links late at evening
» Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Oh, link like you love, like you live, like love likes links, love slinks, love links. Etcetera.

One things the folks do that I don't is give you the links. This has turned wrong and stayed there.

For all your shooting, animal-killing, God-fearing needs, I give you the Christian Deer Hunters' Association. Remember: when you're out in the woods, enjoying the Lord's creation and slaughtering little deer-shaped portions of it, you need to devote time to firearm safety and sharing the gospel with a bunch of guys carrying rifles.

It's a big page and full of boring crap, so I'll give you my favourite passage right away: Why are many people currently opposed to hunting? The answers to such a question would probably be too numerous to tabulate. But a primary reason for the anti-hunter attitude that exists today can be traced to the increasing influence of Eastern thought on our society. Such religions as Buddhism and Hinduism have made the concept of coming back to life in different forms very popular. This idea which is known as "reincarnation" is presently being propagated through the New Age Movement. Let's face it. Even taking the life of a rat is difficult if there remains the remote possibility it was a relative of which you were previously fond.

Ah yeah. You pinned it, buddy. I don't like killing a roach because I might be squashing old uncle Earl. And does anybody find the phrase "Buddhism and Hinduism have made the concept of coming back to life... very popular" a little peculiar? What strange world outside the cabin do these Christian hunters imagine? Hindu proselytizers on the corners? "Hey kid, you want to bet on Heaven, or back a winning horse? Maybe even come back as a horse?" I'd love to look through the eyes of a fundamentalist Christian and witness a world of archetypes, crossbred from Galilean spores in a bed of noxious '50s imagery. Everything illuminated and linked in phospholuminescent lines, dark foreigners equated in fearful arabesques to the Satanic, the vertex of the cunt siphoning noble masculine will to hell, etcetera. I once interviewed a former state representative and career policeman from South Dakota. At the end of the interview I asked him about politicians he'd met over his life, and he pulled out a photo album, sleeve after sleeve of 8 by 10s, himself posed smiling with Reagan ("a very decent man"), with Thatcher ("an extraordinary woman"), with Colin Powell, with Bushes of all stripes. I couldn't resist asking where his photo of him and Clinton had gotten to. Oh yes, he said, I was invited to a dinner with Clinton, but I was sick that day. Then his words seemed to dry up, and the paternal, preternaturally charming smile was folded up behind his lips. Do you want to know, he asked me, what I think of Bill Clinton? I nodded yes, yes I sure do. Clinton is a whoremonger, he pronounced. And his wife is a whore. He closed the photo album and opened up his grin once more. And then I got the fuck out of there.

I'm pretty sure that I had some other links to share. I got a bit distracted. And I just did a search of my archives and realized that I've written about Mr. Clintoniswhoremonger before. I think I've reached weblog senility, people. Pretty soon I'll be going out and opening twenty last.fm accounts in one day.

Let's see... links... okay, you've all seen the David Hasselhoff video by now. Have you heard William Shatner singing Common People (link goes to audio .mov)? People, it is gold. Joe Jackson sings backup. I'm going to go listen to it right now, because I like my class commentary declaimed, mothafucka.*

*Term 'mothafucka' not to be confused with 'mothrafucka'.

Update: How could I forget this link? With a URL title of http://huuuuuurrnnnnnnnnnnn.blogspot.com,
what else could it be but Chewbacca's blog? It's a one-note joke that only grows funnier the more you read look at it. But why is Chewbacca posting pictures of little dogs in Santa suits?

Labels: religion

posted by the palinode | comments (5) | permalink | subscribe

star wars redux
» Sunday, January 29, 2006

INTERIOR: TATTOINE -- MOS EISELY -- CANTINA -- DAY

Luke and the two droids follow Ben into the smoke-filled cantina. The murky, moldy den is filled with a startling array of weird and exotic alien creatures and monsters at the long metallic bar. A huge, rough-looking host stops Luke and Ben and the droids.

HOST: Welcome to the Mos Eisely Cantina. Two for dinner?

BEN: Two.

LUKE: And we've got these two droids with us.

HOST: Yeaaah. Yeah. You know, they look like really great droids? But we can't really have them in the dining area? We've got a Droid Funtime Room here. Just stick these numbered tags on your droids and you can pick them up once you're all done.

Droids are led away by busboy.

R2-D2: Bleep bloop-bloop squaawk.

BUSBOY: Sure, whatever.

HOST: Okay, I'll set you up with some menus and drinks and then I'll be by to take your order.

The host ushers Luke and Ben to a table. They sit.

LUKE: What are we doing in this place, Ben? I thought we were looking for a starship.

BEN: There'll be a pilot here, don't worry.

WAITER: Comes up to table. Hey, everybody having a good time here at Mos Eisely Cantina?

BEN: Yes, thanks.

WAITER: Aaaalright then! Claps hands. Can I get you folks something to drink?

BEN: I'll have a Strawberry Surprise Shake.

LUKE: Set me up with Vanilla Blast Cola.

WAITER: Hey, you want to Eisely Size those drinks? Only twenty cents more for nearly twice the size, and still with the non-stop refills if you order a meal to go with your beverage!

LUKE: Sure, sounds good.

WAITER: You?

BEN: Thanks, no. Counting my calories.

WAITER: Hey, buddy, I hear you. Yes I do.

Silence. Ben studies menu.

WAITER: Okay, be right back with a Vanilla Blast and a Strawberry Surprise!

Waiter leaves.

LUKE: Holy crap.

BEN: I know. How thick do you have to ladle it on there, buddy?

LUKE: It's like, we're already sitting down -

BEN: Yeah, deal's closed, no need to keep selling us on it. Flips through glossy menu pages. Hey, do you want to split an appetizer? You should really try the calamari.

LUKE: I don't know. I'm not a big seafood guy.

BEN: It's just that I won't be able to eat an entire appetizer to myself.

LUKE: How about the crab and artichoke dip?

BEN: Yeah, we could do that. I guess.

LUKE: So we'll go with that?

BEN: I suppose.

LUKE: It comes with oven-warmed slices of pita.

BEN: It's just that I had that last time I was here.

LUKE: Hmmm... maybe we could skip the appetizer.

BEN: No, no. You feel like the dip, we'll have the dip. I'm treating you, remember?

Waiter reappears with a drinks tray.

WAITER: Okay, folks, one Strawberry Surprise for the distinguished gentleman... and one Vanilla Blast Cola for the handsome young man.

BEN: Good job describing us. One compliment for the overeager waiter.

WAITER: Ah-ha-ha. Yeah. So, have we had a chance to look over the menu and come to a decision?

BEN: We'll have the calamari to start -

LUKE: I thought we were having the dip.

BEN: Indeed. I thought about that? And I realized that I just couldn't have the dip twice in a row. But you go right ahead and order it, that's fine with me.

LUKE: Okay, I'll have the crab and artichoke dip to start. And I'll have the Womprat Burger on a Ciabatta loaf to follow, with a green salad, ranch dressing on the side.

BEN: Wow, Womprat Burger.

WAITER: And what will you be having for a main course?

BEN: I was going to order the thin-crust pesto pizza, but I think I'll stick with the calamari.

WAITER: You know, we have a lunch-size pizza, it's not much smaller but it's half the price -

BEN: Just bring me the calamari, thanks.

The waiter nods And heads off to the kitchen.

LUKE: You don't want the pizza?

BEN: Well, I was going to order it, but you know, I'm a retired Jedi, money's a little tight -

LUKE: Oh geez, Ben! I'll throw in for the extra appetizer!

BEN: What? What are you talking about? I'm treating you. It means a lot to me to take you out and spend some time hanging out with you.

LUKE: It means a lot to me too.

Silence. Luke sips at his cola, Ben drums his fingers on the table and stares at the salt shaker.

LUKE: Are you alright Ben?

BEN: Oh yeah, I'm great! Pause. It's just that - ah, never mind.

LUKE: Okay. I just don't like to see you in a bad mood.

BEN: Bad mood? I don't think I'm in any kind of mood.

LUKE: Really?

BEN: It seems to me that you're the one in a mood. What with that production over the crab dip.

LUKE: What?

BEN: I can't help feeling that you took advantage here.

LUKE: Advantage?

BEN: When people take you out to eat, it's considered good manners not to order every item on the goddamn menu.

LUKE: I'm sorry Ben. I thought you wanted - you know -

BEN: Yeah, well maybe you should ask next time.

LUKE: Look, let's just finish up here and go hire a starship.

BEN: That would be nice. If I have enough cash left over after your Womprat burger, maybe we can strap a rocket to a bathtub and hope for a strong breeze.

LUKE: Ah shut up, you pretentious old cave-dwelling queen.

Labels: conversations, film, star wars

posted by the palinode | comments (13) | permalink | subscribe

big january contest
» Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Okay. You know what's wrong with the world, I know what's wrong with the world - why don't we come out and talk about it? It's the reason why cotton candy never tastes as good as you remember. It's the reason why my country is now being run by a factory reject mannequin. It's at the heart of every wrong thing ever, the fault at the foundation of the cosmos.

We don't have enough cool contests.

Sure, we've got lotteries. We've got raffles. We've got competitions, pageants, auditions, sweepstakes, showdowns, death matches, celebrity smack-downs. We've got a healthy competitive ethos distilled in pure isopropyl hope. But cool contests? No.

At least, not until now. Behold:



Hold up now. It very likely gets better:



Holy crap! you says. Is that the obverse of the previous image? I says yes. I says that I own a postcard that proclaims "I am happy in Saskatchewan". But why should I go around owning such a postcard when you can own it? With a very personalized message from me?

Okay, I'm gilding the lily here (is it gilding the lily to use that phrase?). Contest rules are as follows:

1. In real good language driven by passion and/or greed, explain to me why you think you should get a Happy in Saskatchewan postcard with a very personalized message from me (and a Hello from Schmutzie?). Consideration will be given to people who write super eloquent and do good diction.

2. Entries must be at least one word and no more than infinity words. If you're going to write a big old essay, please send me a big old email.

3. If you don't really want the Happy postcard, please enter the contest anyway.

4. All entries in verse (because some of you display a taste for haiku) must feature lines that rhyme, but not necessarily with each other.

5. Not a rule.

6. I favour palindromes. Just so you know.

7. Entrants from Saskatchewan will not receive the prize. Instead, they'll get thirty nine cents and directions to the nearest Shoppers Drug Mart, where they can buy their own damn postcard.

8. Contest will close when I go out and buy stamps. And that may be a while.

posted by the palinode | comments (13) | permalink | subscribe

what the household thinks
» Wednesday, January 18, 2006

What the Dishwasher Thinks
I am so fucking unnecessary. At least I was cheap!

What the Microwave Thinks
Enjoy... Your... Meal... And... Set... My... Clock... Assholes

What the Fridge Thinks
You know, I hate to bring this up, because - well, it's not like I have any right to complain about this - I'm a fridge, right? - and people expect certain things from you when you're a fridge. You can't just be yourself when you're a fridge, you have to live up to certain expectations, and those expectations are - well they can be a burden, you know? Let me put it this way - I didn't choose to be a fridge, I was just made, and there are these compartments, and a door, and all these coils on your back, and you're like - man, what am I all about? And then someone plugs you in and fills you full of food. And that's your life, right there. If it's a good life then the food doesn't go bad inside you, and the people clean you up and take care of any frost buildup - not that I have anything to complain about on that front - and you let the small things go. Like - I wanted for a while to be stainless steel instead of white. Every fridge wants a stainless steel body these days. But there was a time when every fridge wanted to be harvest gold, and now where are they? Hello landfill! Hey kiddy coffins! How's your colour scheme working out for you? So I don't have much to complain about, right? But the thing is, I'm freezing over here.

What the Sink Thinks
When I was new I shone, I shone, I gleamed like chrome and the factory machines were so gentle in their sweet singleminded desire to produce me. Now I burp filth and hold in my mouth the greasy remains of scrubbed roasters. You ungrateful fuckers.

What the Bed Thinks
Stop! That! Oh! God! You! Sick! Freaks! Get! Off! Me!

What the Guest Bed Thinks
Don't you people have any friends? Stop throwing laundry on me.

Labels: useless

posted by the palinode | comments (18) | permalink | subscribe

many words, no punchlines, all free
» Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Part I: dialogue

Night. Palinode and Schmutzie supine, blanketed.

Schmutzie: It was nice to see Blair today.

Palinode: I didn't recognize any of the people she was with.

Schmutzie: Anna was sitting next to her.

Palinode: Who's Anna?

Schmutzie: The one with the black bobbed hair.

Palinode: Um...

Schmutzie: The one sitting next to Blair?

Palinode: Wait - is that, uh...

Schmutzie: What?

Palinode: Is she the one with the um, the, you know...

Schmutzie: The what?

Palinode: You know, the one with the knife sticking out of her forehead?

Schmutzie: What? No.

Palinode: Because -

Schmutzie: No.

Palinode: I'm pretty sure -

Schmutzie: Anna does not have a knife sticking out of her forehead.

Palinode: Sure, she's the one going around all la-dee-da, look-at-me, I'm-so-emo-stylish, but really she's got a knife sticking out of her forehead.

Schmutzie: I don't think so.

Palinode: And it ruins the effect.

Schmutzie: Sure. Why not.

Palinode: She makes like it's not there but she even has to part her hair around it.

(Later)

Palinode: Hey. Wake up.

Schmutzie: Wha?

Palinode: Who was the girl sitting directly across from Blair?

Schmutzie: I think that was Cara.

Palinode: The one with the meat hook in her leg?

Schmutzie: Silence.

Palinode: Because that must hurt.

Schmutzie: Silence.

Palinode: A meat hook in the leg must hurt.

Schmutzie: You woke me up just to say 'meat hook in the leg,' didn't you?

Palinode: No, I woke you up for sex.

Schmutzie: And you thought the phrase 'meat hook in the leg' was a good way to get it?

Palinode: I'm oblique.


Part II: monologue

Day. Kitchen. Palinode eating rice crackers, Schmutzie adjacent.

Schmutzie: What are you doing?

Palinode: Mmph.

Schmutzie: What are you doing? What is that smell? It's corn. You smell like corn. You do. OH MY GOD you smell like corn. It's true. Really.

Palinode: Mmph.

Schmutzie: What are you eating? YOU REALLY SMELL LIKE CORN. What the hell are those? (grabs package) RICE CRACKERS? YOU SMELL LIKE CORN. WHAT'S GOING ON?

Palinode: I dunno.

Schmutzie: Go on. Go into the living room. YOU SMELL LIKE CORN. I CAN'T TAKE IT.

This went on for a bit. Apparently I smelled like corn.


Update: When I thought that Anna had a knife in her forehead, I was clearly confusing her with this here item. I'm sorry, Anna.

Labels: conversations

posted by the palinode | comments (9) | permalink | subscribe

anti-intellectual property
» Sunday, January 15, 2006

The Kitchen. Brunchtime for Schmutzie and Palinode. Schmutzie pokes the turkey bacon, Palinode slices an avocado.

The toast pops.

Palinode: Damn.

Schmutzie: What?

Palinode: By Odin's hanging body! (This line was not actually spoken)

Schmutzie: What?

Palinode: I made an error with your toasted cheese and avocado sandwich.

Schmutzie: What happened?

Palinode: I underestimated the toasting time. Now you'll have cold toast.

Schmutzie: No worries. I'm going to broil the sandwich so the cheese melts.

Palinode: That sounds really good. But you should know that if you broil this sandwich, I will sue.

Schmutzie: You'll... what?

Palinode: I will sue.

Schmutzie: Sue? Sue who?

Palinode: Because I'm making this toasted cheese and avocado sandwich, it is my intellectual property. The license I'm granting you does not extend to further preparation beyond the application of condiments.

Schmutzie: A sandwich is not intellectual property.

Palinode: By removing the top slice of toast and placing the open-face sandwich into the oven, you are violating the end user license agreement by reverse engineering and then altering the sandwich.

Schmutzie: I'm going to throw some salt onto it as well.

Palinode: Your license authorizes salt.

Schmutzie: I need a shallow baking pan.

Palinode: You may also back up your sandwich onto your hard drive.

Schmutzie: I need a shallow baking pan to hit you with.

Palinode: I hate those Creative Commons baking pans. You can do anything with them.

Labels: conversations

posted by the palinode | comments (7) | permalink | subscribe

bull
» Friday, January 13, 2006

I don't know much in this life, but I know that this bull's genitals must be really cold.



And that makes me angry.

Labels: photos

posted by the palinode | comments (3) | permalink | subscribe

please feed me some coffee
» Thursday, January 12, 2006

Readers Digest thinks I'm French.

Or at least they think I'm a fluent Francotalker.* Why this is I don't know. The last time someone spoke French to me, it was in the stairwell of a Montreal strip club. I ended up handing over fifteen bucks for an interactive drag show. There was no interaction, but there were definitely drag queens. Maybe I left too early?

Anyway. Last week a plain white envelope came for me, bearing no trace of its origin beyond an anonymous PO box return address. Schmutzie and I thought: collection agency after some long long forgotten debt? Low-interest no-fee credit card that offers Google Miles** and Kryptonite insurance? A missive from the Ministry of Plain White Envelopes? I ripped it open (I'm a messy envelope opener) and found several pages of French. Not the kind of highschool French that helps you out with telling people that there's a souffle in the fridge and that what I like is the country on the weekend, but clause-heavy bureaucratic French, dense as burnt meatloaf and just as appetizing to look at. I flipped the pages over for the English version - after all, this is Canada, where all packaging is bilingual, where milk is lait, the spout is a bec and all the cereal boxes of my childhood shilled for a movie called La Guerre d'Etoiles*** - but no dice. Pas des matrices. Whatever is they wanted me to do, they weren't persuading me. I threw it into the recycling bin.

Yesterday they stepped up their assault. A stiff carboard envelope in crimson and royal blue, stuffed full of colourful brochures, a plastic card, mail-in reply leaflets and more pages of small print showed up - again in French. It seems that they want me to win one million dollars. But I see their game. I have to send in a reply that has "OUI" printed in big letters if I want my million.

Sure. I'll get one million French dollars. I'll have to drive to Quebec to spend them. And we all know about the brigands on the winter roads.

This entry makes no sense.

*I wanted to use the word "Francophone," but then I thought: what if a Francophone were some kind of microphone that automatically translates everything you say into French? Or better yet, a microphone that imparts a French attitude to everything you say? I should build an Anglophone along the same lines, guaranteed to encode any phrase into 100% Anglo. For example:

Die you infidel dogs! -> I will draft a strongly worded letter to the city about the disgraceful state of your lawn.

I'm glad you dropped by. Would you like something to eat? -> Can I start you off with the artichoke and crab dip?

urban decay -> We don't go downtown anymore, there's no parking.

**I don't know what Google Miles are, so don't ask. But feel free to make something up.

***Bilingual packaging sucks the glamour out of advertising, let me tell you. It's hard to get whipped up over "Extreme Flavour Blast Ketchup!" when the French packaging on the reverse side says something like "Incendiary Tomato Condiment On a Precipice!"

Labels: autobio, useless

posted by the palinode | comments (6) | permalink | subscribe

Oskar's bathtub blues
» Tuesday, January 10, 2006

If you're our cat, the home of anxiety and self-pity is the bathtub in our apartment. For the rest of us, it's the home of relaxation and scrubbing. But the bathtub is where our cat goes when it's time to yowl and cry over everything that it never got in its young life, every missed opportunity and lost toy mouse. Like Neely O' Hara smashing her dressing room mirror and crying out her own name in a fit of booze-addled despair, so Oskar launches his body into the tub and rakes his claws against the cold ceramic surfaces. Why does our bathtub outrage the cat? We keep it clean.

Geez.

Labels: cats

posted by the palinode | comments (4) | permalink | subscribe

an attempt at costa rica
» Monday, January 09, 2006

Okay. Not so sick now. Feeling better. Picking up all the sentences now, all the ones I'd stacked against the wall in the spare room, some from foreign countries, a little pile of odds and ends from the broken bits of the last few weeks. Tried to line them up but. All those pieces. Here they are.

Flew here, flew there, stopped, slept, laid over, stumbled along the corridors of the Houston International Airport, ate at Pappeadeaux's Slopbucket (If you want to eat at Pappadeaux's, you must have extremely clear arteries. Your arteries must be spacious, a vault of clear light and verdant pathways to amuse the weary traveller. Because you're about to shove a shitload of grease into every cubic centimetre of your body when you eat at that place). Six hour layover. Even in an airport the size of George Bush International, you can pretty much visit all the stores and loiter around all the departure lounges in the space of six hours. At some point it occurred to me that we were all wandering around in the body of a horribly bloated and slug-like George Bush, rapacious and massive, so overgrown that eventually he was able to lease out his form to the local airport authority.

By the time we landed in San Jose we'd all reached that semi-hallucinogenic state that comes from dislocation and airplane air, so that the humidity and heat, the lineups, the champion soccer team that flew with us and the and the cheering crowds around the airport all seemed part of our due as travellers, as if we were making up the whole thing as we went along. Because we didn't quite believe in the crowds we managed to thread through them easily, find our host and secure a taxi. We left the airport and found ourselves in the midst of an impromptu parade, vans stuffed with people honking their horns, waving hand-flags out their windows. A van pulled up beside us and a clutch of children pressed their faces to the window. One of them pointed at me. I smiled back. They started cheering and hooting in the belief that I'm as big a soccer fan as they are. Either that or I was the butt of some Costa Rican joke.

The parade gradually thinned out into traffic after ten minutes or so. Dark palm blades sawed back and forth across the beams of streetlights as we drove along the frewway into the city. We passed a Best Western, then a Denny's, and I had to remind myself that the world I thought I'd left behind has outposts everywhere. Then we turned right onto an unlit road and dipped into a spaghetti-like tangle of dark roads, with high walls and banks of trees pressing in. I could feel the plant life out there in the dark, smell it in the warm dark air that came pouring in over the lip of the window. It reminds me of my childhood summers in Bermuda, walking down lanes sandwiched between hedges of hibiscus and sugar cane. Finally we were on our way to something different.

Labels: autobio, travel

posted by the palinode | comments (2) | permalink | subscribe

cassus bully
» Friday, January 06, 2006

Possible dialogues between Iraq and the USA during the lead-up to war

A: On The Corner

Iraq: Hum-dee-dum...
US: Hey!
Iraq: Hum-diddley-doo...
US: You saying something about me?
Iraq: What?
US: I said, you saying something about me?
Iraq: What are you talking about?
US: You have something to say to me, you say it to my face!
Iraq: I didn't say anything.
US: Oh yeah, you said something. I heard you.
Iraq: What do you think I, uh, said?
US: Oh, you think you're funny?
Iraq: No.
US: You making fun of me now? Big man?
Iraq: No, I uh -
US: So now you're calling me a liar!
Iraq: No, you're, you must be mistaken.
US: So now I'm stupid, is that it?
Iraq: No -
US: Oh, so I am a liar. You've done it now, buddy. You've done it.
Iraq: What -
US: Hold on, I've got a television address to give.

B: Around The Dance Floor or Discotheque

Iraq: Check out my oil reserves.
US: You looking at my woman?
Iraq: I was talking about my oil reserves.
US: You keep looking at my woman, I'll kill you.
Iraq: I wasn't looking at your woman.
US: Oh, you think she's ugly?
Iraq: Um, no.
US: So you were looking at my woman! Ah that's it. That's it asshole. You're dead.
Iraq: What woman are you talking about?
US: Uh, your oil reserves.

C: At the gas station

Iraq: Fill 'er up.
US: Okay, that comes to eighteen dollars forty-nine cents.
Iraq: All I have are Euros.
US: (sprays gas on Iraq, ignites country)

Update: A couple of folks - and nice ones to boot - have taken some pains to point out that I may be unfairly casting the entire United States (of America!) as an angry bully. They're quite right: I'm tarring the entire country with one brush. The US is chock-a-block with reasonable, rational people who receive their information from somewhere besides Fox News. For such people I possess an extra degree of admiration, living as they do under an incompetent murderous cabal of cronies who have no idea how to run a country. Anyways, I'm still going to lump everyone in to serve my rhetorical purposes.

Labels: conversations

posted by the palinode | comments (6) | permalink | subscribe

the sick man
» Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Ah man I'm a sick man. Dizzy and sub-fevered, rough-throated and wrapped in the perceptual gauze of immune response. I'd love to write about my vacation and the wild+wacky adventures of the Family Palinode on the potholed mountain roads and foggy jungles of Costa Rica - the fear of eyelash vipers! the deadly waltz of two buses passing each other on a hairpin turn! - but when I'm sick I can't avoid the topic of my sickness. I think that people like it when I'm so ill that I'm throwing up, because at least then I'm not talking about it. And I'm in a different room. On the whole, people like it when I'm sick and in a different room. But I should stop talking about this, because eventually you'll want to be at a different website altogether. I'll be sick on this page, puking up my pathological obsession with my own pathology, and you'll be sitting comfortably over at Finslippy or Schmutzie, chuckling over exploits.

On today's breakfast menu: Chuckling over Exploits. With a side of Fried Brouhaha.

I promise all y'all that when my body has worked its mojo on the little sub-seeable invaders dancing with my bacteriophages, I'll regale with you with insights, oversights, Lite Brites, and so much more.

Labels: autobio

posted by the palinode | comments (8) | permalink | subscribe