Don't overheat, Stu
The Onion never fails to kill me. If only this was real. I can think of a few teachers I'd like to become violently ill. Specifically Mrs. Turner, who snatched up my list of fake classmates and read it to my real ones. No wonder I hate bitches.
Shanksgiving was mahvelous, dahling. I saw the Macy's parade from the second row, met a few nice folks, ate some lovely food, and watched Rent on the big screen. Courtney and I saw the Broadway play last month, and I believe them to have nailed the film version. There were a few movie faux pas, but the guy who played Tom Collins was fanfuckingtastic enough to make up for a couple of lame montages and deviations from the original script. I feel an urge to rent up all his work and study him like a split earthworm pinned to whatever the fuck that jelly stuff is.
The parade was a cornucopia of dancing hussies from different states. No sign of Tennessee, but Texas was well-represented. I tried to take a picture of the Beach Boys for Lindsey "I love the Beach Boys" Turner, but the journey from degloving to unzipping the coat to unvelcroing the pocket inside to pulling out the camera took a fortnight. I almost ran out of water and my camel took off.
It's almost time to go home. I've got some leftover homesickness, so I'll need extra coddling come Christmastime. Get those nursing nubs out.
Speaking of Christmas nubs, I was listening to a television news broadcast last night and heard a reporter interviewing a department store Santa about a supposed surge in new rules to prevent child molestation.
"Are Santas checked for criminal records?" he asked.
Santa said yes, they're checked as any employee would be.
"But some pedophiles could get through, right?" the reporter asked.
The Santa, who probably didn't feel comfortable predicting the failure of pure chance, had no choice but to half-nod, looking torn and sick.
God, is nothing sacred? I've grown to hate television journalism. With all my heart, I believe newspaper writing to be the most thoughtful sect of journalism by nature. Granted, newspaper reporters can be just as vicious, but I feel that writing's role in the process has protected newspapers from the inevitable loss and potential irresponsibility that comes with second-to-second reports. Too bad reading is on the not list.
Shanksgiving was mahvelous, dahling. I saw the Macy's parade from the second row, met a few nice folks, ate some lovely food, and watched Rent on the big screen. Courtney and I saw the Broadway play last month, and I believe them to have nailed the film version. There were a few movie faux pas, but the guy who played Tom Collins was fanfuckingtastic enough to make up for a couple of lame montages and deviations from the original script. I feel an urge to rent up all his work and study him like a split earthworm pinned to whatever the fuck that jelly stuff is.
The parade was a cornucopia of dancing hussies from different states. No sign of Tennessee, but Texas was well-represented. I tried to take a picture of the Beach Boys for Lindsey "I love the Beach Boys" Turner, but the journey from degloving to unzipping the coat to unvelcroing the pocket inside to pulling out the camera took a fortnight. I almost ran out of water and my camel took off.
It's almost time to go home. I've got some leftover homesickness, so I'll need extra coddling come Christmastime. Get those nursing nubs out.
Speaking of Christmas nubs, I was listening to a television news broadcast last night and heard a reporter interviewing a department store Santa about a supposed surge in new rules to prevent child molestation.
"Are Santas checked for criminal records?" he asked.
Santa said yes, they're checked as any employee would be.
"But some pedophiles could get through, right?" the reporter asked.
The Santa, who probably didn't feel comfortable predicting the failure of pure chance, had no choice but to half-nod, looking torn and sick.
God, is nothing sacred? I've grown to hate television journalism. With all my heart, I believe newspaper writing to be the most thoughtful sect of journalism by nature. Granted, newspaper reporters can be just as vicious, but I feel that writing's role in the process has protected newspapers from the inevitable loss and potential irresponsibility that comes with second-to-second reports. Too bad reading is on the not list.
1 Comments:
the journey from degloving to unzipping the coat to unvelcroing the pocket inside to pulling out the camera took a fortnight. I almost ran out of water and my camel took off.
Funniest thing I've read all day.
Post a Comment
<< Home