There are enough reasons out there to despise SUVs and, especially, SUV drivers–trust me, I’m sure I expend my share of kilojoules doing just that–so I really can’t understand why these compensators will go out of their way to draw even further disdain.
Case in point: Several times this winter, the milliner and I have been stopped behind some spotless SUV at a red light or simply on the street. It’s winter, so we play it safe and keep a more-than-reasonable distance. Then, all of a sudden, the white lights flash on the SUV, and it starts backing up. Um, it’s still backing up. Fuck, it ain’t stopping. The milliner is basically standing on the horn, letting soccermom/dad in front know that, hey, WTF, we’re behind you. Cheesedick. Do you know how much damage an SUV can do to a Civic hatchback?
More importantly, do you know how angry a redhead can get when you’ve stupidly hit her car? And, do you know who has to deal with it, her anger, afterward? That’s right, me, and I’m going to look to pay it forward some day.
I’ll never be accused of being ultra-fit man. Hey, as long as I maintain my perfectly round ass (used to calculate pi, dontcha know), and do whatever strength workouts necessary to haul said ass up cliffs, I’m pretty much a slacker. Give me illegal cable, and the only cardio I’ll do these days is walk to the fridge for another beer. However, I find it unfathomable that folks in my office building will actually call the elevator to go up one flight of stairs! C’mon, folks, it’s 18 risers. You can do it. You can even justify that cigarette.
People will actually walk the extra steps required to get to the elevator doors, and then wait for the elevator to stop on their floor.
I think we can all agree that the Gazette enjoys a readership that is, well, getting up there in years. I know that advertising is what ensures the continued, ahem, success of the paper, but I have to wonder how their audience feels about the Gazette’s recent banners.
Just sent off my final payment to Ikea, for furniture that I got last year. Nothing like a 28% charge card at Ikea to bite you in the ass when you’re starting afresh.
I admit, my life is not complete without television. Fuck, the alternative would be cleaning the apartment or, eek, making conversation. Yeah, not my thing. But, I’ll tell ya, my previous must-see shows are really starting to suck. Like a $10 whore with dentures. (Would that make her indentured?)
C’mon, the West Wing? Hey, Charlie? Remember being nominated for a Emmy? Yeah, well now you’re just a glorified phone operator. Oops, there ya go, off to tell President Bartlett that Leo is on the phone. Okay, off you go. I’m sure Leo will call again, so stay on your toes. The rest of you? Yeah, your jobs suck. Do I have to hear about it for an hour every week. I mean, even John Amos got the hell outta there and went to the WB. That’s telling, isn’t it? Jesus, this is a show where Martin Sheen gave ole G-d what-for, in Latin, without subtitles, in the cathedral. They had the brilliance of featuring dear old Jeff Buckley on one of the best shows ever. Now? Bartlett’s crew are all trying to hide from him, fearful they’ll have to put up with his trivia. Aaron Sorkin has left, replaced by David Wells who is….
the ex-producer of ER. He butt-fucked that show right up pretty good also, not even considerate enough to give a reach-around. Does anyone watch that show anymore? Do you care? Oh, Dr. Kovak, were I more, you know, adventurous, I’d be sleeping on your doorstep. Now? You give up any idealism for the off-chance of shagging some truck-stop nurse with a psycho son. Neela: luvved ya in Bend It Like Beckham, babe. You had a spine back then. Guess the plane trip across the pond removed it. Carter: take some of Gamma’s fortune and buy a razor. No way should you be with Thandie Newton. Every year, there’s another chick intern or resident, but don’t worry: she’ll get stabbed, do the girl-on-girl thing–sometimes with Weaver–or get in a car accident, so we won’t have to deal with her. Romano: had a personality. Got crushed by a helicopter. No one cared. Stupid. Abby: Your life sucks, you’re bringing everyone down. Bla bla, cry me a river. And then bite me. Corday: I’m starting to realise why Ralph Fiennes got the hell outta dodge. I would too if I always had to look at your over-exposed cleavage, which brings me to….
CSI. Remember this show? Remember how brilliant it was? Remember trying to identify every ’80s and ’90s alternative song, I mean obscure tunes from Cocteau Twins “Tiny Dynamine” album, etc? Yeah, that’s gone. They don’t even bother solving crimes anymore. Okay, I admit, I love the TMI camera. How could you not? But, ya know, Marg Van Hergenbergen (I don’t care how it’s spelled), nice cleavage there, hon. Oops, nice cleavage there again. And there. And there. And there. Okay, WE FUCKIN’ GET IT! You’ve got tits! You’re truly a miracle of modern plastic surgery. I don’t want to see you in a tank top again. The milliner suggested that she was wearing a tank-top ’cause it was hot out. Um, ya, and everyone else is wearing jackets. Sara: you’ve been reduced to being the errand-girl. Don’t know if that’s better than being the resident lezzie in ER (or would that be lezzie resident?), but at least you’re now getting more face time. Nicky: quit the scowl. And aren’t you sweating wearing that turtleneck? I mean, Hergenbergen practically has her tits hanging out. Continuity here, folks! Gil: less philosophy, more working. Chop chop. Besides that, don’t change. Warrick: I like you. Which means? The writers will fuck up your character. Too bad.
Until Survivor and The Amazing Race come back, I’ll probably have the cleanest apartment around, because I’ll be damned if I have to make conversation.
Just not this high, where the air is so thin you’re practically seeing into outer space.
And yes, this is a shout-out to all you wankers complaining about the cold. Heh.
Didn’t escape whatever bug is going around, for the first time ever I took a sick day off. Decided to come in today, might have been a mistake, ’cause I’m sweating like a pig in a steam room. Took the precaution of popping what I thought was a daytime Tylenol pill, but is actually the nighttime version.
I do believe I’m buzzing.
Indexing. It’s so like sticking a darning needle deep into your ear: it kinda hurts, but kinda tickles and feels good at the same time.