This will be the first and only time (hopefully) that I post anything remotely political on my blog. Please don't chase me with pitchforks, if threatened and cornered I will react with rabid squirrel-like force.

Squeak!

And, to the tune of the funeral march, I present you with the following link (originally provided by Seven of Seven is What?).

"By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."

Bush Moves Toward Marshal Law

As we have all predicted - the reign of stupidity will probably be less and less likely to end.

I've concluded that, for some people, dating is like hunting unsuspecting prey. They lay in wait, silent, unmoving until someone strays from the herd and, when they least suspect it, ATTACK! Whereupon they feast heartily on the poor victim's living flesh and leave the dessicated remains to the vultures and beetles.

Not this time, buddy! I plan on decomposing with dignity!



...



...Sigh...

On to more bright news (drum roll, please):

I'm off work for a week. [Hurrays and limpid flag waving commences] I was originally going on a trip out of state, but due to various reasons and unforeseen circumstances (refer to above paragraph), I'll be at home.

So! I am taking this trip money and buying myself that flat panel monitor I've been yearning for and upgrading my pathetic excuse for a video card.

Radeon! [screamed in the manner of Kirk's 'KHAN!']

That card is atrocious, an affront to my gaming sensibilities. In short, it's the oldest piece of hardware on the computer and some things don't age well - like Goldie Hawn.



"People who are rather more than six feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders often have uneventful journeys. People jump out at them from behind rocks then say things like, "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else." Terry Pratchett

For the past two days, the light above my cell (ahem, cubicle, pardon me) has been broken. My little corner is plunged into darkness. The only light comes from the ambient glow of my monitor. I feel like Batman.

Except I'm wearing pants.

This little hole of darkness keeps attracting everyone in the office to inspect it. They all say the same thing. "What are you hiding in there?"

Deadpan stares do nothing to dissuade them from asking this inane question. I'm going to resort, instead, to randomly saying the following phrases:

"All of the weapons with which to take over the world." Whereupon I will hum the melodious intro to Pinky and the Brain. (Why did they cancel that show? *sobs*)

"Can't sleep. Clowns will eat me. In big red balloons with straws." Does anyone else ever remember watching Killer Clowns from Outerspace?

"Papa San and Bat Rooster fighting to the death! Quick, the odds are 10 to 1! Place your bets!"

Ah, Papa San. My poor mechanized little kung fu hamster of doom has been doing rather poorly as of late. Back to the gym, San! "Practice, practice!" (said in that nasally high pitched, wheedling voice that all satan worshipping piano teachers have).

I also beg to have the following question answered - why was the toilet seat left up in the women's bathroom? I have become rather trusting and complacent in the knowledge that women do not need to have the seat up for any biological reason. So, of course, I nearly took a blue tinted early morning dip (ah, so refreshing) this morning.



In the immortal words of Gregory Maguire...

"If you're ever in doubt, throw a pepper in the air. If it fails to come down, you have gone mad, so don't trust in anything."

One of my coworkers has managed to find a twelve inch tall fake rooster, complete with real feathers glued on and a suspiciously real looking beak. He proceeded to slap a bat mask on it's head, securing it in place with an amalgam of scotch tape, thumb tacks and rubber bands. It is now, proudly, on display on his filing cabinet with a sign that reads "Indian Bat Rooster".



He is so inordinately pleased with his work that his appearance reminds me of a cat in a bowl of butter - before the shoe is thrown at him.

There is this little voice inside of me (somewhat squeaky and reminiscent of Vincent Price in The Fly, 1958. "Help me, please, help me!") that, instead of pleading for help, begs me to do wicked things - namely, to take that rooster and shove it, beak first, into the gargantuan paper shredder at the end of the hall while laughing raucously with a hand raised to the ceiling, fingers clawlike, neurotically pleased at my sophomoric victory.

Damn, I knew I was drinking too much coffee.

"You have to leave now, and never come back here. Have you ever heard of insect politics? Neither have I. Insects... don't have politics. They're very... brutal. No compassion, no compromise. We can't trust the insect. I'd like to become the first... insect politician. Y'see, I'd like to, but... I'm afraid, uh..."The Fly, 1986

Flavor Flav, the world's most emaciated and oratory challenged rapper, will not disappear. He keeps popping up out of some hole in the ground - Whack a Flav. Where's my mallet?!?

I stumbled across his show the other night, much to my horror and the immediate, depressing demise of several last remaining brain cells that had (up until that moment) still enjoyed watching television.

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think to myself is, "How can I make Flav love me?"

After all ladies, what could be more appealing on a pencil neck, egotistical man than a giant plastic hat with horns and a clock the size of your head around his neck? And, don't forget my lovelies, the wonderful and cherishing words that stumble (literally) from his lips.

I'm all aquiver.

Really.

Reality television either plumbs the necrotic depths of human society for it's contestants/actors/actresses or secretly hands out scripts all the while feigning innocence.

I have to believe this. Otherwise, the truth would mean that our society is populated by a mass of benighted louts that are obsessed with depthless fads and the acquisition of money all the while possessing the most rapacious dispositions ("It's all about me, ME, ME!", they scream hysterically).

Everyone in my office, for example, converse only about the latest entertainment scandal from Hollywood. Where has our literature gone? Our compelling dramatic arts?

I love our modern day music and entertainment as much as the next person, but why is it that everyone I've met as of late seems to wallow in it, absorb it through their pores, and be summarily consumed by it? Are we, as a society, truly incapable of 'moderation'...in anything anymore?

Where's my mallet? I have some stress relief coming up in 5, 4, 3, 2...

WHACK!