One weekend

Okay, this is cheap, I know. I just like it. I wish I was the guy on the right. I think it's Millar, but his hair changes more than a girl's, so you never know. It might be Carson from QE. Who cares? I think it's hilarious.

The point, people, the POINT, is that I really can't post about anything else today, because the Sox are all that's on my mind.

How many games have we watched this year and it all comes down to one weekend. One three-game series. Against the Yankees.

Fuck's sake.

Everybody got their Mylanta?


EDIT: DUH! That's clearly NOT Carson. Look at the forearm on that. Definitely a teammate. Of Tek's, not Carson's, get your fucking minds out of the gutter.

Armageddon Time

There is a very weird feeling in the air today. Several people at work have mentioned this. The atmosphere just somehow feels oddly heavy and...odd. I smelled the ocean as I left the house, and I live a good 8-10 miles away from the harbor. The wind is blowing this weird, heavy, wet air, that feels like the blast of steam that is released when you take the cover off a pot of boiling water. Several have mentioned that it's a change in 'barometric pressure,' and I'm no scientist, but I'll go along, if it explains the wonkiness that is Thursday, September 29, 2005.

But what IS it?

I was dreaming about high-pitched whistling type noises. Factory whistles, dog whistles, the sound a fork tine makes when scraped across a china plate (sends chills down my spine and reverberates in my fillings), squeaky bike brakes. Then I awoke to find it was my own nose. And now I have the feeling of cotton filling my head, even after my habitual 22oz. Dunkin Donuts coffee infusion. My husband was grinding his teeth all night long, making for a less-than-restful slumber, and my cats weren't all over me this morning, like they usually are. A bad wind is rising, something wicked this way comes.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???

Oh, I remember now. The Red Sox have decided to call it a day on the 2005 season, that they're too anxious to get some golfing in to even TRY and win a playoff berth, and the evil Yankee gods are rejoicing. New England is under their thrall. That must be it.

Glad I figured that out.

I better not ever see anyone in these

Jesus Christ! Comfort, shmomfort, there is NO EXCUSE FOR THIS:





Let's digest these for a moment, shall we?

Nope, nothing redeemable here whatsoever.

I'm fairly certain that if I look down and see these walking around, the chances of looking up and finding anyone sane, attractive, intelligent attached are...fucking nil. You would have to be a clinically insane hippie to want this mess anywhere near your feet.

I have never seen anyone wearing these. But if I do, I promise, on everything that I consider good and holy, that I will ridicule, most cruelly and mercilessly, the wearer of such an abomination.

Come the fuck ON, people.

Double-header

I was shocked out of bed at an obscenely early hour today by a Fairfield Street Batshit-Crazy Hour morning matinee on the other side of my backyard fence. Evidently her weiner dog was disobeying her simple order to eat a jelly doughnut or something, and this was just not to be tolerated.

"MAXIE! MAXIE! GET THE FUCK OVAH HEAH AND EAT THIS!!! MAAAAXXXXIIIIIEEEEE!!!!!!"

I have actually seen this whiskey-voiced harridan, pushing a shopping cart through the streets of my neighborhood, with the dog in the child seat, wearing a rainbow visor and wrapped in blankets. And yes, I have seen her trying to jam a jelly doughnut down the dog's throat. Poor wee Max must have wanted a muffin that morning, because he was having none of it.

This presents me with a bit of a dilemma. Should I mention to her that dogs actually prefer simpler fare? Oh, you know, like DOG FOOD? Or should I report her to the MSPCA? Or let the poor dog suffer this abuse, because he's so clearly all this insane, lonely woman has in her life?

She was in a good mood last Thursday. She was cackling to herself, singing "If I Knew You Were Coming, I'd Have Baked a Cake." Is there another verse to that song, or is that it? Because that's what I heard, that one line, for about an hour. I just don't know what's going on there. I really don't.

*****************************************************
Due to last night's rainout, the Red Sox have to play a double-header today versus Toronto. Hmmmmm.

I MIGHT have to go to Charlie's for lunch, to check in on the team. And if it looks good, I MIGHT have to have a beer. And if I deem it good, I MIGHT have to have another. A co-worker just suggested taking the afternoon off...I would feel terribly guilty about doing that, with my boss on vacation and things definitely getting busier. Guilt is a thoroughly useless emotion. Fuck it, this is September baseball.


That is all.

Bah.

Nothing to say today. Working hard at my actual job. (Rare, that.) And I have a bastard behind the eyes. No, I am not hung over.

Go entertain yourselves somewhere else. More hilarity tomorrow. Maybe. I don't know.

Nauseatingly happy Friday post

Welp, it has to happen sometimes, right? I can't always be the cantankerous bitch, it's emotionally untenable. Sometimes, I'm happy. Sometimes, life is perfectly okay, thank you very much.

It is Friday, work is not bad today (it's never VERY bad, I do like my job), on my lunch break I will go and buy books, which always gives me a rise. The weekend plans are good, a sufficient amount of socializing as well as sufficient time to indulge my hermit-like tendencies.

No matter what happens to the Red Sox, we'll all see some good baseball, as several teams will be playing "MUST WIN" ball. I hope the Sox make another charge into first...nay, I EXPECT them to. Are you LISTENING lads? You wanna get on that? Thanks.

It's all good from here.

Except...nay, there is a snake in the garden. Blogger refuses to let me upload a beer picture to represent my joy that the weekend has arrived. It says it's done, but lo, it has not loaded. Do you see a picture of beer here? No, the answer is there is NOT a picture of beer here. Found some good ones, too. Tch. Typical.

This is a chink in the armor. One tiny blemish on an otherwise cheerful mood.

Oh well, in a mere few hours, the reality of beer will supercede this minor setback.

Onward.

Please check my new links. Good yuks to be had in the blogosphere today.*


*Okay, I'm gagging a little bit at the use of the word 'blogosphere,' but until a more descriptive term comes to mind, it'll have to do.


EDIT: Also added LBSeahag in the links section. She keeps saying nice shit about me, though I don't deserve it.

I said I DON'T FUCKING KNOW

Have you ever had someone ask you a question and not take "I don't know" for an answer? Happened yesterday. I say, "I don't know," and she stands there for another ten minutes repeating the question.

For fuck's sake! Is the answer going to come drizzling out of the goddamn ether as we sit here looking at each other?

No, it is not.

Am I going to suddenly admit that I DO know and have just been having a laugh?

No, I am not.

So why was she standing here trying to make me feel like an idiot, rather than going someplace to look up the answer herself? I'm busy here, doing my actual fucking job, of which answering her question is not part. I would gladly answer it if I knew, and I would gladly research it and give her the correct answer, were it relevant to my job. But it is not relevant to my job. It is not relevant to anything I do, and won't help me in the least to do it better.

And I should state that I absolutely hate the attitude of "it's not my job so I won't do it." I am more than happy to help out where I can. I am the one woman in my office who can replace the water bottle on the dispenser, so I never call our brawny (yeah, he's 150 pounds wet) maintenance guy to do it. I routinely answer and direct lots of questions that have nothing to do with me because I happen to have the desk closest to the door. (NO, I am not a fucking receptionist. Do I sound like a fucking people person to you?) But I am a utility player who can substitute and cover any number of different office functions in the building. And I'm called upon to do it. A lot. And I do it, happily. I'm a cheerful little team player, me. My co-workers love me. YES, THEY DO.

But when I say I don't fucking know something, DON'T STAND THERE LIKE A SUPPLICANT, STARING AT ME AND ASKING ME AGAIN AND AGAIN. Go fucking bug someone else, you tool.

Every damn one of them.

Evidently the twats in Hollywood had another self-congratulatory wank-fest this week, did they?

Didn't watch the Emmys. Didn't know they were on, wouldn't have cared if I had. I may have skipped past it, looking for something interesting to watch, and thought "oh, another awards show, what the fuck is she wearing..." and then moved along. I don't remember. In fact, the only reason it's hovering at the edge of my consciousness at all is that the brilliant ladies at Go Fug Yourself have been having a field day, as they always do after these things.

I've decided not to do any more crappy celebrity posts (stopping at 2, which I do stand by) because I have come to the realization that, with few exceptions, they're all pretty much crappy. And some I consider talented and intelligent celebrities today very likely will do something eventually that makes me change my mind. They're human, I know, though I fear increasingly botoxed and collagened* that very little actual natural tissue and human DNA remains. If you couple that with some seriously bad taste... I mean, Christ, look at Pamela Anderson. She's a fucking nightmare. GAAAAH!!!

I used to love, love, LOVE Harrison Ford. Used to be hot and heroic and smart, seemed to be aging like a good bottle of red, and suddenly, he's like some kind of weird old necrophiliac pedophile**. Blech. I'm over you, Harry. It's done. Don't make a scene. Just go.

And it's not that I don't forgive people for aging. I hate it when people say "oh, he/she looks so OLD." Well, aging happens, I don't mind it. The alternatives are worse, friends. (The alternatives being death or plastic surgery, mind.) Susan Sarandon is aging beautifully, tastefully, gracefully, smoothly...all good. Hell, Gene Hackman is no spring chicken, but yes, I'll admit that I think he's crazy-sexy-smart-cool. Don't make fun of me, I've heard it all before. It's the brains, sweetheart.

Anyway, back to the Emmys. Did Hugh Laurie win anything?




* I don't care if it's not a word. You know what I mean. Fuck off.

** Sounds like a contradiction, doesn't it? But look at Callista Flockhart and tell me I'm wrong. Seriously.

I'm so glad your bag has a seat

Really...you three guys on my bus this morning. I'm talking to YOU. It pleases me that you were able to get on the bus early enough that there were sufficient seats for you to plop yourself down, and make your bags comfortable in the empty seat next to you. Even after the bus filled up and people had to stand in the aisles, you managed not to disturb your possessions, and they were able to get the rest they needed for the long day ahead, what with opening and closing and carrying your lunch and everything. It's a tough life, being a fucking briefcase. So that extra 45 minutes of undisturbed repose during your commute was a godsend, huh? Congratulations, and good for them!

You know, these trackless trolley buses, they don't travel particularly smoothly. They jerk around like amphetamine-riddled epileptics, so even holding onto the bars doesn't necesssarily guarantee that you'll be able to keep your balance at sudden starts, stops and turns. So as people were flying about, white-knuckled, ankles cracking, in danger of whiplash, you should be proud that you protected those seats, and kept your lap free and clear for your hands to have a place of repose as well. You fucking wankers.

And the fella waaaaay in the back, with the rap blaring through his headphones so that the driver waaaaay in the front could rap along? That was awfully considerate of you. I hope you go deaf, pissbag.


EDIT: Oh yeah, and to whoever it was who let one rip just before Mt. Auburn Hospital, you are my hero. But lay off the luncheon meats, my friend. Something might be horribly wrong inside you.

Evidently...

According to the death clock, I'm a goner in about 20 years if I remain a pessimist.

I recalculated as an optimist, and if I change my ways now, and start chirping about like an irritating little fuckwitted mouseketeer, I get an extra 20+ years!

Unless I'm too cheerful and preoccupied with glee to see the bus coming. Because that's probably what'd happen. Believe me.

Weekend sanity break

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?

Thanks, La Ginois, for sending this. You fucking nutter.

Chastised

Can't make this come out clear enough to read, but one dog is saying to the other: "I had my own blog for a while, but I decided to go back to just pointless, incessant barking."

I feel completely chastised by this New Yorker cartoon by Alex Gregory. There will be no post today, as a result.

Unless I come up with something better than this one. Meh.

Random thoughts

Will the cretinous, shit-for-brains ass-clown who keeps calling my home number at 6:30 am please just get another hobby? Thanks. I get very, very cranky when my sleep is interrupted. Just a weird, quirky thing I have. Also, I have caller ID, access to on-line search services, and a working vehicle. Don't think I won't cut you.

The crankipants I'm wearing as a result of interrupted kip resulted in a need for laughs this morning, and oh, sweet mercy, did I find them.

Hilarious story over at Dr. E's site today. A gifted storyteller is the good doctor, and apparently, a fine fisherman to boot.

Also today, an excellent post over at Basegirl. Most excellently funny, despite the bad news it brings of Gabe Kapler's Achilles injury, which renders him unavailable for the rest of the season. That's us, fucked, then.

And the always wonderful Stephenesque has a running series of guest bloggers this week. Today? The Pope!

See how diverse my blogging is? I am a Renaissance gal, so I am.

Did I ask?

It really gets on my tits in a big way when people offer me advice I didn't ask for. Nothing stops my ears from listening faster than a sentence that starts "You should..." or "Why don't you..."

I never hear the end of those sentences. What I hear in my head is SCREAMING, SCREAMING, SCREAMING, SCREAMING, as though hell itself has burst its seams, and millions of accursed souls have erupted forth, to swirl around and plague my psyche with their tormented shrieking.

And do you know what's even worse? When people offer advice that it is absolutely fucking impossible for me to follow. Someone actually said to me recently, "You should just buy a house...."

Sure, I have a few hundred grand just lying around, waiting for me to figure out what I should do with it. Thanks, that was so clear and obvious, why didn't I think of that for myself. ...Tch...obvious, really. What a twat I am, huh?

YOU buy me a fucking house if it's so easy. If I want your facile, mouseketeer advice I'll ask for it. And I won't. So fuck off.

Bile drought

Nothing in particular pissed me off today. What the hell is happening? I can't seem to access my inner bitch. I am bereft, and lack purpose. Next thing you know, I'll be weeping at Pepsi commercials and...*gag*...wanting to "cuddle."
(dry heave break)
This saddens me no end. I think I'll mix myself a martini and download some porn. That'll bring me back.

The bilious sidewinder known as Andraste will be back tomorrow.

A little help, please

Next time I go off guns blazing on a Friday about getting that Guinness, or a dozen Guinnesses...someone out there has to remind me to eat as well. Can I rely on any of you guys to do that for me? I am my own worst enemy, and my liver don't like me too much neither.

Thanks.

Fridays are good

By 5:30 pm, I should be looking at this. If I am not looking at this by 5:30 pm, that means I'm still on the train on the way to Foley's and will be extremely impatient. Woe betide anyone who interferes with my progress toward the bar, or causes any delay whatsoever.

That is all.

EDIT: Well maybe that isn't all. Guiness takes an awful long time to settle, so I may order the Guiness, but also a PBR to get me through the 3 minutes it takes for the Guinness to be drinkable. Now, good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY.

Damn funny

Nothing much today, either.

Just THIS.

I can't stop laughing. It's a beautiful day.

Bless their little hearts.

I love these guys.

That is all.

Any idiot in the world...

...can have a blog. And, as we have seen recently, most of them do. It's free, it's easy, it works great. You can upload files, pictures, videos, update to your heart's content, edit, comment, have a blast, without a fucking degree in HTML, or any training in computer programming or IT expertise. eBlogger is a tremendously untuitive, simple tool. If I can do this, anyone can.

Why, then, can't I update my office's web site without tears? I'll tell you why: Dreamweaver, the program we use to update our company's sites, sucks. It sucks like a big, sucky thing that sucks suckily. There's a "local view," and a "remote view," and a "staging area." Apparently you're supposed to update your stuff in the "local view," then upload it to the "remote view," then send an e-mail to our communications office, with all the information that the shit is in the "staging area," and then they put up your changes and let you know they're up.

Well, I'm damned if I can see the "remote view" and "local view," at the same time, to make sure I'm PUTTING the cunting files in the right places. And when I follow the instructions, I can't even fucking OPEN the "staging area," to see if the festering fucking crap is up there. Then I get these e-mails from the people who supposedly HELP us with this shit, they say "Uh, no, it's not there, try this..." and then regale you with shitloads of acronyms and techno-speak, and don't goddamn help at all.

To the makers of Dreamweaver, you suck. You fucking wankers.

The usual

Just a couple of things today.

People need to fucking enunciate.

People need to pick up their fucking feet when they walk.

The mumble, and the shuffle. The fucking end.

Civilization is going to hell in a handbasket.

That is all.

Holiday weekend

Right. I have absolutely nothing to say today. It's a holiday weekend, much grilling of food, swilling of alcohol, watching of baseball to do.

I won't have anything to say until Tuesday, probably. Unless I can't help myself or I get bored or pissed off about something between now and then.

Until then, fuck off, step away from the computer and go outside. Get some exercise. Especially if you're fat.

Oh, no, he didn't...

Yes, folks, he did.

Bush on CNN this morning:

"We got a lot of rebuilding to do.... the good news is and it's hard for some to see it now but out of this chaos is going to come a fantastic gulf coast... out of the rubbles of Trent Lott's house -- the guy lost his entire house -- there's going to be fantastic house. I look forward to sitting on the porch. Out of New Orleans is going to come that great city again."

Hm. Just...Hm. Enough is enough. Let's can this jackass.

Hurricane relief

Hurricane Relief

I may be the last blogger to think of putting this link up, but hell, I may hit a few people who haven't seen it, or haven't yet had an opportunity or incentive to give. I thought this might make it pretty easy. I just did, and it was a cinch.

I won't try to say anything profound or important about giving in this time of tragedy, anything I say will seem repetitive, cliched, self-important, unoriginal, perhaps even smug. Except this: if you have some to give, give. If you don't, don't.

Some thoughts on Boston

The following may become extremely mawkish, so anyone who's here for a diatribe may want to look away. We will return to the spewing of bile immediately following this announcement.

Boston. Love that dirty water, etc.

Regular reader Frank has opened a very interesting can of worms by calling Boston a "colony of fools."

And I wonder...as much as I love Boston, the big city with a small-town feel, its green spaces, its bustling business district, its arts, architecture, Olde Worlde Charme, sports teams, education options...yes, even the MBTA - with its many faults and quirks, gets us where we're going in relative ease most of the time - its museums, restaurants, and historical weight... IS IT a colony of fools?

In my 20+ years here, I have met many, many fools. I have even been a fool from time to time, more often than I care to remember. I have also met many, many fine, intelligent, interesting, fun, sweet, good-hearted, perfectly okay people. For every Mass-hole, I've met 10 people with whom I would happily share a cab, or a beer, or an afternoon. Maybe not let every one of them sleep on my couch, but you get where I'm going.

Yes, we Bostonians - I can call myself a Bostonian now, even though I wasn't born here, as I've spent a lot of years living and working here, paying my dues, voting, paying taxes, contributing to the economy, hell, I even have Red Sox season tickets - we have our quirks. The Big Dig is distressing, the layout is truly bizarre, the driving is atrocious (which leads to the rudest drivers, hands down, anywhere), the bars close too early, the Bruins haven't won a Stanley Cup in too, too long...and the Boston accent, Christ on a stick, it's truly like a rake across a chalk board and makes me think, "do these people HEAR themselves?"). But we're really a good crew, at heart.

In sum: if Boston is a colony of fools, I'm dead curious to see the Mother Ship.


We now return you to our regular programming.