Groundhog Day Screenplay, part 5

Crap! Two days until Groundhog Day and my screenplay is unfinished! Don’t worry. I have everything under control. It probably won’t make it onto the big screen by Groundhog Day - I haven’t even begun talking to major film studios yet. I’ll probably just make a few calls tonight and get it squared away.

Dave: Is that my phone?

Milly: I think it’s mine. (fumbles in pocket, checks phone) No. Maybe it’s yours.

Dave: (fumbles in pocket, checks phone) Yes. Great. I missed the call.

(Milly’s phone rings)

Milly: I’m going to have to take this call. Here, hold my cat.

UPDATE: Will Milly break up with Dave, despite Spenser’s increasingly apparent drug abuse? Will Marsha reveal Kat’s identity before John Michael Henry’s wake? Is Anastasia’s mother prepared to sell the twins to Pierre DuFavreau , knowing that Gabe is squandering their nest egg with Bad Linda in Atlantic City? Will Margot remember what happened at the pier? Tune in tomorrow for the denouement of Groundhog Day Screenplay.

I Value Your Feedback

Today has been one of the most spectacularly dull days in the history of my life, don’t you think? I’m sure I’ve had duller days as an infant or a school bus passenger, but I can’t remember the details. What do you think? Also, do you think I should buy a rifle, or a car? If I buy a car, I have nothing with which to fire bullets as I drive; if I buy a rifle, I can walk around shooting, but I haven’t the advantage of a quick getaway. I don’t intend to hit living things, just street signs and tires.

Well, what do you think?

Big Iraqi Election Post

Want info on the elections, but the MSM letting you down? You’ve come to the right place, my friend. I’ve got my eagle eye trained on Iraq. Unfortunately, I can’t see a thing from here. I just finished a 1.5 liter of Evian, though. My personal hydration is through the roof.

I Paused Mid-Bite in Order to Disdain the Poor

I considered leaving you all hanging until Monday, but I had lurid nightmares and intolerable pangs of guilt; I knew I had to post something posthaste. You cannot pace the blog lobby all weekend like a sobbing, ghastly ER patient, your arm in a sling, a gash in your side. No. You are a Topic Drift reader. You need help now. You will not wait.

This evening I ate a cookie that had melted Butterfinger bits in it. I abhor Butterfingers; they are filthy candies smelted deep in the smithies of Hephaestus and smuggled to the surface on the backs of slouching sinners stinking of chowder and death. But melt these foul Butterfingers into a cookie and you have a treat worthy of a robber baron. I am an aspiring robber baron, so I ate two, and I paused mid-bite to express disdain for the poor in their urban squalor. "The public be damned!" I shouted as I shook my fist in the air, crumbs spraying everywhere.

Note: I realize this post is bloated and irritating, but in keeping with my new robber baron aspirations, I am posting it anyway. The public be damned, etc.

Topic Drift Slated to Enter 21st Century in Autumn of 2006

Just bought a digital camera. Havoc, despair. Look for Topic Drift's first photo sometime in November 2006. May have mastered the confounding machinery by then.

First photo will depict a cotton gin.

Local News May Not Interest Readers In Atlanta or Taos... or Minneapolis, For that Matter

I am familiar with this place. I can see it from my roof. I hate this drunken monstrosity - and if the fleshy cretins who run it think they can beat city hall by serving steak, they are probably right. We can all beat city hall by serving steak. Don't know why we've never acted on this before. I believe Jefferson called it the Great Steak Prerogative.

On a larger scale, if "America" started "serving steak," we could fool the EU and others into believing we've "ratified" the Kyoto protocol. Teach them to breathe down our necks. Personally, I think we've every right to foul up our own air, and if they don't like it, let them erect a folding partition of some sort. One that moves along a runner, so that we may occasionally move it aside to allow our aircraft through.

How Much Must I Give?

I'm tired of everything. Even tired of the basics: food, clothing, shelter. I may take to the roads on foot, with nary a mitten or biscuit to sustain me. "That's crazy talk! You'll surely die!" you howl. Yes, I may die. But I've lived a good life. For example, think of all the lives I've saved with my Flee Flea Flea-Deflecting Remedy. Just pour it on your linens and the fleas are gone. Doubles as a liver tonic; take liberal doses every two hours. Operate all the heavy machinery you want - it's CAR-NEE-VAHL!

Nearly.

'Spose Not

Since I have a laptop, I thought I'd sit in a different room to blog. I've chosen the sunroom. I thought it might change my perspective, but I've discovered that it has not. I am too distracted by the novelty of the room and its thick stratum of dust. Also, since I have moved, a thin, hunched man with false whiskers and a greasy hair has taken over my usual spot. He's not even using my old desk, he's just sitting in front of it, dabbing his nose with a hanky and muttering "'spose not, 'spose not," every few seconds. I don't know how these people get into my house.

I've Planned this Solid Toast Discourse Strategy

I have been thinking about it, and I have decided that I'd like some toast. Quite a bit of toast. How much toast? Well, how much have you got, asshole?

Naturally, I'd only say that if some asshole asked me how much toast I wanted. If a non-asshole asked me how much toast I'd like, I'd say, "Two slices, please."

I have yet to plan my jam strategy. I have a lot of work ahead of me; it is imperative that I receive seedless raspberry jam. Those little seeds angry up the blood more than fried meats ever could.

John Negroponte: The Early Years

I noticed that the Wikipedia bio entry for John Negroponte is lousy with errors and omissions. Terrible errors! An infant could research and write a more accurate biography. I'm a busy woman, but I will spare a few minutes to correct a few of the more glaring errors.

Negroponte was born in London. No. Negroponte was born in a station wagon outside of Wichita, Kansas. His mother was driving at the time, and she nearly crashed the wagon when, from the depths of the womb, John expelled a grapefruit that quickly lodged itself under the break pedal. Then he popped out himself.

His father was a Greek shipping magnate. True. And his father would often infuriate the maid by leaving his wet bath towels on the bed. Later, he discovered that this woman was not the maid but a licensed physical therapist who kept getting locked in the room.

He graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy in 1956 and Yale University in 1960. Partially correct. John graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy in 1954, then disappeared into the forest for two years. He emerged from the woods two years later to accept his diploma. He has never spoken of this lost time, except to say that he enjoyed it thoroughly, and can "talk some sense into squirrels." At Yale, Negroponte was often seen lying on his back in the corridors, gesturing as if conducting an orchestra. "A woodland orchestra," he once told me over a bottle of Tia Maria.

Negroponte speaks five languages. Negroponte speaks six languages. Wikipedia omits the woodland squirrel language Ra-aa-AA-ch. Some linguists claim Ra-aa-AA-ch is not a true language, but a Norwegian dialect.

Some of these errors make me wonder if I'm thinking of a different John Negroponte entirely. I don't know anything about Negroponte's life after Yale. My phone calls to Honduras rarely got through, and he stopped answering my letters when my tone grew "screechy."

Do Not Be Fooled

I've been thinking of ways to keep the floors cleaner this winter, and the only thing I can think of is to make the dog wear shoes when he's outside, and make his take his shoes off when he comes indoors. This is easier said than done, because he is a slave to fashion, and slaves don't wear shoes. Every penny you spend on your slave's shoes is one penny not spent on pyramids and cat mummies. Also, he's a macho sled dog. If another sled dog saw him prancing about in shoes, he'd be a barkingstock from the tip of Alaska to the Bay of Biscay, wherever the hell that is.

Do not be fooled into thinking that I am a "dog person." I would rather have seven cat mummies than a dog.

Breaking Hearts, Minds with His Verse

Noisy Ghost wrote the haiku that made me love again. I will now resume launching a thousand ships with my face. I will refrain from burning the topless towers of Ilium, however. I don't have time today. I'll just pencil it in for Friday.

To Do - Friday:
-pay rent
-go to post office
-burn the topless towers of Ilium
-meet Ruthie for coffee

I Shall Have My Revenge

I had intended to post something by now, but I am in a state of aggravated panic. Much of my panic stems from posting nothing of consequence, but more importantly, I am concerned about the fuzzy line between patience and cowardice. None of my trousers fit, and I've been meaning to start a row with someone about it. Specifically, I've been meaning to accuse Germaine Greer of puncturing me with a fondue fork. Insufferable ogress.

Groundhog Day Screenplay, part 4

I can see that my partially realized Groundhog Day screenplay is getting rave reviews in the morning papers. Good.

Dave: I've been thinking of other women.

Milly: Who? Is it Carla from Winnipeg?

Dave: I'd rather not say.

(Dave sighs.)

Dave: Last night I saw Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and it changed my life. I also killed six women at a spa when I swerved to avoid a chicken. I drove right through the spa. Those aren't the women I've been thinking about, but as my wife, I thought you should know about it - that, and my deep vein thrombosis.

(Dave stares out window)

Dave: I'm going to need my ecru cardigan.

Spiro Agnew, I Hardly Knew Ye

A moment ago, I wasn't sure if Spiro Agnew was alive or dead. So I looked him up. Turns out he's dead. So I dug out my ukulele and strummed a sad, sad song. It was that one Poison song about cowboys - the one where every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.

I Suffered Loss Today

I lost a dangly jewel from my earring today. I hope it flew from my ear into a heaping plate of ratatouille while I walked through the lunchroom at noon. Few things give me more pleasure than single-handedly introducing an element of dental anguish to a coworker's midday meal.

Under normal circumstances, I would charge a fee for such a lunchtime dental service - if only to cover the cost of the jewel. But these are not normal circumstances. Under normal circumstances, I'd also be at home watching that tedious Oprah cable channel and folding a few bathtowels.

Possums Ate My Comments

First I backed up my blog template. Then I added Haloscan. That f*%$# up my blog utterly. I was heartily wroth. Then I remembered that I had backed up my template, so I fixed it all. I was still partially wroth, however. Even now, as my infuriating Haloscan experience fades from memory, I am fairly-to-moderately wroth. I'll have you know I only narrowly averted rending my garment.

Any King Would Be Happy

I just drank a glass of tap water. It was delicious. If you ever visit my house, I will offer you a glass of this magnificent water. A king would be happy to raise a prince on this water. My tap water is, in fact, "King of Waters." Meanwhile, I am in the depths of despair. My sensitivity to noise has increased, and, Amendment or no, I have agreed to quarter soldiers in my house. To be frank, I want them to leave. The toilet seat is always up, and today I found a musket ball in my shampoo.

If I Must Go, I Shall Go in Cake

Just the other day, after a half-hearted conversation about Mariska Hargitay and Jayne Mansfield, Zoe told me that, as far as death goes, decapitation wouldn't be so bad because you'd go instantly - no time to panic. This is crazy talk, of course. Why settle for such a grisly death?

When I go, I will go in style: I intend to suffocate in white frosting after I pass out in a wedding cake. Preferably someone else's wedding cake. In addition, I encourage all of my readers to opt for cake-based suffocation. To cleave unto any other death preference is to carry the invisible yet indelible mark of a lunatic.

Groundhog Day Screenplay, Part 3

I have skipped part 2 of my Groundhog Day screenplay because it was boring. Too much kissing and swearing. Also, there was a song about how "sailors love the sea, can't you see, can't you see how the adore the sea, much more than you and me." Part 3:

Dave: Do you want Lawry's Seasoned Salt on your popcorn?

Milly: (very itchy) What popcorn? Can't we just discuss this like normal people?

Dave: I've had enough popcorn for five men!

Milly: That's what I'm talking about. Did you want to keep this wet newspaper?

(Dave startles)

Dave: Yes, I do. I do want it.

A Close One

This morning I saw my old friend Schaffer trudging down the snowy sidewalk with a suitcase and a guitar in hand. I know that his car is in the shop and that he was on his way to the hospital because his wife just had a baby, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to pull the car over. Like HE plays guitar! I think he saw me pull over, because he started walking towards my car. So I quickly pulled down my ski cap and drove off.

My Words Bring People Together

Some cherry-cheeked peasant has dumped his McDonald's trash in front of my house. The snowstorm has scarcely passed and already the huddled masses are slinging refuse on my walk.

I've wanted to complain about fruit for the past hour, but I can't pinpoint what it is that I am dissatisfied with.

UPDATE: Finally, it's come to me. I was dissatisfied with fruit in general, but tropical fruits in particular. What airs they give themselves, tropical fruits. I especially loathe the papaya.

Oof, is this post too crabby? No. My words bring people together, like a lawn kegger or a rollicking microeconomics lecture. Hugs, not drugs.

The Beginning of My Holiday Screenplay

It's almost Groundhog Day, and I am preparing a small screenplay for the occasion. It takes place inside a cramped pantry. This is what I have so far. I will present it in its entirety later, when I tire of my other projects, which include - but are not limited to - telling fortunes by holding a photo Kaiser Wilhelm above a man's forehead and studying his eyes for clues.

Dave: Something smells like burning hair. What have you got going on the hot plate?

Milly: It's a bit of something with basil.

Dave: Yes, I believe you. Say, do you like the cinema?

Milly: I've tested positive for pregnancy.

Dave: So have I! I've just bought some fantastic glycerin soap. Let's celebrate with a scru

He Will Learn the Hard Way

Flavian phoned from Haiti to say that he had been kidnapped by some sort of rebel gang, and had I $2000 available towards his ransom? I said no, I didn't have $2000. I could tell he was bluffing, the coward. Plus, I could see him huddled outside my house, yakking into his enormous cellphone. He thought he could get a reaction out of me. "Nice try," I said, "You must be freezing without a coat. Hold on, I'll let you inside." Then I put down the phone, turned out the lights, and went to bed. That'll teach him to "get a reaction" out of me.

Sounded Too Evil to Be Grandma

Last night a CD lodged itself in my iBook and wouldn’t budge. After I had worked myself into a foaming rage over this unpardonable logjam, I received a call on my little pink toy phone. It was my Grandma. “Grandma? Do you have wings now? My ballerina costume does,” I told her through my clenched teeth. But I don’t think it was Grandma on the line - sounded too evil to be Grandma. Then my toy robot said, “Hello little one. I am your friend. We want the angel.” I was already insanely apoplectic over my iBook problem, and this put me over the edge. I picked up my iBook and gave the robot a savage beating with it. Then I restarted the iBook while holding down the mouse button, and the bitch of a stuck CD popped right out.

Anger. Anger is the medicine.

A Savage Place!

Some people TiVo their favorite TV shows, but I don’t. In fact, I like to tell people that I don’t watch TV at all, not even "Blind Date" or "The Real World: Philadelphia." I tell them that I spend my spare time beneath a waning moon, wailing for my demon-lover. I also tell them that you can’t get rich scrubbing dinner plates, so why not just put them back into the cupboard dirty? As any schoolgirl could tell you, it’s a matter of setting boundaries and clarifying your priorities.

Haughty Government Scientists Strive to Keep Smokers Off Paradise Titan

Lies, distortion, and more lies. Titan is fully inhabitable, and the scientists know it as well as I do. They're just biding their time while they work with Chuck Grassley on legislation to keep the smokers off Titan. "Flammable Titan," they say. "Just one spark could set the place ablaze," they say. Good one. Just wait, friends. When Earth goes moribund on us, all the "healthy" people will ride the spaceship to green "gassy" Titan. But there will be no pleasure space trip for the impenitent smokers. Smokers will have to stay rooted on dying earth, with its crappy plumbing and unnecessary jowl surgery and bogus colon-cancer screening tests. All because paradise is "flammable." If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention.

Light Rail: Rodent-Friendly

Yesterday I was on the train, sitting quietly and minding my own business and generally regretting my plan to ride the train. My train was as deserted and quiet as the dark night of the soul, when an enormous, whiskery cuss emerged from behind me and bellowed 'TICKET PLEASE!" I nearly soiled my pants in fright. What sane man would shout on a deserted train? Had he whispered his intentions from five feet away, I'd have heard him clearly.

Then a chubby woman landed one seat in front of me and gnawed off her index fingernail in one piece. No "nibble nibble." No nervous biting. Bestial, focused sawing - from right to left with brutal precision.

I Felt the Icy Hand of Death

Harrowing morning. I couldn't get my blog to load until I removed the TLB ecosystem link. Then I couldn't find my Friday socks. Damned if I was going to wear Saturday socks on a Friday. Saturday socks have acrylic fibers; Friday is cotton-only. Somebody has to stand up for what they believe in around here, and it might as well be me.

Animal Hoarders Should be Hurled into Mexico with Gigantic Bamboo Catapults

I just looked at the news, and not only had we an inauguration today, but some godless beast of a woman was caught driving 63 sick cats around in a moving van. Unrelated occurrences, maybe, though I assume this synchronicity comes down to the usual astrological hooey. I suppose another one of those tiresome planets is in retrograde. Not that there's anything wrong with that; I don't care what planets do in their own space, as long as they don't request special rights, or orbit in public parks, or collide in front of my children. My children will learn astronomy when I feel they are ready, and not a moment before. And I see no reason to teach them about astrology at all.

Can't Blog; Shopping at Local Inchoate Moral Cesspool

I can't blog much today. I am going to ride the newish Light Rail to the Mall of America. Minneapolis has one rail line; it goes from Downtown to Mall and it stops at every streetlight on the way. It's faster to take the filthy bus, but I am not a woman of speed; I am a woman of integrity and true grit. Minneapolis used to have streetcars, but they burned those in a fit of 1950s whimsy. So now we have a whole lot of nothing, including Light Rail. I can't explain it, it's beyond me. You can use Sacajawea dollars in the Light Rail ticket machine, but who has time for Sacajawea dollars? Minneapolis means Progress. I am moving to Georgia the minute someone in Savannah dies and wills me their house. And this person has to be DEAD AND BURIED; no hiding in the spare room and jumping out when I rip out the fixtures looking for confederate gold.

Good Thing I Would Never Call You "Suckers," Suckers!

Am I driving you mad with bewilderment? Are you one of the shaggy hoard who insists that I am some sort of geriatric reptile, or that I must have a serious blog tucked somewhere, or that I am the phoenix that rose from burning Blog X? Do you wake at night in a cold sweat, convinced that gorillas come and gorillas go, it matters not - we are all but dust in the wind?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, I forgive you. I forgive you, though you insult me so. You are flesh, after all, and I am but a throbbing brain with two electrodes and a robotic typing finger. In the lab, they call me "Heidi."

The Swiss Will Pay for Their Sins

I have a crossword-puzzle-a-day calendar, and I'm several days behind in my crossword solving. To make matters worse, I have decided that I hate my pink sweater, and that I'll never wear it again. I considered wrapping my undone January puzzles in my sweater and hurling my sweater out of a speeding Buick on the interstate, but this seems unduly psychotic. I don't have a Buick, and nobody cares about my neglected puzzles and my sub-par sweaters; these problems are my own problems, my "emotional baggage," if you will.

The only sensible thing to do with this emotional baggage is to carry it with me and allow it to spoil all of my future relationships, whether they are familial, romantic, parent/teacher, or tourist/Europe. Especially tourist/Europe. I intend to knock some skulls together in Bern. Nothing riles me like a neutral nation.

More Foul Wind From the Senate

I think that I will have freezer waffles for breakfast. Is this the sort of information people look for in a blog? If not, why? What else is there to blog about at this hour? If you're looking for my usual incisive political commentary, I'm fresh out. Ooo, except for this: Do you think Senators like Snapple? I'd say yes, though some Senators may feel that Snapple is "too sweet." Pffff! No such thing, Senators! If something is "too sweet," just drink less of it. Moderation. Don't try to finish the whole bottle.

My New Objects

I just received a nail file that has 18 tiny 3-D cats on one side, and a filing surface on the other side. The filing side works wonderfully, and if anyone ever wants proof that I am insane, I will show them this nail file. Specifically, I will show them the side with 18 3-D cats. Why do people give me such ridiculous objects? Last week someone gave me this Mijo, the third from the right. Her name is Traviesa. She may be the dullest Mijo. I think I will try to trick someone into eating her.

If anyone objects to eating this inedible Mijo, I will say, "Yes, your concerns are valid, but think of my feelings for once."

I Cannot Answer My Email

Did you write me an email lately? You probably did, especially if you were interested in buying my inflatable raft. If you didn't see the original ad, and you are interested in buying my raft, don't panic. The raft is still available. As noted in ad, the raft is inflatable but is punctured in several spots, and has been declared unsafe by Todd, who knows a guy in the Army Corps of Engineers. I no longer want this raft. You are welcome to buy it, $60.

What I want you to know is that I can't answer my email, potential raft sale notwithstanding. I just can't answer it. Can't do it. It's not something I can do at this time. If that means I never sell my raft, I don't care.

I Wonder Why People Bother

Sometimes I wonder why people bother having coughing fits in public. It sounds terrible and accomplishes very little. In practical terms, it would be more efficient to run in circles, squawking like a sea gull at a barbecue. Better yet, why not fight someone for their bread crust, then fly off and poop on some windshields?

But no, people would rather just stand there and cough in my face for two full minutes, the animals.

No Seconds For Troy

Idea for a poem: lady likes the bagpipes. No euphemism, she likes the music. This one guy, Troy, learns to play the bagpipes in order to impress this lady, until he finds out she's not much of a lady - in fact, this lady's been giving it away to some other guy! But now Troy knows how to play the bagpipes, sort of. So he stands outside the slutty lady's house and plays the bagpipes. He gives it all he's got! He plays those bagpipes like he's never played before! He plays and he shakes and the tears course down his cheeks like rain! But the lady is not at home. She had an acupuncture appointment. Then she's having lunch with Denise.

Even the Mailman Phones Before Approaching My House

Like the idiot cat Garfield, I dislike Mondays, though Mondays are really my Thursdays, if I skip Wednesdays, or something along those lines. I work outside the home Saturday through Tuesday, in direct contravention of my conviction that women ought not work outside the home. I am telling you this because I trust you not to burglarize my home while I am at work.

Of course, it is possible that I cannot trust you. In that case, Achtung! Do not show up at my house while I am at work, as I've arranged to have all potential burglars shot, and though you are truly dear to me, you are nothing if not a potential burglar. I can't give you any more details. Stay safe.

p.s. After you are shot, a tiny boy will run out of the house and beat you with a shoe. Teach you a lesson, he will.

This Country is Full of Sandwiches that Do Not Work

Man is born free, but everywhere his sandwiches are in chains. Last night I forged a sandwich so hideous that I capitulated immediately. I set the bready beast in the dog’s bowl and walked away in despair. It was a complete waste of horseradish-mustard and good intentions; never again will I combine the two.

Outlook Good

Those asses at Mattel have dismantled and destroyed my virtual Magic 8 Ball, so I have transferred my allegiance to the Magic Infinity Ball. This particular ball seems to offer accurate information, at any rate. The Magic 8 Ball had me incensed at every turn, with its “Outlook not so good,” “Cannot predict now,” “No,” and so forth. The Magic Infinity Ball uses those responses as well, but with healthy moderation. Given the testimonial I’ve provided here, no reasonable man would continue to use Mattel revelation technology in any of its forms.

Quick Check-In

After work, I saw a woman backing her station wagon out of a parking space while talking on the phone and eating a bowl of oatscream with a spoon. I longed to lay across her hood and mime a swimming motion, but I'm a busy woman with pies to eat. I walked home with the 40 hounds of hell biting at my heels. Made it home in record time. Alas, no pie at home; I wept like an orphan at the county fair.

Enough With This Snack Offal

Just ate a chocolate covered almond that tasted like dust. American snack standards are in the toilet, but you never hear a peep about it in the main stream media. Even that ass John Stossel keeps his normally flapping chops immobile in regards to our foul snack horizon.

The Coast Guard Appreciates My Sea Reports

Every once and a while, I look at my stats and I notice that NOBODY is reading my blog at that moment, not even the Coast Guard. Typically, the Coast Guard guys spend their days scanning Topic Drift feverishly, like jittery investors scanning a stock ticker in 1929. They’ve grown to appreciate my daily sea reports. “Today, as far as I can tell, the sea is calm,” I might post; then the Coast Guard relaxes with an old Newsweek and a hot cocoa. Another day, I might post, “Lost at sea: one child, wearing a gray woolen union suit.” The Coast Guard then springs into action and saves the idiot child.

That Bastard London was Full of Crazy Talk

Just turned the space heater to “on.” There's no point in arguing about it. It’s too cold. I had to take action, and quickly. My other option was to cut open the dog and crawl inside his carcass, but that’s been done to death and is most definitely passé.

Update: According to Outside Magazine (Feb 1995), no animal makes a practical shelter from the cold:

Other lore has suggested crawling into a bigger creature -- an elk or buffalo or whatever's handy -- but it's just not practical. Getting inside an animal is a lot of work. Soaked with the beast's body fluids, you'd become hypothermic in minutes. And in the 60-below weather that London was describing, even a big animal would freeze fast, so the benefits would be short-lived.

So, space heater it is.

They are a Murderous Sort

While I make it quite clear that I adore all of my readers - even the ones with weak bladders and spotty complexions - I am of two minds when it comes to twaddlers leaving links in my comment fields. On the one hand, who in heaven's name cares if you leave a link in my comment field? But on the other hand, stop leaving links in my comment fields. It's damnably rude. I've a good mind to set my rabbits on you; they are a murderous sort, adept with knives and keen on insult.

You will be lucky to escape with enough wind in your lungs to wheeze to your employer "We've been set upon by the Packard Rabbits; yea, they have slain the servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee."

Wise Women Will Follow My Lead

I have concluded that I prefer "internets" to "the internet." Not because "internets" is correcter, but because it is cosy and impractical, and I am a silly woman. I have also begun to use the word "correcter." Wise women will follow my lead.

And That is Reason # 4 Why Weather Girls Wear Helmets Now

Chilling. They never stop working in the name of Evil, the brutes. They are like common explosive house ants, or, as I like to call them, common explosive house ants.

He Shot Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)

This may be late in coming, but it is my conviction that Phil Spector ought to be allowed to shoot whomever he wishes to shoot in the privacy if his home. We owe Mr. Spector a tremendous debt. He brought us The Paris Sisters, The Teddy Bears, The Crystals. Has the world gone mad? Get off his back, Petty Justice.

I think it was Thoreau who said "Don't want to be shot in the face? Stay out of legendary record producer's homes."

I Can't Be Bothered

Today I discovered that if I keep my blinds down in every window unpummeled by that great ass, the sun, my house stays warmer. Now my house is dark, and swaddled passersby surely assume that the pulled blinds mean I'm harboring drug criminals within my walls. Of course, I can't be bothered with what these animals think.

I Am Sitting on a Towel

I say, have you noticed all of the natural disasters occurring lately? Me neither, but today I looked at the news, and it turns out that the earth is belching its unholy fury at every opportunity. I, for one, am terrified. I haven't pissed my pajamas in fright yet, but I am sitting on a towel just in case.

With Their Dinner Cheese Still Warm on the Table

Last winter I squished a mouse to death under a book about the stages of pregnancy. On the carpet, I squished him. I was tired of chasing him around, and I finally saw my chance, so I whomped him good, and I squished him for good measure. I have carried a heavy burden of guilt with me these long months, but I haven't had any mice in the house since then. I think the mice moved to another house. "Only a mad savage would squeeze a mouse to death under a pregnancy book," they told each other, and packed their suitcases. Some of them were too frightened to pack - they just ran away with their clothing scattered everywhere and their dinner cheese still warm on the table.

It Remains a Dangerous World

I've seen neither hide nor hair of my family-style neighbors in over a month. I certainly hope they haven't succumbed to some tawdry cross-country immigrant-swapping murder-suicide scheme - or worse, offered their banking information to a Nigerian outlaw with malice on his mind. It remains a dangerous world, and a man must have his wits about him if he is to defend his family from these nefarious thugs.

I Hope It Is True, This Old Proverb

I considered posting nothing today, since I posted several hundred posts yesterday and I didn't want to overdo it. Then I remembered the old saying: every time you post something to your blog, an angel is bitten by a bat. The thought of such heavenly savagery spurred me to post this very post. I hope it's true, this old proverb. If it's not, I've wasted a tremendous amount of time at the computer.

Do Not Assume That I Automatically Forgive Instances of Boorish Behavior

When I say something that is obvious windbaggery, like "I know an anusless man who can store a trout in his nostril," or "On the way to work I saw a naked man vomit on a stone cheetah," I expect people to nod and ask further questions. Active listening and all that. I do not expect them to walk away with a false limp or strike me with their rolled-up newspaper. Maybe my expectations are out of line, but I doubt it.

I Will Be Compelled to Agree with the Dog

Today the dog looked at me without saying a word. I cannot remember a single instance of the dog saying anything, but I wait for it. I suspect that the first thing he will ask for is my resignation. "I should be living with the Eskimos," he will insist. And I will be compelled to agree with him. He should be living with the Eskimos.

Even Prince Has Abandoned Uptown

I have been studying this new book about Uptown Minneapolis. The aim of this book is to show residents, through the use of words and previously secret photographs, that Uptown used to have a soul, and that we have destroyed this soul, possibly by building low-income housing and allowing women to wear trousers.

One of the facts that this book bizarrely omits is that Uptown has always been a terrific place to meet smug cretins driving like wounded and charging havalinas. But who am I to quibble.

I Am Smarter than Droppings and Darts

I would like to go somewhere and spend some money, but I hesitate to leave the house. A gang of pigeons is pooping relentlessly over my front door, and my neighbor always watches for an opportunity to shoot me with poison blow darts. I haven't anywhere to go to anyway, I suppose. I could buy an enormous coffee somewhere, but that much liquid might thin my blood, causing me to bleed more after I pass through the inevitable return hail of bird droppings and poison darts.

I Will Drop By Next Wednesday

The U.S. inspectors have ended their search for WMD in Iraq, and I am relieved. Nothing is more irritating than searching for something and coming up empty handed, though I maintain that the weapons are indeed there, hiding in plain sight. I would probably spot them right away. I intend to write to the Iraqi consulate (or whomever) to ask if I can drop by and pick them up.

It Is Not For Me to Know

You are probably wondering if the Minneapolis sky is overcast. The answer is yes, it is overcast. What I can't understand is why people aren't taking to the streets in protest. Bush initiates war in Mesopotamia and the entire city congregates in fury, but let the sun abandon us for two weeks straight and the citizens cower in their garrets, whimpering and taking warm footbaths. I suggest that we get our priorities straight. I for one would rather have a sunny Minneapolis than a democratic Iraq, but it's probably a question of funding.

I Am Greater Than a Bee Egg

Now I have three days off. Normally, this would delight me, but for some reason I want stab myself in the thigh with a Bic. Good heavens, three days off! What am I to do with three days off?! I am only one person.

It is important to keep some sort of perspective on these things, I suppose. It is only three days to me, but it is a lifetime for a bee egg. After three days, the bee egg hatches and the larva lives on. What a hassle that must be.

Please, I Ask So Little of You

I was in the midst of a blissful dream this morning when I suddenly woke up. What I'm saying is that I woke up very quickly and immediately forgot my dream. I'm not blaming anybody, I'm just concerned that the general public fails to take my sleeping habits seriously.

It Would Break My Heart If Mrs. Bush Were a Joan Crawford-Caliber Lunatic

Laura Bush has chosen her inaugural gown, and I for one hope she's content with her decision. What if she is later struck with frenzied remorse? What if she rips the gown from her closet, shakes it in the face of the cowering maid-of-all-work and shrieks, "LOOK AT THIS, JUST LOOK AT THIS DREADFUL PIECE OF SACKCLOTH! I AM A DIMINISHED WOMAN! Who saw me in this cloth?! Who saw? Who saw? We must find them and remove their tongues! Vile tongues! NO MAN MUST EVER SPEAK OF THIS ABOMINATION AGAIN! I AM RUINED!" And then, of course, she beats the poor maid-of-all-work with a bottle of carpet shampoo. I think it would break my heart if Mrs. Bush were a Joan Crawford-caliber lunatic.

No Man On Earth Can Stop Me

I am eating a beef burger by default. All of the other food ostensibly available to me is locked away in a grocery store two blocks away. "But you can bring groceries home with you; you work in a grocery store," some might say, to which I would reply, "No, I work in the office above a grocery store." Fools. I do not think clearly about meal plans and grocery lists simply by virtue of toiling one story above foodstuffs. It is not any easier for me to bring groceries home from work than it would be for a silver miner to bring silver home from the silver mine gift shop, or for a footman to abscond with a king's sock.

You may also be interested to know that I will be having chocolate jello pudding after the burger.

And Now This

I recently buffed my nails. This buffing removed the unnecessary ridges that cluttered my nail surface. When my ridges were finally gone, I looked at my nails and I burst into tears. I have been very happy in my lifetime, and now this.

The Ancients Called It “The Great Struggle”

There are times at night when I don't know whether to have a simple snack or just go to bed. Nobody can help me with this struggle. It’s something that I face alone, just as a lone cowboy faces the open range. He is at home on the range, but should he have a simple snack, or should he pull down his hat and get some shut-eye? Nobody can help him with this great struggle. It is something he must face alone.

I'm Through With the Entire Business

I have been wearing skirts to the office lately. Your first question is probably "Well, do they work?" YES! They completely cover the bits you're not allowed to show in public. I may push all of my trousers into the oven and set the whole machine aflame. I have no need for trousers now. Now that this is settled, you could say that my primary concern is for the well-being of the world's children. You would be lying, but you could still say it.

At Long Last

If there is anything I hate, it's a play. This play, however, made me reconsider my heavy loathing. Some day this play will come to life on Masterpiece Theatre and I will watch it on my 10" black-and-white TV and I will tell my cat, "Yes, I always liked this play, but I believe Bob Hoskins has been miscast as Man."

Too Many Infernal Questions!

I was so frustrated that I swept the entire house. Then I sat around, still frustrated. A little bird told me that idle hands are the devil's tools, so I caught the bird with an ice cream bucket and threw him outside. Then I started plotting. Who should pay the ultimate price for my future indiscretions? Good question. Why not Terry Gross? How I despise her meddling.

Maybe If Everyone Would Just SHUT UP

I am TRYING to write something for my blog, but EVERYONE is TALKING and DISTRACTING me. It’s TOO LOUD in here. MY HAIR feels funny and SOMEBODY is wearing NASTY PERFUME. I just asked the Magic 8 Ball if Elvis is alive and it said “DON’T COUNT ON IT.” Then I asked if Ronald Reagan is alive and it said “OUTLOOK GOOD.”

My Own Private Presenteeism

As I walked to work I wondered: if a skunk sprayed me now, would I continue on to the office? And I thought that yes, I most emphatically would. I don’t want that stench in my house. I would go to work and pretend I knew nothing of any overpowering skunk odor. “Really? You smell skunk? All I smell is Nestle Tollhouse cookies. Who brought cookies?” I would say.

Note to Self: Kill Kay

How can I force Kay to admit that she tried to kill me for my 2005 Kim Casali calendar? Kay waits until after the 1st of the year to buy her calendars, because they're half price at that point, and because she is a cheapskate and a string-saver and a intolerable bore. Naturally, all the "Love is" calendars were spoken for before January 1st; I usually buy mine in October. But Kay is so @&#*% stupid that she waits for them to go out of stock, and then she asks her brother to strangle me and steal my "Love is" calendar. That's not what love is, bitch! Love is buying your goddamn Kim Casali calendar in October like the rest of us!

I Waste My Time

I just woke up and it's already ten o'clock. How can this be happening to me? And so soon after my New Year's resolution to rise early for daily calisthenics and a bottle of Midori.

What Does It All Mean?

Today I contemplated a sublimely gorgeous sunrise through my windshield and I thought: Why, God? Why are we here? The answer came as if in a dream: Probably because I let the "service engine" light go unheeded for two months.

Yucky

I've had two cups of tea today and they both tasted like ass. You're probably keen for details, so I will now expand upon what I consider a grossly neglected topic: my methods.

First, I put sugar and milk in my cup. Second, I introduce the tea bag and the hot water simultaneously. This is surely an abomination before the Lord, and some day I will pay for my sins. In the meantime I will suffer the blind proxy scorn of the millions of tea drinkers who rend their garments and foam at the mouth at the thought of such abominations.

At any rate, my method is sound. It provides a consistent brew. Today's problem involves my cup. I used a different cup - a cup that resides outside my zone of comfort: my Winchester Mystery House souvenir cup. Every beverage I drink form that cup tastes terrible. I blame Sarah Winchester. For reasons I do not fully comprehend, I also blame the Palestinians.

I switched cups for the second cup of tea. I chose the cup inscribed "Fred." It sports a nice line-drawing of Pastor Fred at a podium. This cup of tea tasted bad, too. I don't know who to blame for this cup of tea. I guess I'll have to go with the Palestinians again.

Note

I may not have anything to say today. I am very busy with my project to create a marmite-scented cologne that is both sexy AND down-to-earth. I am also trying to find my old income tax crap. I can't help but wonder if these objectives are really just two sides of the same coin.

Beware Jumpy Strangers Bearing Semolina

When I walk into my kitchen, I expect to be greeted with grace and decorum - or better yet, with the silence of the hams. I do not expect to have a pot of boiling water thrown at me. It's my house. If you want to boil some macaroni at my house, ask me first. Do not break into my home with a package of macaroni and a dream. And do not throw the boiling water at me when I walk into the kitchen. You startle too easily.

Hands Off My Boom Boom

I was just about to add Liberal Larry to my blogroll, but then he started loving Susan Sontag too much. Can I just sit here, calmly devouring a rasher of bacon while he repeatedly drags my beloved through the mud? Yes I can, but only because bacon is a sedative.

On a related note, I intend to take the Sontag stripe as I age. I refuse to go gray in a disorganized fashion. I will control my gray. I will take the stripe.

My Dream

One of my dreams is to have my home look like the set of Sanford and Son. I also dream of employing two men to just stand around and argue in my house. Currently, my house is too clean and the color scheme is too vibrant. But you know, I would abandon this dream in an instant for the chance to eat nachos under the Eiffel Tower while wearing a fat suit.

...Like a Hyena

Sometimes I wonder if my SECRET ADMIRER reads Topic Drift. If you are my SECRET ADMIRER, I suggest you give me a sign. I'm tired of guessing, dude. I suggest that you wink at me next time we cross paths. Then try to trip me. When I fall, point and laugh like a hyena. Then help me up, but keep on laughing like a hyena. Then make gestures that imply that you'd like to buy me a drink, all the while laughing hysterically, like a hyena. Whatever you do, don't stop laughing like a hyena. If you stop, we will be forced to engage in conversation. And I've got to tell you: that's going to be awkward.

Why I Did Not Post Anything Today

Today dealt me nothing but suffering and despair. My constant striving for excellence in the field of Mortuary Science has been entirely for naught. Today I tried to inject embalming fluid into a customer, but he woke up and told me that he "wasn't dead." Then he tried to wrestle the embalming kit out of my hands. I was so upset that I ran to the arcade, crawled behind Alien Crawdaddy Shoot-'em, and wept bitterly for at least twenty minutes. And this afternoon I found an obviously dead woman on a park bench, so I opened my kit and started putting makeup on her. I only wanted her to look nice for the casket! But she woke up and tried to cut me with a piece of hubcap! Get off my back, bitch, you looked dead! Damn, I'm just trying to do my job! Confederacy of dunces, no shit. And last week I tried to embalm a polar bear that I saw in a bar, but that damn bear had already been to the taxidermist. So, whatever. Whatever. I just don't know.

Feud

I am considering finding a fellow blogger, race and church preference unimportant, with whom to feud. It will not be a real feud, though we will certainly hand down real prejudices to the young ones as we grow too old to handle our weapons.

Our blog feud will deal exclusively with the vagaries of observable weather. We will fight thusly:

EXAMPLE FIGHT – 3 exchanges

Me: “The weather here stinks, it just keeps snowing and it’s gloomy and I want to kill. If you were here, for example, I would fast-track you to the head of the Kill List.”

New Enemy: “Here we have non-stop oppressive sun, but the lack of cloud cover only makes it colder than a witch’s teat. It is 15 below with a 29-below-zero wind chill. Christ, if I had a plow I’d drive to your state and plow your house into rubble.”
***
Me: “Well, well. A bit of a thaw. Now I can smell you from here. You smell like a rotting whale.”

New Enemy: “Surely you are smelling your own feet. Freezing rain again. Driving, not so good - bad roads. I wish I had a cannon powerful enough to blow your thawed ass off the continent.”
***
Me: “Finally, signs of spring. Today I wore short pants and a sailor cap. You are the worst sort of blackguard.”

New Enemy: “Will winter never cease? I’ve worn the same boots for 2 years now, and they still give me blisters. I hope you get bitten by a lyme tick.”

Swears Optional

One of the things I would like to own is a collapsible, liquid-proof coffee cup that looks like an ordinary coffee cup. Specifically, I want a cup that I can crush in my hand when I am furious, thereby frightening the “innocent” onlookers who “otherwise” would not “get” me. I want onlookers to understand that, not only am I livid with anger at the injustice I see, but that I have, as a result of this terrible injustice, become so unhinged, so rabid, so wild with rage that I can (and will) crush (and destroy) a seemingly normal stoneware coffee cup with my bare hand. I will welcome the attendant burns as further evidence of my vicious sincerity.

Exclusive: Pretend this Post is Urine Jar Art, or Here's How I Sound at 3 in the Morning

Dear Secret St. Paul Friend aka "Karileigh," (shhhh!),

What are you doing? Sleeping, probably. It's about 900,000,000 in the morning. Very late! I've never been up until 900,000,000 o'clock before. It's a good thing I misunderstand living. It makes being up so late easier. As you can see, I am completely too tired and wired. Wired in two senses! Get it? I hope you get my joke regarding wired.

Maybe you want to go do something this week, or any other week. You can! But I meant, do something with ME, like eat some food in a restaurant or watch a No-Touch Car Wash for signs of touching. No touching at the no-touch car wash! Not allowed. Plus, you will be charged an additional fee.

I think I have a hive from stress. What do you have a hive from? Stress?

Why not tell me in a confidential email what you think of my proposition regarding eating? Everybody eats. Just put it into a confidential email to me.

I had this idea that I can make things in Appleworks and then shanghai them onto my blog with a system of levers and pulleys. Is this a possibility? Please tell me that I can do this. Also, please tell me that it will not harm me in the process. You know how much I hate things. I want Ulysses S. Grant and Little Edie in my blog banner. I also want a picture of Lady Justice. But instead of a sword and a balance dealy, I want her to be holding a couple magazines and a bologna sandwich. Have I said too much? I've read several confidential emails that have told me that my blog would become visually appealing with the addition of visually appealing appeals, such as visuals.

To make a long story short, write to me one (1) confidential email detailing your detailed answers to my urgent inquiries. Don't leave your confidential email in my comments field. Anyone can read that stuff.

All this and I'm still too awake to sleep. Fuck the police, eh? Eh? Eh? Speak up, I can't hear you.

What? I can't hear you over the sound of everyone striking me from their blogrolls. Now I've done it.

EWP

2005

They say that God never closes a door without opening a window and letting in a cloud of fuel exhaust, and New Year’s Eve provided no exception to this elegant maxim. I was despondent after discovering that the Home Shopping Network was not vending any macabre dolls this New Year's Eve. Fortunately, TCM aired ABBA: The Movie. Thirty years of icy soul-detritus melted away as I lived ABBA: The Movie. The scales fell from my eyes and I cast myself upon the mercy of ABBA: The Movie. I threw down my crutches and walked! I offered praise to my maker! I repented my sins and deplored my natural iniquity! Then I finished my champagne, crawled into my roach motel and slept like a baby. It was the sleep of roaches. Wait, I mean angels! It was the sleep of angels.