Okay, so the other night Twiggy's lung collapsed. Yeah, I know. She was amused because that kind of thing would only happen to her. And in the mall, nonetheless. She's supposed to recover; she doesn't need the surgery. In typical Twiggy fashion, once she heard that it was most common in tall, thin men she spent most of her time in the clinic giggling about how she was a tall, thin man. Instead of being worried that her lung collapsed. This is why I like Twiggy. I kept her company tonight and upstaged her boyfriend because I brought her flowers. Now really, after almost three years he should know that Twiggy, like me, desires flowers for any possible occassion. Birthday, flowers; toaster breaks, flowers; collapsed lung, flowers. It's really just the way it works. Honestly.

Apartment has had stroke. No electricity on right side of apartment. No air conditioning. Have to sit around waiting for Pepco. Have been sitting around waiting for Pepco all day. Cannot go out. Is Friday night. This would be more annoying if I weren't utterly knackered from last night's shenanigans.
So on Wednesday I have an interview with the Director of Foreign Policy at Cato. This is step 2 on my path towards utter world domination. Step 1, I have to say, is that dress I got the other day.
Oh wow, the Pepco people are here. Wait...they...they're here? My god. They're only 8 hours late. That was only semi-utterly inefficient. Bet they have no idea what's wrong or how to fix it. Or that they are not really Pepco, but Children of the Corn. This is equally plausible. Need food, brain not functioning. Hope satay comes into it somewhere.

That wasn't a Teddy Ruxpin, that was a Troll doll. Which you left in the bathroom in a box, knowing I'd feel my strange displaced inanimate-object sympathy and take it into my room where it could -kill- me. Good thing it didn't, or you'd be in a lot of trouble.

PS Dinobrat, you know we can't have a teddy ruxpin. The last time we got one we had to hide it in the linen closet because it was possessed. You have the recall of a comatose goldfish.

My metro card de-magnetized itself today. Now that's three times in the past 10 days. If I'm giving off some sort of electromagnetic field, I want to know where the hell all my superpowers are. Maybe they're lost in the mail with my new ATM card, you wachovian bastards.

Have determined Irony has to get a fucking Teddy Ruxpin or something so she leaves me alone. Have also determined that little blonde friend who shall henceforth be known as Twiggy makes the most lethal rum and cokes around. And you know what I hate? Those wretched Applemusic commercials. Who cares about a bunch of random unnattractive people singing? For thirty seconds? They embarrass themselves. I can't watch people embarrass themselves, even on TV. It makes me cringe. But you know what I like? When you get one of those crumbly dissolvey Wint-O-Green Lifesavers. Boy, oh boy, do I like those. And also those lethal Oreo Cookie Bars. So good. So bad for you. It's a damn good thing I don't watch what I eat or the sheer amount of crap and calories in them might daunt me.

Have determined the reasons behind the lizard's prolonged absence. Apparently absolutely nothing interesting has happened to her in the past week so she's had nothing to post. Now that's just pathetic. Now on to more important things, ie me.
The other day I was in the elevator going down into the parking garage. Normally I try to blank this out as I do to everything involving my day at work, because if I really paid attention I'd probably load myself into the fax machine and send myself to purgatory because it would be an improvement. But I digress. So in the elevator there was a sign, and here's what it said. "No smoking: enforced by ordnance." Wow. I should be frightened, I guess, but a bunkerbuster shot straight into my elevator would really add a bit of variety to the day.
Also I heard that this year's Turner Prize was given to an empty rubbish bag. I've got a polemic brewing on this, but I'm going to leave it to simmer for a few days so as to do it justice.
In other news I realized what DC reminds me of. Ever been to the Paramus Mall?

No beach. It's pouring and I'm tired and I've remembered that I have self respect. So, no beach.
Just one other thing today. What the hell is another word for pith helmet? A pith helmet is a goddamn pith helmet. Help.

This morning the man who lives in my bus stop was singing. This is unsurprising. But today he was singing "who let the dogs out"...to the tune of Danny Boy. I have to tell you, I really enjoyed it. If you're going to be shithouse insane you may as well be inventive with it. And you know, he wasn't bad. Probably shouldn't have attempted the descant, but what are you gonna do.

Who ate the dinosaur? Where the hell did she go? Must've walked over a crack in the pavement and gotten sucked in. She's down amongst the mole people now. Run, little lizard, run!
Ok off to the beach for memorial day weekend to be everything I hate for 4 days. I hate it, I really hate it, but it's better than a weekend in DC and that band is there. Wahey.
And if it gets really bad I'll just put on my glasses and walk around asking people if they've read Riddley Walker. You have no idea how fun it is to do that in Delaware.

[[ The post that previously occupied this space has been severely edited due to common sense. You'll never ever know what it said. See if you can sleep tonight. The following is all I'm leaving in.]]


....and there is nothing wrong with my goddamn handshake. And when I rule the world you are on my LIST, bitch. And the rest of you too. If there is anything worse than Senators it is Senator's Wives.
Wow, I need one of those weevils. Remember those? Yeah, need one of those. Perhaps several. And a low-yield nuclear weapon. Oooh! And a teleportation device. But I digress.

Fuck you all, I'm moving back to London.

Aw, home again. There was some obnoxious baby on the plane that decided to wail the entire time. Apparently his mommy thought it was cute. I hope mommy thinks it's cute when Junior grows up to be a serial killer with a chenille fetish. I do so love home. The lilacs are blooming, the parents are joking and the dog is...afraid of absolutely everything I also love my friends. My violent, violent friends. And since certain people read this blog I will just say that those football teams were really unfair. And now I'm going to get food. Because it's right downstairs. Hee. That makes me so happy.

This morning on my way to the protracted lobotomy that is work, I was standing in the metro station about to get on my typically late orange line train. Now, this train, like most- actually let me go so far as to say all- subway trains, goes to a place, stops, goes to another place, stops, and then presumably comes to the end of the line where it is dismantled by blind albino pixies who then reassemble it facing the opposite direction, and then send it down the line again. Yes? With me so far? All right, so this guy comes up and starts chatting to me. From his accent I cleverly deduce that he is from either Minnesota or Neptune. So he says to me "I'm going to Pentagon City...which car do I need to get on?" And I said "well you're on the right side of the track..." because it was safe to assume that's what he meant, yes? But he continues. "I know, I saw the sign. But which of the cars stop at Pentagon City?" Now. What I _wanted_ to say was, "make sure you get on one of the three middle cars because the ones on either end go barreling off into the solid brick of the surrounding walls and take you on a super-fun journey into the tenth dimension, where you will be buggered by aliens for all eternity." But I couldn't say that, because my head had imploded. So I said "oh. yes. uh. they all do." And then I went round the corner and bashed my head against a post until I felt better. When are the people who run things going to track me down and give me the membership card that exempts me from having to coexist with these people? When?? Do I need to send up a flare??

So it's my last night here at The Wonderfully Manicured School of Absolute Shit and my suitemates are, of course, blaring a movie . Maid in Manhattan this time. I can hear it through two walls and my headphones. They jumped in the lake last night. I'm hoping they grow parasites. Oh, don't look at me like that. They don't even know how to pronounce 'paradigm.' Or what one is. Makes me feel just swell about being accepted at the same school they were.
The Fruit Hoarder is gone and my room looks downright institutional. So, we obviously have to check out of our rooms. And you'd think that since the RA's have to check you out, they wouldn't, oh, I don't know, schedule an RA meeting during one of the most common checkout times so I have to check out an hour earlier. Yes. You would think that, wouldn't you? I swear to God, all the intelligence in this school went to designing the landscape. So after I check out Dahlink is taking me to dump my stuff at the storage place and then to Biscuitville for a southern sendoff breakfast. My first time at Biscuitville. Then off to the airport. Once home, my loving parents will feed me and I shall rejoin my delightfully irreverent friends from above the Mason-Dixon line.
The fact that it's going to be about 15 degrees colder than what I'm used to is going to fuck me over. As is the fact that I put most of my pants in storage. Alas.

Here's another thing about Delaware. You can't smoke. In. The. Whole. State. Now, I'm not going to bother ridiculing the nico-nazis who have seen fit to ban smoking in yankee stadium (god those clouds really gather in the open air, don't they) or in bars (bars are where you go to be healthy, right?) because it's all too obvious and tedious. But Delaware. If you are lucky enough to have never seen Delaware, let me enlighten you. Take Pennsylvania and remove the wit and aesthetic charm. A screen door factory would actually be an improvement to the skyline, which as far as I can tell is mainly comprised of strip malls, bait stands and that scary-ass farm equipment that looks like it was stolen from the set of Wicker Man. This place would _benefit_ from a nice thick cloud of ash. Delaware is where Mets fans go to die. Oddly enough, in DC, where you'd probably have to hire a midget for your basketball team in the interests of fairness and equity, you can smoke just about everywhere. Maybe I shouldn't point this out- I wouldn't want to draw attention to it. Next time I go to Delaware I'm bringing a crack pipe, a hookah and a respirator. Bastards.

Ok where the fuck are all our archives? I demand that you return our archives. I swear to christ I said something funny on 4/13 and I want it back.
I shall rectify this problem immediately....um. I have no idea how to rectify this problem. Plus all of you people read us religiously anyway because we are the only thing that lifts you out of your sad pathetic little lives, so it's not like you ever missed a post anyway. Ok I've discovered that if you go away and come back like a half hour later, they work. Then another half hour later they don't work. Apparently blogger is run by either a) soviet bureaucrats or b) the same people who are meant to be in charge of municipal affairs in washington dc. Honestly, people outside dc are amazed that congress ever gets anything done. Whereas we, on the other hand, are just amazed that anyone ever makes it to the Hill through the morass of spleen-bursting potholes, clusterfuck traffic circles and Escalators to Nowhere that comprise the infrastructure of this city. All of which is a bit of a digression from my point, which was that the god damn archives are gone. But they'll be back.
Oh and a message to Fiend- the dinosaur told me about the CD. This is unutterably cool. When the revolution comes we'll put you in the safe house. With some blondes. Good?

Right so I didn't get paid today. Because my shitstick boss forgot. Anyway, I had a rather pricey weekend and now don't even have enough money for dinner. The Shitstick said "well, it's just a day, can't you cook something you have at home?" Ok. Here's what I have. I have two different kinds of mustard. Barbecue sauce. Coriander. Vanilla extract. Cardamom seeds. Nutella. And an egg. If YOU can make dinner out of this I will personally murder Emeril Lagasse and install you in his place. I'd go down to Lafeyette park and beg for change but Lafayette park is full of people like me who don't give money to people who beg for change.

I KNOW, shithead, about marvel girl. But in the vast cavernous labyrinth that is my mind I try to consider the movies and the comics separately. I like discrete realities. Also I want to take Nightcrawler home and give him a good hot meal. I'm not usually attracted to the spiky blue German ones, but hey.

Worry not, sister dear. I got a text about portcullis security systems. Apparently the A-2 explanation is a man's home is his castle. Or something. He worries me. That's nothing compared to the phone call with him about how Mom murdered the spiky plants that we think are neat and she thinks are hideous. And they are hideous. But that's not a point. I have to draft a treaty to keep this from happening again. Of course, he called just as I began to be motivated to write a paper. That's why it was fun.

So here's a text I just got from the Father. "population of predatory fish increasing, harmless fish decreasing. World ending." Five minutes later... "no seriously. On tuesday." And also he wants to put a portcullis on our house. I suspect he may have lost it.

I mean, if any of you are fish scientists you can feel free to argue with me on this, but I wasn't aware that the ratio of tuna to shark was of any eschatological significance.

The little ice cube boy is turning out quite nicely if you ask me.

Righto, have just read over the posts that appeared whilst I was away, and I'm not sure whether or not I want to just sit back and admire my creation, or if I should in fact be intensely worried. O ye little Dinosaur, how odd ye are. Ok I admit it, I'm proud. You never used to be this weird.
So, many happy returns to Me. Best Birthday Ever. Won't inundate you with details as you would all turn purple with envy and besides none of you could comprehend the infinite coolness of the past weekend. Strange that so many lovely things could happen in the budget industrial wasteland that is the great state of Delaware. Mainly due to Chuckles and his marvelous efforts on my behalf. When the revolution comes, I shall see to it that you die quickly and painlessly, Chuckles.
Also I met a boy named Teabag. It's nice to advertise your habits, don't you think? Takes all that annoying guesswork out of relationships.
Well, the little steel-eyed skiing navy Seal Dino wench is about to hie her ass hence to our ancestral pile, so I shall take this opportunity to wish her a safe and amusing trip. Where is my professor chaos doll, you fuckstick.


It's funny when you walk into a room at the end of a story and the last line you hear is "And THAT is why you should never fuck your drug dealer."

PS A point to this website? Not sure who the Nitpicking Twit is but he/she is obviously a few triplets short of an orgy. All attic, no boxes. Insult me and ratface as much as you like, but please never ever try to pin a point on us. I can feel it from far away when someone tries to do that and it makes my hair itch.
Actually I think that's because I haven't showered in three days. Better go rectify that situation.

Ah. Very. Slowly. Winding down. Which is code for going mad on account of boredom. Last night I had barbeque. Again. I love barbeque. I shall miss it so when I'm back in the northern lands. But last night my darling (dahlink) friends and I had a lovely yell at the fountain. It was almost worthy of Shakespeare, really. Actually, it was more like Tom Stoppard. But still. It was quality. And someone, who shall now be referred to as the Nitpicky Twit, doesn't understand the point of this webpage. There is no damn point to this webpage. It merely gives Irony and me a forum for expression and a place to rant about the intense stupidity of the world's population. And it gives us bonding time. Or something. I'm not so sure about that one. Everyone knows you don't have to have a point to have a point.

I would also like to take this opportunity to wish Irony a delightful birthday. Why, I remember when she was a young little thing...she used to scream in my ear to deafen me. Or push me into the file cabinet. Or get a running start and leap at me whilst I was lying in peaceful repose on the couch. Okay, so that last one happened over Christmas. And the rest happened within the past couple of years. But still. Happy Birthday, dear Irony.

Well, I've nothing exceedingly interesting to talk about. So here's a little conversation Fiend and I had a couple days ago:
A Dinosaur: Well, it is a rather main point
Fiend: You think that just because you're a Navy SEAL you know everything, don't you?
A Dinosaur: I can kill you with my shoelace
Fiend: That's exactly what I'm talking about, honey. Ever since you joined the SEALs, things have been different.
A Dinosaur: You just don't like how I can kill you with everything we own
Fiend: And you've stopped cooking, and you've been wearing that scuba gear for the past 2 months.
A Dinosaur: It's slimming
Fiend: No, that's just because you've been living entirely off of field rations the last 2 months as well.
A Dinosaur: They're so convenient
Fiend: You slit the mailman's throat with that huge knife you're always carrying.
A Dinosaur: He was a spy
Fiend: Mr. Reynolds? He's been delivering our mail for the past 10 years!
A Dinosaur: Exactly around the time the Cold War ended. That's a little suspicious, I think!
Fiend: What, are mailmen more likely to be spies after the Cold War?
A Dinosaur: He was obviously former KGB
Fiend: His last name is Reynolds.
A Dinosaur: So? You changed your name to Spago McFrenchy
Fiend: No I didn't! You just started calling me that one day. After the 1st month I just stopped asking you to stop.
A Dinosaur: Oh...right. But that was so they wouldn't find you. It was for your own safety
Fiend: So who wouldn't find me?
A Dinosaur: The Russians
Fiend: But I don't know any Russians.
A Dinosaur: You would if I hadn't had the foresight to change your name
Fiend: But you didn't change my name! Every still calls me by my real name, you just insist on referring to me as Spago McFrenchy
A Dinosaur: You are so ungrateful. Most husbands wish their wives cared enough to protect them from Communist spies
Fiend: No, actually, I've brought this up with my buddies, and they all agree that you've gone off the deep end.
A Dinosaur: Your buddies all think Cuba is heaven. Your buddies are all morons
Fiend: They've said nothing of the sort. Not even Sanchez.
A Dinosaur: Spago, you play poker with a guy named Che.
Fiend: No, i play poker with Sanchez, Edward, Bob, and Reynolds. Until you slit his throat.
A Dinosaur: It was self-defense.
Fiend: The man was 86 years old and half blind!
A Dinosaur: That was part of his disguise
Fiend: Let me guess, you thought that his hip surgery was part of his disguise too?
A Dinosaur: That wasn't hip surgery, you idiot. He was going in to get a tracking device implanted
Fiend: I performed the hip surgery myself!
A Dinosaur: You're not a doctor! You work at the Safeway
Fiend: I am a surgeon. That’s why we have these nice things. Nice things that you've been breaking quite a bit lately, what with your "training" that you've been doing.
A Dinosaur: I can't believe it. They've brainwashed you
Fiend: No one's brainwashed me! One day things were fine, then you disappeared for a week, and came back as a Navy SEAL!
A Dinosaur: You just can't handle a strong woman. That's what all this is about. You resent me
Fiend: I don't care that you're strong. I just wish you'd stop killing such nice people.
A Dinosaur: He was working for the enemy
Fiend: the US postal service is the enemy?
A Dinosaur: He doesn't work for the postal service! He works for an underground socialist movement
Fiend: But he delivered our mail. If he were part of some conspiracy, where did he get our mail?
A Dinosaur: Okay, you're a civilian so I won't get angry with you for not understanding. He took a position at the postal service
A Dinosaur: They thought he was harmless
Fiend: what makes you sure he was part of some soviet movement?
A Dinosaur: I intercepted intel
Fiend: You've gone mad.
A Dinosaur: I have not! It was written in Cyrillic code on the back of the Victoria's Secret catalogue!
Fiend: Have you seen the cat?
A Dinosaur: Mitsy? Yes
Fiend: Where is she? I just realized I haven't seen her since Thursday
A Dinosaur: She's upstairs on the bed
Fiend: No she's not.
A Dinosaur: Yes she is. I painted her to match the sheets so the Russians couldn't get her
Fiend: I don't think there are Russians in our bedroom, and if there are, I don't see what interest they'd have in our cat.
A Dinosaur: I think it's obvious that they could kidnap her for ransom
Fiend: But we both hate that cat and the world knows it.
A Dinosaur: You hate Mitsy?
Fiend: With a passion.
A Dinosaur: You always loved Mitsy! ...You're not really Spago, are you?
Fiend: No! I'm not Spago! There is no Spago!
A Dinosaur: You're a spy! I knew it!
Fiend: Dear. I'm not a spy. I'm not even sure what's going on.
A Dinosaur: You were working with Reynolds
Fiend: No, I work at the hospital. Reynolds worked for the post office before you brutally murdered him.
A Dinosaur: You work at the Safeway. Which everyone knows is run by commies. I should have guessed this sooner
Fiend: We don't even have a Safeway in this town
A Dinosaur: It's the next town over and you know it. You're the manager of the bakery
Fiend: First you kill the mailman, and then you paint the cat, now you think I work at Safeway? When will the madness cease? WHEN WILL THE MADNESS CEASE?
A Dinosaur: Don't yell at me! I can kill you with that tea cozy!
Fiend: Tomorrow I'm taking you to the psychiatric ward for an examination.
A Dinosaur: What, is that code for your pinko commie holding tank? You're going to brainwash me
Fiend: You're delusional.
A Dinosaur: I am the best damn Navy SEAL there is
Fiend: I called the Navy office yesterday. They have no record of you on file.
A Dinosaur: They can't just give that information out.
Fiend: Sure they can, they give me peoples’ addresses all the time.
Fiend: In fact, they gave me contact information for someone else just because they felt bad about not having you on file.
A Dinosaur: ...they're not really the Navy!
Fiend: Then you should go trash their place.
A Dinosaur: I did that yesterday
A Dinosaur: I filled their office supplies with C4
Fiend: Where did you get C4?
A Dinosaur: I'm a Navy SEAL
Fiend: that doesn't answer the question.
A Dinosaur: I'm not telling you. You're working for them
Fiend: And at this point you kill me and our brilliant one act play is done.

Ok well here we go. The Litany of My Friday. It's pouring. And not in a nice, make-your-hair-pleasingly-curly way. In a Goa-Beach-In-August, drowning-Redwoods kind of way. And this is supposed to go on till Sunday afternoon. And I was supposed to go to the beach this weekend. Because tomorrow is my birthday. But I can't go to the beach anyway, because did I get paid today? Unsurprisingly I did not. I got a check for a rather meager amount that my boss said was "to tide you over the weekend, sorry about that but I haven't got enough money to pay you properly till Monday". This is not helpful. Any attempt to further explain the state of things to my boss would be pointless as his brain is currently in orbit around Mars. Have you seen Office Space? Like that guy, but our copier isn't even that cool and Ron Livingston isn't around to make things bearable. So. I'm not even pissed off. I've gone around the bend into quiet psychosis. Also, The Chump continues his inexplicable silence. So I have to spend this birthday in some crappy bar with a bunch of frat boys rather than lying on the sun on the beach. I'm so perturbed right now I may very well go and join a gym. I feel the need to pound things and bend things and run and jump and shit. This is totally incoherent. I'm leaving now.

For some reason I went into over-productive mode this year. This week, rather. I've finished both of my take-home finals. They are due Monday. I have one actual exam Friday morning and one Monday afternoon. Everyone else has four or five actual exams and they're studying. I don't know what the hell's up with that. Everything that can be packed right now is packed. What to do?

Hereafter, Mungo will be forever known as The Chump. Thus joining the noble ranks of The Asshole, The Shithead, The Mincing Twat, The Child and Idiot Boy. I don't include Fuckstick in this list because he's actually a friend. Mungo fit really well but It just didn't scan with the rest of them. Ah well.

And yea, verily did the lord pick up her phone. And yea, upon her was thus bestowed a dialtone. And she did rejoice. But let the slime-ridden mongrels of Verizon not relaxeth, for her wrath shall be brought to them with the speed of a hopped-up Concorde and the power of a million bolts of lightning. In short, I am writing a _very_ strongly worded letter to the management, you shits. In it will be included an explication of the fundamentals of basic linear chronology. Namely, in no way does 4 pm fall between 8 am and noon. I get paid by the HOUR, you utter, utter fucksticks.
Several other items today. McDonalds salads. Now at first the idea of McDonalds serving salad seemed almost as odd as oh, I don't know, having verizon show up on time. But I was feeling lazy and vaguely healthy so I bought one. Now all I will say is this. Upon opening the plastic top I was greeted by a smell which can only be described as ....miasma. Which in my opinion is not a good sign. But, feeling adventurous, I did in fact taste one of the....green...ish...things, which I assumed to be lettuce. And this is why you should not assume things. Here's a tip, kids- you can make your own mcdonalds salad at home. Simply scrape some things off the bottom of your shoe, soak them in Drano, leave them to dry on the windowsill in the hot sun for a day or two, add croutons, and there you go! Also that was NOT chicken. I don't care what you say, a bird composed of that meat would never have made it past the "hey, I just crawled out of an egg" stage. And I'm not a farmer but I think cucumbers are supposed to be green. Anyone want to back me up on that one?
What else. Oh yes. If a certain person, we'll call him Mungo, does not call me by tomorrow at noon I am going to hunt him down, bend his legs behind his head, stick his toes in his ears and drop him crotch-first onto a spiky metal thing. Fair warning.

Right. So The Fruit Hoarder and I are hungry. So we called Domino's. And a guy answered the phone and said they were closed for the night. What the crap is that? Domino's never closes. We're hungry. All we have are two nasty pesto-asiago weird bagels that have been in our freezer for months because we just bought them to be whimsical. I want greasy pizza, dammit.

To: Verizon
Re: Our Previous Correspondence

Dear Sirs;

I must apologize sincerely for my letter of 5-12. I have come to realize that the entire situation is, indeed, all my fault, and I wish to repent of what are obviously grievous sins against humanity. After having wracked my brains for the past several days trying to come up with some sort of explanation for your wantonly cruel and heartless behavior, I have come to the conclusion that I must, in some ineffable way, deserve this punishment. I have realized that it is impossible for me to be treated in such a way without having brought this horror down upon myself. I am so, so sorry. I humbly beg your forgiveness and ask that you, in your benevolent omniscience, see fit to connect my phone service some time between now and the third of April, 2016. I now see that I am to blame. I now see that you were holding up five fingers, not four. Please accept my apology and allow me to abase myself upon the altar of your perfection. May God and all his angels bless the phone company forever and ever, amen.

Sincerely,
Worthless, Servile Peon (Customer # 63793330002).

There are times when I'm glad that I'm a long trainride away from Irony. This is definitely one of them. In other, non-disturbing-sibling-related news, school is almost done. Almost. I only have one more paper to write. And it's my religion final, which gives me a headache. The Fruit Hoarder and I have resorted to packing to avoid writing papers. You know it's sad when A Dinosaur packs voluntarily. You know what's mean? For the past month we've had ridiculous humidity and now that I'm leaving soon it's dropped back to reasonable levels and I'm having really good hair.
Oh, and tonight the Fruit Hoarder and I decided to rebunk our beds, since we'd have to eventually. Unfortunately, rebunking the beds involves taking -everything- else out of the room, and this complex maneuvering of the beds, because you can't just move one into the other's spot. They have to do this little circular dance around the room. Aargh.

Dear Verizon (all employees, contractors and subsidiary companies thereof),

May your children be taunted on playgrounds. May your pets play in traffic and your blood cease to clot. May your offspring wed Mets fans. May surly anteaters torment you early on Saturday mornings. May lead-based paint flake off into your morning coffee. I fail to understand how exactly your repetition of the phrase "this is the way it has always been" is meant to be either an explanation of, or an excuse for, your utter inability to be at a designated place at a designated time. I'm not quite sure what the technical term is for a person so unnutterably stupid that the concept of "I work till 5, please don't come round till after 5" is impossible to understand. I fail to comprehend how exactly 2:30 is _almost_ 5. In exactly what dimension of space-time do you operate? For exactly what purpose did you need me to be there to point out the large, technical looking metal box on the side of the apartment with the big note that said "Verizon" on it? Did I wrong you in a previous life? Are the events of the past week merely karmic retribution for past evils so dire that I have repressed all memory of them? I honestly cannot decide whether I think you are all terminally stupid or just cruel, vicious, vile, small-minded, capricious wage-slaving wankers. I would tell you that you're all going to hell, but you wouldn't be able to find it and by the time you got there it would be closed anyway.

In other news, I now have tv. So Comcast is off the hook.
There is other news but I'm feeling far too vitriolic to chat about it.
Oh PS, there was that one Verizon woman I spoke to on Day Three of the Debacle...you were really nice. You know who you are. Consider yourself exempt from my wrath. Well done.

I don't understand what motivates goths to come to this school. First of all, it's in the South. Where, barring this past freakish winter, it is hot. And sunny. But that's not the main reason. The main reason is that the general population here looks like what would happen if the clothing of Lilly Pulitzer and Ralph Lauren mated and adopted an occassional Burberry bag or a horribly gauche patchwork patent leather Gucci clutch. Also, this school only has about 5,000 students and is basically in the middle of nowhere. Not exactly a thriving goth culture. Why would you decide to go to Sunshine Lollipop Smiley School and dres in all black and glower at everyone? Around here you can't walk ten feet without at least one person smiling at you. Hell, -I'll- smile at you. We live on a very friendly glorified golf course. Maybe they're trying for irony...

Have decided that Alias' Rambaldi device is either time machine, which can be used to set Sydney/Vaughn arc right again or machine to make Sark come out of the television and date me. All is well

Okay, first Irony has just moved into the Oubliette and won't have wickedfunDSL access until later.
Now that that's out of the way...
WHAT THE FLYING FUCK WAS THAT ALIAS ENDING? So angry. It was just five minutes of 'Whgewaigheoiage!' First of all, there is no way that Will survived. Secondly, Vaughn would never get married after two stinking years. Thirdly, who the hell skips two stinking years? Damn you, J. J. Abrams. Now I know why Sark's going to be a regular this year...to appease all your thoroughly pissed off fans. Oh. And I think Will is charming. But who the hell would fall inlove with Will when they have Sark? Come on, people
Aaaargh

Right. So. X2. Positive delight. And, just so you all know, Wolverine, Cyclops and to a lesser extent, Bobby and Pyro are all having my babies. And if Ian McKellen were 50 years younger and straight he could have my babies too. Because Magneto is just the coolest villain ever. I want to work for him. As long as it's upper management.

Odd things happen to me. So tomorrow I'm moving into the Smallest Apartment in DC, hereafter known as the Oubliette. And they're coming to hook up my cable. (My beautiful, digital, 8 squillion channels of cable). The only days they could come out were tomorrow and three weeks from now. And I ain't waiting three weeks. So I had to buy a tv so...uh...so the stuff could be connected to the other stuff. But I am a small person. And I want a large tv. And all my asshole friends with cars are out of town for the weekend. So, dilemma. But I got the tv home, thanks to a very nice Safeway employee and an illicit shopping cart. Just don't ask, really. Just trust me that it was hysterical. Or would have been hysterical, had I not still had to schlep the cart with the bigass box all the way from radio shack to my current place, many blocks away, in the boiling heat and oh yes I have a fever and some sort of SARS-related ailment. So it'll be funny tomorrow when I can breathe, but right now it's just odd.

Ah, the exquisite bliss that is Family Guy.

Irony says:
i love this show

A Dinosaur says:
As do I. Still not as cool as Love is a Battlefield

Irony says:
have i heard that one? can i find that one?

A Dinosaur says:
..last night. On South Park

Irony says:
ohhhhhhhyes

A Dinosaur says:
Yes

Irony says:
it was so wrong and yet so right

A Dinosaur says:
So very, very right

Irony says:
yes

Irony says:
trey is fifth in line to have my babgies

Irony says:
wow. my fingers are so very wrong tonight

A Dinosaur says:
Babgies, huh?

Irony says:
shut your word hole

A Dinosaur says:
You don't own me

Irony says:
I love you.

A Dinosaur says:
Don't speak vicious lies

Irony says:
my love grows exponentially

A Dinosaur says:
Liar

Irony says:
it knows no border. like ...nevada

A Dinosaur says:
Haha. But...you missed the setup
And you shall never be forgiven

Irony says:
i did it on purpose!

A Dinosaur says:
I know! But still!

Irony says:
i don't like being predictable

Irony says:
oh fine. i won't be able to sleep until we've done it right. so.

A Dinosaur says:
We can't now. It'd be all set up

Irony says:
fuck you be quiet. i'm a nice person

A Dinosaur says:
You tell fibs

Irony says:
you are the bastard get of a moon donkey

A Dinosaur says:
You're my sister

Irony says:
uh

Irony says:
......you're adopted

A Dinosaur says:
Then why do I look like mom?

Irony says:
.....entropy

Irony says:
and what a FUCKING good answer that was.

A Dinosaur says:
Indeed

Hmmm. The spam people aren't really even trying anymore. I've gotten several lately that don't even bother with the pretense of personalized addresses. Unless my name changed itself to "string" without my noticing. And I got one today where the subject was "joiijaree yoou ttireedd wwuuyym". Boy howdy that one just had me clicking like a madwoman. And to the rest of you...it would not only be a medical impossibility but would in fact severely disturb me if I were to undergo any sort of male enlargement. Also I do not desire truly to please her muchness. So FUCK OFF.

What's purple? Aren't those the important countries? Look there's only that one dude. Who's planning this game, the French?

Ah. They're spreading out to come at the white guy from all sides. I see

That lone yellow guy is going to get crushed

Dude, group the reds closer! Jesus.

The Greens have shifted! Oh shit, there goes Europe.

Right, okay, Bush's speech. The guys in back of him? Dressed like Risk game pieces. Watch out, Australasia

Ok. Due to some slight technical difficulties, namely my premature selective Alzheimer's and the Dinosaur's inability to read her email properly, neither of us could figure out what the password to this site's email was. Yes I know. Mock away, we deserve it. So anyway there's a new address now and it works and if you mail it we'll get back to you. Eventually. When all other means of procrastination have been exhausted. And uh, if anyone emailed the old address, it's gone. Never seen by human eyes. Ever. You'll just have to deal with that.

You're the one who insisted we wear the tinfoil lest Cookie read our thoughts

Sometimes, when i'm sitting around on my own, and there isn't even anyone around to see me, I like to wear a hat.

On an unrelated note, let's talk about compressed air. That air would not have been sprayed in my face had _someone_ not been a tad jealous that _someone_ was losing horribly at a game that autistic monkeys could play.

Wow. Paranoid. Looks like being wrong has caused severe brain damage. That or all the compressed air that's always being sprayed in her face

The Dinosaur is an idiot. I'm saying this now before she can post that I'm an idiot, so it will look like she's copying me instead of the other way around. Besides, she is an idiot. A big fat flaming idiot.

Always keep them guessing.