Do You Have Soap To Match This Candle?
Thanks to Natalie for posting this to a Yahoo discussion group.
You can find candles with just about every fragrance imaginable, from blueberry to ocean mist to hot apple pie.
Now there’s a candle that lets you experience the scent of Jesus, and they’ve been selling out by the case.
“We see it as a ministry, ” says Bob Tosterud, who together with his wife came up with the idea for the candle.
Light up the candle called “His Essence” and its makers say you’ll experience the fragrance of Christ.
Bob Tosterud and wife Karen say the formula is all spelled out in Psalm 45.
“It’s a Messianic Psalm referring to when Christ returns and his garments will have the scent of myrrh, aloe and cassia,” says Karen Tosterud.
Wondering what that must smell like, Karen Tosterud ordered those oils, a combination that produces sort of a flowery, cinnamon aroma. Then she called on a friend who just happened to be a candle-maker.
“And in October, we got our first batch of 768 candles. We had no idea how it would go,” Karen Tosterud says.
But once word got out they went through 10,000 candles.
“It’s the only one on the market and everyone tells us it’s very unique and nothing like it,” says Karen Tosterud.
“We wanted people to be able to experience Christ in new ways and to be able to read a bible and have that scent and that candle as a reminder that he is with us all the time.”
“You can’t see him and you can’t touch him,” says Bob Tosterud. “This is a situation where you may be able to sense him by smelling. And it provides a really new dimension to one’s experience with Jesus.”
The candles never stay on the shelves for long. The Tosteruds say each one that goes out is like a ministry in itself.
The candles sell for about $18. They are sold in about 150 stores around the country. Or you can order them online at www.hisessence.com.
You can also call this phone number: 877-psalm-45.
Well, if children smell like maple syrup, I guess Jesus can smell like myrrh, aloe and cinnamon. I doubt that’s what the Shroud of Turin, supposedly the last cloth to touch Him, smells like. I just don’t want to think about that, though.
Ask Your Psychic Fiend: The Confuse-A-Cat Version
Come on in, folks, the coffee’s fine! However I’m still feeling like utter garbage, still running a 101 fever and am taking advantage of some cooler weather to get something done this week. Thanks once again for all your comments and I’m hoping to be full-steam soon. Meanwhile, it’s time for Your Psychic Fiend! Looks like fun this week, so I’ll let YPF take over before she hurts herself.
First, the ass-waiver:
As you begin your journey with Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. Your Psychic Fiend must be mindful of copyright infringement issues just like everyone else.
2. All answers are for entertainment only. If you don’t want to be entertained by smartass answers, don’t ask serious questions.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those sorry self-abusing crack whores who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch whoremongers like Miss Cleo and her ilk should be strangled with a telephone cord.
Dan, the best-looking lawyer I’ve ever seen, has one for YPF:
Greetings, Psychic Fiend!
So Mercury in retrograde is making fuck-all of everything I attempt right now, and a little guidance would go a long way these days…
Should I keep my current apartment and find a new roommate, or should I strike out on my own when my lease is up next month?
YPF’s going back to basics on this one—She’s hitting the tea leaves (mostly because Serra made green tea for soap today—hear that ESC? Just made green tea!) to puzzle this one out. Ah, I see now. Yes, I truly see—wait, here we go with the guys in assless chaps again! Shit, this time it’s Johnny Depp, who doesn’t look good except as a pirate…or in assless chaps. The Mikey J Look in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is still creepy as snake shit though.
Answer: While it’s always fabulous to have roommates you get along well with, it’s a nightmare to have roommates that you do not get along well with. Don’t let a loneliness issue drive you to taking on any roommate if the situation’s not 100% right. Perhaps your best plan would be to find your dream place now with room for the right roomie but where finances aren’t made or broken on having one.
Hof’s one talented mother, isn’t he? YPF is loving the sketch he did of you!
Next up is the Brigadiere. It seems that once again YPF is right-on in her second sight!
My Dear Psychic Fiend,
I have taken to heart your advice about loosening the olde tether on Smiggins a bit and I appear to be reaping quite a bounty from it. The grounds look marvelous and he is taking more care in things culinary as well. Who would have thought that letting him sow his seed around a bit would have brought about all that?
At any rate I thought it’d be proper to offer you a hip and a hooray. But sadly I’ve thrown out the former again and can’t muster the latter.
My inquiry this week is this:
When the Grim Reaper comes to pay a visit, what type of tea should I have Smiggins serve?
Gee, as long as I have these out, let’s peer into the tea leaves once again.
Aw, hell, now it’s that Jared jerk from Subway in the assless chaps! Ew, ew EW!
All right, let’s just toss the I Ching coins. Hm…nice! VERY nice! I’ve got it now, Brigadiere!
Answer: Well, don’t serve green tea—he reads far too much into such things. He’s like a woman with PMS—if you give him green tea he’ll shriek, “What? GREEN TEA? Are you saying I’m old and shit and need more antioxidants? Do I need fucking wrinkle cream too? Oh, you horrible-assed Brigadiere! Just for that I’m going to screw with your destiny and make Smiggins die a day earlier! Oh, the NERVE of some people!”
‘Tis best to offer His Deadness a nice Oolong. He used to like Earl Grey, but since he got Jean-Luc Picard, he’s sick to death of hearing, “Tea. Earl Grey. Haut.”
My best to Mrs. Brigadiere, who will be sorely missed during her break from the blogging, Smiggins, and baby Filbert.
Mike over at RANDOM RAMBLINGS has an interesting one:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
First off….bummer about the bronchitis in July….certainly does bite ass…or anything else ya got exposed.
My question centers on why I feel the weird compulsion I have to post…in my blog daily….and why I feel guilty about taking last Sunday off…from blogging?
Well, Mike, you get the first crystal ball reading this week—that’s a tough one (Yeah, sure it is, like YPF has absolutely no compulsion to blog, like she didn’t drive me batshit all the time I’m hacking my brains out in Dog-damned bed! –Serra)
Serra, shut the hell UP for a change! You got to read 1/3 of Hairy Pootter and the Coffee Mug of Fire, didn’t you?
Well, yeah, but…
But nothing, bitch! This is MY time, and I don’t give a shit that the body we share’s gonna pay for it—you haven’t written anything original in a frelling WEEK!
‘Scuse YPF, now where were we? Ah, yes. The crystal ball…
Answer: I see your Site Meter, Oh Hick O’The Midwest…and the answer’s right there, and in your comments.
You do it for the chicks, Mike.
When do we get an update on the conversations with your aunt about the Lunch Date Stalker Chick?
Nancie has a question:
Dear Psychic fiend,
Is it true that when you most want the world to give you a bit of a breather it decides it’s the best time to kick you in the ass and laugh??? If this is true, is there anything that a mere puny mortal can do to thwart the world’s nastiness?
Good question, Nancie, but since this is happening to Serra too, YPF is unable to find an answer for either of you. It’s the “You can’t be a seer into your own future” thing again. If you find an answer, I’m sure you know Serra’s email—she’s had massive crap happening, topped off with being icky blicky sicky.
Thanks for writing.
Mr. K has one Serra’s raising her stupid naturally-nice eyebrows at:
When will Minnesota invade Wisconsin and claim it in the name of Mr. K.?
~SHOVE~ It’s Serra, Mr. K! Hiya! How’s Thumper? Good!
Answer: Now, that invasion won’t happen until the Vikings figure out a way to hire good players who aren’t incredible *cough*Moss*cough* asshats, quarterbacks who can be both consistent and part of the team *cough*Culpepper*cough* and can replace the Homerdome with a decent place to play, in a DECENT neighborhood!
PACKERS RULE, VIKINGS DROOL!
Bitch, YPF’s gonna put rice in your bedsheets if you don’t quit leeching on YPF’s blog time! Just because you need to breathe decently to think up good blog posts is no excuse for horning in HERE.
AliceBabylon, who, by the bye, has a most interesting feature on her blog, Alice’s Japanese (so simple that if Serra didn’t have a sieve for a brain when it comes to foreign languages, she could learn from too), has this question that’s plagued women for centuries:
What’s the Psychic Friend approved way of dealing with creepy, yet too friendly old men?
Let’s take a stroll thru the crystal ball again…Hm, lots of how-NOT-to’s, not many truly good how-to’s…
Answer: If this dirty old man doesn’t already know Kryptonite, gently get them acquainted. It’s difficult for DOM’s to truly rampage when they know the lady’s hubby is likely to hunt them down and beat them senseless.
If that doesn’t work, hide the old fart’s Viagra.
Thanks Alice—Serra’s lit a candle for you and yours.
Mona Buonanotte has a question…hm, let me look at this one a moment…
Dear Psychic Fiend,
The Red Wings let McCarty go! Are they completely insane?! Will we even HAVE hockey next year? Or must I find some pro skater or X-Games snowboarder to have a winter crush on? ‘Cause we all know Michigan winters last SOOOO long, dammit, soo long and soooo cold.
Mona
WHAT? They let McCarty GO? YES, they’re completely fucking insane! Totally insane! First the Pistons buy out Larry Brown’s contract, now THIS? Oh, for the love of toothless men, what’s NEXT?
There’s other hot guys on the team, though, Mona. Chris Chelios isn’t half bad. Too bad they traded Federov tho. Sergei Federov, in assless chaps….mmmmm….
Evil Science Chick has one for YPF too!
Kermit the Frog runs across the bottom of the monitor…
YAYYYYYYYY
Will Serra post more next week? I missed her this week, though I was entertained by looking up all the ‘you know you’re from’ memes.
Serra’s currently waiting for antibiotics to kick in. Meanwhile they’re raising total hell with her system and…
I hope so, ESC—I miss you crazy kids! –Serra
Shut UP, biotch!
No, I will NOT shut up, biotch! This is MY fucking blog, NOT yours! You don’t like the editing here, get your own damned blog!
I will NOT waste another chunk of bandwidth, let alone what little fucking time I get using the body, on my own blog! The Fridays I steal from you are more than enough. Now get back in the kitchen and make me a sammitch, bitch!
Sorry about that folks—YPF’s gonna slap the bitch soon as she’s done here.
I’ve got some gorgeous extra-size washcloths, ESC, a nice purple variegated set of two and two Ecru ones! Nice, soft, great for team showering!
TWACK!
Yipe, yipe, yipe!
There! That ought to shut Serra up long enough for YPF to finish here. YPF did say she was gonna slap a bitch, and she did!
Next!
VegasGustan, the hot new Vegas DJ, brings YPF a question that makes her think he’s hitting Seamus’ stash of opium-spiked pot:
Psychic Fiend, oh Fiend that is Psychic, will I still love me tomorrow if I don’t let go of yesterday today?
Since we have the crystal ball out, VG, let’s take a look….OMM! I’m TELLIN’!!!
Answer: Looks like you’re lovin’ yourself plenty there, VG! If you let go of that, you won’t have to have your keyboard cleaned so often.
And so ends another edition of Ask Your Psychic Fiend! Comments are as valuable as tips, so leave plenty!
You Know You’re From Wisconsin
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You Know You’re From Wisconsin When… |
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You can taste a difference in cheese made somewhere else You own at least one tie with a or peice of jewelry with a Green Bay Packer theme You can find and pronounce : Eau Claire, Oconomowoc, Menomonee Falls, Waukesha, and La Crosse, Fond du Lac. You can correctly spell Milwaukee. You know what “bubbler” means. At least one of your family members works / worked in a cheese factory. A holstein cow outside of Wisconsin makes you miss home. You can taste the difference between apples grown up north and the ones that you can buy in the south. When talking about the Green Bay Packers you refer to them as “we”. When the weather hits 0 degrees you decide that maybe it’s time to get out a jacket instead of a sweatshirt. The family gets together every week for fish fry at the local pub. You know what a brat is, and they’re at every outdoor event that your family has ever had. You know how to make a very good sled out of normal household items. Your love you outdoor pool because of how it doubles as an ice skating area during the winter. You can tell the difference between the smell of cow manure and pig manure. You have watched Fargo and not noticed an accent. You drive around with the air conditioning on until it hits 30 degrees, because it just was so darn hot outside. The local paper needs 6 pages to cover the Packers… in July! Your best shirt has a big letter G on it. You’ve said “Of course they’ll win. They’re God’s team.” You think it’s nice enough to swim when the temperature hits 50. You family owns a “winter car” while the “good one” sits in the garage from Nov-Apr. Your put ketchup on a charcoal grilled NY strip steak. You live in a house that has no front steps, yet the door is one yard above the ground. You think everyone from south of Madison has an accent. You can identify a Michigan accent. Down South to you means Chicago. Traveling coast to coast means going from Superior to Milwaukee. You can make sense out of the words “upnort” and “Trivers”. You have to go to Florida to get a tan in August. You consider Madison exotic. You can visit Luxemburg, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Berlin, New London & Poland all in one afternoon. You can recognize someone from Illinois from their driving. You buy cat litter every winter, but you don’t own a cat. At least twice a year, the kitchen doubles as a meat processing plant or cannery. You know what to do with a Blatz. You don’t have a coughing fit from one sip of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Bucky the Badger hangs on your Christmas tree even if you didn’t go to University of Wisconsinm Madison. You’re a member of the Polar Bear Club and proud of it. You can use the word “ya der hey” easily in a sentence You hear someone use the words “uff-dah” and you don’t immediately break into uncontrollable laughter. Your whole family wears green and gold to church on Sunday. Your idea of creative landscaping is a statue of a cow next to your blue spruce. You know how to polka You own a cheesehead You have cow pharaphenilia around your house, including your pajama pants You know what a FIB is and can spot them a mile away. You think of the major four food groups as cheese, beer, brats and Jell-O salad with marshmallows. FFA was the most popular club in high school You have eaten a cow pie at the State Fair. There was at least one kid in your class who had to help milk cows in the morning Country Kitchen is the place to meet after the party You have ever seen or played in a “broom ball” game. You have ever partied at Summerfest, Festa Italiana, German Fest, Irish Fest, Oktoberfest, or all of the above. You or someone you know was a “Dairy Princess” at a county fair. You can’t be friends with a Vikings fan Your idea of diversity is having black, white, and brown cows. You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Wisconsin. |
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Allez Cuisine!
Last night's Iron Chef dinner started with one of Honey's new stunts. It's the one where he notices his Mom could use a hand with whatever she's doing–dinner, dishes, vacuuming, then decides on someone else to drop whatever they're doing and help her. It's not that I mind helping, mind you, but it's the "volunteering me" part I'm getting pissed about.
H'sMa came up to the bedroom while I was in the middle of a gasp session, saying "Honey said you might want to cook supper tonight. We're having stir fry. Do we have everything you need to do that?"
Anyone who's read this post (it's in the first paragraph of the Ask Your Psychic Fiend for that week) knows how violently averse I am to eating another stir fried debacle, so in spite of the wheezing and periodic need to shove my head in a bag filled with Eucalyptus essential oil fumes, I agreed to make supper.
Normally, I've plotted a good Chinese-style meal for the better part of a day before oil hits wok. I've been to the store, pored over the fresh veggie selection, carefully selected my meat (as I always do ~wink), and made sure staples like oyster sauce, fresh mushrooms and decent soy sauce are on hand. Once I get home, I partially freeze my meat (to make it easier to whack), prep the veggies and get the rice going so it's ready when the fud is, and etc. etc. Ad nauseaum.
Needless to say, none of that was happening last night–Garand dug his wok out for me after the second installment of, "I really need the wok heating now," H'sMa did her best to help, meaning she was loading the dishwasher precisely when doing so was no help at all, Honey sat in a chair in the living room beaming at the thought of my cooking (not realizing he was going to be beaten severely with the Direct TV remote when I got him alone later on), and I tossed it all together in about 10 minutes, start to finish.
In spite of realizing far too late that there wouldn't be enough rice (easily solved by tossing the small amount available right in the pan with everything else instead of making nice little fud beds out of it), the Beef in Brown Sauce turned out OK. I missed the oyster sauce, but I'm a picky-assed little bitch when it comes to Chinese food and I likes my brown sauce done right.
Amidst the cries of, "Oh God that's GOOD!" and "Is there any more left?" was H'sMa, telling me over and over that anytime I want to make it again, just let her know and she'd buy anything I wanted to make "this" again. Honey, still beaming like he'd invented the Internet, asked what it would take for me to run this project with seafood. "Nice, juicy scallops…shriimpppp…bits of whitefish…" I told him it'd take him buying said goodies, but he'd have to be sure to get the good stuff–big shrimp that wouldn't overcook in the mix, sea scallops, not bay, and a good thick hunk of cod to start the show plus he'd have to pick up a few special seasonings. He didn't seem put off, oh no, not at all (and oh no for me–I'm not crazy about stir-fried seafood).
To be fair I do have to add that he apologized profusely for volunteering me for duty without finding out if I was fit to serve. It's entirely possible that H'sMa took his brainstorming for a firm commitment of my ass to dinnermaking–that does happen from time to time. Fortunately the talk we had about that sort of shit should prevent it from happening again, as I must have looked damned idiotic whipping fud around the wok in between hits off my homemade inhaler.
It turned out pretty well, all in all. Next time, however, I want a trip to a farmer's market to get nummy fresh goodies. I also want a trip to Marv's meat market to pick better meat–hint, folks: Do not stir fry with the packs of "stir-fry" meat you see in the grocery store. It's scrappy and massively overpriced. For that same $5.99/lb I can get top-grade yummies and twice as much meat, and so can you.
Ask Your Psychic Fiend: The Crap Coffee Again Version
It’s another one of those mornings, folks, where the coffee is simply brown water and someone’s shoving food at me even though I’m up two hours early. I’ll try to channel the cranky Chucky into Snarky Serra for all our pleasure, so here we go with Ask Your Psychic Fiend.
First, the ass-waiver:
As you begin your journey with Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. Your Psychic Fiend must be mindful of copyright infringement issues just like everyone else.
2. All answers are for entertainment only.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those sorry cock-juggling thundercunts who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch charlatans like Miss Cleo and her ilk should be strangled with a telephone cord.
Your Psychic Fiend thinks putting the question block up Wednesday nights is working well, so it may continue, unless Serra forgets to put the damned thing up, in which case it’ll go up when Serra’s damned good and ready.
Mike from RANDOM RAMBLINGS asks:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
When will I return to sleeping more than 5 hours a night? What is causing the rash of 4 hour sleep nights I've had lately.
Your Psychic Fiend is going to use the Augury of the Retriever for some of today’s answers, and the first question is a good a place as any to start. Serra, get off your dead bitch ass and go brush Zeke and fetcheth hither the fur!
I’m waiting, Serra. Shit, what a slow bitch—she has two speeds, slow and reverse.
Finally! All right, let’s see what the…holy shit, a full 50 gallon garbage bag? Yeah, I know he’s a big puppy, but let’s get real! What’d you do, run an ad for dog hair?
Anyhow…
Answer: I see a woman, Mike. You want her, she wants you, and the two of you aren’t close enough together to make it fun to stay awake. She’s a nice lady, far as I can tell, so set up the meeting. Have whoever visits the other get a hotel room, just in case it’s like cold pancakes with molasses when you do get together. You should also take your next day off, borrow a dog, a great big friendly dog, and go walking a lot. Go play Frisbee with the dog. Wrassle with the dog. In other words, go play and play and play and play until you’re both exhausted. Then return the dog.
You’ll both sleep much better at the end of the day. Thanks for shopping at Your Psychic Fiend.
VegasGustan has another question for YPF:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
I am turning 28 on Saturday. Is anything big going to happen during this my 28th year?
VG, I turn once again to the Bag Of Hairy Fuzzy Clumps of Luv for the answer…fucking-A, who knew there was this much hair on ONE damned dog!
Answer: The good big thing’s already started. Your incredible sense of humor… ”slide off like snot” SERRA! Shut the fuck up—this is YPF’s time! Does YPF have to slap a bitch? DOES SHE? YPF didn’t think so.
Sorry, VG, she just doesn’t know when to shut up. Anyhow, just don’t say “booger” and you’ll have a great year, filled with personal appearances, groupies, paternity suits and sex in the champagne room (YPF knows you’re married, don’t panic over there—it’s a figure of speech here).
Play “Radar Love” for Serra every once in awhile, since the Roommate from Hell stole her Golden Earring CD. Write again soon VG—we both enjoy it.
Mona Buonanotte, MILF extraordinaire according to Sergei, has this to rattle YPF’s cage with:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
The guys at work are lovely, they really are, but ever since 'Dickweed Internet Guy' abruptly left, no one seems to know how the internet servers are set up, and I lose things every day (like comments on the lovely Serra's blog). Damnit. Oh Psychic Fiend, can you look into your crystal ball and see when the hell they'll fucking get their shit together? Or something like that but sweeter and without the frustrating swearing on my part?
Thanks!
Mona
Mona, I’m in such need of a caffeine hit that I’m breaking out the stash of Kona coffee beans I have in the freezer. Hang on a moment while I grind some. Hm, what to do with the old grounds in the coffeemaker. OH, of course! ~thwap! ~ We’ll let that ooze down the wall a moment, all right? Ahhhh! Brewing away in the Bunn. Now, for reading the Grounds of Destiny…
Answer: They’ll get their shit together when the firm’s lawyers present Dickweed Internet Guy with a subpoena requiring him to reveal what the fuck he did to your nice work server that’s making it look like his ass is indispensable. I can see it now—there he is, in a pair of Power Ranger Underooos, talking to the process server. Now he’s mentally adding up what it’s going to cost him to get a lawyer, fight the subpoena, the time off from his new job where nothing will work right without him either…and he’s tacking on the money he expected to get from his new “consulting” job with your firm. From the look on his face, I don’t think those numbers are pleasing him. Tough—you need your bitch fix and if you can’t get it here, you’ll go out on the Internet where it’s dangerous and try to score off the street. He’s a bad bad guy and he deserves what he gets.
Hope our weather eases off here, don’t you Mona? This boiling while sitting still shit’s getting really old.
Ah, now we have Grend31’s query of the week:
Dear Ms. Psychic Fiend,
A thousand and one of my most sincere apologies for not understanding the nature of your manifestation. And mum's the word on the topic of you-know-what as I'd very much like Mr. Wulf to keep his sight intact.
Ah, and now for my inquiry regarding the unknown. Smiggins has gone all AWOL the past few nights and I suspect he's been going out to these rowdy disco-tech mumbo-jumbo things and trying to hook-it-up with a lady friend or whatever they call it these days. Which is explicitly against his implied Man-Servant contract with yours truly. I mean, having my bedpan unserviced through the course of an entire night is really too much for me to bear.
So where has my Smiggins been going? I implore you to help me find out to what rapscallionery he has been!
Yours who's sick and tired of dealing with his own nightly dootie,
Sir Brigadiere General Grend31, Mrs.
Well, the coffee grounds are nearly dancing as they slide down the wall. They’re begging me to read them, so I simply must do so. I know, Brigadiere, you normally get the crystal ball treatment, but the answer you seek is fairly shouting itself from the wall where I flung that crap.
Answer: Smiggins needs him some too, Brigadiere. Perhaps if you gave him a night off to go chase Disgusting Girl or other, more suitable women, he wouldn’t be Absent Without Leave and leave you holding the bedpan. I see him in his lonely bed in the basement, behind the Atari 8-bit computer…oh, no, wait a minute, that’s Serra’s Honey the next time he leaves her without cigarettes and without a car. Smiggins is over there, next to the air conditioning unit, dreaming of snootches without end, all for him, all for him. Perhaps Rent-A-Wretch can supply you with a replacement one night a week while Smiggins Snatches a Snootch?
Serra: Look, we promised no more Seussian Snootch shit, YPF—stick to it!
YPF: No, biotch, YOU promised. They can suck our fine, delicately-scented ass and I’ll SnootchSeuss all I want!
YPF shakes her head…YPF’s gonna hafta slap a bitch, that’s all there is to it. Kind regards to Mrs. Caffeinated Brigadiere and scratches for Brigadiere Filbert.
Jesster, the aforementioned Mrs. Caffeinated Brigadiere, has a very good question:
When is the headache I've had since Sunday finally going to go away?
I’m going to have to dig out the crystal ball for this one, Jesster. It’s hard to tell otherwise.
Peering into the crystal ball, that song going thru YPF’s head once again…humming low and off-key…Oh, no he di-n-t! Looking closer…Aw, hell, that’d explain it right there!
Answer: Jesster, go buy some new coffee for home—that fiendish little brother of yours, Moobert Cowerton III, has switched your regular brand of coffee for Taster’s Choice Coffee Crystals. ON top of that, the little demon swapped it for the decaf version while he was at it! He rigged your coffee on you while he was house-sitting, as revenge for the tree incidents way back when.
Make sure all your shoes are still paired up properly too. Have a Caribou Coffee for me—I’m dying for one and have no transportation to go get one.
SJ from Give Me The Booger (YPF totally loves that title because she gets to say “booger”) has a question today also:
Dear P.F., will Harry Potter die in the last book? (please don't say you don't care, that you don't like Harry Potter, that you hate the hype, etc. etc. I just need to know, damnit, I do)
The crystal ball just shows YPF Hagrid flipping the bird to YPF before settling in for a cold draft of ale…wait—HAGRID, YOU BITCH—THAT’S MY COFFEE MUG! Never fucking MIND that it’s bigger than a Budweiser collector’s stein, I still use it every damned DAY you turd-basket! GIMME! Beowo1|= got me that for a birfday pressie and it's MINE ALL MINE!
Answer: SJ, Serra’s finally gotten her hands on the entire series of J. K. Rowling’s supposedly evil, witchcraft-preaching series and won’t be reading spoilers or letting YPF write jack shit about them until she gets thru The Half Blood Prince. Sorry, but she fully expects to Blog Ho’s fantastic claims about the plot, and isn’t going to put up with any scrying out of me either. Yeah, Serra’s a bitch, but it’s why you all come here.
Maybe you and I can get Honey and HeWhoSucksAtGolf together for a trip thru the front 9 somewhere—Honey’s not good at golf either, so they’d be gone all day and you and I can blog our brains out.
ESC, who gets to play with liquid nitrogen and all that fun shit Serra’s secretly jealous over, writes:
Will my dog EVER stop shedding??? good lord, I could build several yorkies with what I vacuumed up last night!
Answer: YPF doesn’t need Scooby Doo or anything but her garbage bag full of Zeekie-clumps to answer that one. They never stop shedding. It’s Jeebus’ revenge—Junior wanted everyone to remember his flowing locks and decided Man’s Best Friend gets the honor of reminding all and sundry that He never sleeps up there next to Big Daddy while batting The Spook away from his Froot Loops.
While you’re building cute little kick-me dogs, ESC, can you throw me together a Pomeranian and shove it in the mail? H’s Ma would adore one (they look like little honey-colored miniature Keeshonds, her favorite breed).
One more thing—you’re a fantastic grad student, you’re progressing nicely, and the breakthroughs you need to make to get your research working will someday be used by the plastic surgery industry to reinstall snootches in Nicole Ritchie and Lindsay Lohan.
Seamus, at the Bufflepup Express, has this question:
Ha! You see, I can be on time for something!!!!!!
So what is going to happen the day after yesterday?
Ok! Really! What really is in my immediate future besides facing a wicked commute?
One more trip to the kitchen wall…wow, those coffee grounds really do nifty shit when you fling ‘em just right, especially when you’re caffeine-starved and the brown water you just drank didn’t have any in it. Ooooh! Ohhhh! Ahhhh! Yeah, it almost looks like fireworks, the big chrysanthemum-looking mothers…
Answer: Your world’s full of fuzz, Seamus. Brown, black and white fuzz that cocks its head just so and looks at you like “You’re the Lord of All and please will you brush me Daddy now?” It’s going to be Bufflepup day at Damp Dog Manor but you and Bufflepuppy will have a great time.
Hugs to both of you and scratches to the Bufflepup.
Ian, fabulous star of stage and scream over in Argentina, has asked something I’ve been wondering about also:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
Will ANTONIO BANDERAS and PENELOPE CRUZ ever learn to speak English?
I just can’t stand that those two, living in HOLLYWOOD for such a long time, who works with speech, who are married to Americans, who even have to breathe in English! [They] have worse accents than me that I never left this fucking country (Argentina).
Please forgive the edits, darling—YPF uses Word to type this up every Friday and it gets testy in the spellchecker if you don’t cater to its every whim, just like every other misbegotten son-of-a-whore (by the way Ian, how would you say Son Of A Whore in Spanish?) Microsoft program.
Hold on a moment—I need to run this Great Pumpkin sized bag of dog hair out to the curb. It’s Garbage Day. Oooh, what a nice day! Just enough breeze. I bet this dog hair would float ten feet on this gentle wind. Let’s see…picking up a handful and flinging it high in the air…Yep, it does! And coincidentally it tells me what I need to know for your answer too!
Answer: I see their agents, Ian. I see this grease-ball bastard wiping the French fry grease off his stubby fingers onto his tacky green tie while saying, “Tony, Tony, Tony! How many times do I have to tell you, it’s the accent that gets the American ladies all wet and sloppy and willing to spend $12.50 on tickets to your movies? You can’t go around talking good! You just can’t, Tony!”
He’s got a point—part of the charm of actors from outside the US here is their accents. People love the lilt of a South American background pasted to inane drivel. It’s why both Penelope and Antonio make the obscene money they do for each film they’re in. People love listening to them massacre the English language—they live for it.
So, what’s the next stage project for you, Oh Sultan of Song?
And, so, another edition of As The Coffee Grinds is at an end. Your Psychic Fiend asks only that if you’ve asked a question, that you comment here, and that you go over to the UPS-looking icon and vote for your favorite slice of Internet shit. While you’re there, vote for me too. Help a bitch out, folks–the guy at #1 hasn't got an imaginative hair on his head (and steals Serra's material too, the little wanker).
Weird Hits
I don't get it. I just don't.
The outstanding Weird Hit this week is the "teach my ass" hit I keep getting. I just paged thru 20 pages of hits from Yahoo (where the search engine hits were from) and I can't find me! That means someone is regularly putting that phrase into a search engine, going thru over 20 pages of hits and presumably reading articles they find, then finally gets to mine and comes here?
Considering this is the article they're finding, (look at "Allowance My Ass") I just don't get it. Why would someone searching for those (ew) hits come here after all that porn?
I just do not understand this one.
Apology to My Blog
Dearest Whiplash Smile Blog,
I'm very very sorry, but I just had to do it.
I had to start working with a second blog.
You already know the reason–you know how many complaints I've had from folks who want to see a product listing or picture or sale that I've listed on this blog only to object to the other content here.
I'll always love you and you'll get just as much attention as you have always had. The only change is you won't have FO overstocks, incense co-ops or pictures of my goodies posted on you any more.
If you want to know where to find the new blog, it's at Scented Business.
I'm so sorry,
Silly Scented Serra
Checking in
Sorry I didn't post yesterday, but things got hairy around here after a trip to pick up lawnmower parts at a machine shop.
You see, my first migraine was triggered during doing some work on my old car, a 1991 Geo Metro. Its previous owner was the courier service I used to work for, and when they removed the logo and DOT identifications required on such vehicles, the adhesive left behind cooked onto the paint, requiring superhuman efforts to remove.
To this day, I do not know all the solvents I was exposed to. I do know that I left the garage that night with my first migraine headache. I also know that since then I get the bastards about twice a month. Most of the time I can deal with them with an essential oil blend I've developed. However, I do get one about every 2-3 months that won't go away short of heavy narcotics (due to GI problems I can't have things like Excedrin Migraine, Advil, Aleve or any other NSAIDs).
Yesterday I had one of the bad ones, and spent most of the evening and all night in the arms of Morpheus (actually, they'd given me Dilaudid, but the description fits). It would have been much worse than drunk blogging because I couldn't put a coherent sentence together to save my soul, so be glad I wisely shut up. I'd have given Mr. K seizures if I'd blogged, and I just can't have that on my conscience.
Hopefully I'll be back to normal once the drugs are out of my system and I'll make bitchy sense once again.
Didn’t See This Coming
Normally, I reserve news commentary for Sundays, but I just couldn't pass this up. Found the link thru Pink Is The New Blog–thanks Trent!
Sandra Bullock weds mechanicSOLVANG, Calif. (AP) – Actress Sandra Bullock married mechanic and TV personality Jesse James at a ranch near Santa Barbara, according to reports.
Bullock, 40, and James, 35, exchanged vows Saturday in front of several hundred guests at the Folded Hills Ranch in Santa Ynez Valley's wine country.
Guests included actor William Shatner, actresses Jamie Lee Curtis and Regina King, and Metallica lead singer James Hetfield, according to Entertainment Tonight and Us Weekly magazine.
Many in Hollywood have been surprised at the pairing of the tattooed "bad boy" James and the on-screen good girl Bullock. They met in 2003.
It's the first marriage for Miss Congeniality star Bullock, who had been engaged to actor Tate Donovan. She recently played the wife of a district attorney in the film Crash.
James, who has had two previous marriages and three children, appears on the Discovery Channel's Monster Garage.
Now, here's what I don't get, aside from all the questions about how these two worlds ever collided. I do not get how anyone can refer to a man with a multi-million dollar premier business building one-of-a-kind motorcycles as a "mechanic."
That's got to be the single largest understatement coming out of Hollywood this year! Jesse James does some of the most unique work in motorcycle fabrication. He's been featured in every major bike magazine. Monster Garage is not anywhere near being the only TV show he's ever been on–he has a touring schedule that makes me tired just hearing it! The publicity on the marriage makes it sound like Bullock's slumming and marrying some greasemonkey who worked on her expensive-assed car, when that couldn't be further from the truth.
Congratulations to both of them! May they live happily ever after.
And Hollywood Media? Suck my ass, get off your dead rear ends, and do your research before daring to report!
***Be sure to go check that link out–there's some sick-looking shit there! I mean that in the "Oh shit he BUILT that!" way.
My Blogging Type
Found at www.blogthings.com
| Your Blogging Type is Confident and Insightful |
 You’ve got a ton of brain power, and you leverage it into brilliant blog.Both creative and logical, you come up with amazing ideas and insights. A total perfectionist, you find yourself revising and rewriting posts a lot of the time. You blog for yourself – and you don’t care how popular (or unpopular) your blog is! |
Technicalities
Found the link to this one on Fark
The whole thing here doesn't make sense to me…what do you think? I'll comment after, of course.
DENVER – The Colorado Supreme Court threw out the death sentence Monday of a man convicted of raping and killing a cocktail waitress because jurors consulted the Bible during deliberations.
The court said Bible passages, including the verse that commands “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” could lead jurors to vote for death.
The justices ordered Robert Harlan to serve life in prison without parole for the 1994 slaying of Rhonda Maloney.
Harlan’s attorneys challenged the sentence after discovering five jurors had looked up Bible verses, copied some of them down and then talked about them behind closed doors.
Prosecutors said jurors should be allowed to refer to the Bible or other religious texts during deliberations.
The ruling just doesn't make sense to me.
Obviously the jury screwed up–the Bible's not a legal text, it's a religious one. Given. No problem there–they fucked up. So why wasn't he retried instead of having his sentence commuted to life? He killed that waitress–a jury of his peers said so just before they said he should die because the Bible said so. Now, if they were at fault with the sentence, isn't it likely they fucked up on his guilt or innocence also?
It just seems to me that this is why there are such things as retrials based on improper procedure in the courtroom and jury box. When the court decides to kill a person because they killed another person, it really should be an all or nothing situation. If there's an irregularity anywhere involving the people responsible for deciding someone should die, then the whole process should be redone.
This guy goes from a death sentence to life in prison. Some would say that's nice. Others would say he should pay the full penalty the law allows. What the Supreme Court has done here isn't a good precedent for enforcing current capital punishment laws and doesn't bode well for states instituting new provisions for the death penalty. They've decided that since the jury didn't get it right the first time, existing legal procedure (a retrial based on the technicality) for the situation simply won't cut it–Colorado has to feed, clothe, give health care to and otherwise support for the rest of an unnatural life a man sentenced to die for his crime.
Sorry if I offend here, but that's just bullshit–if there's question about his trial, there should be a retrial. If this guy really did kill that woman, he should pay for it as the law provides. In other words, he's getting away with murder. Sure, he gets to live in prison, but that's better than what he left for Rhonda Maloney.
OPB’s
I've always had a pet peeve about bathrooms that belong to other people.
Granted, they're usually cleaner than mine (since it really pisses me off to be the only one cleaning a bathroom others use–I generally clean, bitch for a week, see someone else clean, then repeat). I have to admit that it's always interesting to see what others have done with their bathrooms, how they've decorated, arranged, and set up in general. To tell the truth, Other People's Bathrooms (OPB) aren't so awful, unless you have to take a shower in them. Once one has to shower in them, however, they're always a pain in the ass.
I can start out in any bathroom, after being told exactly where everything is, have all my essentials (or do I?) with me, and even when I've been handed washcloths and towels, I'll still wind up doing something totally retarded because I've never had to find my way around it nekkid, soapy, and in dire need of something I fergot.
Case in point: One of the times I stayed at Beowol|='s house I was preparing for a flight out of MSP to somewhere in Michigan. I naturally wanted to look my best since I was going to meet Honey for one of our 10-hours-one-way dates. Step one in preparing for said date was, certainly, a shower. Beo, wonderful guy that he is, let me use that gorgeous shower in his bathroom–excellently nice, plenty of room, and I didn't bump my fat ass up against the sides while trying to reach my back.
You'd think I'd be in Heaven in this place, and I would have except for my tendency to totally fuck up even the best of wet dreams.
I'd of course forgotten my shampoo and conditioner, and of course didn't catch on to that until I'd already peeled off my clothes and didn't want to have to dress again. Of course I just yelled to him in the bedroom instead.
"Where's yer shampoo? I'm a moron and forgot mine."
"It's in that dispenser thingy on the shower wall."
Ooh! Sweet! Even I can't fuck that up. I hopped in the shower and went to work, making sure everything was sweet and fresh until I came to the point where I had to wash my hair. For the first time, I looked over the dispenser thingy. VERY handy-dandy little dealybopper! Everything was in there, even conditioner! So I washed my hair, conditioned, then rinsed off, dried off and dressed before emerging from the room in a cloud of rainforest-scented steam.
"Wow, I like that conditioner you have–it's not heavy and my hair doesn't feel waxy and loaded down! I only had to use half what I usually use too. What kind is it?"
"Uh, I don't condition my hair–I don't need it."
Ah, shit.
"What's in the conditioner space then?"
Turns out it was his very expensive man-face cleanser. I had thoroughly worked a creamy face wash into my (at the time) mid-back length locks. I once again suck at using OPB's.
See what I mean? I completely, severely suck at showering in OPB's.
I'm just as bad at getting used to new bathrooms when I move–shit, I'm lost for a week there, and I'm the one who sets those up! I confess–I'm a sad, sorry excuse for a human.
But I'm a clean sad sorry excuse, no matter how long it takes or what I wind up putting on me to get that way.
You Don’t Miss It Til It’s Gone
Thursday ended the drought. That day put an end to the pestilence of being stuck with only network television. We finally got satellite TV hooked up in our bedroom.
Maybe this isn't a big deal, especially considering there's satellite in two other rooms in the house. The catch is that both those TV's have folks in front of them, with their own full TV-watching schedules, leaving no room for me to plop myself down in front of either one and say, "Now, where's my Aqua Teen Hunger Force?"
I don't watch much television. I do like my WWE on Mondays and Thursdays, anime when I can get it, and Action often carries them old, badly-dubbed martial arts movies I love so much. That reminds me–if you get a chance to watch the first (oldest) Drunken Master, the one made in Hong Kong, take it! It's funnier than the remake. It's nice, however, to be able to flop when I'm hurting and pig out on Food TV and those good, old, sitcoms.
Direct TV also has BBC America, making for more Python opportunies as well.
All in all, I have one thing to say about having access to decent TV whenever I want to go lounge in the only air-conditioned room in the house.
Putting on my Kermit the Frog arms and standing at the corner of the monitor, ala The Muppet Show guest introductions…
YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
And now, just for shits and grins,
DANCIN' MEATWAD! Just click the boombox to make him boogie.
Borrowing My Material
For anyone who'd like to borrow a pic I post or quote a post I make, all I ask is that:
1. Fucking ask–all material on this blog is copyrighted to me, and I reserve all copyrights under law. If you think the notice at the bottom of the blog is just for shits and grins, you're sadly mistaken.
2. Either post a trackback to the post or post with the material a thank-you to me for sharing.
There's unfortunately a reason I feel the need to make this post–you know who you are and I do expect an apology. You have 48 hours.
Ask Your Psychic Fiend Friday: The Armed and Filthy Version
Well, Your Psychic Fiend feels like a pack of dwarves, armed and filthy, ran over her ass during the night, so let’s get to the fun!
First, the ass-waiver:
As you begin your journey with Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. Your Psychic Fiend must be mindful of copyright infringement issues just like everyone else.
2. All answers are for entertainment only.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those sorry cock-juggling thundercunts who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch charlatans like Miss Cleo and her ilk should be strangled with a telephone cord.
MooCow has the first question.
What will happen if/when the Top Blog rank reaches #1?
For the answer, Your Psychic Fiend is going to the old standby. Nope, not the crystal ball—YPF is saving that for a truly difficult question. Today’s coffee was hellaciously bad, not nearly strong enough and pretty damned tasteless. YPF swears to Dog she’s buying a French press and going nuts from there. So, ~TWACK~ there goes the coffee grounds! Let’s let ‘em dribble a little while YPF runs a cupful off the Home Café machine. You know, that little puppy’s been a Dogsend in this land of non-chewy caffeinated beverages. It’ll be even better when YPF can find the espresso machine and really get the hardcore stuff….ahhh, yes! It’s all becoming clear now…
Answer: YPF hates to tell you this, but it’s not pretty, dearest MooCow. She sees Serra jumping up and down, giving herself two black eyes in the process (because she fergot to put her sports bra on before commencing to jump). Aw, hell, Moo—now she’s doing a Happy Blogger’s Dance (like the Happy Soapmaker’s dance only done around the computer instead of around a moldful of pretty, yummy soap). Now she’s getting on a plane—heading for the Twin Cities. Ah, geez, Moo, YPF really hates to tell you this, but she’s coming to touch you, because you write one of the most awesome blogs out here. She’ll only do it once, and then she will go back to Beo’s house. But she will come and touch you if that little number hits 1.
Just kidding about the touching, MooCow. YPF just wanted to see your face when you saw that line. Thanks for writing.
Nancie has another scrying question:
Will I get the 2nd interview or find a job asap???
Nancie, YPF’s looking at the writing of the coffee grounds on the wall for this one—they’ve oozed down the wallpaper nicely and they’re prime for figuring things out. YPF could wish the best part of those grounds had gone into the pot instead of onto the wall, but this’ll do for our purposes today.
What? You’re kidding, Coffee Ground Oracle! Really?
Answer: While you might still be in contention for that job, you should keep looking anyhow. There’s a good chance you’ll find something that pays better, and when you have two offers to look at, life’s MUCH less depressing.
Scritch the Serra goatie for me, ok? Thanks for stopping by.
I seriously ~heart~ getting questions from Grend31.
Dear Psychic Fiend, Esq.,
If I understand your situation correctly you are a bound or summoned fiend magically controlled by Serra, Most likely by the way of magical potions or elixers as I sense this is where her arcane aptitude appears to be most potent.
Now, on with my point. There are a series of questions, some of them quite embarrassing to yours truly, that I would never ever, as a gentleman, ask a lady to answer.
So my question this week is, as a fiend, do you have a particular.. *ahuuurm* sex?
Yours inquiringly of your privatish areas,
Sir Brigadiere General Grend31, Mrs.
Answer: Your Psychic Fiend’s gift is limited in that she can see everyone else in the world, but cannot see herself. She simply came to be one day, and no amount of scrying will tell her how it happened. YPF’s guessing Serra got gassed with a bad fragrance oil and hallucinated her, then lightning struck and she took human form in order to carry out her mission of being strange at anyone who will listen to YFP.
Since then, it’s been an internal struggle—Serra’s inner child Chuckie versus the pure, true psychic talent of Your Psychic Fiend. It’s Hell living inside this head—there’s this soapmaker who keeps trying to shove YPF out and cloud the Gift with thoughts of Opium incense.
Since YPF takes the form of her Creator, Serra, she’s female, but let’s leave the Psychic One’s snootch out of this. You’ll make poor Beowo1|= go blind again.
YPF’s best to Jesster and thanks for coming.
Se7en has a great one for YPF this week! Serra has her own opinion, but Serra can kiss YPF’s cute, pink, perky happy ass!
I need new underwear and I can’t decide… red or blue? boxers, briefs?
Please, can you help me Psychic Fiend?
Answer: Yes, Se7en, YPF can surely help you on your quest to obtain grundiewear. She shouldn’t, however. It’s an absolute sin to put covering on what is surely one of the nicest butts in the Universe. YPF can see the necessity though—it’s truly a bitch to get skin and fur caught in the jeans zipper. So, with that in mind, YPF thinks you ought to try out the boxer briefs—they’re made of the comfy tightie-whitie material while giving the support and hot-looking effect of boxers. Definitely get into the arena of colors—red, black, blue, teal…but stay away from pink and mauve. Pink and mauve just don’t work for most men.
While YPF’s got your attention, Serra says thanks for turning on your Atom feed–she just luuuuuvs your blog and missed it when she couldn’t find the feed to add to Sage. (Shit, that bitch whines a lot! Sorry about that Se7en) Thanks for swinging by Whiplash Smile.
Mo (the e-less one, not the other one) asks:
Should I stay or should I go?
Since Serra’s catnip is blooming and will be ready to infuse soon as it drops its seeds, YPF’s going to snag a handful of fresh kittycrack and toss it around outside for the answer to this one.
Be right back.
Answer: If you go there will be trouble.
If you stay it will be double.
Proceeding to slamdance and headbang the fuck out, singing at the top of YPF’s lungs:
SO YOU GOTTA LET ME KNOWWWWW
SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO
Ok, YPF’s got that out of the system (thanks to Mona for tipping Serra off about the series on Punk—Serra caught it last night and it was great to watch, with the volume turned WAY up to 11).
Uh, where was I?
Oh yes–thanks for coming!
Mike the Midwest_Hick over at Random Ramblings sounds like it sucks to be him:
Dear (dearest?) Psychic Fiend,
Will we ever hire someone so that I may actually get a day off this summer? And if not, Am I too old and frail to work this much?…(I know…..that’s 2 questions….but take a lil pity on me)
YPF’s always willing to cut a Packer fan a little slack—you are a Packer fan, aren’t ya Mike old buddy? YPF’s going to have to whip out the crystal ball on this one…humming as YPF whips off the silken covering…Crystal ball…so many things I need to know (crystal ballllll) so many things I gotta know…
Answer: Seems you’ve screwed yourself on this one, Mike. Turns out your boss is the one swiping your Pepsi, and if you don’t work a lot you not only don’t keep him stocked up, you wouldn’t have the bucks to support his sugar-n-caffeine habit along with your own. Switch to Coke and you’ll get a day off while he tries to convert one of your co-workers to the Pepsi Generation. As for how old and frail you might be, you look juuuuust fine from here!
Shit—stop that Serra! You HAVE a man, remember? A nice, good-looking man who claims to worship the ground you walk on, in spite of the fact that you’re such a horrid lifemate that you made him bring your supper upstairs to where the satellite TV was just hooked up in your bedroom last night!
What a bitch—sorry, folks, the lack of decent-tasting caffeine is letting the silly wench break YPF’s concentration…
And that wraps up the Armed and Filthy Version of Ask Your Psychic Fiend. Since HaloScan’s acting like a Ford (recalling everything because it’s just not fucking working), feel free to email the luv until HaloScan’s back in operation.
The Subway Diet
I was subjected to those stupid-assed Subway ads again–the ones where Jared bitches about what lovely things places like Mickey D's does to chicken. He's so smug in these commercials that it bugs the batshit out of me.
"You know what fries me? It's what does to chicken. They deep fry it and add fat to a very healthy food!"
Oh, yeah, Jared, I'm SO fucking sure you're all mad and shit about what they do! Don't think you're fooling anyone when you're shilling for another fast fud empire–I know what you're really doing there, you sanctimonious bastard.
While you're bitching and moaning on national television for the sake of a dime, you've got those two aides of yours (you know the ones, the guys you say help you LOSE weight eating cold cuts twice a day) out preparing your hookup.
Oh, fuck you Jared, don't look at me like you're innocent! You know as well as I do that you have those two out in trenchcoats and sunglasses, scavenging the very places you're paid to put down, buying your daily fix for you. You're too well-known thanks to running your fugly face all over the airwaves to go get a decently prepared bucket of chicken yourself, so you flagellate those poor employees of yours into doing it for you.
I see them now, Oh Asinine One–I see one over at KFC, asking if he can have extra honey barbeque sauce on "his" box of whatever chickeny goodness they're scoring for you now. The other one's in the drive-thru at Mac and Don's Supper Club, the very bastion of hellaciously bad-fer-ya fud, demanding double sauce for the Chicken McNoogies and extra mayo on the 10 sammitches he's scoring for you.
I do wonder how they actually make the handoff to you. I'm certain the paparazzi know where your office and home are, and likely have them staked out. But I know you, Jared. You're the fat guy trapped in a skinny dude's body, so you gotta have your fix, any way they can give it to you.
Do they stand on the street corner near your gym, London Fog coats billowing in the wind, flashing wafting goodness in scent form down the street as a signal to you? Or do you meet up with them in a seedy hotel, as if they were regular, honest whores instead of your kept men? Do you make them call you Big Daddy before you pay them back for the food they scored? Or do you just snatch the greasy goodness from their slippery fingers before backhanding them out of the way of your orgy of sin?
Whatever it is you do, Jared, I know what you don't do. I know you don't pay those poor fuckers enough to deal with your sorry ass. There isn't enough money on the planet to reward them for what they do for you.
I’m a Sickie
"But you're just a sickie…giggle giggle snork…"
The above is one of my mom's favorite jokes, only said in jest and fun. But oh, gee, sometimes it truly applies. This is one of those times, because I'm about to wear a phrase out.
I ~heart~ my Zippo.
There! I said it!
It's true–I do truly love my Zippo. Its wind-defying flame has lit my way thru more than one unfamiliar, dark house. It's been FAR too handy for a million and one uses, ranging from lighting my cigarettes to torching that stray sweater thread before it unravels and I lose millions in "don't go out in pubic with just a bra on for the love of Dog" to causing a little black stick to bloom into a complex bouquet of scent just in time to sell someone a crapload of them.
I ~heart~ my Zippo. I actually ~heart~ both my Zippos. I have two, you see, both gifts. I have a small brass model with a rose engraved on the face, reminding me that my Honey loves me so much that when my elegant little gold Collibri bit the dust two weeks after I purchased it, he wanted to be certain I was never let down again. The second lighter (the one I use most days) is a POW-MIA lighter that was a gift from my father, made a couple months before I moved to Michigan. The brass one needed some work and wasn't lighting my fire 100% of the time, so Dad gave me one that would.
I just realized something–even tho it seems I've had both my Zippos forever, neither has been used to begin combustion of an illegal substance. I don't think about it often, but I've put together nearly 14 years of "One Days" after a much longer period of not being able to go longer than One Day. Some days that makes me feel good. Other days it just makes me feel old.
As you see, I have reason to ~heart~ my Zippos. Many, many more reasons than I think you want to be stuck here reading about. So, let's just leave it at "I ~heart~ my Zippos."
Except right now.
Fucker just came up empty. Again. As much as I ~heart~ my Zippos, they do occasionally piss me off, just like nearly everything in the Universe.
I told you–I'm just a sickie.
“Motor City Madman” for Governor
Detroit's threatened with receivership. Schools all over the state are going broke. City after city is cutting essential services in an effort to make ends meet in a state hit hard by recession and proving to be one of the last to recover.
Honestly, could Michigan do worse? Here's the story:
Motor City madman Ted Nugent continues to stoke speculation that he'll attempt to unseat Michigan Gov. Jennifer Granholm next year, reports The Philadelphia Inquirer.
He is ''getting real close to deciding to run,'' the rocker and hunting advocate told The Corpus Christi Caller-Times in an interview published Friday.
The guitarist and author of Kill It and Grill It said he'll make his decision “in the next few weeks. That will blow some minds.''
A vocal advocate of the NRA and staunch Republican, Nugent raised eyebrows in April when he made a gung-ho speech at the organization's annual convention.
At the convention, the rocker said, “To show you how radical I am, I want carjackers dead. I want rapists dead. I want burglars dead. I want child molesters dead. I want the bad guys dead. No court case. No parole. No early release. I want 'em dead. Get a gun and when they attack you, shoot 'em.''
Meanwhile, Nugent, who moved from Detroit to Crawford, Texas, last year, hit the road Friday with his ''Uncle Ted Remember the Alamo'' tour.
Considering that the budget deficit has put current Governor Jennifer Granholm under and the fact that even her own Catholic Church wants her gone from their ranks, I think Michigan's already done worse.
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