It’s a mixed grill of bloggage that should lead to some fine snarkage in the comments today. Why? Because I have phone calls to make and another wallpaper border to strip. Since all the wallpaper in this house seems to have been applied with a space-age formulation of cement and epoxy, I don’t have time to dawdle. (Just once, I want to strip wallpaper that I hung, just for the pleasure of encountering strippable paper and easily dissolved glues.) I will be in and out on “breaks,” “five minutes of Me Time” and other procrastination throughout the day, so have at it, because the fruit hangs low today:
I shouldn’t laugh, because it’s not funny, is it? That a top-tier evangelical minister spent three years getting his wing-wang dang-doodled by a male prostitute, right? Are you laughing? I can’t even rouse a chuckle. At this point, the Cavalcade of Evangelical Hypocrites is like the last sketch on “Saturday Night Live,” and in its sixth or seventh minute, no less. The joke is so old, and has been told so often, that it’s, like, oh look look what’s on my lawn. It’s a sparrow! There’s something you don’t see every day.
I love this sidebar, though. This is worth a giggle: Claim against evangelical leader stuns Springs-area residents. “Stuns.” They’re “stunned” by this. Evidently they don’t read the newspapers in Colorado Springs.
For some reason — please, don’t ask me why — I followed a link to a video condensation of an interview Madonna gave earlier this week, justifying her baby-shopping. Once again, I’m struck by the prison so many women my age build for themselves with Botox. Like Queen Noor/Lisa Halaby, it seems Madge has opted to freeze her face with chemicals rather than allow it to form an actual expression, which could lead to wrinkling. It’s a pity, or maybe it isn’t, as Madonna was always a terrible actress, and her current cosmetic choices would seem to rule out any roles other than Third FemBot in Shower, but only as long as she doesn’t have to smile.
I got a call yesterday from a fast-talking hireling of the Republican National Congressional Committee. I know he was a real person, not a recording; I could just tell. And I tried without success to try to get him to shut up and think for just a minute about what he was saying: That I should vote for Mark Souder next Tuesday and save the 3rd District of Indiana from the likes of liberal Tom Hayhurst.
“HEY!” I said. “SHUT UP A MINUTE AND LISTEN TO ME. I HAVE A 313 AREA CODE. I LIVE IN MICHIGAN. I CAN’T VOTE IN THE THIRD DISTRICT OF INDIANA.”
Didn’t do any good. How in the hell did they get my phone number? I’m sure I’m still probably on some voter roll in Indiana. It’s only been two years since I last voted there. But once you see — or even a computer sees — that telltale evidence: The landline telephone at a new address in another state, the lack of voting activity since 2004, don’t you start to get a clue? You’d think.
OK, I can put it off no longer. I take DIF in hand and mount the ladder. Wish me luck, comrades.