Something, Anything!

Because I am B-O-R-E-D. Bored.

All I wanna do is play some sudoku (and get that damn Sheryl Crow song out of my head. Shut up, because now you have it stuck it your head too.) But I can't because my pseudo-boss is still here.

And my God I have so much to blog about. Maybe I'll do that when I get home.

And it's Friday, during Lent, and I'm Catholic, and I want a freaking cheeseburger.

My appreciation

For dear, wonderful, fantastically awesome CAGB over at The Busy "Baylys". You've made my day, nay my year.

As usual, I'll expound later. But you, whoever you are, go. Read. She's a genius. And her kids are pretty damn cute.

A dirt bag.

Is a dirtbag is a dirtbag.

This guy:

Is a dirtbag. Not a hero, not an idol, not of any importance anymore whatsoever.

You, my young stupid, stupid, jerkoff friend are a dirtbag.

And by God if he doesn't loose a few endorsments over this I'll be one pissed puppy.

A humongous grossout.

If you insist on dipping in public, please have the polite foresight to dispose of your unwanted, chunky brown saliva in something other a clear plastic bottle.

Please?

Heroic Standards of American Citizens

Did you see those pictures of Michael Phelps hittin' a bong at a party?



So did I.



Do you think they warrant the intense media circus that has befallen them?



Neither do I.



Dude's what? Twenty-four, -ish, thereabouts?


Find me one red blooded American male in his mid twenties who has not hit a bong. Go on, do it. I'm not saying you can't; I'm saying it will be really effing difficult.

If this guy, dear Mr. Phelps, were not the half-man, half-fish swimming freak of awesomeness that he is, he'd be finishing his senior-ish year in college, where he'd probably shared plenty of face time with those pretty glass tubes.

And nobody would give a shit, except maybe his mother. That's assuming, of course, that she found the photos on someone's Facebook.

Unfortunately for Mr. Phelps, he is in fact a half-fish freak of awesomeness who crushes records, competitors, and walnuts with his delicious washboard abs (and assorted other, equally delicious body parts), and isn't allowed to participate in anything but the most vanilla of recreational activities in his free time. You know, the time he has all to himself?

Which begs the question: WTF?!

Comments.

I have a comment! From an anonymous commenter who completely missed my point. But hey! That's okay. You know why?





I have a comment!!!



(Really, is there such a thing as clinical lameness? And, no, I don't mean the equine condition.)