Work shredded me today. My lovely wife excused me from soccer practice in exchange for preparing a (very simple) dinner. It was exactly what I needed, and quite thoughtful. Thank you, Lea.
Steve Fossett’s airplane was found this week, smashed into the side of a mountain at a hundred and something miles an hour. The NTSB describes the scene as “a high-impact crash which appears to be consistent with a nonsurvivable accident,” which is “an obnoxious euphemism which appears to be consistent with a federal bureaucracy.”
I’ve noticed that the sideline reporter babes at college football games consistently wear clothing with low necklines, and when it’s too cold for that, they wear tight sweaters. Is anyone all spun up about this? Shouldn’t there be a lawsuit or something? I, for one, am well and truly appalled. (Sigh. Once there was Jill Arrington, and now there’s everyone else.)
Remember ’70s shampoo weirdness? Faberge Organics (“and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on”)? Body on Tap (with “one-third real beer”?!)? “Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific”?
Are you concerned that you might be a pack rat? Ever felt like complaining to your significant other about such perceived tendencies? Y’all are probably fine. Check this out.
Nathan lost the second of his proverbial two front teeth about an hour ago. I’m in charge of the final extraction (if requested), and Lea’s in charge of the dentum-for-wampum swap. (Said “wampum” in this case is a Bicentennial silver dollar, courtesy his dearly departed great grandmother.)
You know the Taco Bell Volcano Taco commercial with “Disco Inferno” by The Trammps? Every time it comes on, I enjoy the fact that they worked the lyric “burn the mother down” into it twice.
I’ve occupied some territory on both sides of the issue, but I believe I’ve come down on the side of “no federal bailout of any kind.” Fall hard now, or fall harder later.