As I said on Twitter, in black and white, Twain’s hair looks disheveled and old-man-y. In color, it looks like bedhead.
Anyway, the back end of the book is apparently just Twain snarking on everything, including the Atheneaum in Columbia. I love his description of the mule race and wish we could have one here in town. Or, shoot, Columbia, once you forgive him for making mean comments about the Atheneaum, you could have mule races I would attend.
What we can learn from this Metro Pulse post.
1. Stacey Campfield has some strange ideas about what airline pilots get up to in their free time.
2. While I don’t believe you should fuck Stacey Campfield just out of general principle, you should for sure now not fuck Stacey Campfield, because he doesn’t understand how sexually transmitted diseases are transmitted. And he is a grown up. With internet access. And he doesn’t think straight people can get AIDS. And he’s an elected official. In charge of making the laws that govern us. People, he’s MY AGE!!!!
3. He’s not ashamed to be out in public spouting his monkey-fucking airline pilot giving gay people AIDS which heterosexual people cannot get from heterosexual sex conspiracy theories.
My mind continues to be boggled by this nincompoop.
I wanted to spend the evening with my new history boyfriend, Mark Twain, but the Butcher wanted to watch TV, so I got sucked into watching TV with the Butcher. Which is a fine way to spend an evening, don’t get me wrong. I love trying to guess in the first five minutes what the plot will be.
But I dreamed about Mark Twain all night. In my sleep. Which I had! Solid and uninterrupted.
I don’t want to get too excited because lord knows I thought this cold was going away last Friday and here it is almost Friday again, but I slept through the night.
It’s the small victories, people.
Anyway, if we lived in a mansion, I’d have just gone into the library and read Mark Twain.
Of course then I’d be complaining that the Butcher and I never spend time together.
So, there you go. Nothing makes me happy, except the possibility of finally not being sick.