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  • End of An Era

    I never thought I'd see this unholy day. Let's just say my innocence, such as it is, has been shattered.


    Archie has married Veronica.


    Poor, poor Betty Cooper.


    She'll be pulling train in a week.

    Jughead. Reggie. Moose. Hot Dog. Taking on all, shall we say, comers.

    Hell hath no fury (or wanton sexuality and questionable morality) like a woman scorned.


    Sorry, I got all misty-eyed there for a minute. Where was I?

    Ah, yes...


    Chuck. Midge. Good ol' Dilton. Professor Flutesnoot.

    I mean, seriously, just look at his nose. He can satisfy at least 2 women at oncet.


    But I digress.

    I do that.


    The important things to take from this are:

    Archie is not, contrary to popular belief, fucking Mr. Weatherbee.

    God (or whoever) bless Rebound Girls.


    And Facebook Flings.


  • Another Pleasant Valley Sunday

    To drop some The Monkees on y'all. What? You can't spend all your time listening to whatever it is you kids are listening to these days. I, personally, am enjoying me the vocal stylings of one Anna Nalick at the moment. The one gift my pseudo-wife imparted upon me in our brief time together was a love for the work of Ms. Nalick.


    So, after a somewhat restless respite this p.m., I realized that in one week from today I will be a) 37 and 2) in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. And yes, I AM taking up a collection so I can enjoy me a week of Dionysian debauchery and excess. Nope, don't even remotely think it'll bring wisdom, but whatever. Sunday I intend to enjoy me an interracial 3-way, and your donations are more than welcome.


    I've decided that, in this time of zero creativity and the height of the remake (although I'm quite looking forward to the remake of Star Trek next week), a revisiting of What Women Want is more than in order. HOWEVER, that Napoleon Dynamite chump needs to be in the Mel Gibson role. Then we'll see.


    My boss has me convinced. Miss Piggy started this whole Swine Flu business. Fucking whore. Poor poor Kermit, he just wants to be loved. Punk ass bitch.


    Yesterday, after being in charge over a day with no phone service, a repair folk what only made things worse, and a backed up toilet in one of the customers washroom, Karma decided to alleviate my woes. I was given the pleasure of helping out a guy with stubs for arms when he couldn't reach into his (pants) pocket for his cigarettes. Perfect ending to a fucked up day, I felt like a Saigon whore.

    Now, don't get me wrong, the look of 'get away from me, you're creepy' I laid on this poor bastard wasn't because of the fact he had no arms. It was because I wasn't feeling especially like reaching into another man's pants pocket for anything. At least nobody witnessed my shame. Which I have now shared with both of y'all.


    I've had to explain to friends:

    What, exactly (with slides and in powerpoint) a MILF is.

    That the same Morrissey (who I will see in concert one day, dammit) he despised was, in fact, the lead singer of The Smiths, whom he so enjoyed. And no, that didn't make either of us gay.

    That we're all alone. It's just a question of when and if we realize it before it's too late.


    Enjoy what remains of your weekend. Keep those donations coming. Rumor has it that Lindsay Lohan is into guys again (and or vice versa), so my little corner of the world is a bit brighter today. Maybe I'll run into her in LV. Perhaps at the Palms. And I'll treat her to a viewing of the new Star Trek flick.

    Because that's who and what I am. Namaste.