I Know A Good Point When I See One
I browsed, I saw, I borrowed, eyes squinting, a nervous tic perhaps, from Chockwit.
"What's the greatest sexual fantasy of men? That's right, 2 women. Now here's what I wanna know. If you can't even please one woman, why you gonna risk pissing off another one?" -- Wanda Sykes
Three elevators up, all under maintenance. All three. Must have been announced in a memo floating around the office somewhere. But having it posted in a bulletin board would've made little difference to me. For I have selective blindness to memos. Such is my sad lot in life. The last memo I've seen and read and tore to a hundred jigsaw pieces was years ago. Toothache no longer qualifies as an excuse to go on leave was the long and short of it. I haven't seen another memo since. My life has never been the same. Merde.
The Dark Side Is The New Black
Here at Watch Out For Falling Debris, we love cheese. Our love of cheese defies the natural order of things, the law of diminishing returns, and most especially, natural selection. Our appetite knows no peer, not the ravenous little shrew. Not even the French. That's why Star Wars Episode III will always have a special place in our hearts. We rate it a lip-smacking bon apetit, complete with reverb, decay and echo. The title Revenge of the Sith could use a thorough massage though. If we had our way, it would be aptly titled Star Wars Episode III: Sith Happens.
Radish holds little appeal to me. Radish should be diced, braised, cooked or pickled on remote islands that remain uncharted, virgin territories to this day. This day would make a fine, robust radish dish. But because today is a Friday, absolute apathy and absolute joy negate each other. I'd write about my plunder of Vietnam, but I have radish in mind and I can't think and write and feel about anything else. My metahuman effort at a happy thought made me think of the apocalyptic extinction of radish. But, let's face it, that's still about radish.
Spurred into activity by fear of growing roots where I sit and living the rest of my days as an aviary exclusive to sparrows, I braved the afternoon heat with the fortitude of a customer relations officer of a tobacco company. Seeing valor was no substitute to Coppertone, I made way for the nearest convenience store, leaving a cloud of dust and asthmatic seizures in my wake. And what a treasure trove of mass consumption grotesquerie it holds. Mussel chips. Low calorie, less sugar Red Bull Light (that's like Simon being Paula Abdul). Canned Silkworm Pupa. And last, definitely not the least, vibrating condoms.
Though I am impressed by the entrepreneural, no, make that pioneering, spirit behind these over-the-counter curiosities, I chose to defer my purchase of the canned Silkworm Pupa on a later date, when dreaded, I mean, dear cousin Lorie makes an unannounced red carpet visit. It could come in handy.
(Fresh from CNN) FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. (AP) - A 70-year-old woman survived a nine-story fall from a condominium tower wednesday
Nine floors? Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
This is the biggest body of water I'd probably come into contact with, in a proactive way, for the whole duration of this tropical inferno...
The typical, heliotropic beachcomber, who has an innate aversion to things that require inflation, would most likely ridicule my piece of paradise for its glaring lack of sophistication and the absence of phlog-perfect vistas. But do not be deceived by the austere simplicity of my inflatable oasis. It fits perfectly in my garage. Civilization is merely a remote control distance away. There are no long picket lines to the shower room. It's everything I ever wanted in a dip sans jellyfish sans falling coconuts.
I have things to be vigilant about, though. One is the certainty of kids to relieve their bladders on water. The other is the inevitability of evaporation.
If this heat spell lasts any longer, I'd grow gills and soft leathery membranes between my fingers and toes.
If there's one song I'd ban in this heat spell, it would be Glenn Frey's "The Heat Is On." Not just on air, but anywhere. If I were president of the republic, I would declare Glenn Frey persona non-grata in a snap. I'd make a blitz inventory of all Tower Records stores, confiscate his CDs, and raze all of them on primetime TV. But my loathing does not stop there. I would go to the U.N. and lobby for Glenn Frey's exile to Alaska, never to leave its shores as long as he draws breath, where he would live a monastic life in an igloo, sing "The Heat Is On" every single day, and compete with orcas for walrus steak.
Is It November Already?
Now, Isn't She A Beauty
So, What's New?
Goblins, Rascals, Every Single One Of Them
The Anatomy Of A Rant
Spamblogger, A Word Or Two...
Garlic, All Is Not Lost.
Gaiman versus Caiman
Busy ... Busy ... Busy ...
Born To Snooze
Heres My Kokote
Is It Safe?
Something To Sing About
Streaks Of Light
Hire Me ... Please
Hyung Tae Kim
Happy Tree Friends
My Boyfriend Is A Twat
Home Star Runner
Albino Black Sheep
Triumph, The Insult Comic Dog