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.

You ever have one of those days when you say, “Gee, it seems I’m all caught up on my work, the day is ready to roll out before me and I have extra time. Where did it come from?” and then you realize it’s because you forgot to tend your blog?

I did, yesterday. It was accompanied by the pleasant realization that I had some extra money in my checking account and all my bills were paid, so how the hell did that happen, and then I realized I’d forgotten to make my car payment, which was due 10 days ago. Oops. I made November’s payment while I was at it. Just to smooth everything over with the Volkswagen people.

Better get back to the blogging routine. My life seems to fall apart without it.

I was telling someone night before last that I was glad Halloween was over. “Yes,” she replied. “Those pumpkins were really starting to look weird next to the Christmas decorations.”

Don’t laugh. Our “Christmas music” radio station here kicked off its all-carols-all-the-time at midnight Nov. 1.

But really, Halloween exhausts me. (Everything exhausts me, lately.) I blame the candy — one sugar buzz after another, followed by a crash. Maybe if I went dye-free and dairy-free, it would be better, but maybe not. Anyway, we now have more candy in the house than we did before, and such quality! Giant Hershey bars, full-size Snickers, licorice whips as long as my arm. I told Kate it can’t go to her room, ostensibly so the dog won’t discover it but really so I don’t have to drag my candy butt up a flight of steps to plunder it. Mommies are alone in the kitchen most of the time, and this is our reward.

Think I’ll go snag some Starburst. I promise to brush my teeth vigorously and thoroughly afterward.

OK, so. One reason I’ve been reluctant to drag myself to the keyboard is, it seems there’s only one topic to write about — the election — and there’s only one thing to say about it, which is: Can you believe this shit?

As for me, I think I’d rather live in the Twilight Zone. Much better nightlife, eh Beav?