Not that this hasn't been true for a loooooong time now, but the Washington Post is officially full of fucking retards.
I mean, Jesus tapdancing Christ.
This country needs a plague. That will somehow target only idiots. If only we could find the gene that controls the Stupid and then get a muon or a tachyon or a prion or a, I don't know, Prius to virus-ize and attach to it...

Fine. I'm posting before Irony has a spaz. She doesn't seem to remember that I'm home, and at home the traffic lights start blinking yellow at 10:00 and nothing ever happens. Anyway, last night I went out to a bar with Twiggy. I say a bar, but I really mean the only bar if you're young and not looking to buy cocaine (I'm looking at you, Black Seal). We usually have fun there, but last night was Ladies' Night so it was completely packed. Mostly full of guys wearing shirts with the collars up, 'cause they're super cool. It was also like some wretched high school reunion where everyone was exactly the same except larger and drunk. Now, there were only 115 students in my class, and 35 of them were there last night. That's 35 people who feel the need to have painfully tedious conversations with you because you went to school with them and you're holding a glass of booze, so now you have something in common.
Also, what's up with guys you meet at bars actually calling you? The last time I was at said reunion bar I had a nice, albeit completely drunken conversation with this guy about jazz, and I gave him my number, and he called me. He remembered about 10% of the conversation and he still called. Now, he was nice, but I mostly just gave him my number because what the hell else am I going to do with 500 hundred cards that have my name, my number and 'The Law' printed on them? He was at Reunion Hell Bar last night, and was still nice, but he's got that whole alternahair going on where it's shaggy and in his face and I just want to go at it with a butter knife.
Then I came back home and settled in with a lovely bowl of sorbet that Biff promptly stuck her face into. She didn't like it, and she didn't eat it, but she stuck her face in it. I knew she was an asshole from day one, but come on. That's like...Irony level of asshole. Like when she seasons my hair, or shoves an ice cream sandwich in my face or pushes me into the file cabinet or says 'hey, what'll happen if I smash this tomato onto the ground by your feet?'
Hee. Irony completes me.

Tonight was the playoffs in the Random Publishers League. I thought we were playing Time but actually it was the NY Times. Which is a lot more fun, because everytime one of them gets up to bat you can yell shit like "must be hard to field a team with all your employees in jail" and "you swing like an anonymous source!" (nonsensical but oh so apropos) and "don't you people have a front page to fake?" and so forth. Unfortunately they still handed us our asses. We smelled a rat, though. They had ringers. We've played them a few times before and none of us recognized half those guys. I think they had Roger Maris. There was one wizened weatherbeaten old man who Dh'd and they'd obviously brought him in just because he had some sort of superduper stringy old-man muscles. He just clocked the ball and stood there and watched it sail into the crowds of people having sex in the middle of the great lawn. He didn't even bother to run. Once it became apparent that the ball was on its way to Newark he sort of jogged around the bases, clutching his pacemaker. A team of EMTs with a defibrillator followed him. He definitely never played before. I call shenanigans.
Sadly we played like shit. It really was pathetic. I would be embarrassed, but I'm a Yankee fan. And considering the way they've been playing lately, I feel justified in believing that it doesn't actually matter how shittily you play as long as people keep believing you're going to win and I am talking to YOU, Mike Fucking Messina. Jesus, Moose! Hah. Jesus Moose. But seriously, Jesus, Moose! Put some shoe polish behind your ear if that's what you need. Or try breathing through the other goddamn eyelid.
Oh well. I could analyze what went wrong, but...don't think. It'll only hurt the ball club.
This is incoherent and not at all clever. But I have had many beers and several shots and I'm tired in that "holy shit, I got exercise" kind of good way. I'll rewrite this tomorrow.

Dearest Exalted Five Readers,
How many of you were esquivalient today?
I LOVE this. Words should run free! They should roam in the wilds. My favorites are always the free-range words. Egregious and truculent words! Then you've got your farm-bred words: calico and turtle and butter and squash and muddle. Then at the bottom of the barrel you've got the poor, opressed denizens of the cruel word-mills. Dog, and spit, and..."Mets". They are force-fed like geese without even the dubious honor of the opportunity to become foie gras.
We should all make up words for concepts that should exist but don't. And I don't care how long they are. Because, people....the Germans are beating us at this. Donaudampfschiffahrtselektrizateatenhauptbet- riebswerkbauunterbeamtengesellschaft! The FUCK! Are we going to let them get away with this? Alls we've got is that pneumomono....whatever it is, the volcano allergy thing, and THAT word was originally made up, too. The Welsh have Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, and I'm sorry, but that just takes the piss.
I mean, we shouldn't be doing it just to get long words- that's just a perk. Words are such cool little beasts. You take them for granted, bad people. Older languages like Hebrew have very few words compared to English, and that makes it a lot more difficult to express certain concepts. The Japanese use neutral verbs like "give" or "get" in subtle ways to express disapproval but have nothing that we'd consider swears. English is like, wicked good.
All of which is to say that we should all be esquivalient as often as possible. I admit to a certain hypocrisy here, because I'm a stickler for proper grammar. And yeah yeah yeah, I know it's an ever-fluctuating, organic, blah blah blah blah. But still. Learn how to use a fucking semi-colon, you illiterate grunt. But for some reason I'm all for the coining of new words, whether it be out of whole cloth or misuse of linguistic rules or just by sticking a bunch of pre-existing words together. The difference? People use the "wrong" grammar because they're lazy, or sloppy, or don't think it matters. This angers me. Using words that previously didn't exist, on the other hand, is just creative. This makes me kvell. Which is a perfectly cromulent word.

The fact that people are actually reading this thing fills me with something akin to terror. Not Irony-Watching-Labyrinth-and-the-Fieries-Come-On terror, but Seeing-Someone-Wearing-Slouch-Boots-in-August terror.
Anyway, the other night Puppy gave me a call on one of the legs of his cross-country trip, because he was entirely too drunk to work the keypad on his phone to respond to my text message. He was in Chicago about to play Rolly Ball.
Do y'all know what Rolly Ball is?
It's Jai Alai, but in bumper cars. And there's a bar on the premises.
Is that not the most beautiful thing you've ever heard of? There should be a Rolly Ball center in every city. Imagine stupid Red Sox fans imbued with a false sense of invincibility because their team won once, liquored up and flinging balls at eachother! What could be more wonderful?
Besides the pool. Where I am going now.

We've gone beyond irony into something I don't even know what it is but it's sublime.
Also, just randomly found another Ministry. We were here first. They look kinda cool- slightly righty but in an "I want to dominate the planet" sort of way, not in a, you know, Michelle Malkin kind of way. I will contact them so as to determine whether they should be brought into the fold, or righteously scourged. I'll keep you posted.

I want Vicodin. And an uzi. I shall not post anything witty as I am still in hate-everything mode from my apartment being broken into and my laptop being stolen. It was just a baby, not even a year old. Also, the twit stole my knife but not my jewelry. So now there's a moron walking around with a weapon and a wireless card. Bastard.
On the plus side, I'm moving from Sketchyville to Snobbyville and that's going to make it a helluvalot easier to marry rich. Mayhap I'll meet a Cabot-Lowell at the laundromat. 'Cause...they don't have washing machines. Or people to wash their clothes for them.
Nuts to this, I'm having waffles.

Quick note. Just saw the Almighty Father pop on messenger as I was sitting here in the state of Hideous Unsleep which vicodin withdrawal has imposed, and I started bitching at him about how far behind I was in my moving schedule, and how I'd never get all this stuff to Brooklyn, and he said, quote, "so what the hell's your problem? Find some gay guys and give them ecstasy or whatever."
Ladies and gentlemen, that small creature which you see dying on the pavement is, in fact, my childhood.
For further glimpses into Father's psyche please scroll down this Interminable Page to about a year ago and check out the discussion about the piscatorial eschatology and the portcullis. Really it's a fucking miracle we're as well-adjusted as we are.
Also, I've figured out how we're going to differentiate ourselves from all the other navel-gazing ranters out there. Scouts honor. Starting as soon as we can be bothered, look sort of over that way ------------->.
Fun will be had by all.

Two things. Thing the first; something weird is happening blogwise. The entire damn thing is on one page. I mean....we've got archives, I can see them right over there right under where it says archives. So why is the entire damn thing, going all the way back to April of 2003, all on this one page? The hell? I mean, it's not a major big deal but it's weird and vexes me. I mean- we started this thing so long ago that we were both Republicans, for god's sake. Although, and I mean this honestly, we were the "quit taxing me and don't make any laws" type of Republican, not the bugfuck frothing C.H.U.D. rejects who've recently appropriated the name. But still.
Thing the next- when I'm drunk, this blog is fucking hilarious. I mean it. We are a genius. Genuflection should occur. And scraping of temples and throwing of non-sequential unmarked bills. Just you wait, people of the earth. Your names, addresses and lack of obsequiousness have been duly noted.

Fuck vicodin. Fucking douchebag vicodin. Two weeks, I tell you- two weeks was all it was! And I had surgery! So when I say I needed it, I mean it in the honest sense and not in the pleading junkie sense. But now...well this damn well better wear off soon because last night I got approximately 45 minutes of sleep. At one point I apparently twitched so bad I rolled right off the bed, because I came to at around 4 am lying with my face in the pile of books that's next to the nightstand. I can see this happening if I were Doctor fucking House or something, but two weeks? Not fair! What I need is a teeny little whip and a wee little man to wield said whip. He could crawl into my ear and bitchslap my endorphins until they start working again. Fucko.