for New Year's Eve.

It's Ron's birthday so you have to eat cake, right? Or it's bad luck or something. Then on New Year's Day, you have to eat black-eyed peas for luck, and some type of green stuff for fortune, and pork for... the benefit of the pork industry, I guess. I have no idea what pork is supposed to symbolize. Maybe I should go look that up.

If I can get out of it with no jinxes, I won't mind skipping over the pork part. I'm almost right off meat these days anyway after watching one too many of those reality shows on the National Geographic channel where they send the city slickers off to live in Zaire for a week. Surprise, you have to KYOB (Kill Your Own Beast) if you want meat. And let me tell you, yarrow roots don't squeal when you slice them. So I'm thinking harder and harder about Going Meatless after January 1. Then after that, nothing but herbal tea and twigs for dinner every night. Until Valentine's Day. Oh well. Baby's workin' on some back. Some people pay big bucks for butt implants.

I have been alerted again that I have not been posting regularly. And this time, not by Michael but by Scott. Well, I bet everyone else is very busy doing holiday stuff as well. If not then... then... oh hell, I can't even idly threaten anyone today, I don't have the energy. Maybe it's the NyQuil. I feel terminal.

Poor girl. We have a new girl here at work, and she is sitting on the other side of my wall, exposed out in the open sunlight, just her and a desk and a very nice laptop, and she's trying to unwrap a breakfast bar or Little Debbie danish or something that crinkles when you open it. She is trying to unwrap it silently, like how you try to unwrap a piece of cellophaned candy during the lull of a church sermon. She seems nice.




I just love referrer tracking.

But when did I write about flexy girl pee holes?



10 Dec, Wed, 15:03:04 Google: "zombie chicken"

12 Dec, Fri, 17:34:16 Google: "barbie fashion plates"

13 Dec, Sat, 12:17:07 Google: game sheep dog shepherd ufo -wolf -nwolf fuck

13 Dec, Sat, 15:59:24 Google: picture of baba ganoush

13 Dec, Sat, 23:49:52 Yahoo: testical pinching

15 Dec, Mon, 15:28:53 Google: bonzi wells blackout

15 Dec, Mon, 21:25:24 Google: COGIC cult

15 Dec, Mon, 22:21:36 Google: racoon feces and toxins

17 Dec, Wed, 06:06:05 Google: shizzlOLATOR

18 Dec, Thu, 10:14:46 Google: "PROTESTANT CONSUMER"

18 Dec, Thu, 11:27:21 Google: "Eating snowmen"

18 Dec, Thu, 11:27:55 Google: "Eating snowmen"

19 Dec, Fri, 08:55:55 Google: bonzi wells oregonian blackout

23 Dec, Tue, 15:05:48 Google: "Skunk Skin Cap" +photo

23 Dec, Tue, 15:09:56 Google: "Skunk Skin cap" +photo

23 Dec, Tue, 17:29:03 Google: flexy +girl +pee +hole

24 Dec, Wed, 20:36:46 Yahoo: recluse spider damage pics

26 Dec, Fri, 14:02:58 Google: "steak" "stretchy pants"






Damn good product.

While I enjoy the theatrics that NyQuil brings as I dream of garish, psychedelic lobsters dancing upon severed poodle heads with nasally Boston accents, this stuff seems to work fairly well if you'd like to arm yourself against a nasty cold coming your way.

Yes, it has zinc in it, but no, it does not taste like sucking on a dirty nickel. Stop the plague that's slowly spreading round the world from on clogged throat to another with SootHerbs Zinc.

Scott thinks this is stupid, but I think it's kinda funny.




Hey. Wanna go see an arseload of pictures I took? Sure you do.

Why, why, why...

Aw man, two of Memphis' historic buildings up in flames... why-o-why couldn't it have been Yoko Ono's head instead? (Just had to poke her again.)

This is very sad news to me. Can't stand it when a cool old building or a gnarly old tree gets destroyed. Man, and I had just been to the flea market the day before, too. (No, I didn't do it.) That building was so fricklin' turn-of-two-centuries cool. Jack's is about three or four blocks from where I work now. I can hear them banging down what's left of it right now. (No, I didn't do that either.) I used to work right across the street from it, and even though it smelled extremely funky, sort of like a meat-market gone bad, like the ghosts of a thousand cows and pigs left an evil smeltergeist behind, it was a great place to buy malt liquor. And that probably explains why it burned red-hot.





Spread the AUTOMUSIK joy.


Transmission received from AUTOMUSIK. Please go watch, laugh, cringe and sit with me in Purgatory, if I'm lucky:


"Hello to Bethany


Welcome to [CHRISTMAS].

ENGORGE yourself to maximum capacity.

RELEGATE yourself to unenjoyable enclosed shopping facilities.

DEPLETE your storage of disposable funds.

REGURGITATE a specific amount of holiday cheer and fanaticism.

SPOIL a good time for someone other than yourself.

EMPLOY your sight in the following direction so that you may view something new and something redundant.

www.automusik.com

ENJOY the encapsulated movies contained within.

REMAIN clean."






Product review: Orbit Bubblemint gum.

It's surprisingly better and much less irritating than the commercials.







Luckily for some of you reading, this can't be delivered in time for your Christmas gift this year.

Unfortunately, I won't be able forget this website since I can hardly stop looking at this burning image, this most bizarre keychain. Keep in mind, if you ever need anything completely weird or stupid, odds are stupid.com has it. Here's a link to their Best Selling products. Enjoy.



ps: Ooo, I want this:





"...Liiiike myyyyyy loafers, former gophers..."

"Well, Smithers, I guess I owe you a Coke."

and "Look at ME, I'm Davy Crockett!"








Wow. Can you tell I have some kind o' time on my hands today or what.


Finally, a club made just for Ron. He'd be joining this Beer o' The Month Club if only it wasn't for that crazy little thing called The Law. Or does this only apply to wine and... brandy? Oh well, nevermind, my attention span is gone. Hear that test pattern...

Maybe Chapman just had really bad aim. Man, don't get me started. Right, Michael?


Speaking of nut-proofing your world:

> Google has implemented a new feature in which you can type someone's
> telephone number into the search bar and hit enter and you will be given
> a map to their house.
>
> The safety issues are obvious, and alarming.
> Test whether your phone number is mapped,
> go to www.google.com and type your phone number in the search bar
> with dashes (i.e.555-555-1212) and click Enter. Note, if your phone
> number is not public you should be fine.
>
> If you want to block Google from divulging your private information,
> simply click on the telephone icon next to your phone number. You will
> see a link where you are allowed to remove yourself or click here
> http://www.google.com/help/pbremoval.html


That reminds me: Ron figured out how to dump a telemarketer with four words. "This is a fax." Ta da. And after all those years of paying extra for Caller ID. And before Caller ID, pretending that whomever they'd asked for was dead. Simple is good.

Of course, it's not nearly as much fun as pretending to be a disturbed Asian woman who would get beaten again by "her Big Joe Master" if the telemarketer refused to please leave his phone number so Mr. Big Joe can call back when he get home from Bible Study Poker Game where he smell like smoky lady friends all night.

Man. I hope I didn't just offend any disturbed Asian women out there. Unless it was Yoko of course.

(Full circle.)

This will only be funny to those who happen to know Admiral Tea Bagger here personally.

But to those few and proud, it will be well worth it. So enjoy.

So Saddam finally came out of his hole.

"And you know that that means," said Ron. "That means if he saw his own shadow, there'll be 6 more weeks of winter."

I love Ron.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Loch Ness.

Thank you for sending this, Mike. You don't know how bad I personally needed that this morning. I woke up seeing red and green, in a panicked kind of way. It took a mini-meltdown and a hot shower to make it All Go Away as I am behind the proverbial Christmas Ball this season. And I thought it was just me. And it might be, but this picture makes me as happy as a picture of BigFoot would. I thought it was just me, but it's not. This is proof of what happens at Christmas to normal people, I am not imagining it, I am not imagining it...

Even though I get baffled snowblind at Christmas and even though some holiday stuff freaks me out worse than a clown, some tiny part or me, and it's really tiny, admires this yuletide gayness.

Now, if you're stepdad had chosen to be a Christmas mime here instead, I would have soiled my Old Navys in terror.

Cork Chair Contest.

Because I'd like to point out here that I am much cooler than Michael, who now apparently reads my blog and thrills at pointing out the sad fact that don't update it more frequently than I have as of late, here is a brand new, supercool link to a brand new, supercool cork chair contest supplied by my brand new, supercool friends at work. And for those keeping up with it all, this is not where Michael works. Therefore, he can't possibly be as brand new, supercool as me.

I kid. I kid because Michael is a swell guy. And because he pays me to say things like that.


As usual, Ron came up with a good idea.

This is the first year I have ever had to split holiday visits between in-laws. I've always heard it was difficult, but had I experienced this before, we'd have handled it better in the pre-nup agreement.

Oh damn, I forgot to get a pre-nup. I'll look into a post-nup.*

Ron saves the day though. At least he gives it a go. After this year, instead of opting to just scrap the whole "Family Get-Togethers for Holidays" conundrum entirely, he suggested a"Festive Olympic-Style Celebration" applied to Christmas.

"Basically, a committee votes on one place to meet every four years, and we're done with it until the next Xmas Olympics. Say in 2004, it's Aunt Franny's house in Idaho. Great, we all meet there, fa la la, and then don't have to worry about the next location until 2008."

In spite if it all, we have a good time dreaming.



*Gag. I don't like the word "nup", do you?



Michael is right. He does bear a striking resemblance to Steve Urkel sometimes, and I really do need to update here more often.

Speaking of that, does anyone know the key command for making screenshots on a PC versus a Mac? I don't want the whole damn screen. I just want to crop into a picture and take that screenshot, for the love of it all that is simple. I don't mind being bi-technical, but I really miss my Mac sometimes. But at least now I can open just about any file with just about any extension with just about no problem.

Maybe I should think of something interesting to say before I enter it here, huh?

Thanks a lot, Michael.




For anyone who enjoys starving puppies...

...then go somewhere else and throw yourself in front of a speeding bus after sliding down razor blades into a tubful of gin and salt.

But for those who want to feed some babies, click here. Sent in by h2odogmom. Thanks, Pearl Ole Girl! I love ya and miss ya, darlin!




My rare and touching moment of gooey holiday sentiment.

Since only God knows when I'll get to come back in an orderly fashion and post like I want to, and quite frankly since God shouldn't really care and is way too busy planning a birthday shindig for his kid anyway, please remember to enjoy the season. Do something nice for every person that you can, unless of course that person is a total tea-bagger. Don't get me started. And remember to do something nice for yourself that doesn't necessarily take a credit card to get the job done.

And may (insert your own deity here) bless us every one.

Awww. Every one of us except, of course, Michael.



PS: Tina Weezy if you are reading this, HaPpY BiRtHdAy tO YoU!!! Two days late now, and please send this feeble-minded girl your new address again. I freaking lost it like a mo-fo.

PPS: And Chip, maybe you are right about the Windex with Vinegar for smoky winders, but in my case, at least I found a good use for the bottle with a homebrewed mixture of Bleach-2-o. And, Jason Williams says Hey Backatchu and Peanut.

It's the little things in life that make holidays special.

Like man-eating snowmen and yodelling snowboarders at risk.
Shake and bake your holiday cookies right here.
Actually, the snowman seems to prefer women.

(Thanks to Scott the FisherPrice Hairdo Boy for this. Yer a good beeb.)



"Walkin' 'round in Women's Underweaaar."

Because it's just merrier than walking 'round a Winter Wonderland.

This is the time of year when I get excited and nauseated all at once. Or is it nauseous instead. It really doesn't matter: It's Christmas-time. Yes, in my little white yet genetically mongrelled Anglo-Saxon world, I am not in the least bit concerned with Hannukah or Kwanzaa, or Boxing Day for that matter. Why should I, unless of course it benefits me directly.

No, I was born and raised a Protestant consumer, and dammit, Santa better be stuffing a big bag of consumables down my fake chimney this year, and soon. I don't slobber all over Crate and Barrel catalogs all year long for nothin'. Bring me some over-priced hand-crafted marshmallows from Williams-Sonoma. Fetch me a lampshade from Pottery Barn that I'll get tired of in two months. I know who I am. Shut up and bring it! And make it platinum not gold, Mr. Kringle!!

I feel like that every Christmas. Spoiled and slightly pathetic because of it. Not just because I have to go shopping for myself before I can feel enough guilt to melt the credit cards for others. But also because I watch too many National Geographic specials about kids in Africa wanting a plastic comb or toothbrush for Christmas.

How confusing is that. I don't know how to relate to that at all, nor can I change the fact. I hate losing perspective. And also hate that I can lose it for a good 11 months at a time obviously.

So this year I've decided to ask Santa for a Sony PS2, and never actually watching tv again.

I kid. I kid because I'm a guilty consumer. Advertising made us all this way.

O holy shite!

"It's almost Christmas and I haven't finished my shopping." Just thought I'd officially say that since everybody in the entire country is thinking it. Last weekend, we stopped by Wal-Mart, and they have a big sign in the front that said "Only 4 More Saturdays til Christmas." Thanks, and Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus.







This guy better be good.

Because I just bought a Grizzlies knit hat, and I'm not walking around with "PunkAiss Supporter" emblazoned on my forehead. Am I? Let me check.... No. Not today anyway.

Bonzi Wells.

Here's another reason I hope this guy doesn't screw up.

"Bonzi can be an ass one day and Bonzi can be the deacon of the church sometimes," Bonzi Wells said.

He said this to a writer from the Oregonian. So basically, unless you are from Jamaica, Bethany can't stand people referring to themselves in the third-person. I'm just sayin. Bonzi better be a good player. I'm serious about my choice in headwear. Ask anyone. Plus, he better not blame anything on his 'blackouts', you know, like the time he tossed the bird to a couple of fans and then blamed it on a 'blackout". Why am I worried? Because I don't want to stop watching the Grizzlies because of some Jerry Springer show candidate. It's getting old, and it sounds like Dennis Rodman. Where is he now: Who cares. Man. Well, I stopped watching The Today Show, because I can't deal with Matt Lauer shaving his head and calling himself brave in his battle over middle-aged hairloss (oh please, I'd rather watch reality tv) or Katie Couric and her bad throwback references to the 90s, with catch-phrases like "two-snaps up" and "you go, girlfriend."


My Moment with Katie Couric.

Katie, what happened to the girl who told Bryant Gumble to shove his arrogance up his smarmy beanhole, monogrammed cufflinks and all? And we all know you're on tv, but maybe for a change you should try watching one. Look at it like this: It's a new century out there with a whole new world of catchphrases for you to toss around. Please put down the "Friends" DVDs, and enough with the "talk to the hand." It lost its punch shortly after its introduction, a lot Matt's flawed attempt at 'bravery' in the face of his impending, normal, middle-aged hairloss. When some sheik you've travelled thousands of miles to interview tells you on-camera to make sure and send his good wishes to Matt, because he understands his deep personal loss as he too is battling middle-aged baldness, do us all a favor: Throw your weight around. Even though you agreed with him and with his misplaced nobility, direct the producer to edit that horse-pie out. As the audience, believe me when I say, we get enough now to fertilize Jupiter. And there is no room at the inn.

If nothing else, just stop using words like "fabulous". It's not like the word "cool" as cool never went out of style. And to show there's no real, legally-binding, hard feelings, tell Matt to wear a hat as I may have one I can send him very soon.



Speaking of bad products besides The Today Show, Bonzi Wells and products like Bonzi Wells, let me go find a picture.





All I have to say is "just don't." It sounded like a good idea, it looks like it might work, but I tried it on every surface except the dog. It just doesn't work. They should be forced to recall and refund everyone's $2.83 + tax.

A good product: Let me go find one I'm thinking of...

Hey look, an old post that I never posted.

(Gee, I don't wonder why. Well I apologized to this girl in the end. And she turned out to be nice and wore cute shoes, that's for sure, but she still couldn't mount presentation materials worth dog splatter. So here ya go, while I search in vain for the lengthy, heartfelt post I just saved somewhere in this God-forsaken PC. I miss my Mac.)



I feel bad. I have turned into that bitter weird chick with the wet pony-tail who scares the interns by screaming "f*ck" as loudly as possible when the phone rings. Without the asterisk though. You know, the person that you vow you'll never be like as you enter, faithful and yet unbroken, into the greasy, corporate machine? I'm also fairly positive that she overheard me ripping on the absolute worst job she did mounting some printed collateral that I had to redo. Ugh. Well please, she is majoring in Fashion Design. Don't they have to mount things up for presentations anymore? Or do they just make them play with Barbie Fashion Plates all day until naptime. I apologize, but it looked like a trainwreck. Now she skitters past me in the hall like I'm a junkyard dog. F*ck. There goes the phone again.

Oh, the irony of working at an interactive LLC.

And not updating my entries here anymore. Well, damn. And it feels like we have so much to catch up on, don't we?

Like right now, I am listening to some people here discuss things, which is something I had forgotten that people do. One person is commenting on vegetarians showing up to a Thanksgiving Day dinner and complaining about how they can't eat turkey. Even though I'm not actively participating, even though I don't care one way or the other about the topic, I forgot that I fit in with this, forgot where 'here' actually was, and I just think it's funny. At my other job, I'd gotten so used to hearing either the sound of nothing, which sounds a lot like pain, or hearing this one guy jingle his change and his nuts all the way down the hall, then boom out something pedestrian in the bombed-out halls, and then laugh at his own jokes. I'm afraid I'll never be far enough down the street to not hear his voice at times.

But I like this place a lot. Everyone is cool in his, her or Scott's own ways. But I miss my friends at the old job. And I miss my chair. And I miss my Mac. And my garbage can, but not the nutjiggler who needs to shut the fuck up and let those people do the right thing, which would be to express themselves. But he won't because he's a big useless penis sore. (Substitute "cottage cheese" here if you'd like, but "a big useless penis sore" was the worst thing I could think of for people who micromanage and squelch talent, drive and motivation.)

You won't believe this about the new place. This is too good to be true, but the new parking garage smells like big, fake roses. Yes it does. Or deep-fried food -- either smell trumps the sticky, elephant piss and rhino DNA stairwells any day and is easy to like. Unless you are just weird. So for this, I'm thankful that I am not that kind of weird.

Well, Thanksgiving is on the way, and again it seems like it always gets treated as an inconvenience to Christmas, especially in the greeting card racks and retail shelves. I'll take it though, even though trying to find a Thanksgiving Day card was like searching for an albino gorilla. There were ten designs to choose from, and they were all fairly benign and lame. In the end, I just felt sorry for them and bought four of the least sickly gooey cornball-esque of them. They were cowering in the corner just waiting for Friday to come along so they can be gathered and trashed. Poor inanimate cards.

This year, Ron and I are staying in and cooking our own handicapable turkey. That's right, check us out: Equal Opportunity Carnivores. We bought a bird with no legs. Why pay for legs when you really don't want them anyway. If it were a personal option for me, concerning myself, I'd think about legs as an option, just to develop my arms to the buffness I've always wanted, and to stop complaining about the extra weight I could stand to lose. No pun intended.

That sentence before last was shoddy and bordeline insensitive. So have you missed me? I missed you. No, really. So now it's time to go home for wine and inspiration.

I'm proud of myself, by the way, that I lit my gas heater last night without blowing up or catching on fire. Huzzah for me. This year, I will be thankful for eyebrows.

Damn, Thursday already.

I feel compelled to update every day now since Michael is reading this blog now. Guess he'll have to go eat some sushi with us soon, too. Hey, Michael (dotdotdot) imagine me flipping you off right now. Ah, good times, just like I'm still there huh, except none of that incessant complaining about Nutsakk and Glenitalia. Let me know when they get married.

I gotta go now, have to start a new job and feel like a geek for at least a week or two. You know how it is. Gotta find new parking spot in new garage, hope I don't use anyone's coffee cup by accident, and by the way "Where's the bathroom again?" That kind of stuff. But they are all cool so they won't mind. For at least two days maybe.

I emailed my mom the entry called "Father, Son and Mirabou" because I thought she'd like it, and she did. She said, "Man, I am tellin' ya, you ought to be a writer!" And I said, "Well, I am, that's what I do for a living." And she said, "No, I mean a real writer."

Love, Mom.

She also told me that she let her friend Susan read it, and she was so impressed that she wants me to write her obituary.

Things are really looking up for me.

Have a good day today and tomorrow if I don't talk to you sooner than the weekend, and always remember to toss Michael the bird every morning.

Comfortably numb.

So here I am, weaving in and out of a DayQuil coma today. Riding up the elevator with some guy dressed in his typical, plain, dark suit and blue shirt with white collar and cuffs. And so he started talking to his buddy who looked just like him, about the particular "Seinfeld" episode where Jerry had to wear the stupid looking puffy pirate shirt. And he went over and over the line again and again for his buddy, as we climbed higher and higher, and he laughed louder and louder at his hackneyed rendition of this recycled gag, over and over, louder and louder until I stood as much of it as I could, and from the depths of my soul rose the contents of stomach, and I puked all over him while his buddy watched. And then his buddy pointed, and then said in his smarmiest voice ever "Well, Peterson, I guess YOU wouldn't mind wearing a puffy white pirate shirt NOW, wouldya, buddy?"

Regrettably, except for the DayQuil coma part, none of that happened; but believe me it could have.

I love going to A. Schwab's for good pictures. If they don't have it, then you don't need it. And vice-versa.

Michael, you didn't tell us your mom was in a band.

But he's like that, too modest and quite possibly too ashamed of the truth.

Personally, I'd kill someone for a blue Musikanterna/Willie Wonka suit.







Pretty farking funny.

"Eatin' teeth."

Oh sthnap, that's just funny. I like waterstain. I tried to write her once, but the email address was bonked. Hey B, what gives?

What a great picture of me, walking to the idling mothership in my stupid looking shirt with Mike-o-Tron 2K, RonForSale and Young Danielo. It's our maiden voyage into space. I can't wait to make crop circles and suck up all those innocent cows in Idaho. Who took the picture? Bigfoot.

Father, Son and Mirabou.

Wide reddish-orange satellite receivers. Overturned heather-grey felt dogdishes. Glittery-gold toilet paper cozies. These are the hats of COGIC, and they fascinate me.

If I could wear a hat like the ones I've seen this past week, dress in furry white sequined gowns flanked by a husband dripping in mainly orange, electric blue, and purple with fur-trimmed hatbands, surrounded by a small flock of children dressed accordingly, sharply, and in tow, I'd handle a snake once a year if I had to. To wear those feathery boas, I'd handle a boa constrictor for at least 60 seconds if it were necessary.

Not that COGIC worshippers handle snakes by any means. I respect what little I know. I'd never even heard of COGIC until i moved here. But I'm just saying I'd do anything to dress like that. Proudly blending into a large crowd of People Dressed Just Like Me, Like Divine Royalty. It's not just the fancy cars packing the parking lots around the Pyramid Arena, every car nice, spotless and dentless, it's just something about COGIC that fascinates me as they gather here in Memphis for the COGIC Convocation, just a mile from where I live. And every year, as usual, I'm not invited.

I went to pick up that Oreo ice cream cake for Scott's birthday bash (which turned into Vodka Tonic Karaoke BlowOut*), and lo, it was good. In the valet parking section at The Peabody, where in my opinion it's not parking if you don't switch off the car, I pulled up behind an oxymoron: a huge mini-van. And Ron says from his passenger side view, "Oh wow, looka tha-a-at... no, wait, you'll see." And on my way into Peabody Place, making my way around the huge mini-van, I froze. Emerging from the huge mini-van was the queen poobah of all COGIC great-great-grandmatrons, and to me, she was spectacular.

She was dressed in the whitest wool and satin blend dress I have ever seen in my life. Not so white that it had a purple-twinge in the light like a bridal gown gone bad, but just white as newly-fallen snow. And I'll never be able to process all that she had on. I'm sure it'll take a few dreams here and there to see it all somewhere. But without staring, I saw that the front of her dress was absolutely covered in sparkles, spangles and dangly things made of silver, gold, brass and copper. They spun around and tinkled against each other like the tiniest windchimes. Her shoes were slightly off-looking, being a simple straight-up silver mesh brocade bedecked with clear sequins and beads. But that made it even more human, like an earthly intervention.

For a woman of her remarkable age, her white stockings were stretched evenly, and rose as discreetly as possible, disappearing somewhere in darkness. But it was her hat, dear God, her hat. I think I heard angels singing. It was a billowy white cloud of the softest looking mirabou ever created by fowl, floating weightless and waving gently with the undertow like the tentacles of a sea anemone in her deep, tranquil still of ocean blue.

It was one of those moments when time paused for something bigger than itself. Like a split-second warm realization, a hesitating moment in front of an empty altar on Christmas night; or the nothingness of being propped between resting, sleeping and a bowl of corn chips and hot cheese dip, bundled up on a couch on a New Year's Day. The stopwatch clicks off for that second or two and thankfully, you hear nothing.

But again, I tried not to stare. But again. I'd never been this close to an actual COGIC matron, never been so close to those people I've watched walking in close-knit groups to salvation year after year, to the shiniest, pointiest building this side of Las Vegas or Giza for that matter, and I have never been this close to a hat that heavenly. So I waited for her to wobble her way up the stairs. She had the posture of a jumbo prawn, and I didn't even notice her cane until then. It could have been 24K gold. But that hat. That divine chapeau. Untarnished by a drag queen and fit for a king's bride. It was That Hat.

So I stood there as her self-appointed maidservant, waiting patiently as she inched her way up what seemed ten flights of stairs but only three steps. One for the Father, one for the Son and the other, yes, the Holy Spirit maybe. I really couldn't see her face. But I spoke directly into The Hat.

"I have the door for you ma'am."

She acknowledged me with the standard lil ole lady "HUH?... Oh... thanky."

Then I took the liberty of saying what I really thought, "You sure do look pretty today." And as she shuffled past me, she said in this oddly robust voice that echoed in the glass foyer, "Ohhh THANK you, baybeh!..." And then after a moment's thought, she added "My feet hurt... where the escalator at?" Panicked, I said "Uhm, oh... I... don't know.. but I do know where the elevator is, way over there past the restrooms..." To which she replied, "Ohhhhh Lawd."

On my way to pick up the cake, I realized that I'm stupid. There are the escalators, right there, you moron. So I turn back to tell her this and she was gone. Vanished. Nothing but an empty spot with dappled reflections of indirect light. Then the spot was engulfed with faceless, uninteresting retail consumers. Again and again.

I hope that's not as close to God as ever I get. But if so then I'll take it. I'll add it to the box of warm moments stopped in time over life. Odds are I won't remember them. Occasionally one bubbles up from my own deep. But every time I save one, I hope they all pour out over my soul when I die. I'd like to see what goes on at the COGIC Convocation, I am pretty sure I'd feel something. But for now, I'll just look at them all through my dirty car windows next year as the richly-dressed, quite possibly bless-ed people pass me on the street, spooking the occasional wide-eyed European traveller on his pilgrimage to Graceland into wondering "Is it always like this here?" as they pass each other quietly, solemnly, walking their own ways to salvation. And even though I'd never really fit in, I'd like to be truly sure enough of myself to wear one of those hats. Either that or blissfully unaware of wearing one all my life.



*For anyone wondering, I belted-out Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.

Ok, so now I'm going to miss the receptionist, too.

Because she just told me that I look like I've lost weight. She's insane, but I will miss her almost as I will miss Josh and not Michael.

I will also miss the mysterious black man down the hall, the one who smells like my grandmother's old jewelry box. The one when asked and sometimes when not says he is "bless-ed, jest bless-ed", the same one who wears shiny red shoes that match his shiny red ties and gold filigree glasses, the one who says to me "Well HELL-O gawww-geous" when I wear black pants, the one whom I recently found out is the slimy lawyer's part-time receptionist/part-time private investigator, and the one who gave me this check that I couldn't cash.



But I won't miss Michael because he never reads my blog or goes out and gets hammered with us after work. Hint hint.



Speaking of that.

We're taking my bestdamnbrotherfriend Scotthead out for his birthday. We wanted to surprise him and knew he liked casinos and boobie bars, but since a fair percentage of us didn't really want to go to either, we figured we'd strike a happy blend and take him to Cafe Samovar with the belly-dancers and Nyquil-strength cordials, and we're bringing along an Oreo cookie ice cream cake. I guess we can bet on how long it will take us to get him absolutely 150 proof legless. That can make up for missing the casino part.

One thing about maybe-Lebanese-I-thought-this-was-Russian fare is key to remember: If one person eats the baba ganoush, you all have to eat the baba ganoush, so you won't notice the after-reek of too much raw garlic. Handy tip for eating: Spread on pita triangles, and try not to notice that it looks just like cat puke. Also, if you drink too much flavored vodka shots and get sick, you won't feel as guilty yakking baba ganoush as you would, say, prime rib.

Much like the many things in my life as a humanoid experiment, this post has also taken a turn for the worse. Oh well. Bring on the vodka, the bellydancers, and the cake!

With the drastic changing of the seasons and the onset of Yellow Fever disguised as sinus pressure comes the serious look at why I'm fervently perusing hating cat pictures. Well, because they're funny. And because I never get to use the word "fervently". Besides, I like cats. Not all, but most. Why do people hate cats? I guess because cats do hate people. And because cats can be righteous little bastards. Like mine, who's taken to ripping at the new, damn carpet and yammering on through his kitty sinuses at 5 am every stinking morning these days. My brain is reduced to lime green Jell-O with a big crack down the middle.

I don't hate cats. I hate Jell-O. But Jello Biafra is good on occasion.

Hey, I am going to work over here now and I'm all excited about it but very sad, too, mostly because I'll miss everybody. Well, almost everybody. I'll miss Josh the most and not Michael since Michael doesn't read my blog and won't ever go out to eat sushi with us. Ha, I'm kidding! Or... am I...

Michael would appreciate my use of the dotdotdot. The ellipse as it is known. Dotdotdot.

I'll also miss Hallie because we have been collaborating on rap lyrics for some McClient we have, and it has been surreal. Just surreal.

More on that later, but right now I'm working like a toothless cracker-eater in a mansion of saltines, whatever that means. It's kinda like a one-armed hooker in a taffy-pulling factory. Except less offensive to the hooker. And now, I can bust out all those crazy work stories I've been storing up for two years. Well, maybe not. I'd end up getting sued.

I get so distracted wishing I was a giant panda. Or it could just be the dementia setting in.

Yes, Happy Hallerweenie to you.

Any excuse to eat candy and drink sounds like a good holiday to me. I don't like it when the kiddies come knocking at the door begging for candy. I mean, it'd be okay if they weren't 16 years old, bedecked in dirty white t-shirts and baggy pants, holding dirty floral pillowcases out demanding treats while casing my joint for electronics. But maybe that was just my neighborhood last year. This year, I'm not taking chances, I'm leaving town.

And I'll miss the best party ever thrown, hosted by Jacquoleeen Wacq. I hate myself for missing it. But again, we have to go pick up a cargo van in Chattanooga. Just pretend this is interesting.

Here are some neato hellish babydoll pictures I took of the scarybastards Jacquie hung upside down in the trees for decoration. Hope this link works for you. If not, well no big deal. Someone is probably sneaking up behind you right now with a chainsaw anyway.

I'm with Adam. I don't quite understand Halloween either. But as I said before, like Grandma always said, "If you ever want a pagan's money at the collection plate, you have to give them free candy a few times a year. But don't ask me why a bunny hides a chicken's eggs in honor of a resurrection."

And then she stabbed me with that lawn dart again and again. Merry Boo Day.

Happy Halloween Eve.

My favorite part of this picture is that all I had to do to complete the alien woman was make her skin green. The hair was her own homegrown distortion.

Oh yes, and Mike's a squeaky-clean looker with his long, blonde hair.

You see why I'd never make it in digital retouching? Because it brightens my day to turn every Twinkie I see into a gnarled prize-fighter. But this site is addictive. Thanks, JacquieWacq!

Just when you think you're professionally burned out for the day, here's something else to watch. Episode 20 will stick to the roof of your brain for about 2 days, intermittantly.

Why yes it is. And boy, it was good. Even though, in my dangerous quest for ill-gotten time-off combined with the stubborn confines of a self-inflicted grocery budget, I have been eating questionable leftovers for the last few days. I like to call it "Leftover Roulette". And this fresh Chunky Chicken soup, mixed with the painful bloat of the unidentified Zombie Chicken exhumed from the freezer depths didn't play well together in the slightest. Had I not known what I was doing, I would've mistaken my bilious stomach pains for a heartattack.

Clearly, I'm the experimental type. What's even more telling is the fact that my mom did the exact same thing yesterday with the exact same results by eating some Not-Quite-Done Barbecued Chicken from the University Medical Center's cafeteria. Rotten apples don't fall far from the tree, do they? And if they did, apparently, I would eat them.

The wicked soul of the dead Zombie Chicken lives on to haunt me this second day. Because fully recovered, except for a swagger from a sore muscle and a new sense of bacterial awe, somewhere deep in my gutt, Zombie Chicken says I must figure out a way to top myself again. So maybe that's why I just ate Leftover-Leftover-Leftover Soy Protein Chili atop Leftover Saffron Rice. For breakfast, mateys. What unholy thing have I done? It's barely 8:30am. But please, enjoy the free fireworks.

Here's an early ghost story for you. Ooo. Scary how slow the page loads, huh? Foreboding? Or perhaps, just my shitty connection here at work.

Kinda makes you think though, doesn't it? Wonder if my mom still has some of those ugly paintings I did in college. Even though she threw away all my purposely phallic pottery, I'm bound to have at least one or two hideous pinch pots left for sale. All I need to do is whip up a good one about it being haunted. Why don't I think of these things sooner? Because I'm not really that good at making up ghost stories. The last time I did that, I made up a good one about this old craggly woman, oh yes who was a giant, who lived in our attic, and when she got hungry, she'd poke her finger down the bathroom vent and stab the victim with her colossal, red, sharp-pointy fingernail. Yeah. Stab 'em right in the head as they sat unaware and straining upon the deadly throne. Then she'd pull her fresh kill up the vent into the attic and eat 'em like a cocktail weenie.

Shortly after I made up that whalloping tale, say a day or two later, a cockroach skittered down that vent and fell right on my head. And I'll never be the same. Never never never.

Ah yes, this sure takes me back. I remember my mother giving me some good advice as a child that's proven itself invaluable to this day: "Kids, never forget to wear clean underwear, and never wrestle a monkey for money." Truer words were never spoken, except for maybe "It takes 3 men to get hold of a chimp, and it takes 8 men to let go of one!"

Meet the literally strongest idea for a new reality show that I'd actually watch. But only if the wrestlers were chosen from any former reality show contestants, eligible politicians or (of course) OJ Simpson.

For those keeping up with the banality, someone stacked boxes on the new, expensive desk.

It's the little things in life that make me happy. Kinda like Kikkoman.

Hey, camping was fun by the way. No, really. I saw three mosquitos and killed two of them. Anyone who's ever lived next to a river or just the South in general can relate to this is a true success story. I'll have to tell you about the one-legged duck after I finish up workin' for The (Wo)Man today. Who is out getting a facial. The regular kind. Not the porno variety. Not anymore anyway.






Nope.


But you try it and see if Fido can guess your number.

RE: A very important e-mail to all.

FYI

The desk and chair in the space previously occupied by the color copier are items we are trying to return.

We won't be using them as they must remain in new condition until this issue is resolved.

Thanks


I'll keep you posted.








I went to the David Sedaris thing last night and this is what I got for an autograph, for so many reasons.

Number one, when I walked into the convention center and saw him sitting there waxing back and forth between not-smiling and smiling contently, my glasses fogged up. I didn't think I could hate this pair of glasses any worse than I already do, but I did.

Since I'm not completely oblivious anymore, I have a problem walking up to a highly observant person and asking them to sign a piece of paper for me.* I don't even know why, except that I really don't understand the concept of autographs anymore. "Here, sign this. You may die one day, and I can eBay it. Or maybe it will bring me nearer to some part of thee in my tiny, possession-filled life." Invariably, I may have asked him to sign it with some embarrassing little phrase I thought to be witty at the time: "Can you please sign it 'To Ron because Bethany is too embarrassed to ask for herself'?" It's the exact opposite of walking up to John Lennon with purpose and handing him your card that says only one word: "Breathe".**

I actually did get in line though. But then I realized I had nothing for him to sign. Again with the fog, and what the hell am I thinking. Maybe I could wing it. What do I have in my purse... nothing but a new $20 bill. Ok, that's really stupid. "Will you sign my American currency? I have no foresight. And I feel like I need to ask you to write your name. For me to take home. Please." I was about three people away from getting his autograph, sans beaujolais or Budweiser, glasses in coat pocket. It's better to have two little dig-marks on the sides of your nose (where the dog accidentally stomped off the only soft parts of your glasses) than to actually see someone instinctively whipping up a good estimation as to why your glasses are fogged.

So I stepped to the next line and fumbled for something, anything to buy. "Do you have his most current book?" The guy looked at me like I just accused his mother of secretly laundering money through a crackhouse down the street. Of course no one has his current book, not even the publisher yet. I can feel things like that coming out of my mouth, and can't stop them, not even after they bellyflop down onto the table and scream for those who missed it the first time. Since I'm used to this, I bought a CD of him live at Carnegie Hall, and here is where creation smiled upon me, and I lost my place in line as the security guard closed it off before I got back. Good.

Because I just wanted to hear his stuff and the way he would have said it. Not to meet him as one of the herd with their blank pieces of paper. And even though on-sight, I knew the girl who sat next to me full of several strong cocktails, was going to sit still as long as she could until she had to call someone on her cellphone, in her extra-long jeans and extra-pointy shoes to announce where she was, and yes, wasn't that just crazy!; and even though she laughed backwards (Ah Ah AHH versus Ha Ha HAAA), she still couldn't have been more obnoxious, only because we had one thing in common.

So I squinted until his face came into focus. As he read through his new stuff, scratched through words that didn't work, stumbled on his own sentence structure three times in a row and said under his breath "I'm sorry", he was exactly the person I had hoped he might be. Sure. I could go on about it for days, and I'm sure I will after I tapdance on that new desk in the hall waiting to be taken away.

The endless autograph line snaked back into the auditorium after the show. I wanted to get back in line and ask him to just sign it "I'm sorry", but I didn't ask. Ron asked, "You sure you don't want to go over there?... Just remember, it doesn't matter what you say, ten times as many people have said something stupider... to him. You sure you don't want to get one? He may never come back." I thought, that's why I'd rather keep what I have now without ruining it by being a well-meaning awkward human.***



*I know. I got John Flansburg's autograph, but that was different. When you know someone only from the sound of his voice and not written words, it's easier to ask him a stupid or completely average question. Plus, it wasn't a nice little single-spaced line formed in front of him like taking communion from a priest. And as always, beer never fails to lend a hand when you're looking for that extra confidence in asking for something tangible.

** I still unrealistically hate Yoko Ono since she did ruin everything, just everything.

***Oh, the irony. Oh well. Scott's right. I am a mushy girl, and unless something puts you in jail or kills you, it's not really a Big Deal.



Camping Van Beethoven.

I'm going camping this weekend and won't be back til Tuesday. So I hope you have a good weekend and if you want, you can go by and break into my house and steal all my good stuff. I'd really like a new plasma screen tv.

"Hey, where'd that desk in the corner come from? It's really pretty nice."

"Yes, well DON'T touch it and tell everybody else not to touch it either. It's goin' back. It's too expensive."

Well, it won't be going back UPS.

Three of the most recent searches directing unsuspecting people here:








And my personal favorite which just happens to be a second request for hemmorhoid identification:




Yeah. I'm still here, working like a sucka, f'rill though. But here's a neato mosquito puzzle for you to solve. Check it out especially you, Kittyspunk, since you solved the bunny one. And also because it's Blavod black vodka which is kind of sentimental to me since it's the same shade as my whithered liver. That's a joke. My liver is probably the color of a nicely-tanned buffalo hide.* My soul is black.

Boy-o-boy, I wish I had some of this black vodka to go with it all today. Just in time for Halloween, too. Which I still haven't decided if I'm dressing up as anything or not. It used to be a lot easier when we were all kids: girls were pretty pink pricessesses (plural must be "princessi" or "princessae"), and boys were Superman. Now of course that we're all older, the choices have completely reversed themselves.



*Which reminds me: check out Edison's Boxing Cats footage and the Buffalo Dance which does shift attention away from my absolute theory of today's Reality Shows being the Jell-o wrestling A-bombing of what's left of Western civilization when clearly people were into watching a good cat-fight at one point in time; but it does support my sub-theory that people can be easily coerced into dancing like crazy marmosets squashing-out bugs and cigarette butts as long as you promise to point a camera at them.




Check please.

"I have a question. I need to send something heavy and I need to send it cheaply. Should I FedEx it, or should I UPS it? It doesn't have to be there overnight."

"Uhhhmm...... hmmmm...... well, let me think.... I don't think we have a UPS account. Is it in town?... I can take it."

No. And now, I hear banjos.

"Igor! Reboot the monkey!"

I'd like to say it isn't, but it is.

This job is officially killing me. When it's not kicking us lifeless, collectively. But at least I have some good company who can speak out when I can't.

Well, I know what I'll be doing this weekend.

I'm so happy, I could just dress up like a Macy's elf and write an important piece of hilarious yet poignant satire.

Finally, the day stopped wringing my neck. Forget everything which or that has transpired up til 2:58 pm today in my rolling chair on a stained-carpet kind of world. Now I have something happy in my purse. This is how I feel about the little things that make the world better. Actually maybe today it's selfishly just about the little things that make my world better. Like a blood donor card packed away in a safe place autographed by a sincerely genuine John Flansburg. Or that the guys who cut my weensy front yard are actually named the Lawn Wranglers. And it's just like two pristine tickets to David Sedaris, one of the best writers still alive.

Oops. Jinxed him*. He's a dead man now. I am so sorry. Ah well. Maybe I can eBay them unused.


*Much like I'm jinxing the Cubs.




Oh yeah, I forgot to put in my two-cent blab about Arnold Schwartzenooghen becoming Governor.

What do you expect? People like to watch other people get voted off islands, out of lavish condos, into faux pop-lifestyles, and now into the political system. What ever happened to good ole roller derby instead? Jerry Springer is not a show, it's a country. And no one can find the remote anymore.

In two words: Too easy.

Zsa Zsa Boo Boo

Correction: Plato is to Pluto as Eva is to Zsa Zsa. Those two always confused me like Samantha and Serena from "Bewitched" or Jeannie and her evil, albeit sexier sister. Oh no. I just seriously used the word "albeit". What's next? "Vis-a-vis"? See, I told you my bulb was growing dimmer day by day. And it was only a 40 watt to begin with, awww snthap. Soon, I will be drooling from the corner of my mouth over Friday night Nachos at The Home. But I will be happier, more blissful, and dribbling in viable quantities.

I wonder if I should talk about bowling from last night. I don't have much to say about my stellar performance. It was fun even though I did suck like a Hoover upright on carpet setting. If it weren't for the damn trick knee, the current alignment of the planets and the fact that my poor nicked-up pink ball came back with a greasy sheen on it several times which probably only benefitted me in the end, maybe I wouldn't have resorted to the vodka tonic. But what fun would that have been? Jacquie Wack and I have decided we bowl better when we start with a single rum and Coke to get the balls rolling, and we have decided to design small cheer routines, preferably shaken to the tune of Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girl." Now I have to get on eBay and find some pom-poms. Not the skimpy, metallic 90's ones but the big, shiny 70's ones. Much akin to Wilt Chamberlain's awe-inspiring superfly afro. Or was it Dr. J...?


Better than good, it's fair.

Told you we were working hard on the Fair stuff. Not one mention of their brilliant ad campaign. Must be implied. And see, I didn't make up the pork butt on a stick.





And finally.

I love David Sedaris. The sky opened up, and he's coming here to Memphis. I gotta get tickets. I could just scream like a girl. I bet he could, too.

Sorry, I was gone. Yet another meeting.

But look who came to see me. It's the Ffffffffffffffftt Dog. That's the best name I can think of right now. To me, it looks like the sound he is making with his mouf.


What's a two-letter word for "painfully aware of the on-coming dementia"* ?

This weekend, I did a crossword puzzle. For some reason, I've started doing lots of them. Imagine Homer Simpson doing sit-ups. That is how I feel. And so I fly through them with this unfounded Mensa-like confidence until I get to the stumpers I have unwittingly created by answering them slightly wrong. Sure, I hate the punny stumpers which I will never get. For example, what is a fourteen-letter word for "McMahon and Clark, in a row" -- answer "TwoDicksinarow". Ok, so I made that one up, but you know what I'm talking about. They make me want to punch a hole through the newspaper when I exhaust myself, burning braincells I could've used elsewhere.

What's my point? What's a five-letter word for a student of Socrates? I scribbled in "P-L-U-T-O", only for Ron to catch as he worked through those harder bits now made slightly impossible. Yes, Pluto. Not Goofy, the mentally-challenged dogman who could at least talk, but the flea-scratching, bone-burying canine companion of Mickey Mouse and friends.

For those of you out there who remember the tv show "Green Acres," except for the parts where she is blonde, Hungarian, and sits around the farmhouse dressed in mirabou-trimmed satin gowns (which I would love to do all of that, by the way), I am beginning to remind myself more of Zsa Zsa Gabor's Leeza every day. If she couldn't get a puzzle piece to fit, by God she'd hammer it in and wonder why the landscape photo never appeared quite right. Worst part about me is that I realize how limited I am becoming. Why my brain shrinking, I don't know. Just please let it shrink to a manageable size where I don't know it's shrinking anymore yet I can still enjoy the taste of corndog nuggets on Wednesdays.

*m-e.



The tumor made me forget to mention.

Last night's play-off game ruled the Western Hemisphere. I'm sorry to all my Braves fan friends, but please, just let me have this one moment of victory.

In Yo' Face and Get Ready to Lick it, Florida Marlins. Go Put Yo' Foot All Up In It, Cubbies.

Some of you wish my expanding dementia tumor was much bigger now, don't you.

Well not to worry because, yea verily, now ye shall all witness my Almighty Power of Universal Jinx, as my undying support for the Chicago Cubs has surely doomed them to failure. But I've apparently waited more than a lifetime for the Cubs to get this far, jackass goat curse and all. Sports used to bore the sweatpants offa me. But somewhere along the way, I have become one ugly American when it comes to supporting the Chicago Cubs and the Memphis Grizzlies. Funny part of it is, most of the best Grizzlies came the other side of the world. Go figure.

This just contributed by Kittyspunk (Thanks, Sherry!) You are so right. There are no words to describe this site. Except for maybe goldmine.

By the way, almost two working weeks after the Unfortunate Fuck Off Incident, here on Day Ten, the Nutter Woman Who Called in with a Parasite Once has officially left the building. Yes, sacked or quit or just eternally unavailable, we don't know. Dare I say we don't care either. All of her stuff is still here, but she is not. It's kind of like she never even left at all. A moment of silence, please. Ok, that's enough back to work.

(thanks for the picture, Weezy!)

Happy October 1st!

And you know what that means:

It means bring on November, December, January and February. I'd much rather complain about the cold than the heat.

It means in 30 days, we all have the freedom to celebrate Free Candy Day*, and also attend the Opening Game of the Memphis Grizzlies.

It means Day Two without the convenience of a USB cable and Day Nine of The "Nutter No-Show" Show.

And it also means One Day Closer to Heaven or Hades for Me. Trust me, it's okay either way, I promise.

Speaking of that, I have a meeting in Blathervania now. Be back soon.


*Being so close to Halloween and all, here's a farking link just in from Lewis. I can't get the whole page to farking load, but I did catch a funny one here and there.

Not dead yet.

I did take pictures at the Fair, but not of the scary people with bad hairdos. Like the grandma moonshiner whose hairdo (a Kentucky Waterfall Mullet, of course) was Kiwi shoepolish jet-black down the back with the crown of her 'do stark white. She looked like she was wearing a skunk-skin cap. But she scared me, and I know my limitations: Do not provoke a seasoned cast-iron mountain woman who sounds like a banjo when she talks.

So, no pictures of skunky hairdos. But you get the picture. And if you don't, consider yourself very fortunate. Even though I wouldn't mind dropping a few pounds quickly, I don't know if my insurance covers having my jaw wired back on after a physical attack. It certainly was a fashion show on the days I went. I would've liked to take some pics of that, too. But again, I didn't feel like getting attacked by anyone. So I stuck mostly with snapping inanimate objects and goats and others animals I will never eat again because they are so damned cute. If only I had that USB cable, but no. You'd think it was a gold brick at Fort Knox around here, hidden away behind a locked door and a locked cabinet. Well. Tomorrow I'll forget to bring mine again. But I hope I don't because I have a new Meeting Doodle I'm all happy about.


Speaking of Not Dead Yet, I completely forgot.

It's Day Eight now, and The Nutter Woman Who Told the Innocent Woman to Fuck Off is still a no-show. Yep, we have not seen this woman since the Unfortunate Incident. Well, why should we. We have direct deposit. Awe-inspiring.

My favorite part of the whole matter is reading the sign-in sheet every morning, just to see what excuse the Nutter Woman has called in for the day. There it is waiting, just a simple notation by her name. Last week, it was a couple of doctor's appointments. Boring. Then around Wednesday or Thursday, my favorite notation was just two big question marks by her name. Remarkable.

I know I said I'd wait til Nutter was sacked to tell this one, but I can't. It's too funny, and it's obvious she is never getting sacked. I'll get sacked before her for commenting on her not getting sacked. But anyway, my all-time favorite call-in excuse for Nutty's absence was... if I could have a moment of silence please... a parasite. Yes, ladies and gentleman, a parasite that she got from a third-trimester pregnant girl who works at the zoo. Brilliant.

It makes you so sick that you can't even use a cellphone. But unless I'm reading it wrong, you have to eat infected feces. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather show up for work than have anyone think I had accidentally ingested giant panda poop. Well, let that be a lesson to all Nutters in training: Kill-off your aged relatives sparingly, or you'll have to resort to beaver doody diseases or some type of congo fever.

I swear I do have compassion. But I save it for real situations.





What is Diet Pepsi Vanilla?

Thanks for asking, my man, Chip. Daddyhood (Congrats to you and M and Peanut!) has made you middle-aged psychic man as I just sampled one of these yesterday and thought it needed a review before anyone got hurt.

Ok, I know you're a gamblin' man. But here's my tip: Bet your 60¢ on something other than this drink. Unless you know someone who likes the taste of a flat Diet Coke Icee that got hot in a car sweltering in the summer sun, and that misfortunate concoction was somehow recarbonated, rechilled and resold, I can't help but see this as a crapshoot for Pepsi.

I was hoping one of the big daddies, either Coke or Pepsi, could get the vanilla-flavored cola thing right. Big sigh, I was wrong. But, I'm not all bitter news. I can suggest a good soda I sampled this weekend. It's called Moon Mist Blue, and it's Faygo's flavorful attempt at a Mountain Dew taste-alike, yet they added that blue, mystery berry flavor that's all the rage these days, and they threw in some carbonation to boot. It's so good, it made me want to slap a racoon and call my momma a Hoe Down...

Sorry, I spent too much time at this year's Fair.

But in my opinion, save your money on this one. Baby needs a new pair of shoes!

Finding Nemo Delicious.

Thanks to Hallie for sending me this, and for making me hungry and disappointed at myself all at once.



"Here's a New Thought: Your Own Common Sense."

It's free. Plus, it will help reduce noise pollution. Silence the likes of Dr. Phil. Throw your hard-earned money at me instead. I'll build houses for the poor. (Me.) I try as hard possible to not pay attention. But I heard Dr. Phil has a new diet book out. And possibly an online program named "Shape Up!" Exclamation point. Which is why I try not to pay attention, and also why this country is killing me softly. But while I'm waiting for that overseas work Visa to arrive, and as long as everyone else is cashing in on our expanding lines of waste, then I will create a diet called "Oh Stop It, You Lazy Bastards". It combines strenuous activities like, say, walking, with eating a little real cheese instead of a whole package of fake, plastic non-fat cheese. I don't think that will be received as well as my "All Cigarette and Vodka Martini Dose-And-Cleanse Weight Reduction Plan". So, I'm undecided. I think I will just develop both and contradict myself. Luckily, hardly anyone will notice. Office Shizzle Josh-Next-Door wants to entitle his program "Let Me Guess. It's Your Thyroid." Josh is not only funny but also very accurate.


"How can a toothless woman eat a smoked turkey leg?"

"How can the Amish have an ice cream stand with electric lightbulbs running around an electric marquee?" and "Why do they call it pork-butt-on-a-stick when it has bones?" and "Have you actually seen the Fat Balls this year?"

These are all valid questions I will ask myself tonight at the Fair. Besides "Why can't you walk around the Midway with a beer?" The answer to that is easy enough: Not enough security for the acts of beer-induced bravery and fights that would erupt. You want that action, you'd better head out to Jerry Lawler's Strip Club and Jell-o Wrestling bar across town.

I personally can't wait, and hope to have some good pictures to show here. Oh and about the Fat Balls, I'm not making that one up. They are supposedly deep-fried dough balls split in half, filled with pie filling or pudding and then set atop waffle cones. I think it's a myth. I hope not. For many reasons.

Day five and still she's a no-show.

And tomorrow is her day-off. So I guess that will make it day six and still counting since the nutter hasn't been pink-slipped. Well, I'm in a gambling mood and go ahead, make it a day seven already, since I bet Monday will be another no-show as well. I could be wrong.

Went to Nashville today and passed right by Bucksnort, Tennessee, and also by Loretta Lynn's old Dude Ranch. She says "hey, you'uns!" How droll. And she's performing at the Fair on Friday night. Aren't you all just green with envy. Nite!

Who is really off today?

Four days and still counting. Apparently, the key to not getting sacked is to never show up for work again... Fascinating.

It's these introspective, reflective moments that make me wish I could be off-kilter myself. Fully. Because look how it seems to work out for the nutters. Unfortunately, I think I may just be half-off. Sane enough to know I'm not insane. Sane enough to be held responsible. What a pain. And what does sanity get me? Well, let's see...who is off enjoying the beautiful early autumn weather today? Probably frolicking at the Fair, with a pork-butt-on-a-stick in one hand and a Deep Fried Twinkie in the other. Is it me? No, I'm sitting here just half-off with a cramp in my neck. While the fully off-kilter woman is worrying about getting too much sun, with obviously nothing to lose. Again, I find this unevenly keeled aspect fascinating.


The Fair. I am going to the Fair on Friday.

I am clearing off my digital camera card right now to ensure I have enough room for this year's fashion parade of oddities at the Fair. This year, I'm not going to focus solely on capturing the perfect Fair Mullet or Mullet-on-a-stick or Midway Mullet hairdo as we say because quite frankly, I'm tired of all this talk about Mullets lately. They are now officially over-exposed. I'm not sure what I will find this year. But I'm looking to catch more than just falling change this year.



Meet my friends.



They keep me company in reeeeaaaally long boring meetings. You know, the ones that should only be seven minutes long, but instead they last for at least one hour and include at least one *golf buddy* story. Well. The first one here is the Earless Dog. What's his name? It doesn't matter. He won't come if you called him anyway because he can't hear. Maybe this Earless Dog is wishful thinking on my own personal situation, as I listen to someone rattle on about Antique Tractor Shows.

The second one is the Ever-Elusive Fingerman. He doesn't ever point at me, he just stares at me with that, that look. As if to say "My God, you have feet and toes. Why don't you run?" And then I remind him about the mortgage payment. He's cool with that lame excuse. At least until the next boring meeting.

And finally we have what appears to be either Fingerman's Jewish cousin named Lemmy, or it's a kosher hotdog with a tiny, armless suit on. I'm not sure. But he seems like a nice guy. You can tell he's related to Fingerman. He's got that, that look as well.

It's not his fault, it's mine. I need full-time excitement in a part-time job where you don't have really boring meetings. Like a pizza place.... Oh yes. A pizza place, mmm.