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.

Three days and counting: the off-kilter woman has not gotten sacked. I'm fair. I'm not counting weekend days.

New topic: The slimey lawyer down the hall makes my stomach twist. His head is smaller than his neck. The corners of his mouth are pulled downward and back, tightly. Or maybe that's just me, thinking about it. I'm sure he's rotting from the inside-out. Even other lawyers think he's a foul person. The grayer his scribbly neck hair gets, the ruddier his capillaried skin goes, the more he honestly looks like Jabba the Hutt everyday.

What a surprise, he usually hires little girlies to answer the phones up front. He's hired more than I can count right now. And they never last for more than two months. Some smoke in the restroom, and some don't. Next thing you know, you see him back behind the girlie's desk, administering work over her shoulder, leaning in to look down her shirt. So really, how would I know? It's because they have glass walls and are right across from the ladies' loo.

Now, I guess after going through a few twenty year-old girlies this year, he has finally given up something deep inside and hired a very proud Biblical man who dresses in a three-piece suit with vibrant ties and shiny, matching shoes. And he wears a really loud cologne that smells like my grandmother's jewelry box. I can smell it through the glass walls on my way to the ladies.

He rode up in the elevator with me. Even though I assume the stance, casting my eyes downward, I knew it was him. Was almost positive anyway, by his shiny red patent leather shoes. But in Memphis, he could have been almost anyone heading for a slimey lawyer's office. He asks in a strong solid tone, "...An' how ar' yyyew tew-day?..." Prying my eyes from the red shoes to respond politely, "I'm fine... how are you?" And as always, he pronounces that he is "bless-ed, just bless-ed." Too bless-ed to be stress-ed, I think to myself. That's fine. Then he introduces his name and his right hand to me, as he has twice before, and I've forgotten his name both times. He reaches inside his coat to the pocket pulling out the yellow check for Eternal Life, and he hands it to me. I think that is nice enough. And I sure hope it's good for a bless-ed haircut* because that's where I'm off to right now.

*ps: In God We Trust, but as luck would have it, Tangles would only accept my Visa.





www.kollaboration.org

If I could redo existence, somehow I would have to come back as this kid. Or as the insurmountably creepy girl who sits behind him in calculus, faintly intoxicated by the smell of his freshly washed hair. (See? I could be creepy.) Click the Noodle Boy in the red shirt.

It's harder than it looks.

Solving the bunny puzzle, and also creating a nice little job like this guy has. Oh well, maybe one day. One damn fine day.





You have to register to play Piercing Mildred, and that's about as far as I got because I am using up all of my energy, fighting to stay awake at this computer today. This game of mutilation looks kind of interesting though.


Day Number One
Today has been one of those excruciating Fridays spent counting down the hours 'til quittin' time. It started immediately when I got here this morning. Boy, I wish I could tell you. And you know why I usually don't talk about work. That's right, because somehow I'd probably end up sued. Which reminds me...

The only interesting news today around the watercooler (I say that like we actually have one) is that one seriously off-kilter woman here told an innocent co-working woman down the hall to "fuck off". Let's count down the days til she gets sacked, shall we? Then I can tell you some really funny stories. I bet she doesn't get sacked. Which reminds me of another funny story that I can't tell you until this woman is sacked. Or, could it be me who gets sacked for saying so? Regardless, let the countdown begin.

No. Satchmo was not a badly-tinted, 59 year-old white guy.

Not to rain on anybody's parade, but gee whiz. Check out some beat-up Celebrity Look-Alikes. I'm actually offended by a couple of them.

For starters, the Louis Armstrong look-alike is almost sacrilegious. Compare to the true Gabriel-like jazz soloist.

And say what you will about Christina Agu...aaa...Aquileriaous...ess..., she does not have an infected boil on the side of her nose. Yet.

(I must not be the only one who's noticed this growing trend. Damn, and I just missed the photo submission date by seven days. How biblical.)

A Higher Coffee Ground.

I know how the universe was created (Well. Maybe just parts of the planet Earth): God left a coffee pot to go bad for a week. All it takes is a one-quarter inch of old coffee, and there you have it, you get what appears to be Mongolia.

Mystery solved. Back to work.

One Mo'



In honor of my sweet mutated heap of Otis, and by way of New Orlean's own Hurricane Lisa Robinson and her Urban Dog Magazine , I give you a cool tribute to "Flawed Dogs" by Berkeley Breathed. Yep, the same Berk Breathed of Bloom County.

Why does the neighbor's cat glow-in-the-dark?
See how close nuclear waste comes to your neighborhood. Enlightening.

And right now, I'm dreaming about more sleep. But if that recurring dream of dark, mossy caves and fighter jets is haunting you, then have your dream translated here. Ignore the photo of the disturbing child clutching her face.

For example, I dreamed that a white poodle in a red dress played a piano and smelled of mothballs. And possibly turnip greens.

Translation: Words like white: People feel they can rely on you. You have an abundance of energy and vitality. Words like red: This is an indication of great passion and sensitivity in your emotional relationships. Words like greens: Growth and serenity. There are projects which you are enthusiastic about. Great pleasures from simple things.

(Alright, so it's not brilliant. But it's free and an inch more fun than working. Which is where I'm off to right now. Yes, like A Bona Fide Sucka-trator.)


And lastly, you too can sound like a drunken Dr. Suess book.
All you need is some malt ripple, this handy shizzlolator, and maybe this churchy teen lingo-izer.

Mmmm... phat cheddar.

Monday Bloody Monday

Expected topic? Yeah, I know. Then why does it annoy me every week. Just when you think a Monday may hold a little promise and then, zip-zero, nyet. Well there you have it. Onward to Tuesday. Maybe I'm still a little mad that I dreamed of brown recluse spiders all night long. What an itchy rip-off. Which reminds me...

On to a more interesting and satisfying topic: A Picture of My Dog.



Meet Otis, the world's sweetest mutation. He is known by many names. Tardo, Ree-Ree, "O Tardia" (to the tune of "O Canada" of course), and Aaagh!!-Get-Off-My-FOOT-you-@#$%, to name a few.

He is half Black Labradore and half Bassett Hound. I don't know whether to call him a Bassadore or a Labrahound. He just looks like a Black lab constantly standing in a hole. Like Bjork, he's short but strong.

When we walk down the street (or rather, when I'm pulled helplessly down the street, urged on by the possibility of a dislocated shoulder), people in passing cars either laugh, point and stare, or remain expressionless and faced-forward, yet squinting from the corner of an eye for a guilty peek. There's no in-between. Passers-by on the street usually grin like confused 5 year-olds and exclaim "Awwwwwww..... what IS he?!"

And if that person is over 5'11" and a male, then Otis will clumsily launch a spitty bark-attack and unleash the Black Fury on them. At this point, I usually die of embarrassment as he skiis me across the gravel. But it's apparent that some tall man beat the daylights out of Otis with a cast-iron skillet because he is terrified of tall men. Which doesn't sound unreasonable sometimes (it's a joke) but also reminds me of that time when the 6'2" woman came down at Otis to pet him. And Otis, as did I, mistook her for John Lithgow with a wig. Otis mulched the ground beneath him as I dragged him a safe distance away, and watched as the ladyman tripped quickly yet safely through the daffodils to escape.

Yes, Otis is a big, black, freight-train mutation who wandered lost into the front yard of Ron's life. And much like me, Ron decided to load him up in the car and take him home.

Why-o-why couldn't Otis have been a gerbil instead. Gerbils don't shed bales of hair all over like a two-month old Christmas tree. In three annoying lengths, and all over my white-tiled apartment. I have never lived under a roof with a dog the size of a goat, and never planned to do it. But dammit, this dog has a heart as big as my mean old Aunt Martha Ann's butt. And anything that big that is hard to overlook. Plus, unlike truly-mean Martha Ann, he has no smell whatsoever.

So where is he now? He's at home, crammed under Ron's desk and on Ron's feet probably. Wishing he could chew up a catfood can or have another hotdog. He doesn't ever care it's Monday because every morning is Christmas Day all over again. And he makes me forget it's Monday every week. Aww.

Except for the part about the tall man and the cast iron skillet, I wouldn't mind being Otis.

I tried to get his picture in the paper this past Sunday, but a white poodle in a red dress got published instead. Not that I'm biased or anything, but you tell me: From just looking at this photo, do you get a whiff of that lingering mothball smell, too?*

(*Aww, that was mean. Mean because it's true.)



And this just in from My Favorite Client, Mr. "Sloppy Joe" Valentino of Oak Ridge, Tennessee:

message from Joe:

amzanig huh?

>Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
>waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
>the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae.
>The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm.
>Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef,
>but the wrod as a wlohe.

"Uhm... in high school, I used to hear that I favored Peter Deluise on
21 Jump Street on more than one occasion...," said billionaire Mike Norton...

"But it wasn't until I opened up a pack of '21 Jump Street' trading cards (I won a trivia contest and that was the prize) that I realized the awful truth... WITNESS THE HORROR!" exclaimed co-creator of the new universal-smash comic of giant proportions, Jason and the Argobots.

Sure, Mike. You *won them in a trivia contest*. If that's what you want to call snipin' them on eBay from a 42 year-old named Screech 69, then your secret is safe here with me.

Actually, Mikey does have somewhat of a gargantuan secret that I can't tell right now, but I'm completely proud of Our Boy Norton whose hard work and talent have begun to really pay off. And I also respect the part where he just got a gold tooth in the back. I'm ghetto-jealous.

Stay tuned here for more good news and elaborate, champagne-filled celebrations to come.


This just in from contributor Josh "Office Shizzle" Brigham: Your Friday Moment of Zen.

The most elaborate use of Peeps yet: "The Lord of the Peeps". Enjoy.

eleventh hour

within the promise of a blue morning sky

label this day stolen

broken by our own wings

and forced to watch

no one can change this

just as no one can change that

they held hands in flight

in final kindness and strength

when everything was lost

remembering what is left behind

is to be lifted again

from underneath a blue, mourning sky.


Editor's Note: Scott doesn't like poems, and thinks I'm a mushy girl. Dammit. I hate it when he's right.


Hey, rumor has it that Ringo Starr just bought a house here in Memphis.

Move over Cybill Shepherd.

He may have; he plays the nearby casinos every year. Ringo was my least favorite Beatle. Like he cares. But I did like the movie "Caveman" because it was so horrible.

Maybe this house isn't the one. But I-know-a-guy-who-knows-a-realtor who said he Ringo did buy a house. And he also said,"Yeah, and it's so big that his garage has a separate address."

I had a great aunt like that once. Big woman. Loved Doritos.

Maybe I'll go over one night and wait for him to hop in the ole Aston Martin for his trip over to the local Piggly Wiggly craving a pint of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra. And then, I'll jump out from behind a big bush, squeal, point, and throw a pair of panties in his hair.

And then he'll just stand there stunned and motionless, with some pink satin underwear hanging from his left ear, and he'll just look at me through his sunglasses until I get embarrassed and walk away, crunching off down the gravel driveway. Wondering why he's wearing sunglasses at night. And I'll think about how much I miss John and George. And how I still can't stand that uncooked biscuit Yoko who ruined everything, just everything.

Either that or I'll be ripped into several meaty pieces by two large Rottweilers with pinching testical clips.

Even though I wish it were Suggs from Madness instead, I still think it's cool that Ringo may or may not have bought a house here. It is a nice place to live. And if you ever come to visit, come hungry and bring your stretchy pants.

Monkey Scribblin' and Hamster Hagglin'

The Fair and Rodeo are coming to town here next week, and so I'm actually kinda busy in the process of that.

I could talk about my lifelong love for the Fair all day if I didn't have to work much akin to a common sucka.

Not rodeos, though. While I am willing to admit that I will visit the Millington GoatFest this weekend, I'm just not into the rodeo stuff – what with the assorted bull wranglin', calf scramblin', and pig jigglin' that I've never even heard of until I moved here, and I'm from the South. But I will do my part by eating deep fried chicken on-a-stick while petting a sheep or two. Ah, Fair food and live animal exhibits.

And the rides, don't forget the rides. I love the rides. The scariest part of a Fair ride is the probability that it was assembled hastily by someone who may have just finished off a 6-pack of Bud for breakfast. But probably the scariest thing at the Fair, besides the increased frequency of mullet sightings, is this year's offering known as Deep Fried Twinkie and the Glow-in-the-Dark Popsicles. Uh huh, they do so have them. Would I make that up?

Anyway, while I'm trying to figure out exactly how one jiggles a pig, tangles a turtle or garrots a goat, here's today's Cracker Jack Toy Surprise offerings for you. Enjoy!

(1) Travel to Japan on this acid trip. It's Cannibal Hello Kitty and she's making cat wontons. (Mmm... Good kitty.)


(2) Do tarot card readings freak you out? Because I just asked the Magic 8-Ball if they did and it said "As I See It, Yes". Oh, don't worry. It won't bite you, but beware – you may end up worshipping all the design work that went into this website.


(3) Here is something I have always wanted to be – a girl who could wear her butt as a hat . No, really. Yes, the images here are oddly fascinating, but not as creepy as the message board request for "mOrE PiCtUrEs of Feet." Gross.

This just in...

With a name like Wham-O, they should be the last to throw stones.*

*Note to Ron: see, this illustrates my theory beautifully: Life was a good idea on paper In The Beginning, but see how parts of it has mutated into a hideous, inside-out baboon?

Introducing "Elevator Shafts".

Or, the cast of characters and the comments I'm subject to overhear in the elevator. The ones that talk the most are the ones with the most to prove, the self-important business types who travel from floor to floor every morning. When two of these types get together, it's a lot like watching dogs pee on every fire hydrant or pole they encounter.

And writing about all the useless things they say could keep me busy for months.

Our story begins outside Elevator Number One. It's 9:02am. I am standing next to a Building Sasquatch, or someone who has been described to me many times before by trusted co-workers yet I have never sighted the Office Space Oddity myself. Like Loch Ness or a UFO or an episode of the Brady Bunch that is not entirely gooby, they might not exist until you see them for yourself.

No, it was not the fabled super-toxic smoking duo of Fatman and Robin. Nor was it the Redneck Camaro Driver who always parks backwards and sideways in the basement corner. It was the pregnant-bellied computer dude who wears stretchy demin pants that get tiny and tight at the cuff as he chugalugs Diet Coke out of a 126 oz. refillable plastic jug with bendable flexy straw.

Legend says it's definitely Diet Coke in there since he's often been spotted carrying a case of it with him.

To me, his cup looks more the size of a small wastepaper basket. Whether he has cheesecake batter or a pulverized brownie shake in his sippy-jug, he appears to be a Gentle Giant. Until possibly, you make a move for one of his action figures.

Ding one, the elevator cometh. The Diet Coke Giant politely steps back and lets me in first. Inside I assume my usual elevator stance, leaning against the right wall, crossing one foot over the other, and casting my eyes downward in silent meditation.

How many other people will get on? Hopefully not many. I like my elevator rides like I like my driving: getting green lights all the way with everyone staying three car-lengths back. Today, it's one of those typical days when it's not the quantity of the people getting on that annoy me, it's the quality.

Ding two, The Diet Coke Giant gets off on Floor Three. Yep, the Info Tech floor, I think. My brain quietly bids him a good day.

Ding three, two guys get on from Floor Four. One is a Smarmy Business Gloat and the other a Young Thin Lackey hopping around the Gloat, in hopes of impressing him.

(Note: If you've ever seen the Looney Tunes characters Spike and Chester, imagine that scenario here. )

Lackey (holding door for Gloat): "... he is an inCREDible speaker! Just inCREDible!..."

Gloat (booms):"... yyYESss... he is... AWEsome..."

Lackey: "HaveyoureadhisBOOK?! YouHAVEtoreadhisbook, ask Jason... JASON'llgiveittoyou, ask Jason –"

Gloat: "I started to read his book. It was boring."

Lackey (nervous laughing): "yeahyeah heheh, he's a MUCH better speaker than a writer yeahyeah... ask Jason! Ask Jason, he had PIZZA with the guy.... Pizza.... with NADER!"

Gloat (bloats up to posture): "Yeah well I had STEAK with him once."

Lackey: "I'm not SAYing that you DIDN'T..."

(awkward pause here, but I think I heard the Gloat king his own man in checkers)

Gloat (visibly puffing himself up, gripping his briefcase handle tighter) "Well, I PERsonally didn't LIKE having dinner with NADER. I had steak and he had asparagus... he's depressing because he says everything is bad for you...."

Ding four, they both saunter off the elevator. The marble halls amplify the Gloat's booming to sonic boomish.

One final ding. I've come to my floor. It's 9:09 am, and the Ralph Nader who invented the seatbelt sometimes eats pizza but prefers asparagus to steak, and managed to write one more boring book than the Gloat will ever read or write. Ah yes. Let another workday begin.

Polishing brass on the Titanic.

Hello, Monday! I'd have so much to write about if I could write about work. But I don't feel like getting sued. But as long as you've seen "Office Space" or BBC America's "The Office," you get the exact picture. Yeah, it's funny, but it's painful, too. I wish it could be more entertaining and less real. Oh well. One day closer for us all to being able to forget most everything wrong about it.

I feel seven thousand years old this morning. It's because I crawled all around in the attic yesterday. It's bigger up there than I thought. And hotter, too. I think part of my brain dried out and is stuck to the back of my sinuses. It was almost hallucinogenic at times. After seeing the tiny, hamster-hole that the big, round cable guy crawled through to run my cable modem into the front of the house, I'd like to find him and give him a pie. No, really.

Be right back, we're going to buy new office chairs. New chairs, can you believe it. I know I can't. Michael's finally imploded upon itself and keeled over sideways, and mine has always been a big piece of ergonomically incorrect shite. I can now refer to it as The Hobbler. Stephen King could make a million bucks off a chair like this that renders legs numb and strangles a butt to sleep. Goodbye, you bastard chair. If only I could set you on fire and toast marshmallows on you.

While I'm away building my new chair and intermittently working exactly like a sucka, here's something extemporaneous for you...

In one word: Cool.

TGIF

Yes, thank God that it is Friday indeed. But what I really meant was Fall. The stinky yet endearing veil of riverfunk that one gets used to around here in August, that terrarium-effect of humidity hanging over the Mississippi River, with that bruised, slightly brownish-green tint we all know and try not to think about is gone today. And the sky is blue. Blue, I tell you. Hallelujah.

Yes, there is a reason people in the South just seem to perform slower than the rest of the nation. A reason for gang-related violent crimes, such as murders and shootings. We call it Summer.

Goodbye, Summer. And take your West Nile mosquitos with you.


Oooooo yeah, I need to tell you about the Evil Abdominatrix.

I'll get back to that one after a word from our sponsor. Pancreas.

"Pancreas! It's what makes dogfood brown!"

And I think I collapsed mine at my new gym. Ok, I'll be back in a mo'...


Well, so much for a mo'...



I had to work. But let me show you the best product website found today for actually some of the tastiest infused water and herbal-combo drinkies I've found: Glaceau Smart Water and Vitamin Water. With the best sell-copy on the side of each bottle. I don't rave about bottled water. Most times, I just resent it because it's bland. And I hate it when product sell-copy tries to get too cute. This doesn't. Plus, the stuff is actually really good.

Oh man, I gotta go worship at the altar of The Evil Abdominatrix now... the world's worst and most horrible spine-splitting, gutt-wrenching abs machine. I like to watch people get on it and crunch up as hard as they can and watch the look on their faces as they stop and check for bloodstains. It is awful. It's what I'd imagine a turtle would feel like, forced to scrunch up into a ball in fear of the car bearing down on him, and then it runs him over. Is that why they're called "crunches"?

Ow.

Oh damn, is it Wednesday already?

It's been like that around here lately. You know how holidays on Mondays just throw you off for the rest of the week? Well, this Labor Day holiday on Monday was no exception. Except the part about Ron ironically and symbolically telling his boss to take-his-job-and-shove it, but that's another story.

It's a simple enough storyline though: When you make more money on eBay selling old yearbooks with once-localgirl Cybill Shepherd's 8th-grade picture in them than you do sorting through a box full of water-stained Sal Mineo albums day in, day out for some overgrown biting elfen man who may or may not have just purchased a gaggle of baby roaches living in an old army Victrola, well then, you stay home and sell old yearbooks with Cybill Shepherd in them.

Honestly, I am amazed at the things Ron knows and sells on eBay. Yes, the double-major in history and geography helps. Me, I just go for the shiny objects. Ron is like watching the Antiques Roadshow program on public television. He not only knows historically when something was produced, where it existed and why, but he does so in a market or region where that type of thinking and research is oftentimes overlooked first. And luckily, he runs across some of the coolest crapola because of that. I should know. Most of it is waiting quietly in the shrinking garage as we speak.

Requests welcome since he loves to find stuff, and check back often. If you're in the eBay neighborhood, search by eBay seller ronforsale. You honestly never know what you will find. Right now, he has enough Boy Scout memorabilia to make a grown Eagle Scout tingle. Make someone's Christmas holiday a greener shade of pale this year (read: Ron's), especially since Christmas falls on a Tuesday this year.

By the way: Good ole Thanksgiving. The holiday that gets absolutely no credit. But I love it. Always on a Thursday, year in year out. I didn't really think about that until I heard Leshondra talking about it in the Circle K convenience store one day. As she scratched an itchy part between her braids with long, plastic, fuschia nails, she mused factually to her co-worker, "I do hope Thanksgiving falls on a weekend this year. I don't get no weekdays off." Ah, the hopeful bliss of being truly unencumbered with facts and details. Gimme some.

My point: Anyway, so Ron quit his dayjob. Good. No, really. I needed to lose a few pounds anyway. So I joined a fitness club. Do they still call them that? Wait, no it's a Health & Fitness club, to be exact.

Things certainly have changed since I the last time I was in a gym. Number one, they don't call them gyms anymore. And number two, I'd like to stop and thank God that no one seriously wears tight, neon pink-and-blue Lycra floralprint and headbands anymore. All I saw was a sea of sensible white t-shirts, and more than one person with big, gray baggy shorts. Thank you. Like a carwash with gray dancing curtains swishing side-to-side.

Or maybe I was hallucinating. You know how it is when your body purges toxins and overdoses on endorphins at once. I don't care what anyone says, storing red wine in places your body doesn't use until a workout equals money and time well-spent.

Love it. But I am going to spin-class tonight. So you know what that means: It's a toss-up between blowing a kneecap and my first mini-stoke. Which will it be? The suspense is killing me. Or it could just be the tumor.

Ta.