How awesome is it that Crazy Ron Artest thanked his shrink in his post-game interview with Dorris Burke last night? Not even Woody Allen would do that.
That’s what I have in my life right now. Nonstop. I’m worried that I’ll end up with that post-Vegas-oh-fuuuuuck-I-STILL-HEAR-the-slot-machines-in-my-head malady. Last time the World Cup came around, I was in Italy, spending much of my time wandering the deserted streets of the Tremiti Islands and taking against-the-rules photos because no one was there to stop me. Slightly more pleasurable than wandering past drunk men crying outside of Nevada Smith’s.
Speaking of pleasure: I have experienced the OPPOSITE of it at the gym for the past two days, because there is no hot water. What is the opposite of pleasure? The opposite of pleasure is having a cold jet of water spraying your butt like it’s a freaking bull’s eye.* I wonder if it’s shocking enough to make the cellulite that’s begun to appear in that general area retreat from the surface of my skin. This is a fairly new development; an early 35th birthday present. It has forced me to consider skirted swimwear touted as “The Miracle Suit” on the racks at Filene’s Basement.** Last summer, an acquaintance I see maybe four times a year at parties said to me, You know what D? We’ve known each other for many years and you haven’t aged at all. And now my plan, the next time I see him, is to ask him to take a close freaking look at my thighs and tell me why he put a curse on me.
And speaking of vanity: Like all other narcissists, I long ago created a Google news alert for my name. This has almost always generated static (apparently my last name is big in Germany — who knew?) but it does afford me fleeting moments of amusement such as Stadtrundfahrt in Luftiger Hoehe. According to Babelfish, this means something like “City tour in airy height” but to me it sounds like fetish porn.
Hm, what else. Oh, this is my new favorite song of the week, and like all the other favorites, it’s a year old, because I am trapped in a time when MY THIGHS HAD NO CELLULITE.
Finally, this t-shirt is pretty much the greatest t-shirt ever created.
THE END.
*”Pleasure” being defined as “NOT having cold water sprayed in your crack” and not defined as “having HOT water sprayed in your crack.”
**Edited to add: I realized there’s been a plethora of AAAAACK-Cathy-style posts recently. I’m as dismayed as you are. I am investigating these incidents and will provide a follow-up when the situation has been remedied.
Over at the Rumpus, Elissa Bassist conducts an interview with her ex:
Elissa: I’m continually perplexed as to why you kept talking to me, for what turns out to be nearly five years. That fact alone made me think you loved me, or could love me, circumstances permitting. I wish you’d just cut me off the first time. Because I spent years, actual years, crying tears, actual tears, over you. Like the innocent girl you thought I was, I loved you innocently and deeply and fantastically. You knew this. And you knew how much pain I was in. And you let it go on. I thought that was you loving me. I was always begging you to let me give you a blow job because I was sure you’d love me soon enough.
Dan: And eventually, I came to love the blow job you gave me.
I’m pretty confident that all of us, on some level, would like to do this with one of our exes. With me, I’d probably perform a citizen’s arrest after it was over.
I know this has already been out for a year but it’s my new favorite song.
Where did she go?
I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.Also by me
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