Holy Sweet Mother of Shiny Pete: Leslie the Great went to a so-called ‘Women’s Expo’ this weekend.
I don’t know what got into the poor girl, but I for one would much rather die a slow, gobbling death by choking on my diaphragm than attend such an hideous estrofest. I gotta get down there to Tejas and see that girl. They’re messing up a perfectly good female somehow.
Oddly enough, when I was roaming around Birmingham (specifically, the Five Points South area) last week shooting photos I was pulled up short by hearing a guy on a sidewalk say, “Mmphy mumblegarble gokgok whonum on my blog sommina itzo.” It was odd, because I have never, ever in my three year’s-worth of scribbling in this here weblog, heard one mentioned by a stranger in conversation.
“Pardon me,” I said whilst approaching him, “did you say blog??”
Turns out he did, and upon asking for his URL I found out that he is hosted on ChattaBlogs, which is run by Josiah, who –in a weirdly ironic twist– had linked yours truly not one week before.
As a completely unrelated aside, Josiah appears to be both a Daniel Lanois and a Dashboard Confessional fan, making him all the more spectacular.
It’s spooky sometimes, the way the world keeps getting smaller and smaller.
For the person that landed here somehow whilst searching for a codependency quiz, never fear: I found this one and this one for you, because I’m a giver like that. I scored a five on one and a three on t’other, putting me in the “Eh, could be, but only very slightly, and that’s pretty farging normal-ish” range.
Had I taken them ten years ago? Woulda failed ‘em, no question. I make me so proud sometimes!
My spouse is cookin’ up a fresh batch of homebrew: Oatmeal Stout, supposedly a “smoother, better, heavenly-mouth-feel stout, creamy in nature and there’s about a halfa pounda oats innit.” (I would link HIS quote, but Maxim has not a blog, nor any interest in one, even though I try to tell him that there’s all kinds of self-affirmation and free boobies involved. He just rolls his eyes.)
This is my cue to flee, because the sickly burnt-hops smell makes me want to hurl each and every time.
I’ll be back later with a strangely-related story containing sputtering ire and creative swear-type words. In it, I get to be righteously indignant in the face of another parent’s muted righteous indignation and sneaky coward-tactics.
Just wait till I see that bitch.
Quite alarmingly, I have been very ’snacky’ today. Poofy Cheeto, anyone?
What are food scientists called, again? Petroleum engineers?
Whatever; those fuckers need to get to work on a low-carb poofy Cheeto, and STAT. <–see that? Already putting the heady medical terminology to good use. You people are so lucky to have me.
Best line all damned day:
“I didn’t realize Canada was a utopian paradise where everyone lives in peace and bliss, and one need not even lock one’s doors, ever! And they just don’t get Americans, because apparently all we want to do is kick everyone’s ass and call it a day.”
(scored by way of the deliciously irreverent Geoffrey)
And if I waved the whooshing wand of wordsmithy over political-type things on this here weblog, I’d want the resultant magic to be as fine and wonderful a product as this here.
