Oh, wrinkly fries
Oh, wrinkly fries
How golden are your ridges?
Oh, wrinkly fries
Oh, wrinkly fries
You’re better than some bridges
Which go over water, yes it’s true
But I am so in love with you
That I would eat you the whole day through.
Oh wrinkly fries, my favorite.
Oh, how I wish I were a postmodern gal. I would use the word ‘pastiche’ without irony and try to pass this post off like I’m doing something experimental, but really? I’m just having one of those mornings where everyone else has already said what I wanted to say, but better.
—Gandalph Mantooth mourns the loss of YouTube to someone with enough money to make it worth it for companies to sue over copyright infringement.
–I read Tom all the time. I need to update my blog roll. Anyway, today he tackles the story of the runaway bride’s lawsuit against her former future husband. Good times.
–I don’t know. I find it kind of endearing that Keith Olbermann sucks in bed. I’m sure if it was in the NYPost, it was a part of their efforts to make his life miserable, but really? So he sucks in bed. I suck in bed. Half the people I’ve had sex with suck in bed. So what? Some people are made for one night stands; they bring their A game to every encounter. Others of us make weird zombie duck noises or hit the horn with our foot or have to yell, “Ow, ow, stop. Holy shit. Look, what is that? A piece of dog food? That fucker hurt. No I’m not kidding. You lay down on top of it and I’ll get on top of you and then you can tell me how much it doesn’t hurt. Jackass. Okay, fine, it is a little funny.” or realize at some point that what you’re doing is so deadly boring that the cat is asleep at the end of the bed. (I mean, really, folks. You think having a cat watch you have sex is weird. Try having the cat fall asleep while watching you. That’ll crush your ego.)
Of course, it’s worse for guys, because no matter how much I suck, I’m still better than the girls that just lay there, staring at the ceiling or off at the clock. It’s wrong to take comfort in women’s fucked up attitudes towards sex, but I do anyway. Because at least I’m trying to have a good time. I may just be a three, but there are a lot of twos and ones out there.
Whew! It’s hard work watching football. Look at the fans on the couch. You can practically taste the excitement.
1. The Nashville Knucklehead can juggle chicken.
2. Chris Wage likes me and is going to teach me about anarcho-communo-leftist libertarianism.
3. I had to stop off at Walgreens after work* to pick some tiny toothpaste for my trip to Memphis and I called the Butcher to see if we needed anything and he said, “Yes, peanut M&Ms” which is not that funny upon telling it, but something about the way he said it makes me laugh to think about it still.
4. So, I met this girl, Kate O at Amanda’s birthday party and she was all “Oh, I have a blog but it’s on LiveJournal so you probably don’t read it.” and I said, “Probably not.” and then I got home and thought “Wow, I bet she’s got a cool blog” but thought nothing more of it. Then, I was reading Bloglines today and what did I see?
One revelation: we determined that I’m older than Aunt B, who is older than most of the other party guests, so I guess all you crazy kids can start calling me Great Aunt Kate or something. Come to think of it, feed me homemade dolmas and some crazy delicious cheeses, and I really won’t care what you call me
Yes, I read Kate’s blog already! I’m just too “Aunt B., World’s Worst Detective” to realize it when I met her.
5. I’m going to have lunch with Smiley and I’m having wrinkly fries.
6. I’ve been letting these farts so stinky that Mrs. Wigglebottom got up, gave me the most disgusted look, and moved across the room. Then, a few seconds later, the Butcher went “Oh my god” and pulled a pillow over his face.
Usually, he does that to me in the car, which, I think, is much worse. But I’m enjoying having my revenge.
7. YT over at Yankee, Transferred is all nervous about meeting me on Friday. I will just point out that I am blogging about rancid farts. It is now physically impossible for her to NOT be classier than me.
8. So, my co-worker comes into my office this morning and says, “So, I’m going to rent a car for Memphis.” “Okay.” “And your next question is…” “A convertible?” “No, it’s ‘Why?'” “Okay, why?” “Because my car has a million miles on it and it doesn’t have a CD player.” “Cool.” “You know, I want to get there in time to see the ducks.”
*No, Exador, not for a pregnancy test.
Tiny Cat Pants 