"Then we shoot dogs and have a party."

You know, it's the optimism in me that always makes me forget just how boring business can be -- I mean real business, like being busy for the sake of producing practical business items to sell. Belch. Then being lazy after being busy like that is, well, just depressing. It's an endless circle that looks exactly like a pie chart to me. So I've got nothing much to talk about unless you feel like talking about lumps of coal and projects due in 24 hours, with a 2-liter Coke and breadsticks for only $17.99.

On top of this, it's a full moon, and I have developed another undying obsession with Borat and Kazakstan.

I am embarrassed to say that I am addicted to a terrible song. This is partly Scott's fault because he introduced me to this particular song Borat performed in a cowboy bar in Tucson, Arizona.

No, it's not one of those dandy-fop, leather-chapped cowboy bars in NYC where the conversation is witty and the talk turns to rugged fabrics over three or four cosmopolitans. No, this one is a little more authentic, where they actually ask you to "give a hoot'n' a holler" to this person on the stage, but it's not as rough as the bar in The Blues Brothers where they sang "Rawhide" in a chicken-wire cage.

So now I'm basically stuck in this quagmire (bonus points for use of the word "quagmire") over this horrible song named "In My Country There is Problem". I apologize to anyone who doesn't know me, to those who do know me, and to anyone who doesn't understand that his approach is actually brilliant.

Anyway, Ron found the official site of Kazakstan, and now I know why Borat's fun evening in Kazakstan is shooting dogs and having a party. They have a game (under "Culture", nine links down in National Games) in which you Fight Over a Goat's Carcass. What? Am I making fun? Man, give peace a chance. It's fascinating.

Luckily, I can't find the video clip for you to actually see Borat sing it. It'd only make things worse for you because you'd have the images of the innocent Borat with his giant cowboy hat on and his unwashed-for-seven-years suit (so he said and I believe) singing amongst a bunch of semi-cowgirls and -boys in a bar who find it ok to sing along with this song.

Oh, I can't say anything. I skip down the street singing it now. This is the first day since I have seen it that I haven't woken up with it in my head. I hope that's not one of the first signs of schitzophrenia.

Oh rats. I found it. Here. Enjoy, and I'll save you a seat at my new support group, "Misunderstanding Laughter at the Expense of the Audience, Not the Song, So Don't Hate Me or Anyone, Ever, Unless it's Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan."


And finally:

Who knew, in the spirit of "shakin' those haters", this week is No Name Calling Week. Next week, it's Explosion of Repressed Rage Week. Oh, you saw that one coming from a mile away, didn't you? Well, I cannot wait.