1. Jayne’s grandpa died.
2. La Chola has been covering Andrea Smith’s failed tenure bid. Yes, you can be nominated for a Nobel prize and that’s not good enough for Michigan.
3. But now the Chronicle is writing about it and, god damn, will someone explain to me where all the fuckers on that site come from? It’s like a breeding ground for high and mighty idiots. I swear to god, someone just said, “It is interesting that the websites ThinkGirl.net and La Chola have no clue about whether Dr. Smith deserves tenure or not. Her support is strictly based on her background.” and yet, like you now know because you looked at La Chola’s website in the last link, La Chola has a big clue about whether Dr. Smith deserves tenure.
I don’t know what you call this, other than an asshole move, but I see this frequently in academia from members of certain groups, where they are so used to having their positions taken as gospel that they can tell you to look at something then make a statement that is directly contradicted by what you just looked at and they have this kind of smug expectation that you will defer to their lie (something they have got to know is a lie because they pointed you to the information that disproves what they’re saying) rather than stand up for the truth.
And what pisses me off about this in myself is that I often don’t make an issue out of it. I just keep my head down and nod like I agree, while trying to take solace in the fact that at least I know it’s a lie.
4. Oh, Viking Cat, consider me pillaged!
Bleh, who wants to spend Friday afternoon working? Not me. I want to put on some medium old country music and sing along–Take my ha-and and you’ll feel that feeling. I said, yes, just lead me on.
I always thought that that song should always be paired with this song. When you listen, the real treat, I think, is the way Twitty says “Lay” then a slight pause then “you” then pause “down” and then he slides right into “and softly whisper pretty love words in your ear.” Bleh! It gives me the fun heebie jeebies just thinking about it. I swear, all of Twitty’s best songs could be summed up as follows “Man who’s slept with thousands of women defiles virgin or near-virgin and then sings about her like she’s the only woman on earth.” If Trace Adkins covered either or both of these songs, I’d have to ask you to excuse me while I spent some alone time with my iPod.
But, hey, why don’t you have some fruitful alone time with this blog? Just hit play and imagine I’m there with you, loudly and, perhaps drunkenly, singing these songs in your ear while you try to get work done.
Here’s T.G. and here’s Conway.
*As always, I have no speakers at work, so let me know if the songs aren’t working.
I’m here on the computer. The dog is asleep on the couch. The tiny cat is sitting at the dog’s food bowl, trying to eat the dog’s food. I have drawn this illustrative picture to, uh, illustrate the problem.
And, also, may I just say, first, that I kick butt. Look at the scientifically accurate drawing I was able to render with my right hand. And second, damn, right handers, no wonder you’re all the time running around so fucking grouchy. Writing with your right hand is hard. I’ve come to believe that we lefties have shorter life expectancies because y’all, in your seething anger at our abilities to write without suffering, kill us off.