thank

Hello

I am Lucy, I have found your website while searching for some info at Google. Your site has helped me in a big way.


Bye

Hm. Off topic. Crazy Kate is commenting here (still) but not at my place (anymore).

::sigh::

Good for you on the pushups. I think I might be able to manage five (5).

Dearest Ds,
An Awesome Alliterative Associate,
Yes, technically that’s assonance, but FUCK IT,

WRONG!

No Tyrannosaurus Rex here, though I concede a great fondness of their wee almost vestigial arms compared to that mighty body and the petrifying (ha) number, sharpness and length of their teeth. Powerful jaws indeed.

Many of in my individual attributes you surmised right on the button (somehow I feel like I just bastardized an old aphorism...). Perhaps I mean that you buttoned the nail right on the head. You nailed that one? (heh.)

Anyhoooo (a very scientific transition), truth be told, I am very long-limbed. I also have relatively broad shoulders (not to a the extent that I look like a linebacker or that I resemble the stereotypical Russian weight-lifter or shot-putter (shot conveyer? Hurler of those heavy, heavy things?)) Parenthesis within parenthesis. I feel like Escher.

You DEFINITELY got the cranium size right. I don't know that I can rightly attribute the gargantuan size of my noodle to extraordinary brain power; to be honest, I warrant that some significant portion of my head is full of mucus.

There IS one carnivorous dinosaur attribute that I certainly have: fangs. They aren't that long, but my eye teeth (cuspids, you know, also known as the "canines") - especially the top ones - are decidedly pointy and out of line with my otherwise straight teeth. Perhaps that's why I often keep "Vampire Hours." Ooooh - OR maybe I have fangs because I KEEP "Vampire Hours."

Oh - and one wanted to bring snakes into the mix (?) I would mention that I subconsciously do this thing where I stick out my somewhat lengthy tongue (for emphasis in conversations, evidently) and somehow make it outrageously pointy. It's not forked, though. Maybe that makes me a rare lizard; the kind without a forked tongue...

I do have a bone of contention to pick with you (another bastardized adage?). At one point, after years of majoring in Ambiguity at University, I double-majored in Vocal Performance and Anthropology (with a secret theatre load of theatre classes that almost could have earned me another degree). I did drop the anthropology because it was easy and a music major has an insane number of requirements and is a four-year program NO MATTER WHEN YOU START – indeed, they don't care if you are already a senior. DAMN THEM ALL. But that's a story for another time.

Anyhooooooo, too, I must vehemently disagree with your use of the term "forensic anthropology" as it would require me to be DEAD. So unless you know something about my lifespan that I do not, I would prefer the use of a term like "comparisons to paleontology" or the like.

Forever Kate of [your] consolation,
…Bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst,
…Kate of Kate Hall…super-dainty Kate [NOT],
Sincerely,
President Abraham Lincoln

this is why i love you, never change, hon, never change. and, off the subject, i want to have piven's babies. i'm not sure who this "ripa" is that you speak of, but she is clearly nothing more than a menstrual clump next to the JoDiva!

I must bow to you!!

I can do 40 sit-ups on one of those stupid yoga balls. Beat that, Seth Rogen!

One pauses to ponder, pontificate and generally puhrooze the point of proflific prose posted primarily by one pretty, pouty, occasionally potty-mouthed Kate.

And as one pauses to ponder, one starts to make a mental image of said poster of prolific prose, and hopefully without being petty, pretty much wonders what this person probably looks like. Possibilities pervade, parading proudly past like primadonnas primped for prom.

But what one ends up with looks like this...

Smart. - Big cranium.

Witty, sharp tongue. - Muscular jaw lined with razor sharp teeth.

Weak upper body. - Sloped shoulders, tiny arms.

Able to lock overstuffed luggage with superstrong thighs. - Large powerful legs.

Can stand being mentally compared to Ripa and Jodi. - Thick skinned.

By scientific deduction, based on empirical evidence, hypothesis, astute reasoning and forensic anthropology, this reader has come to the obvious and undeniable conclusion that Kate is indeed....

A Tyrannosaurus Rex.

***cough cough cough bullshit cough cough cough***

squeaky clean in the vice department, huh?

(opens Volume 1, Book 1, Paragraph 1 of the complete and unabridged reference library to Jodi's 'permanent record' that is but one source for all things questionably vice-like....)

Shall I read from the beginning, or just the highlights?

Carey: I do not sink so low as to get high! Among my other traits that Kate will no doubt have to hate me for, I am almost "squeaky clean" in the alcohol/drug/vice department, drinking perhaps once every two months and even then only having one or two (which is enough to get a "wee" girl like me suitably intoxicated).

Kate: I will waive my disdain for girly push-ups in your case, because you *make* such a good case. Also because I want you to continue to leave comments that are longer than the posts for which they are being left. And I say this without facetiousness. You slay me, in all the very very VERY best ways.

Sigh. Take make off the Crush Count; I now must hate you. You AND Kelly Ripa. I am now obliged to detest both your taught little asses.

But WHY? Because in the spirit of pettiness and liberty (I've visited too many D.C. sites in the past month and a half) that's just TOO MUCH. I tolerate your tasteful pedicures and stylish ensembles; I even admire them. I hold your wee, fit body in companionable esteem. The fact that you can flit about Carrie Bradshaw*/Audrey Hepburn-in-Breakfast-at-Tiffanies aplomb in natty high heels as easily as though they were bedroom slippers I have found only mildly irksome.

But the fact that you can throw down and do forty-five military-style (I say in an effort to take the gender bias out of it) push-ups (without a mark on the "pretty pedicure," no doubt) is an affront to all individuals like me: P.W.S.P.P.U.A.S. Do what you will with that acronym. Just know that in MY imagination it does include the term, "Piss-Poor Upper Body Strength."

I am extremely flexible (for no reason, I might add); I intend to include that in the "Pointless Skills" section of my resume the next time I update it along with "Can swallow a HUGE handful of pills all at once - INCLUDING a number of “horse pills.”

My legs can be rather strong; I once, in fact, offered the use of "my mighty thighs" – direct quote - for a demanding task (it had to do with SHUTTING OVERSTUFFED LUGGAGE, Ds, so don’t get your trousers all in a bulge (?) - and I was successful). I wouldn't know (or remember?) what else to do with my mighty thighs at this point other than clamp a suitcase shut in order to zip it securely.

But my arms - god. They are pitiful. I come to terms with my somewhat Amazonian stature on and off, but my arms (lunch-lady features and all) have always been pathetic. I still have nightmares sometimes about the "Presidential Fitness Program" in grade school. I could do all the sit-ups. I could do the running (not with Olympic speed, but enough to meet qualifications) and so on and so forth. But there was that wretched arm hanging/holding part that still makes me shiver in unadulterated terror. I could never do it. And I was only trying to hold up a slightly taller-than-average, standard-sized child's frame. What President came up with that fucking program anyway???

I've never done a military-style push-up in my life. So PLEASE, have pity on those of us who have to resort to that which everyone is so pejoratively referring to as "Girly Push-Ups." My HANDS are relatively strong some of the time (from playing piano), but my arms - so help me – the other day I did laps in the pool with my sister-in-law (I think I managed almost an hour and she easily knocked off a ninety-minute stint) and then we lifted weights and so help me... Oh - just so help me.

I’ll get over it. Give me some time and I will love you dearly again, I've no doubt. But at this very moment – in this dark (and FUCKING HUMID) nigh unto midnight hour (EST until tomorrow when I fly back to the MST in the West where I must again don the mandatory cowboy hat, boots and chaps – HAH – just kidding – it’s not as though it were TEXAS where one is obligated BY LAW to sport a ginormous Stetson or an armadillo as headgear – WE wear pioneer bonnets), given the chance, I would FUCKING CRUSH YOU WITH MY MIGHTY THIGHS. That, or I could simply sit on you and snap your wee little twig-bones like…something that breaks ever-so easily.

I suppose what I’m saying, in a nutshell (one the size of an Easter Island Statue) is that I only abhor you with love. fin

LIE – not fin

*I saw Carrie Bradshaw’s laptop computer at the Smithsonian THIS VERY DAY.

P.S. Ds, your point is well taken about the speaking of Latin, but as a singer I must tell you that I have SUNG a buttload (that’s a technical musical term that may be over your head) of Latin. A SIZEABLE buttload.

P.P.S. Ds I would be inclined to agree with you about super-imposing the phrase, “Fuck it, bitch. You're going DOWN!” over the creepy pyramid on the dollar bill. However, several weeks ago we visited the Bureau of Printing and Engraving (where they “make” the money BUT as they explained to us – some conspiratorial bullshit, no doubt – that it isn’t REALLY money until it crosses the threshold of the Federal Reserve (like some demented monetary bride?)). It’s a VERY complex process with an EXTREMELY annoying tour guide that involves “paper” of cotton and linen and special security threads and many plates and gobs and gobs of multi-coloured ink and guys who look REALLY bored as they do their respective jobs in a fishbowl while idiot tourists gaze at them from above through huge windows. Oh – there was one fellow who amicably waved; he’s my favourite – I hope I get some of HIS money. Mostly, there’s just the stench of hallucinatory ink.

Cogito Ergo Sum

Don't forget your towel (I mean, stretches)! ...Anybody wanna get high?

Ds: Put your one-eyed pyramid back in your pants, damn it!

Jay: You know me so well!

Token fella: You know me even better. And you have witnessed this first-hand!

Woe be on the guy who insinuates that Jodi might do "girl push-ups"! He might get lined up right next to Jeremy and suffer(?) the same fate. You might as well accuse her of riding an escalator while a perfectly good stairway is right next to it.

And then you marched down to that studio and fucked Jeremy Piven in the ass. (That's how the story ends in my world.)

I'm sorry, I am far too hung up on, "Fuck it, bitch. You're going DOWN!" to post any kind of coherent ramblings on the intracasies of compulsive PCR disease here.

But rest assured, were I to post some kind of coherent ramblings on the intracasies of compulsive PCR disease here, they would undoubtably be petty, competetive and ridiculous. For you see, I am not just the president of the PCR club, I am also a member.

But now that Jodi has so graciously provided me with a mental image that will undoubtably haunt my thoughts, bulge my pants, and thus scare little old ladies waiting at the train station waiting for the C train to take them to the Social Security Office because their monthly checks were 47 cents short, I cannot possibly delve into the intracasies of PCR disease.

All because of the words, "Fuck it, bitch. You're going DOWN!"

Hm. That may be my favorite quote of all time. I'd like to see it over the hovering one-eyed pyramid on the back of the dollar bill. Or maybe that's what E Pluribus Unum really means. Who knows? No one except defrocked pedophiliac priests and lawyers who use it as a justification for their exhorbitantly high fees speak Latin anymore anyway. ("I know your settlement was $114,000 dollars, Maam. Yes I know my fee was $87,000 of that, but you see, I spoke LATIN in the courtroom! Caveat Emptor, baby!")

"Fuck it, bitch. You're going DOWN!" I wonder if there's hair-twisting with that?

PCR Disease indeed.

Vendela: Nope! I got Lucky.

Token fella: You have to say that. You're my fella 'n' whatnot.

Cody: Guy-style. Girly pushups are for pussies.

Girl-style pushups or guy-style? I could do a million billion girl-style pushups.

I never had any doubt.

Relevant question: Are your cropped cargo pants from Old Navy?? They have some cute ones this season!