A Random Image

Archive for November, 2005

Because this is the best quiz result ever, so SHUT UP.

You are Tater Tots. Go get your own!!

Which Napoleon Dynamite character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I wasn’t just dreaming, Donny Osmond DID record ‘Soldier Of Love’ in 1989. Holy God, we are all going to die.

It’s sort of interesting to me that lately none of the titles are, ehm, syncing up with the entries. So, if they’re not beholden to do that why not just go all out and have a literary spasm erupt in place of a title? Has about as much meaning, I ’spose. Henceforth, I will do that. All bets are off, of course, if I luck upon a really, really great and super-superb descriptive header that is actually representative of the post’s content. Well, then.

Why write the post? Why not just let the header stand there on its own, basking in naked, unadulterated, non-pasteurized and no-preservative-having glory?

Some titles that have careened around a corner in my brain lately are as follows:

+ Turn A Different Corner And We Never Would Have Met. Would You Care?*

+ I’ll Beat You To Death With Your Laptop.

+ I’d Buy That Guitar If Only It Sported A Girlier Pickguard.

+ The Best Nickname I Ever Had Was ‘Slick’, Heh-Heh.

+ And That’s When Your Head Split Into Four And A Flower Shot Out The Top Of Each One.

+ My Kid Dressed Up As Angus Young For Halloween. Be Judgmental Of Me As A Parent, You Fucker.

+ Once Upon A Time In The Land Of Kajagoogoo

I will also be experimenting with the practice of ending entries abruptly and with no evidentiary transitioning nor the standard punchy, well-wrapped summation which usually follows. Let’s get it on.

Speaking of getting it on, why is it that, every time I work my breasts out of the standard holster and rub them in relief at the end of the day, my husband behaves as if I’m doing that solely for his benefit? The real-time image of a chick rubbing her tits is apparently a magical, magical thing, no matter how many times it’s been witnessed previously.

That’s all I got, folks. Go on, scoot now.

*Thank you SO MUCH, George Michael, for all the trucked-up teenybopper angst. Good LORD.