Seen on a 'reality show' last night... Or, the bamboozled leading the blonde....

Ryan: So, Kellie, your breasts look especially engorged tonight.

Kellie: Ah read that, too. And Ah really didn’t know ‘bout calimari. And mah firends in the trailer park were awl like, “We didn’t know ‘bout calimari either.”

Ryan: So you’re saying it was your stylist who gave you the push-up bra?

Kellie: Ah knewd there was an “L” in sal-mon. But how was Ah ta know it was a silent “L”?

Ryan: You’re just seriously misunderstood, aren’t you?

Kellie: Is that a pickle in your pocket?

Ryan: Looks like you have a new fan. Let’s watch your puff piece.

Hooker furniture? The mind boggles.

I imagine a table with a stocking on each leg. Or a table lamp wearing a top that's so incredibly exiguous that you can see its bulbs.

While Jodi has told us to consider ourselves at home, even to the point of saying we should consider ourselves to be part of the furniture, I doubt sincerely that three advertising posts in a row is warranted. Spam mail be gone and in its place commence sexual experiences to delight and sate any and all sexual desires regardless of the depravity to outside parties.

Comment spamming they may be, but at least we got some cock sucking going on... finally!

Just wondering, if you want to do more than an email/IM sexy exchange, but you're not quite ready for phone sex, would faxsex be considered "second base"?

I love trashy comments.

Mission Impossible III: find a brain for Tom Cruise

Alas, no, Meg. But the comments to which you refer are indeed going somewhere -- THE TRASH!!!!!!!

Comment-spamming cocksuckers be damned. :-(

furniture ... mortgages ... is your world-famous website moving somewhere, Jodi???

Here are some websites that might be good for distraction:

http://members.aol.com/JesusImages/index.htm
At this one you can look at disturbing hand drawings someone created of Jesus "watching over" people in different professions (including jugglers and carpet layers)

http://www.marmotburrow.ucla.edu/hotlinks.html
At this one you can hear tons of different marmot ("whistle pig") and woodchuck sounds.

GO JODI!!!! RANT YOUR WAY TO THE TOP

I am commenting merely to tell you that I still exist and that I miss you. That is all.

Ds, that wasn't the only spam comment. I deleted others. And now, without further ado, I'm deleting this one.

Carry on, everyone! You're all doing a top-notch, bang-up job!

Wahoo! Jodi finally made it! An annonymous spam posting featuring wacky mortgage links!

My work is done here. I leave a happy Ds.

Q: Why did Archie Bunker find his birthday especially enjoyable each year?

A: It was the only way he could have his cake and Edith, too.

A man walks into a seedy looking bar, sits down and spots a woman he half recognizes talking to the barkeep. As they finish their conversation, the man waves the barkeep to him and asks, "Is that Hortence?" The barkeep looks over and says, "No, she seems pretty relaxed to me."

Two termites scurry into a bar and one says, "Is the bar tender here?"

Q: How many surrealist painters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A: Fish.

Blowjobs are hot.

The needle was for sewing. As for the other item? Well, if you watched "The Matrix", then you know the answer: There is no spoon.

Personally? I hate injectables of any sort. That's why I could never be a quarter-horse.

I love Elliott too! I love EVERYTHING about him. He puts the E in E-xtraordinary! He's the best.! He will win AI!

it wasn't an eviction in a blowjob-type of way.

it was more of a what's-a-needle-and-a-spoon-doing-in-your-coat-pocket?-kinda way.

It doesn't sound like there's any blowjobs going on in this eviction either. Not even from the underaged daughter. Pfft!

Alrighty. Time for a little timely rant on our jurisprudence system… Or as I like to call it, McJustice.

Firstly, all I’m wearing is a sneer. But don’t get excited, it’s a big sneer, so you can’t see anything good and/or offensive.

Let’s start with a little backstory… I’m a landlord. Notice I did not say slumlord. There is a world of difference between the two. Slumlords operate on the thinnest of spending margins trying to eek out every cent of profit they can with little regard for their tenants, their property, or the concerns of neighbors. Landlords can be of varying types, bordering on the aforementioned slumlord to the type you’d want your elderly Grandmother to rent a two-story Cape Cod complete with white picket fence from. I fall somewhere in the middle. I try to be as nice as possible, while still remembering that this glorious piece of rock of ours is America, and we are contractually obligated from birth to be capitalistic in all of our endeavors. (It’s about the money.) However, as part of my Mother Theresa complex, I occasionally rent to folks who are not as well off as you or I. Most are on some sort of welfare or assisted housing subsidy.

Which brings me to the deadbeat. I first met Dick (his named has been changed from Richard to protect his identity…) 18 months ago. A nice enough guy. Single father. Fourteen-year-old daughter. Looking for a small house he could rent. Had been working for the Cincinnati Greys (changed from Reds to protect their identity…) Baseball Team in minor capacities for seven straight seasons. It was a decent job, 9 months a year. So, after checking Dick’s references, his residential history, his employment history, his voting record, his overdue-books at the library sheet, his rap sheet, his preferences in rap, his shoe size and the nationality of his neighbor three doors down, I thought it might be OK to let Dick become a part of the extended rental community I have engendered.

See Dick laugh.

Six weeks after Dick signed a lease with us, Dick decided it was in Dick’s best interest to quit Dick’s job. Why, you ask? Because Dick didn’t get a raise. Shouldn’t Dick have been happy just to have a job seeing as Dick is a high-school dropout and definitely not the sharpest tack in the box? Yes, Dick should have been. But as Dick is not the sharpest tack in the box, Dick decided it was in Dick’s best interest to quit. So Dick did just that. Dick quit.

See Dick hide. Hide, Dick, hide.

Now, it might be a bit much to ask an uneducated single father of a 14-year-old daughter who has just quit the job he’s had for seven years with a professional baseball franchise to have a lot of common sense. But common sense would dictate that Dick do several things immediately to improve his situation. Let’s call them: Call the landlord to explain the situation; Look for a new job; Check into unemployment benefits or welfare subsidies. Actually, any one of those would have helped immensely. But did Dick get up off of Dick’s lazy ass and make any attempt at all? No, Dick did not.

So when the rent came due and Dick’s check was not present amongst those being counted, we tried to contact Dick. We called Dick. Dick did not answer. We tried to visit Dick. Dick was not home. We left notes for Dick. Dick did not respond. It seems Dick did not care dick about Dick’s per-dick-ament. So, this being America, the land of the free and the home of the capitalist, we took Dick to court to evict Dick. Ohhhhhh, did Dick start trying to reach us then. Dick called. And called. Day and night. Every five minutes if we didn’t return his call. Dick wore out Dick’s fingers on his conveniently-changed phone number. Seems that Dick had a pulse after all.

So after we evicted Dick the first time, we met with Dick. Dick told us about Dick’s pre-dick-ament. And we told Dick what Dick needed to do: Call the landlord to explain the situation; Look for a new job; Check into unemployment benefits or welfare subsidies. And in addition, Dick needed to get caught up in his back rent. Dick smiled his Dick smile and promised that Dick would indeed do just that. And, with some constant prodding, poking, cajoling, threatening and the like, Dick did finally get three of the four accomplished – Getting caught up, keeping in touch with the Landlord (mainly because we were always there…) and getting on subsidized housing.

Dumb, Dick, dumb.

So Dick gets a housing subsidy that pays 90% of Dick’s rent. That means Dick need only come up with 10% of Dick’s rent so that Dick and Dick’s daughter have a place to stay. Sounds simple enough. Except Dick likes big-screen TV’s, satellite TV and salt-water aquariums. Dick likes to go out and get a new puppy dog even though in Dick’s lease it clearly states no pets in Dick’s rented abode, a puppy which proceeds to tear up Dick’s rented yard and Dick’s wall-to-wall rented carpet. Dick seems to have money for everything except Dick’s 10%.

But that isn’t where Dick was dumb. No, that isn’t hardly where Dick was dumb. You see, we worked out Dick’s 10% dilemma. But then, Dick decided that Dick, Dick’s daughter, Dick’s dog, Dick’s satellite-fed big-screen TV and Dick’s saltwater fish all needed a bigger home. Dick was on the public’s dime, you see, and Dick felt entitled.

So Dick asked that I sign a mutual termination of tenancy form, effectively severing our rental-based relationship February 28th. Dick sent that form to the Official Office Of Governmental Dealings Having To Do With Welfare Subsidies and Housing. And the OOOGDHTDWWS&S received Dick’s letter, and officially stopped paying Dick’s rent effective February 28th as Dick had requested.

But did Dick leave? Well, had Dick left, this wouldn’t be much of a story, would it? No. Dick did not leave. Dick requested that he be allowed out of his lease so he could be movin’ on up. But Dick was too lazy to do the movin’ part. So Dick landed in court again.

See Dick. See Dick go.

(to be cont.)

Somehow, I'm thinking that a boyfriend-type eviction would be awkward with a lot of "it's not you, it's me" kind of language. Then, as you finally agree to part, there's the pity blowjob.

How do I know? I've had to evict my fair share of boyfriends.

Of course, you'd have to define "boyfriends" as "men I meet while riding the bus" and I never ride the bus. So I guess I have no clue... I would have asked my ex-girlfriend what a "boyfriend-type" eviction is like, but we had a weird conversation right before, and then she wouldn;t have been able to respond with my cock in her mouth like that.

you know, i'm realizing now that the person may have been evicting a deadbeat in the landlord-type way.

i had to evict mine in the boyfriend-type way.

big difference. BIG difference, in the i'm a looooser-type way.

Lookit the Jodestress pimpin' da Rickey....

(BTW, the curb feelers on the DeVille are passe'.)

Elliott (WHOM I LOVE) sang "I Don't Want To Be". Check out my friend Rickey's blog, here: http://www.rickey.org/blog/2006/03/ellion_yamin_i_dont_want_to_be.html

He has a YouTube video of it! :o)

i evicted a deadbeat once. those were good times.

um, what song did elliott yamin sing last night?

thanks a gabillion!

What?!? Courting Meg with common pleas won't work, son! Trust me, I know from experience. In my day, you courted a fine dame like you were weaving a nursing napkin: One false move and then you find that little juniors' mammarian nectar or romance has seeped through to the knit cardigan of heartbreak. Have you even asked the girl out to a moving-picture? I hear the new "talkies" are all the rave with the younger generation. Me? I'll take a good old fashioned vaudeville minstrel show, thank you very much: That little Negro boy, Jolson, never fails to elicit a belly laugh from me. But if you are serious about courting this girl, I can't oer recommend the use of protection: Always carry a loaded pistol in case you're confronted by the Bolsheviks. Those Godless revolutionaries are everywhere, perverting our socio-economic health with their lies and Godless ways. I think the temperance movement has the right idea: Ban alcohol and all these pseudo-intellectual riff-raff will trudge back to Paris and crawl into a bottle of absinthe.

OK. I'm of to the Court of Common Pleas this morning to sit with the dregs of society as I try to evict a deadbeat.

This will undoubtably be worth some sort of impatient tirade within the next 24-hours.

Unless, that is, everyone was so sated with the previous legality of military tribunals link that they can't possibly stomach another bout with the US Justice System.

Your call.

OK. I'd like to thank Tim for broadening my horizons with that link. I'd read the entire article (twice) about the legality of military tribunals in regards to the detainees at Guantanamo Bay, the suspension of Writ, habeus corpus, ad naseum...

Until I realized he was simply referring to the title.

It looks like Dahlia Lithwick at Slate is a fan:

http://www.slate.com/id/2138841/fr/rss/

For once, I can't think of anything to say. But I'd like to help in any way that I can. Maybe this will be of some use:

http://www.spatch.net/cattown/episode1.html

But I *do* want you.

No. You are not permitted to stop. No one is. Everyone is invited -- and encouraged -- to continue.

BRING IT ON!!!

Blame Jodi. She's the person responsible for dragging my obese, jiggling, furry, kfc-eating, greasy-fingered, nylon shorts wearing arse over here to provide her with diversionary commentary.

BTW, can we stop yet?

Oh sh*t. Ds. You are ONE OF THEM, and you ARE doing it just to f*ck with me!!!! I f*cking knew it.

I have many ways to entertain and divert you, but we won't get into them here!
(Ok, that sounds kinky. It's not people, it's not)

The glass eye stared at him from the sidewalk. At least, he thought it was a glass eye. It's cold gaze haunted him as he stood in line for a hot dog. The wait seemed excruciating under the penetrating stare of the unblinking orb. Finally, it was his turn to order. He got his usual type: Chili and Cheese, no onion. The eye seemed pleased: Onions make it cry.

I apologize in advance for this mind visual. And those of you with weak stomachs may just want to close your eyes and proceed to the next post right now.

I'll give you a second or two....

OK. Those who are still reading deserve to suffer through this.

*Dances around Meg in a skintight Def Leppard sleeveless T-shirt featuring the signature British Flag print, wiggling his lumpy ass in skin tight and cut so high you can almost see the sky electric blue nylon shorts with white piping trim. Bends over (and yes, you CAN see France) to adjust his over-the-calf athletic tube socks with the two-color striping, in this case alternating thin red, thick blue, thin red. (At least they match my shirt.) Adorning his dancing feet are blue suede Converse tennis shoes, which because they are housing sweaty feet have begun to bleed onto my otherwise pristine tube socks. And just for effect, I've adorned myself with Old Spice aftershave that I purchased at the checkout counter of my local 5 and dime.*

You know you want me baby.

a la mode...

These people earn every giggle that comes their way!! "What Not to Wear" airs on TLC almost every damn day ... there is NO EXCUSE!!! This is not a disease. This is a choice that they make every morning when they dress their lumpy bodies in that garbage. It's a perfectly NORMAL and HUMAN reaction to giggle at the sight of it! If we don't laugh at them, how will they know they are dressing like idiots?? I think they do it on purpose, just to f*ck with me.

Being stuck in the 1980's is not that uncommon, nor is it anything to joke about. Lack of fashion sense is a sickness. Hundreds of thousands of Americans are inflicted with Lakafashionitus and are forced to walk around suffering the indignant stares, which are often accompanied by insensitive and hurtful remarks.

I've pulled this information from the Lakafashionitus website so we all might better understand this debiliating disease.

Lakafashionitus comes in several progressive stages:

Lakafashionitus 70 - Identifyable by the concert T-Shirts, long
unkempt hair, too-tight jeans and
references to a period of time known only
as the "60's." Those who suffer often drive
Pontiac Trans Ams with original flaming
phoenix graphics on the hoods.

Lakafashinitus 80 - Comes in several subcategories.

L-80-Mall - Identifyable by "tsunami bangs", stirrup pants
with flats. Anything with polkadots. Lace hair
ribbons. Bangle earrings. Considered harmless
but irritating.

L-80-Metal - Identifiable by acid washed denim coats and/
or jeans, big fluffy hair, bandannas often
featuring a zebra-print motif, and the
occasional Whitesnake T-shirt. Often known on
the streets as "Headbangers." Can still be seen
watching MTV late at night.

L-80-Preperatory - Identifiable by upturned collars, bright
polos, pegged Guess jeans and pennyloafers.
Listen to bands like Haircut 100.This stage is
terminal and those suspected of
having L-80 should be shot on sight to help
prevent the spread of the disease. Listen to
bands like Haircut 100.

Lakafashinitus 90 has but two main categories -

L90- Bubba - Most easily identified by the signature mullet
hairstyle. Often seen holding a cheap domestic
beer in a can. Occasionally will cover signature
mullet with offical NASCAR sponsored
headgear. Bubba's can often be heard retelling
Jeff Foxworthy monologues from "You know
you're a redneck if..." Those suffering from
L90-Bubba drive American-made vehicles,
often adorned with the number "8" on a slant
and a cartoon character know as "Calvin"
urinating on a competing auto manufacturer's
logo.

L90 - GAP - Easily spotted by the khakis and whites in
everything. Mass-produced cheap clothing
marketed to the masses. Severe sufferes have
been known to dress their children and babies
in the same style of clothing. Commonly
mistaken for L90 - Limited or L90 - Limited
Express, neither of which have reached the
disheartening proportions of L90- GAP.

Also on the rise but not yet it's own category:

L90 - Gangsta - Identifiable by loosecut, baggy jeans
that are worn about the hips, large white t-
shirts known as 'ghetto gowns', large gold
jewelry often encrusted with diamonds or
diamond substitutes, and do-rags of red or
black. Cars often are lowered, have blacked-
out windows, large oversized rims and
pulsating hiphop music heard up to three
blocks away.

Please, won't you help us cure Lakafashionitus? Send your new clothes or unused American Eagle giftcards to:

The Lakafashionitus Foundation
251 West Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 01234

Someday with your help, we'll cure this hideous disease and everyone will be as fashionable as we are.

Ds, that is one silly song. I actually have a story related to it that was hilarious the night it happened. Since we are still diverting, I'll share it ... even though it may not be funny since you all were not there when it happend.

A few months ago a few friends and I were standing outside a bar, waiting for the smokers to finish their smokey treats before going inside. There was a man who walked into the bar ... wearing a totally 80s asinine outfit, gross 80s hair, tight, tapered-leg jeans, and just looked ridiculous. I smirked, giggled to myself, and asked one of my friends if he had seen what just walked into the bar. He replied, "Everybody wang chung tonight??" I *almost* died laughing, and I wasn't even drunk yet.

The sickening snap was loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. Had Bubba "Toe-Jam" Green been able to feel anything below his chest, he would have realized his sudden and untimely paralysis caused him to evacuate his bowels and bladder simultaneously. The rabble dispersed quickly, not wanting to be questioned by the police for previous infractions, or merely just to explain why they were in a makeshift arena watching backyard wrestling. Soon only the homeowner, Bubba's "manager" and the neck breaking opponent were left. Thinking quickly, the put him in an old suitjacket buttoned all the way up and an old fishing hat (sans lures, of course.) Bubba mumbled something about wanting to see his Mom in between his cries of pain as they stowed him on that subway train going into the city. Sure, it was cruel, but quite clever, knowing he'd blend in with all the other incoherant lumps riding the mass transit system. Soon, it was Jodi's stop. Her fantasy cleanly explained the man's presence, or would have if he hadn't woken up and asked her for "money or a blowjob." In two seconds, her art imitated his life.

Everybody have fun tonight. Everybody Wang Chung tonight.

I wish at I had something witty to say to that. Clever. Perhaps even punny. But alas, it's the weekend and I sent my sarcasm suit off to the cleaners for a retrofit.

Naked and witless -

Ds

Ohhhh. I get it now.

*blushing and batting my butterfly eye lashes*

And don't fret ladies. It is well known that for 'hubbub', one cannot possibly ask for a better partner than a certain cerebral New York wandering Jew. And for 'hullaballoo', one need only look in the great plains region for lusty little butterflies.

As for romance drama, no, I wasn't on the Airline crew being eyed by one AI Ace.

And if the Ace is indeed gay, what does that make the Queen? Hmmmm? Enquiring minds want to know...

Firstly, to foever put this to rest, I offer up this screenplay of contested short-story:

Ds, snapping out of the euphoric trance of self-discovery he went on after his dinner-partner had uttered her now-famous 'Oh, nothing.": “Pardon?” I asked, not having the faintest notion of what she had said, only that she had said something as opposed to nothing.

Dinner partner, poliely reiterating her query, realizing she had pulled her friend out of some form of torpor: “I said, ‘What are you thinking?’”

Ds with finality: “Oh,” I replied. “Nothing.”

Cut to couple eating in an uncomfortable silence, slow pull out so we see they are but two people doing approximately the same thing as dozens of others in the restaurant. Fade.

Roll credits.

No "hubbub and hullaballoo", Jodigirl. I think Ds "only has eyes for yooooouuuuu."

Meg, you are so damn sweet! If you talk to me like that, I may just have to follow you around everywhere you go.

Wait a minute. Now I'M confused. What's going on with Jamie and Ds? Is there some sort of romantic drama going on? Is there hubbub and hullaballoo that is going over my very pretty little head? What? Huh? Who? Eh?

jamied, you are so damn cute!

Ds! Stop flattering me and look at these sentances!

“Pardon?” I asked, not having the faintest notion of what she had said, only that she had said something as opposed to nothing.

“I said, ‘What are you thinking?’”

“Oh,” I replied. “Nothing.”

Is it me? Am I reading these wrong? It's really a non-issue now that you've cleared it up for me...so, now I'm talking to myself about you talking to yourself. I wish I could say "oy" here; that would be sweet! Oh, to be a smart, hot Jew...that would be even sweeter!

jamied, my little butterfly of lightly lustful thought set adrift on a breezy spring morning,

I thought it was obvious. We asked each other, with me asking first and she asking seconds later.

You shut us out and then expect us to cater to your whims?

Of course we will. You are JODI, after all. Every man's desire, every woman's goal, every lesbian's unrequited love.

We are soft and weak, your humble masses.

I must find a Village Inn at once and have peas in your honor.

Pie

Am I rambling again? I am sorry!!!

My previous question has much ado about nothing.

Ds! Ugggghhh!

I thought YOU asked HER? Did SHE ask YOU?

My head hurts....but that really was brilliant.

Ahhhhh yes. You know how to please me. You know how to divert. Carry on. Continue. Yes! In other words ... MORE! MORE!

Oh, and P.S.? Sally, stop rambling!

Christine - I was ALMOST sad that The Office was a repeat last night, as I rarely get around to watching anything in prime time and I'd actually seen the episode before. However, I'd forgotten the beauty - Oh - *****SPOILER****** - of everyone having to submit their ailments "anonymously" and learning the terms "killer nano-robots" ("It's an epidemic," says Pam in a delightfully understated manner), "Count Choculitis," and my very, most favorite in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD, "Hot Dog Fingers." I believe I DO have Hot Dog Fingers. WILL THE PAIN NEVER END?

The Mother Superior walked into the communal area of the convent and summoned all of the nuns for an important announcement.

After they had gathered, the Mother Superior stood before them and chastized in a stern voice, "Sisters, I'm sad to announce that we have a case of Gonorrhea here at the convent."

Without hesitation, Mary Catherine piped up and said, "I don't know why that makes you so sad, Mother Superior. I for one was getting sick of drinking from that case of Chardonnay anyway."

Apple

More musings from what is turning out to be a fantastically subjectual-diatriabe-enabled Friday in the misty Midwest of the U.S. of star-spangled and salute when you say it you unpatriotic little Libertarian turds A!

OK. Again, first things first. Same attire as before, only one of the locks of my perfectly coiffed hair has dislodged, no doubt caused by my constant hurry-scurry life, and now dangles like some worm on a hook across my forehead, prompting ‘oo’s’ from passers-by and luring in occasional ‘God I want to ravage you” looks from slightly-pudgy middle-aged Midwestern women that I can’t quite understand as I’ve never found myself the least bit attractive… But you have to remember that these women shop at Lerner’s and like it so there’s just no accounting for taste anyway…

BUT I digress and must get back to the diversion at hand lest Jodi decide that taking a walk with the DOG and the dog is far more productive and at least as entertaining as wading through the rantings of a verbally-verbose and grammatically-challenged twit who has obviously got far, far too much time on his hands…And away we go.

After what seemed like an interminably long time, the waitress came to the table. Now you have to understand, this was the noon rush and the place was packed with your normal noontime cast of crazies including the perpetually-late businessman who needs his food in FIVE MINUTES because he has a VERY IMPORTANT meeting at 12:30, the attractive but about 5 years past her prime woman who wants the cobb salad, but she’d like it “with the eggs on the side and the bacon on the side and the scallions on the side and the ham on the side” and can she get that with ranch dressing on the side, too, but “only if it’s the low-fat variety” as if the eggs and ham and bacon weren’t going to make her ass blow up as big as a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float anyway, the CEO meeting his secretary for lunch minus the wedding band he’s worn for 23 years which is now neatly tucked away inside the shirt pocket of his $400 Tommy Bahama shirt and the only thing brighter than the shirt is the neon white shadow image the wedding ring has created on the tanned third finger of his left hand after 23 years of taking Wednesday and Friday afternoons off to play golf and talk about the office slut with his drinking buddies, and the mother who has brought her three cute yet you’re not quite sure what they’re doing there on a busy Friday lunch rush children down to have a meal with their ever-absent father.

So, as I mentioned, after sitting there for that interminably long time taking in the scenery and being regaled with tales of potty training and the latest daycare dramas from the JellyBean Toddler and Daycare Center, up saunters our obviously frazzled waitress. And since we’ve been sitting there for that interminably long time having amused ourselves by taking in the scenery and regaling our tales of potty training and daycare dramas from the JellyBean Toddler and Daycare Center, we’re pretty much ready to order.

BUT OH NO!... This is a waitress who operates by the copyrighted, unabridged and union-approved “Offical Job Description and Operating Procedures of Waiterdom” handbook. So, after she takes our drink order (One Coke, One Diet Coke with a water on the side, 2 Kiddie Sprites and nothing for the baby, thank you.) and asks us if we’d like an appetizer of their signature fried mozzarella sticks (does anyone NOT have signature fired mozzarella sticks as an appetizer?) she's contractually obliged to regurgitate today’s list of featured menu items.

And there’s the rub. The bit that chafes me like a set of boxers that have been starched by an overly-eager Chinese laundry woman at the dry cleaners you decided you’d try out because they sent you the ‘50% off your first order’ coupon in the mail. These aren’t daily SPECIALS. These are daily FEATURED MENU ITEMS. The exact same items listed on the menus we read an interminably long time ago, items with the exact same descriptions as in the menu and the exact same prices as in the menu. And I try to interrupt our systematic little sycophant and tell her that we’ve already puhroozed the menu thoroughly as we’ve watched the married CEO feel up his too-young-to-be-doing-anything-but-the-boss-correctly secretary, and we’re quite ready to order as the woman who wants the cobb-salad-side-everything is currently eyeing my son like one of the establishment’s prized fried mozzarella sticks.

And yet she continues! “Well, Sir, perhaps you’d like to try the Friday Lenten Special, our Cod sandwich smothered…”

“In tartar sauce with your choice of two sides and a soft drink (which I already have) for just $7.99. Yes! Yes! I get it already!” is what I say in my mind as she pretty much matches me word for word.

Meanwhile, the businessman with the VERY IMPORTANT meeting is hailing our waitress-to-be asking to see a manager because the auz jous (their spelling, not mine) that came with his ‘thin-sliced all-beef french dip sandwich’ has spilled over and soaked his “hearty steakcut Idaho fries,” and as such he feels he is “entitled to some recompense, or at the very least a basket of fries on the house.”

Looking at my watch, I realize I have to be back at the office in less than 30 minutes, so I harshly cut off the still-reciting-the-daily-featured-menu-items waitress and tell her we want a Super Bird Combo, a grilled chicken Caesar salad, hold the anchovies, one plain kid’s cheeseburger meal, and one plain kid’s hotdog meal.

She gives me a glare that could melt the fake wood-grained linoleum that lines the booth walls and huffs off toward the kitchen, giving an “I’ll be right with you, Sir” aside to the businessman with the soaked fries and the VERY IMPORTANT meeting.

And when our food has been served, our appetites sated, and most of the lunch crowd departed, a frail and balding little man wearing a nametag that says “Hi! My name is Lou” scurries over to our detritus-littered formica-lined booth and asks, “Hi! How was everything today?”

And before I can say a word, the mother who has brought her three cute yet you’re not quite sure what they were doing there during a busy Friday lunch rush children down to have a meal with their ever-absent father says, “Everything was great, thank you.”

And I think to myself, “Another shot at radical social change through realistic personal experience commentary shot to hell.”

And as I leave the customary 15% because the service was “Great, thanks!” tip and pack up the three cute but now sleepy and in need of a nap children into their respective parkas, coats and toddler seats, I overhear our now decidedly not-frazzled and ‘looks like she’s been out in the back alley having a much-needed cigarette’ waitress talking to the overweight red-head with the hairnet and the ruddy face while they both extend side glances in our direction.

And I think I can just make out the word, “Asshole.”

Jodi, I'm sorry, the gauntlet was thrown down... No matter how many times you bend over to pick it up, exposing your tight little ass and passion swollen labia, you cannot distract me from my mission... my very existence...

You always knew you could get backstage to any rock band with those killer legs, and The Diversions were just like any other group. Just as you felt the last spasm from the rapidly delfating member of the drummer subside, the lead singer stepped forward: His member was erect again, and still shiny with saliva from Kelly Ripa's oral ministrations to get him that way. You knew she was doing it as a friend who, like everyone else, wanted to help keep The Diversions coming.

They could take sesame seeds off the market and I wouldn't even care. I can't imagine 5 years from now saying, "Damn, remember sesame seeds? What happened? All the buns are blank!" They're going to have to change that McDonalds song to, 2 all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a... bun. "What's a sesame seed grow into?" I don't know, we never give them a chance. What the f*ck is a sesame?! It's a street. It's a way to... open.. sh*t. How does a sesame seed stick to a bun? That's f*ckin' magical. There has to be some sesame seed glue out there. Either that or they're adhesive on one side. Peel off the backing, place it on the bun. Now your bun will look spectacular!
-Mitch Hedberg

I had a dream last night I was talking to my ex and she used a word I had never heard before and somewhere in my mind I realized this was my dream, so I must know the word since my psyche is feeding her dialogue. Right? Anyway, I wanted to dash to the dictionary this morning, but when I woke up, I couldn't remember the word. Don't you just hate that?

p.s. In my dream, I was wearing a pink Brooks Brothers oxford shirt and my favorite pair of soft, faded jeans. No shoes, no purse...only accessory was a simple strand of pearls.

JFC. You're all a bunch of FREAKS.

And you know I love it.

Keep the diversions coming. (No no no. Don't say it, Thomas.)

Looking down into Kelly Ripa's eyes as she stared back at you, her tongue continued to bring to another toe-curling orgasm.

Seeing your exhausted state, a tall, unneutered water-buffalo named Chet came over with a Long Island Iced Tea. Weakly, you tried to pay him, but he declined. "After all, Jodi," he said wryly, "the high balls are on me." You mumbled back, "I've heard that one before... from the Giraffe..." Chet smiled and said, "Old joke, gnu approach."

Later, after you had castrated Chet for his insolence, you skewered his severed testes onto a stick and slowly cooked them on a spit. Quietly you sang about "Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire."

That takes balls!

Wow. That was really something, wasn't it?

Sorry about that.

OK. I'm back. And I've come to talk about absolutely nothing. Seriously. Nothing at all.

But first, I must get was has evidently become the prerequisite something out of the way, that being the way in which the poster is adorned.

My garb this fine morn is a french-cuffed white button-down shirt, hanging loosely over a pair of slightly faded, slightly tattered boot-cut jeans that dangle ever so nicely above the heels of my black square-toe Steve Madden shoes. The jeans, although I paid an obscene amount for them, are like an old friend which only gets worn when I'm in a particularly fine mood, as I am right now. Alas, I have no glitter-writing to share, but I could take a paint-pen and scribe musings on my forehead if that would amuse you.

OK. That being said, let's get on with my aimless meanderings about nothing, possibly the most mundane and trivial topic ever conceived.

The other day, I was sitting down to partake of an exceptionally fine dim sum and a rather unexceptional establishment with what could possibly be my best friend in the world. Ten minutes into a rather extended diatribe about rude people who talk too loudly on their cellphones whilst standing in public places, (a topic which I will cover in it’s entirety at a later date) I noticed she was staring blankly at her barely-touched fried rice stuffed chock-a-bloc full of tiny pink shrimp.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” I asked in my oh-so-accepted-as-the-normal-speech-pattern-of-the-USA Midwestern drawl.

“What? Oh… Nothing.” came the disingenuous reply.

And that’s what got me thinking about nothing. Now, we’ve all had those moments of blankness where we completely lose track of what we are doing and get that “I’ve just witnessed the means by which my own fragile life will end but I really don’t think I like the thought of dying whilst choking on a chickpea” look. Yet are we truly thinking about nothing? Of course not. We’re usually lost on some train of thought that has overcome our emotions so thoroughly that we’ve completely shut out the material world, if only for an instant, to follow that train to its rightful conclusion and see it safely tucked away in a locked and shuttered roundhouse somewhere deep within our psyche.

It could be the thigh-high stack of delinquent notices that teeter precariously on the edge of the dining room table like some demented Jenga game, waiting for you to take just one from the stack to send your finances and future crumbling.

It could be the fat, sweaty boss who despite the perpetual sweat stains under his JC-Penny shortsleeve tabfront, has never worked harder than when he hits on the 42 but wishes she were 28-year old receptionist who smells faintly and rather repugnantly of stale Camel cigarettes and dreams she can no longer hope will come true.

It could be the overwhelming sense of foreboding you feel when you see the reports of melting glaciers in Greenland, rising sea levels, dropping salinity levels, impending chaos, destruction and doom on a global scale, yet you still can’t go and buy an environmentally-friendly SUV (yes, I know many of you consider environmentally-friendly and SUV to be fundamentally at odds) that can carry two adults, three children, one slightly overweight Labrador Retriever and enough supplies to last us through the weekend at Grandma’s House. (Damn you American automakers!)

It could even be the garish black-and-gold bird-and-bamboo print wallpaper gracing the walls of this everytown-has-one-just-like-it-so-I-bet-yours-does-too Asian eatery. You know the ones, with tiny porcelain pagodas and slightly weedy-looking bamboo plants adorning the cashier’s station, with paper lanterns that have no lights, waiters in black pants and pressed white shirts smiling their perpetual smiles, and a menu that’s about as authentically Asian as the International Aisle at your neighborhood Super Walmart. (You think it’s a coincidence you never see Asians eating in ‘Asian’ establishments?)

But whatever it is that has put you into your current catatonic condition, it is obviously something as opposed to nothing that you are thinking about.

And yet there it hangs, like the Hindenberg moments before it bursts into flames and crashes to the ground, killing hundreds of people and the air-travel aspirations of a nation an ocean away, in one final, fiery cataclysm.

“Nothing.” Go ahead… Push. Ask. Probe. Light the match and see what happens.

Suddenly you’re brought back to your senses as you hear your dinner-partner’s voice somewhere in the deep cacophony of combating marching bands that the thoughts swirling around in your head have become and you know you need to come back, to come back now before it’s too late and you’re forever lost in this maddening world of sartorial splendor wearing a coat made entirely of sarcasm while you go on a self-righteous fact-finding mission looking for facts of self that may or may not be there and yet there they are staring you blankly in the face and you have to face the truth that the fact is you’re completely and utterly full of bullshit and in that instant of self-actualization comes the realization that it’s now or never and so you concentrate on a tiny pin-prick of light that steadily grows larger and larger by the second eventually blinding you with its brilliance and you find yourself coming out into the real world like a baby leaving the birth canal at the ‘there’s no turning back’ end of its mothers womb and you blink your eyes and stare around in disorientation for a moment as the voice that started this odyssey of discovery smacks your psyche like the hand of an obstetrician coming down on your newly delivered ass and you say,

“Pardon?” I asked, not having the faintest notion of what she had said, only that she had said something as opposed to nothing.

“I said, ‘What are you thinking?’”

“Oh,” I replied. “Nothing.”

And she gave me a penetrating all too knowing gaze as we continued to finish our meals in silence.

They're doing eight more months of construction on the Blue Route! Yaaaaayyyyy!!!

You really had me on the whole "isn't this sad" aspect until I read the part about the slipper beloning to a "one-legged orphan." Then I completely got over the sadness and started picturing a one-legged dancing baby. Which I know should not seem funny but deep down inside it is. Great site by the way.

Thank god they finally eliminated little Kevin.

I'm...

wearing Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and a heather grey t-shirt.

sad because 'The Office' was a repeat tonight.

happy because tomorrow is Friday.

probably going to bed in a few minutes.

Good night! :)

Oh yea ... I also am worried that my belly button is going to pop out.

Tonight at work there were two patients in the same room that kept pooping in their beds. It was gross. Oh, and I'm wearing a black tank top and grey PJ pants. Also, I listened to Ace Young sing Father Figure on my iPod 3 times since I got home from work. It helps to erase the poop from my memory.

Well, my dear, I'd tell you a knock-knock joke, but the only one I can remember offhand involves the Easter Bunny (rather, the "Ether bunny") and a follow-up joke about "cargo" and the unfortunate demise of the aforementioned rabbit (something along the lines of, "Cargo beep beep and run ALL OVER the Ether bunny"). However, I do not wish to offend your Jewiness (thank you, Jon Stewart, for the term), whether large OR small, with any thoughtless "Easter" references. (?)

Instead, I shall tell you that I am, at this VERY MOMENT, wearing Eeyore pajamas (a gift from my Mother – but secretly I am amused by them). What's more, it's a MATCHED SET (top and bottom - with the phrase "Lazy Daze" prominently displayed on the top in letters festooned with glitter). I should, I imagine, be completely humiliated to be wearing such an ensemble at ANY point in time, let alone 4:35 p.m. MST, but as I said to someone somewhere at some point (a little vague in my memory), I own absolutely NO semblance of dignity at this particular point in my life. So I offer what probably should be my abject disgrace to you - ON A PLATTER - and hope that it serves as at least a slight, momentary diversion.

If that is insufficient, let me know. I'll go ALL OUT and recount my recent experience with the medication that made me SHIT MYSELF. Then again, that might be just SAD as opposed to diverting...

But wait, I read something today that made me laugh: Episode 1: The Chicken Who Gave Birth to a Waterfall. It was written by my lovely cousin, and she is recounting an experience that happened in the VERY HOUSE in which I reside now.

Once upon a time a country girl came to NYC. She was looking for a fake Birkin bag for her friend who likes to pretend she is Margot from the movie The Royal Tenenbaums. With her adorable male "friend" by her side, Girl heads to Canal Street. She comes upon shady looking characters who are shuffling people into an alley. Two 16 year old girls resembling Paris Hilton are looking for a Coach mini-clutch. Girl waits patiently while questionable vendor deals with Parises. At appropriate moment, Girl cuts in and asks if questionable vendor has a Birkin bag. Questionable vendor asks, who's it made by? Girl pauses, says, "Birkin?" (NOTE: this is not Kellie Pickler, it is me) Parises turn around and smugly say, "it's Hermes (air-may)" Girl says, yeah, what she says. Story to be continued . . . does Girl get bag? How much does she pay for said bag?

Jodi....you are with Marty, Bucky, Johnny, Dave, and Oliver at a Japaneze spa melting your sorrows away....each one in their own rooms ready to give you their treatment.

Marty just gave you the the workout of your life ;) and now your all hot and sweaty. After your shower you have your white robe on with your white towel.

Room #1-your Oliver massage.
Room #2-your mud bath with Bucky
Room #3-your vicci shower with Dave.

All of this is followed up with meditation time with Johnny.

Feel better?

Sometimes I like to eat popcorn while watching Chris Daughtry sing his way to the top spot on American Idol. The phone rang once while I was enjoying my popped corn, so I set the bowl on the conffee (sic) table and ran to retrieve it from my Coach bag (purchased in Beijing for a song plus a little dance). My cute six-pound puppy dog was able to knock the bowl to the floor and inhale most of the contents before I could turn around. Now he's acquired a taste for the stuff, and he pitches a hissy fit if I pop popcorn and don't give him any. To get back at him for begging, I make him wear his dorky sweater.

Oh, wait. Were we only supposed to tell you about one thing from your list of suggested topics? ;-)

I already did my double stint on the 'shoe'... BTW, was that reference to Covington on the Bucky thread a reference to moi? Because Covington is my backdoor. Cincinnati is actually the front...

As for musings, you'll have to wait until the 'morrow, for I must leave and to real life return, only to come back with amusing anecdotes about trivialities to numerous to mention.

Hang in there, oh my favorite wandering Jew. It won't be long now.

okay, well i'm coming to NYC for a week in april for a wedding...how's that for a diversion?

It would be uncomfortable for us to see you groveling, Jodi.

Were you groveling?