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Archive for October, 2004

|| October 7, 2004 || 12:34 pm || Comments (13) ||

Dear Fellow Webloggers:

That’s it. We’re all officially douchebags. I just heard the term ‘blogosphere‘ on the national news.


Jett “‘Bout Sicka This Nonsense” Superior

pee ess….Warbloggers, I blame this shit on you. You’re like the drunk great-uncle with wild-fuzzy hair, a whiskey bottle in one fist, a cane resting across his knee and a really, really bad case of PTSD. Amusing –and maybe even a tad cute– with his fist-shaking and copious spit-splutter-talk routine while at home, but heartily embarrassing when you dance him out into the public arena.

|| October 6, 2004 || 1:08 pm || Comments (7) ||


backdoor.Coreflood…and the virus-scanny crap can’t fix it! This means I will have to do the near-impossible, I fear; I will have to execute the nasty regedit command and fiddle around in parts hostile to a technotard.

I have beads of sweat forming at my temples just thinking on such actions, but I will boldly go forth with my fingers crossed at the next possible moment (which, right now, appears to be next Tuesday). E-mail still fux0r3ed, sorry; I’ll get back to you all and to blogging once real life and my machine permit such things.


pee ess, because this ties totally in:


You are mRNA. You’re brilliant, full of important,
interesting information and you’re a great
friend to the people you care about. You may
have sides to you that no one understands. But
while you understand more than most people,
you’re only half-there most of the time.

Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Though my computer goes unfixed, I blog bravely onward for you, dear Muffinasses.

ME: Let’s do a recap of my day, shall we?

YOU: Yes, my loveliest of darlings, lets!

That wot I saw:

This afternoon I pulled up to a stop sign about the same time as a guy in a white Maxima (I would fully permalink that for you international folks that aren’t familiar with the low-end Toyota product, but I’m fucking tired and I don’t wanna /WHINE). Being full-on gracious like my momma taught me, I waited patiently for him to proceed. He opened his door, stepped out of the car, and proceeded to pick something off of his way-beyond-shiny car, then buffed the spot with his shirtsleeve. I was all, “…the FUCK??” It was just so wrong and so laughably goofy on more levels than one.

That wot I felt:

Funnel cake is always a Once-A-Year Good Idea until I get about five bites into the thing. Pardon me while I go barf on your mother, your sister and all of your unborn children (okay, maybe not the littlest one…he’s soooo cuuuuute!).

That wot I thot:

“Yeah, champy, I’m gonna pay nine bucks for a plate of lo-mein, vegetables and grilled chicken-on-a-sticken? I think not.

“I’ll wait until the end of the day and you are shutting the food caravan up tight for the four-hunnert and eighty-mile trip to the next podunk production. I’ll have my salmonella at the low, low markdown price of three bucks, thank you.”

That wot I heard:

Idiot Friend* Three’s mother and I were on the phone this afternoon. I was inquiring as to my son’s whereabouts, since he was off galloping about our fair township with Idiot Friend One. This brought up the subject of why IFO can no longer spend the night over at IFT’s house.

See, IFT’s mom is a lesbian. A lesbian who I am, quite frankly, proud to call friend. She is a good, good person. She is one of the neatest people I know, and one of those that –because of her utter coolness and so-on-so-forth– keep me from choking on the cookie-cutter personalitiness of this place.

(here I am shaking my fist at that notion. you know, toward the window….because all the baddies that comprise this community are out there)

Seems that, despite IFT’s momma’s still-in-the-closet status, IFO’s mother got wind of the whole ‘Gee, she’s gay’ thing. And, as you have surely put together by now, she reacted poorly by restricting the playtime of children. This, fair readers, is to me quite odd. You got a beef with the kid? Fine. Restrict time. You got a beef with the lack of care and/or concern your child receives while at their home? Fine. Don’t allow your child in that place.

But to seperate your child from one who comes from a stable, loving home where he is well-cared-for while he’s there? Makes no sense to me. ESPECIALLY in light of the fact that IFT’s mother is, I dunno, IN THE FUCKING CLOSET FOR THE BENEFIT OF HER KID AND HIS STANDING IN THE COMMUNITY. She’s not gettin’ all lesbo up in the boys’ faces. Were I able to address this to IFO’s mother, I’d be all, “Whatchoo afraid of, sister? That some of the dyke flava is gonna be imparted upon your kid?

“I don’t know about you, lady, but I want my boy to grow up and be a shining example of lesbianism. I want him to looooooove the wimmins.

“I byGod would like me some grandbabies on down the line.”

*There are Idiot Friends One through Five. They are named such for their propensity to call over and over in the space of one afternoon and leave tedious, impossibly rambly messages for Sam that say, in effect, “Hey man, call me back when you get this.”

I long ago ceased to yell, “Tell your Idiot Friends to cut that nonsense out!”; instead, I am keeping a running tab in my head. For every extra message, I am planning elaborate embarrassing moments that I intend to execute when they are all sixteen and at the height of postured-cool and easily-humiliatedness. Don’t think that Momma ain’t payin’ no ‘tention, boys. MWAAAAAHHHHHHahaha.