Thursday, March 27, 2008

I hope you're not letting yourself be influenced by the guns these pocket edition desperados are waving around.

Happy Friday! I'm writing a murder mystery. What do you think? Be honest. I consider this my Magnum Opus.

Chapter One: Charisma Hits the Dance Floor

To say Charisma Ponderosa "appeared" at the top of the Grand Staircase wouldn't be entirely accurate. She didn’t so much appear as she faded slowly into focus in much the same manner as the bartender’s face fades slowly into focus once you’ve fallen off your barstool and flat on your ass after your seventh Tequila Popper.

Atop her poorly bleached hair sat a tiara adorned with enormous faux diamonds. She wore a red sequined gown that she’d been poured into… out of a Soft Serve ice-cream machine. The sequins had the appearance of scales making her look like some gigantic red iguana which had escaped from a fifties horror film by way of "Saturday Night Fever."

Draped around her hips was a loose, zebra-skinned sashay belt which hung just above her thighs. Her large feet were stuffed sausage-like into a pair of expensive polka-dotted designer shoes. You could see the perfume she’d applied generously about her form from the ballroom floor.

Charisma was a vision. A peyote-induced vision, but a vision nevertheless.

She waved. It was the wave rodeo princesses’ use in backwater Fourth of July parades. A slow back and fourth, elbow firmly planted in mid-air. It was the wave of royalty. It was the wave of dismissal.

Charisma began to slowly sashay down the stairs with the intent of making a big entrance. She had no idea that she would accomplish that goal in spades. As she stepped down the stairs her belt suddenly slipped loose and dropped down to around her feet.

She staggered to maintain her balance, but her feet were hopelessly entangled in five-hundred dollars of zebra-skinned doom. Time briefly froze as the crowd at the bottom of the stairs gasped in unison. That is except Charisma’s sister Eunice who was snickering to herself in the corner.

Gravity quickly slapped the lot of them back into reality as Charisma started to tumble down the marble stairs head over heels, a pinwheel of red sequins bouncing with ever increasing velocity. Diamonds, zebra-skin, polka-dots, diamonds, zebra-skin, CRASH!

The coroner’s initial report was simple and concise. "Death by sashay, sashay."

I never get out of this cave.

Does anyone know why this creationist class at natural history museum doesn't qualify as child abuse?

It does make it clear to me why teens seem to have rebellion coded into their genes. It's a survival instinct that evolved over millions of years to help us throw off the views of dumb-ass parents like these home-schooling knuckle-draggers.

I'm also a bit confused as to why the museum allows this. They say they don't want to make them feel persecuted but what about the other patrons? If this was an art museum and somebody regularly brought through a group of kids while loudly proclaiming that every single piece of art hanging on the walls was terrible I don't think they'd permit that for very long.

We need to stop coddling stupidity for pete's sakes.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

I've never had anything to say about that long-winded jackanapes, but he sure does know a way how to start a war.

McCain Asserts Allied Invasion of Normandy Could Mean World War 2.

McCain Asserts Ending Sex Will Prevent Pregnant Woman From Giving Birth.

McCain Asserts Closing Barn Door Could Prevent Yesterday's Escaped Horse.

You get the idea.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

TISH. That's French.

Becca over at No Smoking in the Skullcave has done an absolutely terrific drawing of the Addam's Family that would do Charles Addams proud.

Your husband had told me you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. I didn't expect the most beautiful woman I'd ever met.

The results of a recent study on happiness in marriage were released yesterday and among other things they found this--

Here's a story for all the guys who will never be voted the World's Sexiest Man. A new study suggests ugly men with beautiful wives are happiest.

I'm not sure what that means in the big picture but it does go a long way towards explaining this--

Although this is a little worrisome--

Psychologists at the University of Tennessee have found that in marriages where the husband is more attractive than his wife, the man is often unhappy, and that leads to trouble.

Because as beautiful as my wife is, it has to be a concern to both of us that the adjective used most often to describe me is "Clooneyesque."

UPDATE - Because Fran demanded pictures. This is me performing my one man show "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son" at the Met and not singer/ actress Rosemary Clooney as it may appear at first glance.

Monday, March 24, 2008