One more story to write today, and then I’m free to clean my house for two days. (Isn’t my life, just, super-glam?) So maybe something a few shorts today, as nothing is itching me but deadline:
* The infamous “Is Obama too skinny to be president?” story contained one factoid I took note of: When the candidate is too rushed to eat a proper meal, he will opt for something called a Met-Rx bar. It so happens I know a few people who do the same thing, and find the meal-in-a-puck solution preferable to the inevitable starvation-then-overeating. And the day after I read this, I saw Met-Rx bars in my local Kroger, on sale. It seemed like a sign. I bought two.
And all I have to say is, if Obama is eating these things, I hope he spends the next several hours in a well-ventilated room, if you catch my drift. And if you were in the same room with me, you would.
* I’m growing weary of Olympics coverage. I always do, in the second week. I become very very tired of her Olympic dream, whether it ends in golden glory or is crushed by defeat. I’ve had it up to here with hearing athletes not two decades old describe their experience as awesome, even if they lose, how glad they are just to be there. (I’m cheered by the number of fat parents in the stands, however. That is just endlessly amusing to me, how these tubbies produced such gods of athleticism.) I’m really, really sick of Bob Costas, sicker still of whoever’s color-commenting the gymnastics, with his “This…is…a disaster” every time someone wobbles out there. (Just once I want to hear “That’s gotta hurt!”) I hate beach volleyball; where is the modern pentathalon coverage? “Medal” should not be a verb. And where are the flag-desecration alarmists when some sweaty sprinter is taking a victory lap using Old Glory as a shawl? These are only a few of my long list of grievances.
* It’s nice to know J-Lo shares many of my complaints, too.
* Michigan: We’re number 10! Better luck next year, suckas.
OK, enough f-off time for now. Deadline in four hours. You folks are on your own.