Daily Archives: March 8, 2011
I am a fan of the news. I like watching news, hearing it, less so when I pull it out of a fortune cookie so see here now;
I hate Fox News. Yet, I seem to have a weakness for women who read the news. You would think I were a Fox viewer, and you are a fucking moron for thinking so. The women on Fox are not real. The women on Fox have their hair done up like a Jim Bakker wet dream and they all have the stare of a doe. I’ll come up with a Real Anchorwomen post sooner or later but let it be known that just because a girl is on TV that don’t mean I’m sitting there with my mouth open.
I just like the facts. When facts fall out of female mouths, and they happen to be extraordinarily vivacious, I go duuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. It is my god-damned privilege to be a God-Damned Idiot here on this blog as in life.
Is what I do. So much so that I would like to share something art-worthy that I found.
That’s right; someone used to cast penises, usually famous ones and uh, I don’t know what she does with them and it is not my job to ask.
But seriously, folks, Congress included, let’s stop acting like dicks. I done did it today by acknowledging yet another anchorgal crush on this site(see below). I also have space in a future harem for Hala Gorani, but will you SHUT UP RON thank you muchly and continue saying neat things about art, and being funny and gay and laughing all day at shit that ain’t funny.
I think this lady is hilarious. Go see her stuff if you are Chicago-bound, bless you on your pilgrimage.
You were going to just go to work rather than let me know it is International Women’s Day?
I must not be trying at all. I can’t piss you off today. I’ll find a way. Shame on the boys, obviously, and shame on the girls. Obviously. I will post a picture of Erin Burnett because you have angered me so. Meow, here’s Erin:
Note briefly that I have not objectified Erin except as an object of fantasy, not boobs, legs or anything of the sort. She is whip smart, and has more style than any one of us could pull together.
But she is hot. Smoking hot.
I ain’t cute. I drink out of a toilet mug, and the other pets in my wife’s house drink from an actual toilet.
Why are we all so hung up on the toilet?, Blowing up the question, what is it with out obsession with the entire water closet? It’s like we like water. Water, as you know, makes up 2/3 of our bodies and 2/3 of the earth itself so nature answers my dumb questions this morning. I don’t know what it expects from me anyway-it’s early, I am wearing a button down shirt and thermal underwear while I write.
But anyway, aside from the kitchen, the toilet is the room Everyone Wants To Be In. A room so small you could enshrine yourself and your family in it and say it was a mausoleum. Some of us get reading done in there, even. I do occasionally. I was one of those kids who read the shampoo bottles while I sat. I learned a lot of chemical names, like “laureth sulfate” or “cocamide” or some bullshit with the # symbol defining what batch of dye it was.
Lately, as a good manic depressive, I read my drug facts, but I don’t take them to the toilet, mind you. I’m on Depakote, Zyprexa, and, naturally, Ativan because I am such a good manic depressive. NOW you know I got worry when I run that list, don’t you?
I leave you with some good music if I can find some. Here you go:
Some of us, that is to say, some of you, like to send me links to websites that I do not want to go to. Ordinary people refer to this as “spam”, and it can wind up in your e-mail box, and it can end up on your personal website.
I get both, because I have both.
If I like what you do, I will link your fucking bullshit on the right side of my blog. If I think your shit is opportunistic and worthless, I will make it look like you said that your grandmother is still sucking cock after all these years and that you can’t wait to be next.
WordPress does not want you on my site. I don’t want you there. Go away unless you have something meaningful to say, creeps.