I’ve gotten a particular piece of wienie spam four times today. The first one said, “I don’t care why your woody is so small, but 81% of women do.”
The second one said, “I don’t care why your schlong is so small, but 74% of women do.”
The third one said, “I don’t care why your member is so small, but 85% of women do.”
The fourth one said, “I don’t care why your sausage is so small, but 70% of women do.”
Checking the junk file, I see I also got a version with a slightly different sentence construction, with the same tic — the euphemism changes, along with the percentage.
Oh, wait, another just arrived: “woody” and 80 percent.
Spammers. If only we could harness their powers for good.
It’s Friday, a sunny but cold Friday, which means today I’m a-gonna live large. Put in the contact lenses and wear my sunglasses, maybe hit an estate sale, work a bit and look forward to the weekend. On the strength of a hunch and a Free Press preview, I just bought tickets to the Moscow Cats Theater for tomorrow. Kate loves cats and needs to be exposed to more weirdness outside the boundaries of Grosse Pointe, so this seemed to fit the bill. I liked this detail:
When a stray cat jumps into the orchestra pit or refuses to move off the stage, Kuklachev will just move on to the next routine. “When they notice that all eyes are off of them, they will do something to win the attention back,” Gelfman says. “The show never plays the same way twice.”
Cats. If only we could harness their powers for good.
Well, the Rockettes aren’t bringing their Christmas show to the D this year, and it beats the drive-thru Nativity in Sterling Heights.
This feels like an end-of-the-week stew already, so let’s get to it:
I know I haven’t been keeping up with “On the Nightstand,” and yes, I’m about to change it, but before I put “The Woman at the Washington Zoo” back on the shelf, a plug for its wonderfulness. I’ve been reading compilations of journalists’ work for years, and not all of them are worth the paper they’re printed on, but this one — this one has legs. A bouquet of wonderful profiles, followed by personal essays of grace and style. It would make a fine book club selection, or beach reading, or whatever. And yes, it has a new website, full of supplemental materials. Enjoy.
Here is a partial list of the indignities to which the human body is subjected in Mel Gibson’s Mayan epic Apocalypto (Buena Vista): being impaled on a trap made of animal bones. Being forced to ingest tapir testicles. Being tricked into rubbing a caustic agent on one’s own genitals while the whole village watches and laughs. Seeing one’s father have his throat slit. Getting one’s heart cut out in a sacrificial ritual. Having one’s head subsequently chopped off and thrown down the stairs of a pyramid. Having one’s face chewed off by a panther. …Gibson’s fascination with the Mayans seems to spring entirely from the fact (or fantasy) that they were exotic badasses who knew how to whomp the hell out of one another, old-school.
Extra credit for a fresh use of that old analogy: “so (blank) it makes (blank) look like (blank).” Ahem: A chase scene at a roaring waterfall is so spectacular, it makes “Last of the Mohicans” look like an Esther Williams musical.
Mercy. I’ll wait for the cable debut. Although I still haven’t seen “The Passion of the Christ.” Doesn’t Mel believe in HBO?
Finally, I pride myself — not really; I just take note of it — on not having any accent. I’m from the middle of Ohio, where the natives have no regional accent whatsoever. My St. Louis-raised parents said “fark” and “harse” for fork and horse, but they moved me to the Buckeye state before I started kindergarten, and so — no accent. Evidently, experts agree:
|What American accent do you have?
Your Result: The West
|The Inland North|
|What American accent do you have?
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz
Glad to clear that up. Now, on to “What mental disorder do you have?” Have a swell weekend.