February 28, 2003
I'll be your huckleberry
heather has been having a lot of fun with Photoshop.
Are you a damsel in distress? Call me. You haven't SEEN distress until you call ME!
Update! Bring ON the four horsemen and all their camp-following women, too. I will slay them, enslave their women for my personal delight, slaughter their cattle for my victory feast, and pick my teeth afterwards with slivers of their fingerbones. I will also drink much wine.
Yes. MUCH wine...
I had a very uncomfortable week at work.
The weatherman lied to me every day since he guessed right on Monday, time was in some kind of cosmic flux and I didn't sleep worth a shit all week. I ate very little because nothing tasted good. My biorhythmns were all out of sinc.
I have to work again this weekend. I have "The Weekend Duty."
I've ALSO have a nagging sinus infection that's lasted for six months (snot drizzles out of my right nostril ALL THE TIME anymore in cold weather) in spite of all the antibiotics I've taken, and the headaches are becoming impressive enough to send me to the doctor if they get any worse. I NEVER go to the doctor unless I've reached the absolute end of my rope (ha, ha! I recovered from what I thought was an abcessed tooth on my own!) and I'm not there yet.
But something is wrong with me. The old bodkin ain't behaving correctly, and I notice that fact. I've been driving this bus for 51 years, and I know how it should handle. It ain't quite right anymore. I get dizzy and stumble when I haven't been drinking. I am short of breath when I'm sitting at my desk. But those brief episodes pass quickly and don't worry me enough to go see a doctor. At least not yet. I'm always fine ten minutes later. If there is anything seriously wrong with me now, I just don't want to know.
I still remember the last time I saw a doctor about something serious. THAT VISIT changed my life forever. I don't want to do that again. In fact, I WON'T do that again.
So, I'll go to work in the morning and worry about my maladies later. No, that's not correct. I quit worrying about maladies on July 13, 2001. Nothing could ever be worse than that day.
I'll just go to work tomorrow.
people are stepping right up!
Word seems to be spreading like a case of jock-itch in a football locker room about Humble Little ME!!! hosting the next Carnival of the Vanities. The entries are POURING IN, at the rate of about three or four every day. I've already received a nasty email from this aggressive thug about a nasty email I wrote to him first in response to HIS submission.
I picked the fight by being a smartass (I've been known to do that) and I should have expected his reply. (I should have been wearing my nut-cup, too.) He raises killer baby seals and equips them with baseball bats so that they can fight back when attacked. He, unlike ME, is NOT a nice guy.
Nobody warned me ahead of time that hosting the Carnival was a dangerous job. But I WARNED YOU that sending me a link WAS.
I will survive by my wits and sheer determination. You folks are on your own.
note: If you don't operate your own blog, this post probably will make no sense to you. I operate MY own blog, and it makes no sense to me, either. But, TRUST ME! There's a gem of wisdom in there somewhere.
I don't live in new york!
Drinks And Personalities Seven New York City bartenders were asked if they could nail a woman's personality based on what she drinks. Though interviewed separately, they concurred on almost all counts.
Drink: Blender Drinks
Drink: Mixed Drinks
Drink: Wine (does not include White Zinfandel, see below)
Domestic Beer: He's poor and wants to get laid.
Imported Beer: He likes good beer and wants to get laid.
Whiskey: He doesn't give a hoot about anything but getting laid.
I wanna KILL some New Yawk bartenders for that.
February 27, 2003
just a song before i go
I really am tired this evening, but I can't miss linking to phillip before I go to bed. He's the oldest elderly blogger I've seen other than ME who has the nerve to post his picture on his page.
You think I'M AN OLD FART? Just check his grizzled visage. He looks like a Popeye who never ate the spinach. He makes ME look like Richard Gere. The salty old bastard also had the nerve to write this:
I spent 24 years...