Get Rick Astley Out of My Head

I don't know how that rat bastard got in there, but "Together Forever" is inexplicably on Play/Repeat in there and I think I'm going to have to jam something in my ear to remove him.

Another Dream from Wingal

Two last night, actually, though one isn't as interesting... it was essentially a High School Reunion on a train that stopped someplace so we could pick berries, and one of the girls I hated in high school kept purposely hindering me from picking berries, so I slammed her against a tree, picked some, and then she told on me and I got in trouble. *SIGH*

The other one, though, was far more interesting. It involved all of my sorority sisters and the entire guest list from Samantha's wedding (your parents were in my dream, and Amanda and EVERYONE else). The Delta Zetas and I were all living in various stores in a mall, which was great because we had all been invited (along with the guests at Samantha's wedding) to Ellen Degeneres's birthday party. I don't even watch her show, so I have no idea where that came from. Anyway, the party was on the top floor of the skyscraper that contained the mall in which we all lived. I was sharing a store (?) with Robbi, who locked me out, so I had to beg Ressler and Jenny to help me find clothes (from their stores) for the party because all I had was jeans and a Cincinnati Reds shirt. My hair, however, looked AWESOME. We had to take a rollercoaster to the party, which was very upsetting to Jenny, who was convinced she was going to fall out. So, we all get to the party (wherein the people from Samantha's wedding come, Kate, Paul, etc.) and there are all of these movie stars there and apparently Cher and I go WAY back!! Old friends. And also, I have a long-standing flirtation with Sylvester Stallone, who was following me around and hitting on me, wearing this black and red, sleeveless muscle shirt. It was very off-putting and I was trying to hide from him for most of the night. It all ended with a dance party out on the balcony and me throwing a shoe at somebody.

Interpretations, anyone?

Queer Eye is needed in my office.

Months of construction have some to an end in my office. We had a free day off on Friday while they painted.

The room where the photocopiers are looks like the inside of a banana's rectum.

It's so bright yellow that a play mat and some pre-schoolers would not look out of place.

There also have been several half walls that have appeared from nowhere. One is bight blue and one is purple.

I work in fucking Romper Room.

Back to the Mattress Room

We were out to dinner with friends the other night,and we were all telling stories and one of them was about how I met Causgrove.

"Wait Kevin Causgrove?" my friend asked. "We went to high school with a Kevin Causgrove."

"Little guy, glasses, seems a bit off, but still a good time?"

"Yeah!"

Did I mention my friends are from Michigan?

Moment of silence.

Let us bow our heads and say a prayer for our recently departed Pluto from the planet club. Ahh Pluto, we hardly knew ye.

Hot Hot Hot Dirty Smut for all you Bibliophiles

ooooooohhhhhhh sooooo diiiirrrttyyyyy. Now if you excuse me, I need some alone time with my reference collection...

http://thenonist.com/index.php/thenonist/permalink/hot_library_smut/

Ninjas? Pirates? Ninjas AND Pirates?!?

Okay, I'm serious. Go here right now:

www.askaninja.com/index.php

and watch Ask a Ninja: Special Delivery 7 "Pirates of the Caribbean"

No matter how much you like Johnny Depp, it is the funniest review of ANYTHING you have EVER heard. Granted, it's a little biased, considering that Ninjas and Pirates...well, you know. What with the antagonism and all. YAR.

Survivor: Midnight Margaritas

Can we vote people off this blog? (You know who you are.)

I'm just kidding, of course. I'm no fan of Survivor, but I do sometimes wish I could vote a few people out of my personal life, say, or out of the office. Or maybe I could just vote that we all get to go home early and have chocolate martinis on the house. Anyone's house. Except mine.

Yes. It's Inexplicable.

In keeping with the inexplicable Star Trek theme, this might tell us all a little more than we want to know about ourselves. Sorry I don't know how to link it. You'll just have to cut-and-paste. Quit your whining.

http://quizfarm.com/test.php?q_id=111863


And yes, we all want to know the results.

Thorn Birds

Just wanted to say that I noticed today that the young monks roaming our campus are my age and HOT. One was wearing a yellow t-shirt and a gold chain underneath his white robes and he and another monk (again, my age and HOT) were checking email. So help me, I heard one of them say "Duuuuuuude..." I don't know if I can be Catholic anymore... And the fact that the Max Scuttlebutt story is getting longer and raunchier doesn't help.

New Game: A Turtle's Story

(So let's all write a story, a paragraph at a time. Leave elipses to mark the end of the section, so we know where people left off and picked up. Wingal will begin:)

Once upon a time there was a turtle named Max Scuttlebutt and he was a loser. He was completely incapable of dressing himself, mostly because he always made bad choices. For example, he generally purchased his clothing from Sears. He went everywhere on a tricycle with a "I love Dick Cheney" bumpersticker on the rear. He had gotten a picture of William Shatner tatooed to his shell. He also only listened to techno music and frequently drank Zima. Most of his friends suspected that Max might be gay, but Max didn't think that he was. In fact, he had been looking for a new girlfriend for ages, but no one would have him because ... he smelled like macaroni pretty much all the time.

One afternoon, Max thought he'd take his trusty tricycle up into the mountains, reasoning that he'd have a much better chance of finding a woman if he could figure out where they were hiding, and that being high up would give him a nice view of potential hiding places. He also thought it not unreasonable to hope for a clear view down someone's neckhole. It had been a long time. As he cycled up and up and up, the air began to thin and Max began to see things out of the corners of his eyes. Well, he'd always had bad vision. Surely he was imagining things. So he kept on. Finally Max rounded the bend that would take him up the final winding trail to the highest point where he could look down and search for women. There was a sudden movement ahead of him. Max blinked. Oh, that's strange, he thought, peddling a little faster. I could swear I just saw a ...

. . .Starbucks. But why the hell would there be one out here in the mountains? Max back peddled to see if he was hallucinating or if indeed he could stop for a breather and get himself a Venti iced-half-caf-tripple-mocha-latte-with no foam. The thought of the tasty beverage made his nipple hard with anticipation. Indeed! It WAS a Starbucks. Oh eternal joy and rapture! Max dropped his bike, totally forgetting his earlier plan of spotting poontang from above, and rushed to the barista. His effervescent pasta smell filled and cleared the area around the food counter. Fumbling for his wallet, Max looked up at the barista to order his pretentious-nipple-hardening drink, when suddenly. . .

...he realized that the barista was Bruce Vilanch from T.V.'s "Hollywood Squares." Knowing that Bruce Vilanche was capable of eating ANYTHING and fearing for his life, Max started to back away. As he did so, Bruce Vilanch burst into tears and started sobbing uncontrollably over the previous customer's espresso. "Mr. Vilanch?" Max said plaintively, still fearing for his life, but also being a caring individual. "Are you okay?" Bruce straightened himself up and said, "You thought I would eat you, didn't you? Everyone's still afraid I'm going to eat them." Bruce sighed heavily and Max took pity on him. Max waited around until Bruce went on break and then the two of them bonded over chocolate chip scones and Grande iced chai lattes. Upon learning of Max's burning desire for lady turtle poontang, Bruce laughed and slapped his thigh jovially. "It's your lucky day," Bruce exclaimed to Max. "It just so happens that when I'm not working at Starbucks, I secretly pimp out young female turtles. As a matter of fact, I gots me one little biatch who's willing to take her shell off for...

...anyone who quacks like a duck. Realistically, of course."
"Of course," said Max calmly. Inside, however, he was squirming. If there was one thing Max was good at, it was quacking like a duck. Realistically. "If you're interested," said Bruce slyly, "She's right around back..." Max hastily stood up. "Am I!" He paused, "Would you like the rest of my chocolate chip scone?" "Would I!" exclaimed Bruce, and Max headed out to the alley behind Starbucks, a shady place if there ever was one. He shivered and peered into the shadows for poontang. "Hi there, big fella," someone whispered. Max jumped. There she was, the turtle of his dreams. Voluptuous, sensual, green and pebbly...and all but naked. She stood before him wearing only stilettos, twirling her shell seductively on a finger. "Quack for me, baby," she demanded suddenly, tossing her shell over the coarse skin of her luscious shoulder. Max melted. He quacked realistically like he'd never quacked before. Together they quacked and loved and loved and quacked there in the alley. And then it was over...much too quickly. "You're amazing, baby," she gushed. "Hold me." Max complied. As he stood there, however, he noticed something he'd been in too much of a hurry to notice before...Huh, I think she's a man, he thought tenderly. Wow, now it all makes a strange awesome kind of sense. William Shatner, Dick Cheney, Zima, Sears... It's true, he thought. It's always been true. I AM gay. I'm...GAY. And as he stood there in that shady Starbucks alleyway, holding his naked turtle transvestite lover in his short, stubby little arms, he raised his head. "I AM GAY!" he shouted for all the world to hear. "Gay Gay gay gay gay gay gay! And furthermore...I'M IN LOVE!" His lover gasped. Max let him/her go. "...WITH BRUCE VILANCH!" And with that, Max ran inside to consummate his relationship with Bruce, who, luckily for him, felt similarly and had no strong aversion to the smell of pasta.

THE END

My Husband

Fraggle Rock Revisited and Trekkie Time

A couple of things, briefly. Mrs. Swain wants to be the stoned Fraggle.... appropriately for her, his name is Boober. Jenny absolutely can be the sexy French Fraggle that Gobo's Uncle (played by Raphael) hooked up with in Paris. I have never thought about the seductive skills of Fraggles and I'm fairly certain Jim Henson didn't either. HOWEVER, Jim Henson was behind the movie "Labyrinth" and we all know that David Bowie's package is rather pronounced in his leotard costuming as the Goblin King, thus Jim Henson was not insensible to such sexual issues... Yes, I believe that Fraggles could be seductive. I'm sure there were Fraggle women with Doozer fetishes and I'm sure those Fraggle ladies were cast out of all good Fraggle society for gettin' freaky with the Doozers. I'm also sure that Freud would have had a field day with the fact that they lived in CAVES and that they ate the Doozers' erections (architecturally speaking). Suddenly I think Fraggles were kind of whoooores...

And secondly, my brother made me aware of the video I posted below. This is just one of several and I had a hell of a time choosing which one to post. I may gradually post the others if you all want to see them or have difficulty finding them. I watched "Trekkies" yesterday and have had "Star Trek" on the brain for a couple of days. No idea why. It's a mystery. But I always knew Spock had it in him. I always knew.

Star Trek 2.0 - Karaoke

So this is flippin' hysterical and I had to share it with you all because... I had to.

Cons**r*cy The*ries

The last thing I want is to use any key words or phrases that will draw the attention of those sexy b*tches in Hom**and Sec**ity. (From now on, we'll call them Homies - or, better yet, Ho***s.) Lord knows, Midnight Margaritas has enough problems without a government crackdown. However, it occurs to me that this most recent thwarted plan to bl*w up planes over the Atlantic has actually hit us right where it hurts the most: our carry-on luggage. There are people right now in the middle of TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHTS WITHOUT CARRY-ON LUGGAGE. Or bottles of water. (Or, apparently, lipstick - but I don't really get that part. I don't know what kind of b*mb you'd be able to make with a tube of Lava Love Red, other than, maybe, a sex-b*mb.) How much suffering is going on as we speak? It must be BRUTAL. And with the current state of American hysteria surely racheting itself up a notch, it's exactly the impetus the government needs to finally ban carry-on luggage for good. For our own good, of course. It makes me wonder if bl*wing things up was really the goal and if Al Qu**da was really the perpetrator. Or, alternatively, if the plot was actually successful, and Al Qu**da is a GENIUS. All I know is, I have no desire to get anywhere near a pl*ne any time soon and it has very little to do with b*mbs.

In Honour of My New Neighbor

O how I would like to kill, kill, kill
Kill, kill, kill; kill, kill, kill
O how I would like to kill, kill, kill
That bastard who lives upstairs.

I want to wring his neck with hands bare
Crush his windpipe, tear out his hair
Paint his nails, hit him with a chair
That bastard who lives upstairs.

He's so damn loud and gets so drunk
Stands on my porch with the other punks
Knocks over my stuff, scares my monk(ey)
That bastard who lives upstairs.

But we all know I'm not an evil gal
Such a sweetie, lovely Wingal
The nicest person, everyone's pal
Except to that bastard upstairs.

So I will live quietly and plot
I need a boyfriend who thinks I'm hot
Preferably a tall one who moral is not
So he can kill that bastard upstairs.

"Write a Caption for this Picture and then Post it as a Comment" #3

Icelandic Typing 101

The problem with this loverly new Mac of mine was that I couldn't type in Old English on it... a real issue when one's dissertation is a linguistic study of Anglo-Saxon speeches. What to do, what to do? Then I was told that the easiest way to solve it would be to go to "International" under "System Preferences" and change from a U.S. keyboard to an Icelandic one. So I did. Well... one problem solved and one new problem found.... there are a few differences.

Where ? should be it is Þ. Where the "at" sign should be (still haven't found it) it is " . Where ; should be it's æ and on and on and on. The cool thing, though, is that now I can type in Old English and even post it on our blog. I know... you're all effervescing over THIS charming new development. Your jealousies know no bounds. It's sad, really... just sad.

Hwæt!

Just Lookin' Out for Youse Guys

Ladeez, I changed a setting to prevent those anonymous messages from getting through - feel free to change it back if you miss them.

So it's raining like a mutha out here in the great desert southwest. No, I misspoke. It's BEEN raining like a mutha for more than a week and all the rivers - yes, because we actually feel justified in calling them rivers now - are flooding. Also, my street is flooded, it's raining in the Old Pueblo ladies' room, and a sinkhole has opened up next to the porta john, which is somewhat alarming. It's a balmy 80 degrees right now. If that. Meanwhile, the midwest is experiencing a heat wave. Does anyone see anything backwards about this situation?

I'm off to stock up on beer.

"Write a Caption for this Picture and then Post it as a Comment" #2

Photo #2

Pop Tarts, Beer, and Slurpies Oh My!

So it's a proven fact that those people getting ready to ride out a huricane head to Walmart for beer and after the huricane they go there to buy pop tarts.

Arg! So there I was all happy and eatting dinner when the whole house began to shake. I thought "Wow, the lightrail is really shaking the house this time!" But no, because it just kept getting worse. The floor started slipping side to side, the glasses in the cupboards started knocking, and the little dachshund went "aaaruuuh?" and ran to the window. That was the longest 10 seconds of my Midwestern life and I just sat there waiting for it to get worse with the devasting images of the 1906 earthquake playing in my brain like a bad "sepia" (thank you wingal) rerun. And when it was over and asked if I was alright (clearly nothing in the house broke or I would have mentioned it before now) I said, and I quote "Um and what have you got against the Midwest again?" After some dachshund squeezing (and he didn't even try to snag the dinner off my plate so he was wigged out too) everything was alright. Sadly I did not head to Walmart for pop tarts, instead we walked to 7/11 for surgar free slurpies. Go figure, must be that California livin' healthy thing.

Let's Play a Game

Okay, I have a fun new game for us. It's called "Write a Caption for this Picture and then Post it as a Comment". (The game's pretty simple, but the name may need a little work.)

Let the games begin.

Photo # 1: