I don’t know how he does it, but my brother is the only person I know who could get stopped by the SQ for speeding and would turn this little misfortune around by coming on to one of the cops. Granted, he might have enlisted the help of his son in his endeavor, but still. Even more surprising is that the bullet-proof (bullet proof: get it? hee hee. I amuse myself) lady probably had her partner take the picture.
No news on whether handcuffs were used.
Okay, I admit it, I always get a little stirring in my loins whenever I catch a Kylie Minogue video. What can I say? Never really cared for her remake of “Locomotion,” way back when. Too cutesy.
But, ah, since someone clued her in to her sexuality, she’s, um, blossomed. So, imagine my surprise and dismay when I learned that Jacques Villeneuve’s almost-sister-in-law has decided that she will now cover up her one major asset.
Thanks to go fish for the story.
So, the FDA has decided that, after all, perhaps soft cheese is okay to eat, but only if it’s been made with pasteurised milk. That’s right, Americans can go back to enjoying their bleu or camembert, but only if it’s had the fuck nuked out of it. Then again, pregnant women beware: soft cheeses can cause stillborns. Riiiiight, they should stay away from having brie with their Wonderbread. Instead, they should continue to load up on Big Macs, supersized fries, potato chips fried in olestra (lose weight with anal leakage!) and, oh yeah, diet Coke. Better yet, chow down on American processed cheese food slices and Cheez Whiz. Fucking uncultured pagans.
I especially love the part where the FDA recommends that folks with weakened immune systems avoid soft cheeses altogether. What crap. Like I’m going to give up my gorgonzola.
Doc’s appointment yesterday, no third arm growing out of my back (to join the other two already there, ya know?), nothing new. Except. Since the last appointment, I’ve gained 3.5 kilos. Almost 8 pounds. Eek. And no, unlike women, none of that weight goes to any specific body part that differentiates men from women. Damn that almost-middle-age spread.
I admit it, I’m terrified of heights. They give me the screaming fantods. I get dizzy, I get nauseous, I need to sit down and grab something. This isn’t a joke. Back when I was with the ex, she thought I would try to shirk my household responsibilities because I wouldn’t hang my clothes on the outdoor line. Well, I’m sorry, but hanging over the 3rd-storey balcony trying to clip wet garments on the line was a task I dreaded.
Granted, I really don’t have much opportunities to experience this anymore but, the other day, in the boardroom, some of us were standing around, looking out the window. The cold sweats started. Um, yeah, let me just back away here. Even reading about lsc’s tale about sky-diving (with a man strapped to her back, no less) made me want a glass of water.
I don’t understand it: I could be high up a mountain cliff and everything’s ducky. I’m actually enjoying myself and can’t imagine doing anything else. But, get to rest while the other person climbs, given the chance to look around, and all bones seems to disappear from my knees. So, what I’m saying is, if you want your clothes hung up, find someone else, ’cause I can’t do it. Unless I’m tied to a rope. Don’t know what that says about me.
One of the fun things about being a bf of the circus (5 points and the possible lead to anyone who gets the reference), is that the milliner travels around a lot and usually brings me back stuff. I love stuff. Almost as much as Blork loves his T-shirts. I also get to try out some of the products that are to be sold in the Cirque’s boutiques, including the recent stuff for Zumanity.
So, the milliner finally got back from Lost Wages yesterday, where she had been for a while because of the launch of that Zu thing, but she was still in a bit of shock, since she taken the time out to go see Ziegfried & Roy’s unfortunate last show. Poor thing, she was video-taping the show also. Results can be seen here. Not to worry, it’s not graphic.
Oh, the fantasies of her lariat of truth kept me going many a lonely night. Just saying.
Well, it only took about 4 years, but Quebec media finally has its own reality television show, Loft Story. Rather brainless premise, grab 12 folks (6 betties, 6 barneys), representing Quebec society, i.e. between 20 and 31, all white (imagine that!), all having bodies by Energie-Cardio, and shove them in a lovely loft for 2 months.
Sorta of like Big Brother, but, you know, pared down for our budget.
What’s supposed to happen is that the winners will be the himbo and the bimbo who hook up. (I guess, I don’t care to read any more about it.) The prize? One hundred grand. Like I said, it’s a Quebec budget. Of course, with our province’s fascination with homegrown “talent,” their faces will be plastered on magazine covers for months (normally, these magazines would be owned by the same owners as the network, but now that BCE owns TQS, I’m not sure. When TQS was owned by Quebecor, it was a different story.), and they will have their 15 minutes of fame, appearing on all those annoying, sycophantic, mutual cunnilingus/fellatio/handjob talk shows that pass for entertainment.
But, here’s what’s curious: it’s called Loft Story, such a clever play on Love Story, right? But, um, how can it have a purely English name? Don’t we have a ridiculous law in this province that prohibits English names? I know there are exceptions for newspapers, even though the Office de la langue française tried to fine us (the Mirror) in back in 1996 because we had our sign in the window, but, as I said, Loft Story is television.
Now, normally, I lurv nightmares. Nothing better to get a bit of an extra cardio workout while sleeping, waking up in a pool of your own sweat. I mean, hey, I’ve just lost a few hundred calories, and I wasn’t even doing anything.
But, and I’ve only had them a few times, those dreams where you’re in an elevator, something goes wrong and the elevator plummets storeys upon storeys, you’re trapped in a box with strangers, everyone’s freaking and screaming, you know the ground’s coming quickly and you’ll end up plastered on the roof before thudding back to the floor, your insides turned to mush by the impact, by the splinters of your broken bones, by the collision with the other occupants (who, in your dream, are responsible for the elevator malfunctioning in the first place),… well, let’s just say I can do without these dreams.
So, does anyone know if elevator cables ever snap? Just wondering.