Oh, Woe

I was on the very cusp of despair when I remembered that I must turn the clocks back. Good, I thought, that's one more hour on the cusp. I will use that hour to pack my bags. I am buying the Oregon Vortex, see. I'm going to live in that crooked little house where tennis balls roll uphill and tall people are short. It's a tourist attraction now, but I aim to heal that blemish. No soggy, clomping, slack-jawed t-shirted sandal-shod tent-pitching caramel-appreciating tour-suckers in my Vortex. They'll screw with my energy. They'll disturb my chi. They'll deoxygenate my uniquely healthy oxygenated spring water. They'll replace my beef jerky with tofurky jerky. They'll replace my regular coffee with Folger's crystals. They'll try to heal me with crystals, Folger's or otherwise. They will make noises with their mouths and shoes. Some of them may hit trees with sticks. Oof, I can't take it. I can't take it!

Anyway, I reset the clocks.

If I Type It, They Will Come

The following google queries have yet to deliver readers to Topic Drift:

pretty tulip oven mitt
vertigo stolen from my luggage
"keep cool, geil, whao doo whao, whap doo wap, supercool"
Little Edie fashion
anxiety dreams
convince Stephen Baldwin to love pundits
nefertiti no eye
Piggly Wiggly excellent supermarket Toledo
Harvard Divinity School admissions
real ale
destroy wedding quick -drunk -violence
Benevolent & Protective Order of Elks, Alsace-Lorraine
Real World Hawaii Ruthie
cursed crying boy paintings fire

Dear Old Dad

I have a tin that opens up to reveal two wiggly porcelain frogs. When the light hits the frogs, they start croaking, and they croak until I put the tin lid back on. If I told this to my dad, he would probably tell me that my tin is not tin, but aluminum, and that nobody makes things out of tin anymore.

A couple months ago, I was at a car lot with my dad, and I said, "All these cars look alike. They all have the same shape." Dad said, "That's because you don't know what you're talking about."

Wagnerian Carpet Installment, No.3

If you haven't visited the carpet department of your local store for home furnishings for a while, you are going to be in for a great surprise, and you will probably conclude that the carpet manufacturers have gone berserk! But beautifully berserk, you'll have to admit.

Dorothy Wagner, What You Should Know About Carpet, 1967

My Whoresun Buggy Days Speech

This afternoon I delivered a small speech to the Ladies Town and Country Society Aid Distribution Network For a Better Looking America at the civic center downtown. My speech was so well-received that I am printing it here. Wild applause, standing ovation! After my words, we spilled into the streets, uprooted trees, swung from lamps, crushed cars, smashed windows and received our rubber bullets with eyes wide shut. If you would like me, Esther Wilberforce-Packard, to speak to your organization, please remember that you must book me far in advance. I think you'll find my fees quite reasonable. Now, my speech:

Ladies of LTCSADNFABLA, thank you for inviting me here to speak to you today.

Ladies, let's go back for a moment. Things smelled different in the 70s. I remember. The 80s just smelled like a clean breeze. The 90s smelled bad and sweet, though not bittersweet. Right now, I'm saying the 00s smell like Dull. Five years of glorious boring. Will the next five years smell like the excitement of New? Will we live with New Smell? Will we succeed and reach our potential? Like hell, friends!

After the movie The Doors happened to America, people thought it was safe to like The Doors again. But it wasn't safe. I think we're paying the price for Doors-related indiscretions now.

Do you want four more years of glorious tribulation? If you do, vote. If you don't, vote for someone else.

It's hard to get up here and tell you what you want to hear. You don't want to hear me. You listen, but you don't hear. You want me to tell you that it's okay to walk outside at night. I can't tell you that! You should sleep eight hours each night, in the dark. You need to use daylight hours to the hilt. You need to get out there and give it the Old College Try. Always eat two bites of everything on your plate, and feed the bad bits to the Spaniel Under the Chair.

I haven't seen this much confusion in the streets since the Whoresun Buggy Days.

Ladies of the LTCSADNFABLA, let us show the others that we are strong and prepared to battle the forces of Evil. Let us disinter the Spirit of the New! Let us wag our pride in the face of Evil in a way unseen since the Whoresun Buggy Days! Let us take two bites of Evil and feed the rest to the Spaniel Under the Chair!

Thank you, Thank you.

What a Stuped Dey Taday IS

Nothig iss good tody. Today evrythig is dumb! Teh stuped rain, the stopid clowds. I aint got nothen to do butt sit on teh couchh and watrch news progamming. Plus, Im SO TIRID of thos camercials abut druggs. Lik I'm sik or sumthing! Maybe Ill lay downe fpr a nap adn then go buy a CD. I am BORD! Nothig is godd todoy.

Wagnerian Carpet Installment, No. 2

Force yourself to face some of those neglected spots around the house, like the den, which has been a catchall for years and is now the unhappy recipient of an old rug from one of the bedrooms. Why not go gay in there with a brand-new carpet and give the little room a reason for existing? And while you're browsing, and browsing in the carpet department doesn't cost anything, take a close look at the raspberry nylon carpet that really doesn't cost very much, and think how marvelously decorated it would make the master bedroom. The plush pile is thick and luxuriously deep - what a sensation on your bare feet!

Dorothy Wagner, What You Should Know About Carpet, 1967

The Waltons Say Goodnight, World Series Style

I swear someone was standing behind me just now. I felt the presence, the shadow. Jebus? No. Nobody. Was it a ghost? No. Rather, I attribute the presence to the three Summit Oktoberfests (Summits Oktoberfest?) that I tossed back as the Red Sox laid their eggs in the silly corpse of St. Louis.

Mama?
Yes, St. Louis.
You asleep?
Almost.
You reckon Ben is asleep?
Ha, wouldn't surprise me.
Goodnight, Mama.
Goodnight, St. Louis.

John-boy? D'you think we could be champs when we grow up?
You want to be?
That's what I need to ask you about.
Well, what, St. Louis?
Is St. Louis allowed to like licorice whip as much as winning?
I wouldn't let that stop you, St. Louis. Goodnight, now.
Goodnight, John-Boy.

Mama?
Yes, St. Louis?
I got a sharp hurt in my side. You reckon I could be getting appendicitis?
I hope not. Try turning on your back.
It's alright Mama.
Hurt gone?
I was laying on a harmonica.
Goodnight, St. Louis.
Goodnight, Mama.

Wagnerian Carpet Installment No. 1

Any product that can provide a pink cloud of cozy comfort in a lady's bedroom and go to the race track to make a faster course underfoot for the horses is truly exciting and just about as versatile as a product can be. But this is exactly what carpet can do!

Dorothy Wagner, What You Should Know About Carpet, 1967

My Blog Was Lost All Day

Wuuf, was I worried about you! I couldn't find my way into my free blog, and I didn't know if I would ever see you again. Chances are I've never seen you, but I don't mind.

If I could scan maps, I would draw maps and scan them for you. You know, I would post them on this site. That way, you would have a general or specific idea of where I have been and where I could be. For example, I could be going here or there. I might look into this mighty configuration of an idea. It is a very vague, futile idea. I might be able to draw you vague, futile maps someday. The best I can do for now is this: each letter is one city block, and the letter tells you the direction I walked.

(start here, home)SSS,WWWW,S,W,stop(bank),S,E,S,stop(buy 2 books),N,N,E,E,E,E,E,stop(buy hot dogs),N,N,N,stop(end,eat lunch)

Immaculate. During the trip mapped above, I did not run into any killer motorists, vote! people, yelling guys, greenpeace yellowshirts, sociopaths with their genitalia outside of their pants, or lightening sidewalk bicyclists. So it was an unusual trip.

I Reveal Hidden Truths

I do not take kindly to conspiracy theory, mainly because I prefer to fabricate my own explanations for troubling or ambiguous phenomena. I would like to set forth a few conspiracy theories, new and old, and allow you to compare them to my superior theories.

Theirs: JFK was shot by many people, all of whom where supported by commies, LBJ, mafia, Colonel Sanders, etc.
Mine: JFK was shot by Lee Marvin Oswald, acting alone. When the bullets left the gun, they splintered into a million bits, some of which hit the motorcade. The other bits were caught by Zeus and placed in the sky as the constellation “Beefy Riblet.”

Theirs: Prince Philip ordered Princess Diana’s death/MI6 staged the auto accident, etc.
Mine: Princess Diana died in an old-fashioned car crash in Paris and was reassembled in a mobile lab. She was later disassembled when the final product didn’t meet EU Human-Reconstruction regulatory requirements.

Theirs: Man never landed on the moon. The footage is all Hollywood.
Mine: Man landed on the moon and golfed. Then Man embarrassed America by making sweet love to several moon ladies; he was subsequently barred from earth. He shows up in a few Star Trek episodes.

Theirs: Harry Potter teaches Witchcraft to kids.
Mine: Harry Potter isn’t real. Raffi teaches Witchcraft to kids.

How I Miss You!

Bunny, sweetheart, I feel obliged to confide in you that I am enjoying some of those CANDY CIGARETTES that we used to share at the seaside. They don't call them CANDY CIGARETTES anymore, do they? They call them "candy sticks," and they no longer paint one tip pink. They further differentiate these peculiar "candy sticks" from CANDY CIGARETTES by packaging them in tiny boxes, two "sticks" per box. But CANDY CIGARETTES they are, and indubitably so. You have to rise pretty early in the morning to put one over on us, Anti-Tobacco Lobby! You probably sleep 'til noon, don't you, Anti-Tobacco Lobby? On your enormous bed of benjamins? Yes.

P. S. I've always wanted to call you bunny, Bunny. Sweetheart.

I Think We Need To Talk

One problem I have in steering this blog is that everyone thinks everything posted here is bogus. Some people think that everything I say aloud is bogus as well, though that problem may be unrelated to Topic Drift. It is unfair. Not everything I say and type and do is bogus. Obviously I do real things, and obviously I comment upon them in a clear, truthful manner – obviously. For example, take the post below the post below: perhaps when I say “musk oxen,” I am really referring to something more realistic, like ceiling spiders or noisy neighbors. But I doubt it; I’m sure I mean “musk oxen.” And I’m sure they’ve broken out of the backyard twice already. So if you notice my oxen crashing through the alley or bellowing bloody murder in your garden, don’t call the cops. Call me. While you’re on the horn with me, maybe you’d like to hear my ideas about space travel and the single man. I’ll tell you this much right now: I’m in favor of it. But a married man? His place is on land.

Yes, I Had the Complete Salon Experience

I just had my hair done at a local salon and I had the fright of my life! For when I met my new hairdresser I recognized him instantly: Thomas Pynchon, reclusive literary master! “You look nothing like your high school photo,” I told him. That seemed to puzzle the man, but no matter. I was delighted. Don’t you know, I always expected him to look older, gaunt, and a bit less polished. But he looked nary a day over 32; his teeth were a frightening shade of white, his hair was full and luxurious. He wore a pinkie ring and a neckerchief. And surprise of surprises, he smelled delicious! None of that musky, musty, greased-forehead business I so often associate with our great, unwashed scribblers.

As he busied himself with my hair, he asked me the usual hairdresser questions: what did I do for a living? Did I live in the area? Did I have any "hot" plans for the weekend? Oooh - he was cheeky, catty, even! Of course, he was modest in regards to his writing; his eyes glazed in confusion and he changed the subject when I broached it. I told him I could barely muster patience for his writing, but that the fault was entirely my own. He was concerned with the type of conditioner that I had been using, and rather listlessly suggested that I use the brand sold at the salon. Always eager to emulate a master, I snapped up a bottle of $45 conditioner, easy peasy.

We talked hairbrushes: what manner of bristle provides superior sheen, what type of handle delivers what the wrist can flick, and why. O, the sun set and the sun rose, and still we jabbered on! I must have sat in that salon chair for a full hour. His assistant popped corn and poked straws into a couple Capri Sun pouches for us– we dined like teenaged kings on the gratis salon treats. Or rather, I did. Thomas Pynchon ate nothing.

When it came time for me to leave the salon, Thomas Pynchon gave me his business card. Recluse, no kidding! He refers to himself as “Jesse” now! I certainly hope I didn’t blow his cover with my effusive praise and pointed exhortations for advice. He seemed to get crankier the longer I tarried at the counter, so I finally took my leave. You needn’t ask me twice.

I Wake the Neighbors and the Dead With My Song

I woke to the wallow-noise of two musk oxen in the backyard. Oi, what!?! Get out of my yard! Just kidding, I bought them at the farmer's market yesterday. I like to pretend I don't know what they're doing out there. But I know.

I'm learning about my musk oxen, and they're learning about me. They demand much of me. For example, they seem to like when I sing patriotic songs, and they sometimes refuse to produce milk if I'm not singing with feeling. They're definitely happier when I'm all tarted up. I feel like a fool, milking my musk oxen in french hussy costume and stage make-up, belting "You're a Grand Old Flag" at the top of my lungs. I know I look good. I just feel silly - and cold. And I sometimes lose my footing.


My new musk oxen, Tracey and Paul Jr.

Ahoy! etc.

I miss Roxette so much it hurts, don't you know. We used to hang out and learn Russian words together. I'm not suggesting that Roxette was Russian, or that Roxette hung out at my house. I'm just saying that I was a delicate flower with a Roxette tape and a "Russian in 10 Minutes a Day" book. I don't remember any of the words. Probably because I was listening to Roxette. I wanted to translate at the UN when I grew up. Foof, I dodged that bullet. Ignorance of languages has never done me wrong.

Me: My Story

If you're wondering what I did in lieu of blogging today, I will tell you this: I can't tell you what I did today. But I now own four more pairs of pants.

Ok, I have to tell someone!! I won KQRS 4-Pants Thursday! I always knew I'd win a prize if I listened long enough. I just never knew I'd win pants, and in such abundant quantity. I'm wearing all four pairs right now. I'll probably even wear them to bed.

On a lighter note, I can now turn off KQRS. That goddamn music makes me want to set fire to my Marconi v. Tesla trading cards.

Thank You and Goodnight!

You know, I've blogged a lot today, and I regret all of it. No, just some of it. Actually, very little of it. I regret very little of what I've blogged today. My heart was in the right place. That place probably needs a Glade Plug-In now. My heart makes a stinky mess when left to its own devices.

I thought I'd never mention my heart stench in a public forum. Fortunately this isn't a public forum. It is an elite private blog club and we're tight as shit! And by tight, I mean drunk.

I have to admit, I like how this blog is unravelling.

Moses, Holy

Remember when Oasis was the best band in the world? They still are. But what a bad move, wearing those scary masks and calling themselves "Slipknot."

I Have the Power

I want the Red Sox to win. Then I want the Astros to beat the Red Sox. Then I'm going to have the Astros beat Manchester United. Then I'm going to have the Astros find Bin Laden. Then I'm going to have the Astros find Atlantis. Then I'm going to have the Astros play the Atlantis team. Then I'm going to burn this weird "World Events Omni-Controller" remote mechanism box that I found under my pillow this morning. It might fall into the wrong hands. If that happens, we may never find Atlantis.

Clarification

Would I die for Boris Johnson? Not if given a choice in the matter. But let that not cloud your thinking: I love Boris Johnson so much that I would hide him at the farm with Lord Lucan if he needed to "disappear."

He needn't hang out with Lucan; that might make him jumpy. Lucan likes the dairy barn, anyway. Boris can have the house. The house has wi-fi and a few of those Farrah Fawcett posters.

Dork Lazarus

I can't wait until it snows. That's when I'm a star. I shovel exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I have a call. There is a charge for the eyeing of my walk. There is a charge for the hearing of my shovel's scrape - it really goes. So, so, Herr Dude. So, Herr Enemy.

Thank you, I'll be here all week.

Great Idea #18473B

I'm going to start several blogs and force the imaginary bloggers to comment on my blog. Then I will comment on their blogs. The comments will whiz through the air like bullets. Greased bullets. With wings. No, greased wings. We are going to blow Blogger out of the water with our incessant commenting deception. We will probably break the internet (and the hearts of millions) with our incessant comment-traffic and our rabid technical ignorance. We are a disgrace. Or will be. But we is me! I am the disgrace! Or will be.

My Synopsis of Brecht's Mother Courage

Kill Brecht.

My Synopsis of Moby Dick

Where's Whaledo? I like to knock people's hats off too. Sailor falls into open whale corpse.

My Synopsis of Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49, Up To the Part Where People Were Rolling on the Bathroom Floor

What? I can't read this.

My Synopsis of the First 12 Pages of Rita Mae Brown's Bingo

Kill Rita Mae Brown.

My Synopsis of Faulkner's Requiem For a Nun

When I was younger, my sister had a hamster. I loved that hamster. You could hold it in one hand.

I Like Time

I hung up my 16-month calendar. I also cracked to cover of my 2005 datebook. I don't actually have any dates to log. I just like calendars. Should I be doing something with my days? SIGNS POINT TO YES. Or, alternately, YOU MAY RELY ON IT. No, this one: ASK AGAIN LATER.

Eh, Cry For Me All You Want

I wasn't going to write this post, but I couldn't have the Anne Boleyn post at the top of Topic Drift for another minute. I don't want any brainy dynamo reading that post and thinking, "Who cares? Who is this 'person' who thinks that I care which Henry VIII wife she wants to be? Who cares about her? She's not famous, as far as I can tell! Is she trying to jump start her own cult of personality? Good Luck!"

So I wilted into the upholstery for about two toots, and then admitted to myself that, yes, I was trying to jump start a cult of personality with that post. It's not easy, this cult. I haven't the finances. I thought I'd start small. I must have the people on my side! My cult of personality starter points:

1. I now pause at all windows, lean out, and wave both of my hands above my head gracefully. No more crazylady waving for me. And no more scuffed shoes!
2. I've sketched gorgeous thumbnails of my proposed gigantic face banners.
3. All of my ball gowns are now in dry cleaning rotation.
4. Soul searching: do I want to marry a charismatic man? Or do I proceed under my own steam?
5. Should I be loved or feared? Welcomed or secretly despised? Think about this.
6. Do great damage, or have great damage done unto me? Think about this.
7. Three words: Slogans Slogans Slogans! I need something better than "Beef: It's what's For Dinner" and "Reach For a Lucky Instead of a Sweet." Those two slogans have borne me thus far, but I need something with real passion.
8. This might not work in America. Ideas: Monaco, Guatamala, Nova Scotia, Israel, North Dakota...oof, keep thinking.

Important Information For Your Files

If I could be any of Henry VIII’s wives, I would probably want to be Anne Boleyn. Katharine of Aragon was a sad sack, Anne of Cleves is out of the question, Catherine Howard seemed a ditz, and old lady Parr was mousy. Jane Seymour would have been a fine stint, if it hadn’t been for the grisly childbirth/dying foofaraw. Anne Boleyn died in an untimely foofaraw as well, but with a sword, and she doesn’t have to compete with “Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman” for her good name.

Wait, update: I checked with Mr. Quizilla and he does have a test for this one. As you can see, the results are quite accurate:



Which one of Henry VIII's wives are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Sacked! Certainly Not! I Am Never Sacked!

Fools. Mary Poppins isn't American. Only fake Americans can participate in voter fraud. Does anyone take Civics anymore?

P.S. Close your mouth, please, Michael - we are not a codfish.

Let Us Agree On This One Thing, Peoples

YES





NO

Desperately Seeking Old Thingies

When I was younger than I am now, and smarter, I had a cookie-shaped plastic medallion necklace that slid open to reveal cookie-scented solid perfume. Why would a little girl want to smell like a cookie? I don't know why. Like I said, I was smarter then. I think I rarely put the perfume on. I think I just wore it around my neck and cracked it open for a whiff every twenty minutes. My parents sold it at a garage sale. I want it back. If you have it, just give it to me. I'm also looking for my Pillsbury Doughboy doll, lost in the same garage sale. I want these items back toute de suite. I'm not setting foot on that spaceship without them. That's what I'm talking about.

Poncho

Some wiseass walked up to me at work and asked, “Why are you wearing a plastic bin liner?” And I sneered my best sneer and said, “It’s a poncho.” And she said, “No, bin liner.” And I said, “No, poncho.” Later, when she wasn’t looking, I took off my poncho and suffocated her with it. Then I put my poncho back in the bin where I found it.

The Future Is Now

Now that it is permissible to capitalize on the names of private citizens, I say we integrate Mary Cheney into our lives in ways she never dreamed possible. I say we utilize her name and image on partyware, camping equipment, novelty bicycle license plates, college-ruled Mead notebooks, windshield sun deflectors, frozen entrees, checkbook covers, Precious Moments figurines, temporary tattoos, Tiger Beat posters, banana decals, etc. And let’s rename the Seminoles “The Fightin’ Marys.” I don’t know why we should do any of this. I just know that we need to get this done quickly, before our window of opportunity slams shut.

Get Out of Dodge, Dorkjack!

Everytime I phone Scotland Yard with a Lord Lucan tip, the receptionist laughs at me, and then puts me on speaker phone so that I can hear the entire office laugh at me. After about two minutes of this treatment, I laugh too. You just can't not laugh when Scotland Yard is laughing. It's that infectious.

At any rate, I packed Lucan some Lunchables and sent him to the farm until this business blows over again. Vote Tory! Labour wants to take away your right to kill your nanny!

Announcement

I’m going to start using these words. If you also start using these words, I might harbor negative thoughts about you. Or I might not. I don't know. I'm a flip-flopper. If you start using these words, everyone will know that you are a copycat; may your shame hang heavy about your neck, assjack copycat.

Jackdork
Jackhole
Holedork
Dorkjack
Assjack
Buttass
Buttjack

Also, I will end some aimless conversations with a clicking, whirring noise instead of the customary “Ok, good times.”

Saturday Is the New Monday

Eees too cold for bike! I walk to work.

Who can know the evil that lurks in the hearts of men? Or, put another way, who can know when these motoring men are executing left-hand turns? Nobody can know! No blinkers! No indicators! That is why I welcomed the conceal-and-carry crap enacted last year in Minnesota. Because as soon as those generous laws are followed up with some “Quick Pedestrian Justice” immunity-type laws, I will be, as they say in my country, “in hog heaven.”

I won’t actually shoot anyone; I will merely wave my piece around in an unhinged, cringe-worthy manner. At that point, I will probably be shot by a fellow pedestrian who is protecting her young.

Flossing

Going to bed would be more appealing if I did not have to floss my teeth. Often, I stay up too late because I am procrastinating with the flossing.

High Five!

Well, I Never!

Today I wrote about 90 posts, all of them sub-par, in that Linda Evans sort of way. Now they swim with the fishes. I hope I haven't hurt Linda Evans in saying so. Linda?

Great, Another One

Occasionally, I fall victim to word obsessions - 2-3 word strings that infect my mind upon contact and refuse to stop repeating themselves until I put on headphones or see a priest. Old ones that have finally lost their pull: Glaxo Welcome, Lamont Cranston. There are...others. I'm not going to try to remember them, as they've probably retained their potency. Newest one, courtesy of Mr. Lileks: meglium bebsi.

My Criticism of Science: A Holistic Approach

Will science remove my brain and keep it alive after I die? Not if I have anything to say about it. Scientists will possess the equipment that will translate my post-death thoughts; if my post-death thoughts are all, "Science! Put my brain back in my dead body so that I may be with the Lord!" they will likely make note of my uncooperative post-death thoughts and ignore my bitching - all in the name of science! The laymen have no brain equipment and will not hear my torrid cries! So when people ask me why I give scientists the finger at every opportunity, I tell them I do so because someday my finger will be dead and the scientists will have my brain but they will ignore my brain's wild pleas to join my finger in death freedom. That, and I still fear that gray goo that Prince Charles was hooting about a few years ago.

I Am a Truth-Sniffer-Outer

I've always had a kind word for Mark Dayton, primarily because he is rich and I don't want him to eat me, or feed me to his boys. So I want you to know that I am risking my terrestrial form by bringing you this information, for it is sure to draw his wrath.

When I heard that Mr. Dayton closed his Capitol Hill office, I knew something fishy was going on. So I consulted my Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits, and I learned that the Capitol building is haunted as fuck. You heard me right! A filthy cuss word! And because I think like a ghost, I can tell you that those ghosts don't sit in the Capitol Building knitting toaster cozies - they venture forth and haunt the off-site offices of senators as well. I think that Mr. Dayton saw and heard Henry Wilson, vice president under U.S. Grant (God rest his superior soul.) Wilson's ghost wanders around, coughing and sneezing; Wilson caught a fatal respiratory infection while bathing in the Capitol's Italian tubs. I'm assuming that Mr. Dayton fears germs, as rich men are wont to fear. I assume that Mr. Dayton fears ghosts, as democrats are wont to fear. So really, I just smashed all those sloppy assumptions together in to one lumpy, gummy ball of certitude: Mark Dayton's loony and he's going to feed me to his boys! Send help!

Smell You Later

I'm not getting any today. Hits, that is. I might as well go stick my head in the oven. That's where I keep my textbooks. I thought I'd do some studying. Good day to you.

No Need to Thank Me

When I say Good Morning to you, I mean HAVE A GOOD MORNING. Don't prance around like I've hurt you. If getting punched in the neck each morning makes you stronger, I'm happy to do it.

Troo Luv

On a typical day, friends and enemies alike will drag me away from the general parade long enough to hiss, "Stop it with the faux sophistication, the raw intellect stuff! Tone it down, you soggy fishwife!" Fine, but don't call me soggy. In lieu of my usual arcane scientific fluff, I offer you the following girlish observation: Michael J. Fox is on CNN and he is looking GOOD! He's always looked good, but unlike some of us, he's older now. Drive by in your Street Ship, Marty McFly, and I'll away with you! We'll wed! Our bliss will scare the normals and weaken the fey bonds of universal hatred! The angels, not half so happy in heaven, will envy Marty and me! Unless all was illusion, my heavy heart to break. How much makeup does Larry King slap on his guests?

News Man Talk Real Funny

Why does Wolf Blitzer keep saying Tem-PEE? He draws it out, Tem-PEEEE. Now, I know it's not Tem-pay. Isn't it TEMP-ee? Don't leave this room thinking that I care very much. I just wanted see the word "pee" in my blog, I guess.

The Weather Disrupts My Routine

It's cold. I've closed 15% of my storm windows. I've recovered my fuzzy (yet sophisticated) slippers, and I've put them on my feet. Every cat in the house is wound up in his/her own tight, heat-preserving catroll. It is overcast and windy. I'm staying home. I had the usual planned for today - to go to Lake Calhoun and ruminate on murders past. Not any murders I've been involved in, mind you. Ancient murders. Murders from the days of yore. Murders predating the Great War and, for the sake of my squeamishness, color photography. I wanted to wear my blackest coat, and shade my morbid visage with my blackest bumbershoot. I wanted to shuffle along the paved lakeway, pointing my gnarled finger toward desolate spots while inquiring aloud, "Is THIS where Kitty Ging was booted out of a carriage and whomped on the head, resulting in her unnatural death? No? Well, is THAT where Kitty Ging was booted out of.." and so on. You can't appreciate a good murder until the threat is long past. You can take your gory modern murders with you - I can't bear to look. Yuck. You go now.

Because You're Worth It

Do I own enough kitchen appliances? No, I do not. I do not have an espresso maker, a microwave oven, a bread machine, a toaster oven, a juicer, a blender, a crock pot, an electric frying pan/griddle dealie, a rotisserie oven, or a George Foreman grill. I do have a coffee maker, coffee grinder, electric tea kettle, french press, mixer, toaster, and a Tweety Bird-shaped waffle iron. I don't need the coffee grinder. If you stop by, I will give it to you, but first you will have to answer three medical questions:

1. Once upon a time my doctor told me not to take four ibuprofens at once or "you'll blow out your kidneys." Is that any way for a doctor to talk?
2. Once, my doctor said that ovaries are about the same size as almonds. Is that any way for a doctor to talk?
3. Once, my doctor said I had strep throat, when what I really had was mono. Is that any way for a doctor to talk?

The "Fae Wellington's The Man Inside the Man" Plan

Are you looking for ways to improve your vigor without resorting to those newfangled and foul-tasting Canadian pharmaceuticals? If so, why not try my plan? You will need to assemble the following:

1. Royal Crown Cola, for your weak blood
2. Kirk's Castile Soap, to fight that sterile stench
3. Gleem brand toothpaste, for a smile that will chew itself young
4. Cap and nightshirt, for running amok after dark
5. Antique flintlock musket (must be in working order)
6. A chinless auntie (not your own)

Instructions: Take liberal doses of RC Cola thrice daily, at least a tumblerful at each take. Brush your teeth with Gleem after every dose of RC. Do not brush your tongue, for that is revolting. Fire your musket for at least one hour after each vigorous toothbrushing. Aim away from houses, and take care to clean and maintain your firearm properly; it is no spring chicken, and is thus an apt (if unnecessary) metaphor for your own wicked self. Shower with Kirk's every morning at 6:00 and every evening at 8:00. After 9:00, slip into your cap and nightshirt and try to get some shut-eye. Every time you wake in the night, you must take to the streets on foot. You must run like lightning, brother! After racing a block or so, hit the sack again.

Follow my plan for a week and your waning vitality will wax to pagan proportions! Regain your vim and please that chinless auntie! All actions, appropriate and/or regrettable, will simply fall into place! Try the "Fae Wellington's The Man Inside the Man" Plan today!

OMIGOD JUST DONAL JUST UPDATED "JUST DONAL!"

I have been waiting for this moment for a week! Just Donal Photo Spectacular! On a somber note, Just Donal has a wardrobe superior to my own. Also, he ought to pick his inhaler off the floor before somebody steps on it. His flooring is nicer than mine.

Answer Time: I Cannot Disprove a Single Strike Against Me

Several people have written to me with their questions. I will answer three of the most commonly asked questions now, because I don't know what else to do with them.

#1 "Are you the same Esther Wilberforce-Packard who passed the deadly typhoid on to 23,000 people on the east coast decades ago?" No! You are thinking of someone else, and I'm not Irish.

#2 "Who lays track faster, Big Joe Weems Or Tarheel Roy?" Why, Tarheel Roy, of course! But Big Joe Weems has a kind heart, and I'll take that over superior track-laying speed any day!

#3 "May I please have an EWP signed photo or an extra-large t-shirt? It's for my sister." I'm sorry, your sister sounds very nice, but I am not able to accommodate you at this time, for I have no secretary. I no longer manufacture the EWP t-shirt because my Taipei factory burned to the ground (note to self: investigate! Why do all my garment factories burn down?!?) As far as the signed photo goes, no. I can't send out photos either, for the same reason given above, but you can look at this charming photo taken of us at the office today. I'm the pretty one on the right.

Concealment Does Not Feed On My Damask Cheek, Already!

I am so tired that I fall out of my chair every four minutes or so. Despite my infirm condition and my unreliable narration, I want you to believe that I would never hide anything from you. You are my favorite reader. My amended last will and/or testament was sewn into my coat pocket, and the coat fell into the river. Ergo the old will stands. That is why you will never inherit the Packard Hundred. If you kill your brother in a knife fight or slay him with a velvety cushion from the good room, you are a scoundrel and your mother will die in the poorhouse. If you lock your mother in the attic and tell the neighbors she has choked on a chop and passed on, you are a blackguard and your brother will certainly kill you with a railroad brick. What action do you take, you wily old prospector? I suggest that you find that coat, but what do I know? And no, I won't make a third will. I don't want to complicate matters.

My Weekend Starts Wednesday

I’m going to build a car. I hope it works out. First, I have to buy an apron. I’ll probably put the apron on in the store and just wear it home. I’ll assemble some car parts and start pressing them together. Then I’m going to weld some pieces, gas it up, slap on some tires and hang my high school graduation tassel from the rearview mirror. Then I’m driving to Fuddruckers.

After I eat a gigantic flavorless burger, I will probably tear up your lawn with my new car. But what if I don’t paste the tires on properly? What if a tire flies off while I tear your Kentucky bluegrass to high holy shit? I will have to stop the car, pick up my tire, yell at your wife, who will then go fetch you, who will try to fight me. Calm down. I happen to have this all planned out so you can’t win. I will have a Virgin Mary concrete lawn ornament waiting in my backseat. I will quickly hoist her up and heave her at you. While you try to catch the Virgin Mary, I’ll get in my car and drive off on three wheels. Caution: do not throw the Virgin Mary at my car! If you do, Jesus will rain brimstone on your house. You will probably also get a poltergeist. I have heavenly authorization to drive on lawns. That’s why I’m building the car.

P.S. The “you” in this scenario is not you, the reader. It is Dr. Phil.

Note

When I started Topic Drift, I said to myself, “This blog will not be all about me. It will not be all ME, MEEE ME ME ME, ME. It will be about bigger things. It will be about topics.” I must have been standing in some sort of chemical cloud when I said that.

Let the Little Capri Pants Come to Me

Who said anything about shopping? Not me, because when do I shop? Never. Shopping makes me too hot. While shopping, I have to wear sheddable layers, and I have to have someone by my side to carry my shedded layers, because carrying things makes me hot. I can carry one bag until it starts banging into my leg, and then my companion has to carry that, as well. And I have to eat every two hours or I get malicious. Trying clothes on makes me hot, but not trying things on makes me wary. Buying things online makes me wary. Clerks, on the whole, disturb me. Clerks who ignore me make me comfortable, unless I need their attention. If a clerk cuts me dead, my blood pressure rises and I get too hot. I can't have a drink to calm down after poor customer service, because then I will smell boozy. If I smell boozy when I resume shopping, more clerks will cut me dead. This is why I never buy new clothes, and it explains why I wander this earth looking like a dusty extra in “Back To the Future III.”

GODDAMMIT

You are Rerun!


Which Peanuts Character are You?
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Oops

Can you imagine the confusion? Two of my acrylic nails fell into the cookie batter! Naturally, I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the cookie batter, so I didn’t make a peep. Do you think the nails will melt as the cookies bake? Good, if they do – then no one will suspect my hand in this potentially bitter cookie contretemps. And to those of you attending tonight’s Episcopal Marriage Encounter Registration at St. Mark's: skip the almond-chip mint-drop cookies. They’re no boon to your fancy figure, anyway.

I Leave the House for Assorted Errandry

Here's something. I had to run my own errands today because that half-wit Jerr has the grippe and can't do his job. He can barely run my errands when he's "healthy," so I don't know what I'm moaning about. I was barreling down the sidewalk, worrying and minding my own business, when I was interrupted by another clipboard lady who wanted me to help her with THREE things: save the environment AND get Bush out of office AND remember to vote. Stop following me, democracy ladies! If you keep harassing me, I'll send Jerr to vote for me. It will never get done. He'll lollygag at the pigeon house and stop for a hot chocolate and fall asleep under a hay bale. He'll chew the fat with a skateboarder and decide to climb a phone pole. He's like that kid in The Family Circus with his meandering black-dotted route of chaos. The recount will be underway by the time Jerr gets to the polls. Seriously, stop bugging me. Do I not appear nervous enough already? Would you bug me if I carried a plastic green bayonet around town with me? Probably not, if I crouched a little and looked at you with my crazy eye. I suppose Animal Control will be the ones accosting me, in that case. So the plastic green bayonet's out. Also, I don't own a plastic green bayonet. Yet.

No, I Was at Aunt Bea's Flower Shop at 6am this Morning!

I wrapped my bookmarks in dark plastic and dumped them into a desolate area of my blogroll today. Then I pared my fingernails and burned my shoes. Now forget all that unpleasantness and listen: I have high hopes for Just Donal. I cannot resist a blog that initiates contact with the question "Have You Considered, Just Donal?" He swears he will keep us up to date, but he said that two days ago. He had better not be on a fizzy-drink bender. Not now. Not after I have considered Just Donal.

The Nation Gasps as I Create My First Scotch Label

I now own a Scotch Brand Labeler. It is old, but how old? Here's how old: older than medical recognition of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, which is the condition I acquired after three minutes with the machine. I'm not complaining. I'm not very adept with the technology yet, either. My first red label reads "DUDESMELL L MYYY JARR."

Because I Put My Mind to It

I dragged a ream of graph paper home today. I'm going to graph everything. This is part of my campaign to start using my dormant skills and potential. Tomorrow's portion: organize fridge beers by bottle color, review linear algebra and build two wood duck boxes for the national wetlands that I'm personally reviving and preserving on Saturday.

Perhaps He'll Get Some Respect in Elysium

Huckabees?!? Pffft. Sorry, I heart Ladybugs.

What Have I Done All Day?

It's getting dark outside, and I haven't blogged anything all day. I hope you are not angry at me, or angry at the begoggled MIT students who made me. If you are angry, you should do some yoga. If yoga makes you angry, you are my new bosom friend. No, you are kin! That's how much we both hate yoga, isn't it? We hate relaxing and stretching our way to fitness and inner peace SO MUCH that our mutual hatred makes us kin! Blood kin! Thank you, MIT guys! Thank you for building me and my kin!

I Will Sleep Like a Baby Tonight

Is it true that you are only as good as your last post? Because I can do better than my last post. I can type you someting absolutely incredible. Here it is. You're reading it! It's a post about two things:

1. Cream of Mushroom Soup
2. Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins

That's all I have. Flawless. I am content now. I will walk away from this screen with the knowledge that I AM as good as my last post. Damn good stuff. Damn good stuff.

I Was Deceived By Pantsuits

Back where I'm from, we don't use the word "pantsuit." Until today, I neglected the word "pantsuit" to such an extent that when I actually did consider the word, I would assign it comic properties antipodal to the drear realities of my sit-around life. For example, if someone had said "Doreen Elmore is wearing a gorgeous pantsuit today," I would have thought "Oh My Holy Jesus, let me put down this heavy box so that I can fly to that HILARIOUS PANTSUIT!" But today I Googled "pantsuit," and what I found was troubling. No, much worse! It was hideous! Pantsuits aren't funny at all! I almost cried out in pain. The word "pantsuit" will never again bring me lazy satisfaction. Stupid pantsuits, NOT FUNNY AT ALL! If I ever wear a pantsuit, I hope somebody pushes me down a well.

And to those of you thinking "I would like to push her down a well anyway," please note: You cannot hurt me. I have been dead inside ever since the public breakdancing accident.

I Set Guidelines For Loving

Don't you hate everybody? You should try harder to love everybody. When you love everybody, you will never want for enemies. Like me - I will be your enemy, because people who love everybody make me crabby. You will love me, but I will find you relatively loathsome, especially if you have a nose whistle. You will give me your kind words and, if necessary, your pocket change, but I will give you nothing but dirty looks. We will both be happy. Quick recap: You will have your love, and I will have your pocket change.

Keep This Offer In Mind

If plague ever ravages America and does away 80% of the human population, I want you all to know that I intend to live through the disaster and appropriate the Winchester Mystery House. I have dibs. I don’t know why, I just know that I want that house. I think that Sarah Winchester would like me to finish her work. If you also live through the coming plague, feel free to write to me at the House – or, if everyone at the USPS is dead, just stop by. You can get the address online. I might be able to help you out in some way. Maybe I will provide you with a sumptuous dinner or a clean pair of plus fours. I will also need help fending off squatters, so if you’re not afraid of a little hard work, come on over – I'll pay a living wage and I'll match a portion of your 401(k) contribution. Carpentry skills a plus.

Consider This

I don’t like to see monkeys riding other animals. It makes me bitterly sad. I am serious about this one! Do not bring your monkey cowboy over to my ranch! I will not let you in. The monkey can come in for tea, if he’s been taught basic table manners. If I notice that you are a poor monkey custodian, I may commandeer your monkey and teach him how to fish. He can feed himself and live on my land. I will buy him a pink playhouse, and I will insulate it so that he can live by the river year round. I will hook up all the usual utilities so that he can have hot showers and a clock radio. He can have a stove for heat and a range for cooking. Do you know what I won’t give him? A riding dog. And let me tell you, if I ever catch my river monkey riding my dog, I will have some PRETTY SEVERE words for him.

St. Helens, Do You Want That Soccer Scholarship Or What?

I'm disappointed in you, volcano. You had an opportunity to stick it to the man, and you backed off. Where are your balls, volcano? Etna has balls! Why don't you just lose your shit and go Vesuvius on us?! Let loose, son! Go! GO! GO, DAMMIT, I'M FILMING THIS FOR GRANDMA! Argff, NO! GO! GO!!

Apparently you don't want it bad enough! Have a good time at junior college. I'll be in the car.

What What?

What does Andrea Dworkin think of that alarmingly immodest "Dip It Low" song? She no longer contributes her opinions to the "Andrea Dworkin Deep Thinkin' No Winkin' Hotline," so I am left in the dark. I'll tell you something for nothing: I think that song stinks.

And that used to be my favorite hotline, too, right after the Poison Control Hotline.