The Most Important Meal of the Day

When I read the 2 Blowhards bit about women running their mouths over breakfast, I said to myself, "How can I be more like that? When will I learn to gab?" Morning gab is not my style. Sneaky insinuation and rabid insistence - that is my breakfast style. Accusation, bewilderment and a little soft shoe - that's my breakfast style. Sometimes the soft shoe gets out of hand and I spill milky oatmeal on my bustle. That can't be helped. Sometimes I trash the entire kitchen with my breakfast vaudeville. That makes Fat Old Molly furious! How she loathes scrubbing vertical surfaces.

Of course, I'm not always so chirpy. Some mornings I scowl and have terrific soap-hurling fits. I probably look like Bay Buchanan on these mornings. In fact, Fat Old Molly designed the following breakfast alco-drink in my "honor." I didn't hear about this magical drink from her. I know the recipe because I listen at doors.

Manic Buchanan Sunrise
1 part rum
1 part kahlua
4 parts coffee
1 part squinty spleen
cream
rainbow sugar sprinkles

Fine, I Will Try This Again

Do you want to comment on Topic Drift posts? Probably not, judging from your fierce grimace. But pretend, for just one brief, shining moment, that you do want to comment. Now you can. But only for a few days. After a few days, I may take all your comments away and burn them in a fantastic backyard voodoo ceremony. Not an ACTUAL voodoo ceremony, you silly ass - the voodoo ceremony you learn from those pink new-age books.

The Ideas, They Just Come to Me

I have a fine idea for a gag necktie. It's a regular necktie, see, but it's way too long. Get it? It's too long! It's so long that you must thread it through your legs and attach the end of it to the part that goes around the back of your neck. It's only considered a 'gag' necktie if you refuse to acknowledge that it differs form regular neckties in any way. It's kind of retarded, for a tie, but I think you'll grow to appreciate it. I think you appreciate my ideas more than you let on, my friend.

Because An Ounce of Something Something is Worth Something

Who can predict incidents of cannibalism ? You can, with my new Predicticon 43-D. The Predicticon 43-D will revolutionize your current cannibal detection strategy by recognizing and neutralizing the power of Manhunger G, the powerful and dastardly hormone that drives cannibals to consume human dude flesh. The Predicticon 43-D will reduce your chances of being eaten by another human dude by 60, 70, even 80 percent. Just strap it on under your corduroy shirt and you're off! Kiss your cannibal anxiety goodbye forever with the Predicticon 43-D. Not available in Germany or Florida.

I've Got Some Serious Thinking To Do

I ripped the air conditioner out of the window just now. Don't look for it. It's gone. I am trading it in for a Diaper Genie. Then, I'm going to get pregnant by eating Rolaids and rubbing my tummy with soy margarine. When I watch the debate tomorrow, I will watch with an eye to the future: which candidate will create the Americaland best suited for my Rolaids baby?

Pfffft

I ain't got nothin to say. And neither do you, so let's just sit quietly. If you are hungry, eat something that does not make noise, like yogurt. Open it in the kitchen, so that I don't have to hear you open it. I mean it! When I am ready to speak again, I will signal you by making a Zorro-y slashing gesture near your chest. No, that sounds a little crazy. I'll just punch you in the arm, or say, "Fine, TALK now."

That sounds crazy too. This entire post is absurd, because you're not physically in my house. But if you were, whoo-ee, you'd see. I ain't got nothin to say.

I Did It All By Myself

I followed this Bookslut link to it's source, and I did it without a Sherpa. It was a cold slog, but in the end, I had a laugh and took the bullet train back into Topic Drift. Funny how I didn't see the tracks on my way there. Huh. Is my agoraphobia out of control? Yes, I believe it is.

Sarah, Plain and Tall and Anemic

Once, in the days of yore, my blue-white chum Margurite successfully made fun of "Sarah, Plain and Tall." Nobody has presented me with a successful "Sarah, Plain and Tall" joke since then. I do not remember the joke, only that is was made, and that I roared, and fell out of my seat.

I say, do you recall the defunct commercials that offered succor to those women afflicted with "iron-poor blood?" The narrator was an overtly southern woman, so it must have been more like "eye-un po' blud." Has science eliminated the scourge of iron-poor blood? I haven't seen an iron-poor blood commercial in years, and yet I can't erase the memory. Sweet memory, always giving. It gives like a mother, or a weak floorboard. Oof, I think I ate too much ice cream.

I Now Offer Counsel On Auras

Now that I have contact lenses, I can see people’s auras. Everyone’s aura is colorless and transparent. Some people’s auras have “stink lines,” similar to what you see in select cartoons. Aura stink lines indicate that the person inside the aura has an odor. It may be a bad odor, but it may also be a good odor. Some people’s auras smell like the Olive Garden. This indicates that the person in question just ate at the Olive Garden, just finished his shift at the Olive Garden, or just carries a little piece of fake Italy in his heart.

Vineyard Secrets Partially Revealed

I have recently received inquiries regarding my private vineyard. All my wine is Blanc; all grape skins are peeled away by my man-slaves. I consider grape skins unimportant. I sell them to other vineyards. Frankly, I do not make my own wine either. I find “making things” boring. I maintain my vineyard primarily in order to boss my man-slaves around. I like telling people what to do. I am a born leader, like Niyazov or Steisand. I bankroll my fledgling empire through the sale of grape skins. To each her own - and to me, more. More for me. More for me! Does this mean less for you? Not necessarily.

Note to self - Future projects for man-slaves:
-Build larger pyramids for me and my cats
-Row galley 2x faster

This Old Blog?

Why, I just read this when I don't care WHAT I look like!

Whoooooo Megrims

When I motor by in my Street Ship, you had better believe the ground shakes. Particular fads are getting me down: imprecise housekeeping, guitar music, torture. At times, a startling admixture of the three. In the 1980s, we had access to pastel electronics. Now everything is silver, unless it is black.

I Plan Ahead for Hurricane Lulu

If a hurricane heads for my luxury villa, I will tack plywood over my windows, certainly. But I will never spray the plywood with flippant notes addressed to the hurricane - because eventually I will have to return to my plowed villa, and the last thing I will want to face is my own pathetic wet plywood notes; all my precious, womanly crap in shambles, and there, looming above it all, is MY stupid note that says "HEY LULU (for that is my hurricane's name), UP YOURS" or "LULU STINKS," or "BRING IT ON, LULU," or "I'LL BE BACK, BITCH." The very idea of hurricanes and the plywood notes they provoke is enough to keep me living in my inland igloo for the remainder of my life. My long and healthy life.

Maybe I would spray "SURE HOPE THIS PRESSED BOARD PROTECTS MY ULTRA AWESOME AIWA SOUND SYSTEM" or "SOMEBODY CLEAN THIS SHIT UP!" or "DID SOMEBODY LAY ONE, BECAUSE IT SURE SMELLS NASTY OUT HERE," or some equally romantic adage that would lift my spirits when I return to survey the damage and retrieve my participation trophies.

Proof That I Am An "It Girl"

1. No proof is really necessary
2 . I tend to use secret back staircases
3. I am often "just waved through"
4. Price is no object
5. My obscurity shields me from my fame
6. My papillon does not poop
7. I don't care about NOTHIN
8. I fail miserably when I speak up

Seeking Enthusiastic Diggers With a Cosmotarian Bent

As you might have guessed, we at Topic Drift espouse few ideals. Ideals? Bah! Not necessary! Scarcely appropriate! Boo, and all that! But one ideal that we hold close to our shrunken hearts is that of finding buried treasure and using it to garner political and ideological clout. We feel the need for clout - a lot of it. We feel the need for buried treasure - as much of it as we can pull out of your property while you are vacationing in Vermont. I am getting off track here, so I will begin another paragraph.

Specifically, we want Bernarr Macfadden's treasure. We wouldn't mind Oak Island, but we are realistic. Underground rivers have long since washed the Oak Island rubies to the Canaries. Stupid pirates.

We don't want to dig this treasure ourselves. Forget your Vermont vacation: we want YOU to dig the Macfadden treasure for us, and deliver it to our stoop. We will cut you a check - enough to cover your expenses, plus a little for your trouble. If we like the cut of your jib, we may invite you out back for bit of BBQ, weather permitting.

You may need some inspiration for your dig, so I will now transcribe for you the scribbles from inside the front cover of my copy of Bernarr Macfadden's "Keeping Fit: Health: How Lost ~ How Regained." (1923) The inscription is in soft pencil and is, regrettably, unsigned:

"flating is soft soap.
and soft soap is 90 per cent lye

a up right person.
can never be. a
down right failure.

when causing trouble for
others, You are makeing
some for yourself

our owne faults look as big
to others
as others faults look to us"

Inside back cover:

"Polident for false teeth
cleans Purifies

call Dr. Nelson
first week in Feb

Nurse
Aunt
Uncle"

I believe the treasure is hidden in steel cartridge boxes. It could be anywhere. Keep in mind that digging is good exercise, good exercise leads to good health, and that good health will get you into heaven.

Because I Could Not Lock the Door, It Kindly Locked For Me

Today the garage door would not lock. This has probably happened to you. You're probably wondering how I tackled this problem. You're probably eager to learn from my misfortune. I am here to help you, little one. First thing I did was get angry. Eventually, it just locked by itself. See? Always get angry first.

So, He's Happy With Himself, Is He?

Is this the kind of hard-hitting journalism that I pay CNN for? Lazy! I am not sending them one more cent. That is IT. I have put up with CNN's Iraq "war" nonsense, their phony election coverage, their imaginary hurricanes and their ridiculous preoccupation with Maroon 5. I'm done. Subscription cancelled. 200 bucks a month - what do they take me for, a sucker? I have a genuine yearning to know what's happening on the world stage. All I want is some proper journalism. I want international news, breaking news, feature news, incisive punditry and traffic reports. If that means subscribing to Star again, so be it.

I Eat Poison and Dream of The Old Middle West

I just woke up after attempting to sleep off what I presume to be mild food poisoning, so now I will describe to you my poison dream. It is sure to knock your socks off. Go put on socks.

I was in a Little House On the Prairie-style reality show. It was realistic and spooky, and the camera crew did not protect us from grizzly bears. What blew the experience for me was that we still had televisions - they were built into the cabin walls, and they ran only Little House On the Prairie-type programing. One day a grizzly bear loitered outside the cabin and a cell-phone tower collapsed near me. I had an unusual bruise on my leg, and someone pointed to a roll of skin and said,"All the dudes like to use that for their bruises - it's the closest thing to real skin." I washed my hands in the sink next to the roll of skin, and then picked up the skin. She was right, very good skin. Then I was in the cabin bar watching a western, and it occurred to me to ask what year this was supposed to be. "What year is this?!?" I demanded of the others. Just then, of course, the phone rang and woke me up.

Tuesday Confuses the Humors

When I enter a grocery store, it is my mission to evacuate the building as quickly as possible. Preferably with the food I came for. I am a visionary, see. I want those Smokehouse Almonds that the stars eat. But I'm not going to fetch them myself - not tonight. Tonight I'm going to will them to come to me. "Smokehouse Almonds, come to me," I have announced. They haven't appeared yet.

Why am I willing almonds to appear when larger issues press us so keenly? The Federal Reserve has lifted short-term interest rates, and I wish for Smokehouse Almonds? Crisis at the pump, and I burn for Smokehouse Almonds? Kalashnikov Vodka flows, and I fly to the humble almond? Dan Rather swathed in rags, sleeping in alleys and selling matches, and I dare request Smokehouse Almonds? What kind of confounded monster am I? Pffft, I don't know.

Forgive Me

Why would I blog a Vikings game? I am supremely unsuited for the task. My vast and superior readership will click away in a heartbeat. Truthfully, I know not the ways of the pigskin. The only players I can name offhand are Red Grange, Brett Farve, and Randy Moss. I know that Red Grange is dead, Brett Farve is a Packer, and Randy Moss is relentlessly bitchy and bumps traffic cops with his horseless carriage. I guess what I'm saying is: the die is cast. I'm blogging the Vikings game until I lose interest, which will inevitably occur within the first 15 minutes of the game.

Pyrotechnics. Smoke, and so forth.

X kicks off. Others fly down the field. Well done, Others. That's exactly what I would have done.

26th yard line. I can't make sense of this. One fellow's surname is Wiggins. Wiggins, I'm smitten.

Culpepper goes off the edge. Writes postcard, resumes play.

Smashing, mayhem, wanton leg grabbing. Olde Wotsizname was right, football is a suitable substitute for war.

Fellows, why not PLAY?!? I say, stop STOPPING and POSING. Run around a bit, earn something, kick a ball.

Andersen breathes fire through nostrils, kicks ball into the massive thing. Earns three points for Vikings.

Commercials.

There they go again. "Nice move," Not-Madden said. Crowd cheers.

Players walk around, then fall into formation. Very good. Drink Gatorade.

I am seething with ennui. Blood pressure rising.

Incomplete pass. This I am familiar with. Okee, time for pie.

America Name, No Way!

Now that I am thirty, I will throw caution to the wind and reveal the tedious tale of my high school Spanish Class. All punters took a Spanish Name. All were to use Spanish Name while in Spanish Class. I was, and remain, Pilar. I was a deep thinker and a realist, so I assumed a Spanishy Surname as well: Bonita. Pilar Bonita, see. By the time Christmas erupted almost everyone had dismissed their Spanish Names and resumed use of their America Names. Joaquin morphed back into Patrick Duffy, for example. I dug in and survived the winter; I was Pilar Bonita until I graduated three years later. I’m not convinced that the Spanish instructor ever knew my America Name. I certainly don’t know her America Name. It's too late now. She's gone. The Spanish language, gone. Patrick Duffy, gone. America Name, gone. Thirtieth birthday, gone. Dream of becoming Celebrated Lady Prizefighter, gone.

Instead of telling people that I am thirty, I will tell people that I am thirsty. For Example: “How old are you?" "I’m thirsty, gaarrghhhh hhh,” “Do you need a glass of water?” “What?” “Glass of water?” "What?” “WATER?” “WHAT?!?” et cetera. Speak up when you question old people, you nosy parkers.

Off to Military School

Down with Pain and Missury! Beautiful Futility, I have found you!

Fae Wellington's The Casting Call

Will the fat ever feel satisfied after eating reasonable dinners? No, and neither will the skinny. The fat and the skinny will fight in out in a lurid end times saber-clashing bloodbath. Sky of fire and all that. By the way, I have opened a talent agency called "Fae Wellington's The Agency of Master Talent." Initial consultation is free, though good luck to you, for we have no office hours and probably never will. We are, as industry insiders say, "greatly in demand." We choose to orchestrate our talent pool from the great outdoors, as we find it difficult to tear ourselves away from Nature's Masterpiece. "We" meaning the office staff: me, Valerie B., Valerie M., and Antony Jr. We pose at the lake in immodest dress and/or robes. Some call us a cult, and it's true that we do have non-profit status. At any rate, we are casting the Fat vs. Skinny End Time Clash next week. Show up at the lake for an audition. If you're right for a part, you'll know which lake to converge upon. Come on over, wear white and have a cuddle.

Game Plan: Friday

Will I motor over to the arcade for 30 minutes of Mortal Kombat? No, I won't. Will I visit the tolerant Girl Scout troop in the rectory basement, inhale a chocolate cupcake, and construct an angel out of q-tips and milk jug caps? No, not that. Will I sit silently at the edge of the loveseat and dream of beautiful show horses or leprechauns pouring gold bullion into my shoe? No way, Jose. It's my day off. I'm not doing ANY of the usual things. Today I will instruct Fat Old Molly to beat all the carpets, scour the hobo symbols off our gate, and plait Jenny's doll's hair. That will give me time to light a candle and meditate over a daguerreotype of my grandmother. I will also be shopping at Southdale. I need some jeans.

I Scrape the Bottom of the Barrel

It seems that I am not posting often enough. I haven't anything to say. My pith went limp, and all the spirits of camphor in Columbus won't revive it. I need an angle, an edge. While we're waiting for that fantasy to materialize, I suppose I could say a few words about a fox hunting ban. I think I speak for most Americans when I put down my fork and shriek, "You dress up, release beagles, mount horses, chase a fox all over tarnation, drink liquor from flasks, and address each other with english accents, though not necessarily in that order? And you are rich, or aspiring? WHAT KIND OF PUCKERED BRUTE WOULD BAN THAT?!?!?" Apparently, that isn't the way the English see it. Chilling. I guess that's why America doesn't rule England anymore.

The Worst Post I've Posted So Far, by Mennen

It's almost winter, and that means the space heater comes out. Also, the blue cardigan reappears. The space heater smells like burning, and the sweater, according to the gratis literature that accompanies my detergent, smells like a crisp spring morning. I do not wear smelly sweaters, and neither should you. I notice, you know. I notice when your sweater needs laundering. Don't think that you can slide a smelly cardigan by me. I have superb nose vision. Sometimes I smell other things, too, but I don't like to brag. I do not have an especially sensitive nose; I have a well-trained nose. Or not. You know, I can barely believe I'm still typing.

I Rule Out Another Defunct Mail-Order Kit

If Montgomery Ward still existed outside of my heart, I would consider buying their mail-order house kit. I would consider it; nothing would come of it, because I would have to buy land also. I don't want to do that. Buying land is risky; some bearded disturber might build a strip club or a Perkins restaurant adjacent to my land. Would I put extra effort into constructing a basement in which to hide from these ghoulish neighbors? I know I wouldn't. I'd be too worried that my kit house would fall into my basement. It's just a kit, after all.

[Sic]

From the back of the book Cherry Ames, Cruise Nurse (1948):

"It is every girl's ambition at one time or another to wear the crisp uniform of a nurse. Certainly, girls everywhere love to read stories in which a nurse is the heroine. At least a million girls already know and admire Cherry Ames; have laughed over her pranks, and her gay adventures and wept over her problems."

Hmpf? The more things change, the more they stay the same. Except that nurses no longer wear crisp uniforms and girls no longer read. As of some point in the distant future, I will be writing a book called Cherry Ames, Time Traveler, wherein Cherry Ames visits today's hospital. We will see who laughs over pranks and gay adventures. Sample chapter titles:

1. Why Has No One Wiped Up the Blood in the Bathroom?
2. Scrubs? What the Fuck are Scrubs?
3. At Least Milk of Magnesia Hasn't Changed
4. What is McDonalds and Why is It Next to the Cardiac Ward?
5. Timmy's Mysterious Visitor
6. Mylar Balloons Only - Some of Our Guests are Allergic to Latex
7. Antibiotics Vs. Basic Hygiene
8. Sick, or Just Crazy as Shit?
9. There are No Emergencies, Just Impatient People Putting on a Show
10. No, We ARE Fully Staffed

Goody Sheffield Better Watch Her Back

I, too, cried out when Genesis hit the Utah sand. But I am not so distressed that I cannot get some small satisfaction out of the science that survived.

No, who am I kidding? All that terrific space wind leaked out on impact! I just know it! That's twenty seconds of my life down the drain. We the people will never sniff a celestial fart. We will never detect the heavenly solar zephyr on our sunken cheek. We will never experience the louche dance of charged particles after midnight. And when I say "we," I really mean you. I experience celestial farts, solar zephyrs, and louche dancing nearly every day. My medical man calls it "ergot poisoning," but I suspect otherwise.

I See Patterns and Draw Conclusions

It's Fashion Week, and Jennings lost Jeopardy. "Shut up, why don't you," you say. No. I won't shut up. YOU shut up. Jennings should have worn something beautiful. I wear beautiful things every day and I've never lost Jeopardy.

I Raise My Standards and Invite the Neighbors

I'm not going to sit passively in the face of "Joey" tonight. I'm going to arrange an elaborate Hawaiian-themed smorgasbord in front of the television, invite the neighbors over, and put on my mock-chain mail jumpsuit. During the opening credits, I expect my pent-up "Friends"-based fervor to discharge violently as I spray champagne all over my TV, my guests, the food, and my mock-chain mail jumpsuit. During the body of the show I will sit spellbound on the couch and suck up all the sprayed champagne through my kitchen sponge. The meat of my message is this: I only have one sponge, neighbors. Do bring your own.

I Bear the Weight of a Cold Shoulder Not My Own

Mr. Cope, I am painting a portrait of you. I feel compelled to inform you that I will apply a coat of self-preserving real-time cyanide to the finished product. That way, when your ice-cold neglect makes me weep so hard that I need to end it all, I will run to your portrait and lick your wicked black mustaches. That way, my demise will be considered murder, rather than suicide. Given my intense and long-standing lording over you, it could even be classified regicide. I think the authorities will agree with me. They usually do. You are indeed a very bad man. You are a hard-hearted poisoner. You deserve the dankest gaol.

P.S. Do you want this portrait to age in your stead? Let me know ASAP. I'm not sure I can recalibrate it after I apply the cyanide.

Is Topic Drift Too Drifty?

Is Topic Drift is at a crossroads? Is it good enough, smart enough? Does it need a new “thing?” Does it need a unifying theme, a “thing?” Here are some of the new blog themes that Topic Drift is considering. It's a pity I can't use them all.

Politics
Religion
Computer Gaming
“Random Musings”
Baseball
Jesus
Liberals Ruin Everything
Magic Tricks
My Secret Sorrow
Tech
My Child is Different
I Am So Bored
That’s A Spicy Meatball
My Trip to the Pyrenees
I Love Josh Wallberg from Algebra (period 2)
I’m Super Opposed to Capitalism
I Have This Terrible Disease + Peanut Allergies
I’m Quitting!
Time to Feed Uncle Phil
I Used to Be So Mean But Now I’m Nice
Theatre
Sniff Along with Me as I Take the Old Spice Challenge
Dude I Barely Remember Cancun
Tort Reform
Advice
I’m Japanese but I Live in London
Diana Barry is my Bosom Friend
Vampires
Graffiti is Art & Skateboarding is not a Crime
What Celebrities Eat
I Want To Clarify that I Was Born In the Wrong Century
I Want To Clarify that I Was Born In the Wrong Country
That Man Ruined My Life
I Write Poems
Soup Recipes
Stop Fluoridation Now! Plus No More Mumps Jabs!

Woe is Me

Was it a trick of light, or did I spot dear old Stanislaus at the State Fair last night? In the gathering gloom of early evening, couldn't any man of means ape his primeval tread, his haunting demeanor? This leads me to conclude that my vision of the man was sheer hallucination, just as it was when I spied him at the Taste of Minnesota last summer. I suppose it isn’t long before I “see” him shooting cans in my backyard or digging through my cupboards for a carving knife. Must all of my dead halluci-relationships revive in bloodshed? I fear for me.