For you fellow creative types, whether skilled or unskilled like your host, you're no doubt intimately familiar with that numbing sensation that comes long after having temporarily halted whatever project you were working on and now that you've waited too many days, weeks, months, the word stuck doesn't do anyone justice, certainly not the blindfolded lady with the exposed rack. Sorry, John. Look! Even more boobies! Boobies! Boobies!
Yes, the above paragraph was a flimsy excuse to put that picture of a
scantily-clad naked Greek babe over there. You should know by now just how much of a predictably predictable monolith of duh I can be.
Anyway, that sensational numb has crawled its way into my blog the way a Lovecraftian beast from beyond the stars would shamble out of Old Whatley's decrepit, rotting abode, over the rolling hills creeping hither and yon, through the gnarled, ancient backwoods concealing evidence of the darkest arts and, after gnawing on the flesh-and-blood world and getting its fill, into the computer itself to murder the creative impulse through some heretofore unknown electrochemical cosmic, yet invisible, death ray.
"It's the hair, isn't it. Jealous?"
I was actually leading towards something else but now I can't remember what it was, though I can say with much confidence that it wasn't political. Nevertheless, I will admit to getting a chuckle out of Rod the Helmet -- best porn name ever? It's close, but it's no Schnapps Monticello -- getting so much Dem grief while Bush --
"Really? You're going to write political gobbledygook?"
Fine, sports, it is.
Just perhaps, Yankees manager Joe Girardi suggests, Sabathia is warming up to New York, after all.I'm sure the
More incoherent ruminations on a bunch of other crap should probably go here, but I can't come up with anything thanks to frogtastic brain drain and other, arcane, offlinery, so I'll let you all get back to joining my sometimes-better-half in blaming me for everything.
Oh, and don't ask to buy one of these --
-- no, not that kind, you didn't see anything, this kind --
-- or I'll cut your fucking head off, carve all the flesh away and dance a minuet around the skull while screaming at the top of my lungs. And then I'll sell your seat, motherf***er.