do you believe in planets?

OH NOES! dis dress, it lax a taste.

It would be cruel to criticize her current form.  She was out after shoulder surgery for ten months or something crazy like that. 

But THIS:

Larger single image for extra added horror:

Masha, Masha--lovely, lanky Masha.  You look like a cross between the Eiffel Tower and the John Hancock.  We ladies of larger stature do ourselves no favors by suggesting with our attire that we require external bracing. 

"honor his policies"--WHAT??

I will not apologize for calling a spade a spade.

This girl--bless her sheltered, spoiled, thin-lipped soul--is a MORON.

I will not apologize.

someone needs to write a handbook

Not sure I understand the contours of our political landscape when it comes to gestures--what's in, what's out; what's appropriate and presidential, what's "hood."

Apparently--that is to say, guessing by the silly-ass media hullabaloo surrounding it waaaaaay back in, meeeh, August--there's somethin' kooky about a half-black, half-white man fist-bumping his wife on the campaign trail.

By the way, doesn't that sound dirty?  "Fist-bumping his wife"?  Fist bumping? How about "giving the fist bump to"?  Still dirty.  Bumping fists with?  Sounds like... a euphemism for something dirty. Like, "I want to purple dinosaur Barack Obama!"  We all know what purple dinosaur means in this context, right?  Well, try replacing "fists" with "uglies." 

My apologies.  Truly, I: a) can't help myself, and b) digress.

Anyheeeww, riddle me this:  why isn't anyone up in arms about the below-pictured hella-ancient former president fist-bumping the below-pictured hella-emaciated former tennis pro?  Hmmmmmm? 

It all stinks of some lewd kind of conspiracy--and if we want to talk about bumpin' whatever and dinosaurs of any hue in connection with that second image, we can take "stinks" and "lewd" in all kinds of horrifying directions. 

AND THEN. As if the fist-bumping/purple dinosaur issue weren't baffling enough:

!!!!!

Apparently there's nothing kooky at all about a crazy-ass  rifle-totin' jesus-lovin' white lady rockin' the devil horns.  Right?

I suppose, so as long she's decked out in Marc Jacobs and Prada, we don't give a--how you say--hoot. Oh, gosh golly, you really let one slide der yoh gotcha media.  You are to the presidential election as DYBIP.typepad.com is to professional tennis. And by that, I of course mean AWESOME JOB.

So anyway, about that handbook. Karl?  MBIMOTMOG? (rise, rise from the ashes!)

two promises; two predictions

I PROMISE...

...that Kate Bosworth is a fucking idiot. I not only promise, I swear it. And you can ask Conan.*

I FURTHER PROMISE...

...never to that I will allow you to kill me if I ever wear tights under shorts. And I DOUBLE promise not to wear tights under shorts CAPPED OFF WITH SANDALS OR OPEN-TOED FOOTWEAR OF ANY KIND. This includes strappy anything and kitten-heeled what-have-you.**

~~Intermission~~

I PREDICT...

...that I will STILL forget to purchase adhesive bandages tomorrow, despite the fact that I gouged myself open tonight and--get this--fixed a cotton-round to my finger with dental floss to stop myself from bleeding all over my belongings as I continued to unpack.

I FURTHER PREDICT...

...that my exercise schedule that was entirely effed by my vacation this week will continue to be effed this weekend and next week, as a) I have weekend guests from P-land, and b) classes begin anew on Monday.

operating chez thelizabeth is killing me slowly.

Well, so far I'm surviving the visit of the you-know-whats. But just barely. I had to work VERY hard last night to convince someone that North and South are NOT, indeed, opposite each other once you get into the southern hemisphere (i.e., if you're in New Zealand, Antarctica isn't NORTH from where you are). I also had to apologize for the sound my shoes make when I walk.

Jesus Christ.

Oh, suck it up the-Cranky-abeth. Next weekend it's pal David's visit, which I've been looking forward to for weeks, so if I make it past 11 pm this evening, I'm home free.

you have GOT to be fricking kidding me.

I know, I know, I said "fricking." Due to increasing levels of language-understanding offspring among my friends, I am trying to reduce my swearage, and in honor of that crazy Eliot girl on Scrubs , I have adopted "frick" as my soft-curse of choice.

So let me just say: FRICK. DOUBLE FRICK. FRICK ON A STICK. FRICK ON A STICK WITH A BRICK.

This weekend had its ups and downs. The ups were "eh?", while the downs were INCREDIBLY FRICKING LAME. So I'm a little fricking pissy to begin with.

And now, here I sit grading papers, having been awakened at FOUR FRICKING AM by the alarm on the bar across the street THAT IS STILL GOING OFF 3.5 FRICKETY-FRICKING HOURS LATER. And when I say alarm, this is not like the merely "annoying" car alarm echoing through the neighborhood. This is like those bell-alarms from high school fire drills, but four times as loud--from across the street it's so fricking loud that Jamey couldn't hearing me calling him from the bedroom when he was in the hallway immediately outside the bedroom. I can't hear myself think, much less grade papers. And even if I COULD hear myself think, I'd only hear, "Duh? Duh-duh-duh?" because I only got three fricking hours of fricking sleep last night. Frick on a fricking stick with a gosh darn fricking brick. FRIIIIIIICK! Those frickers. And by the way, their bar SUCKS.

That's fricking it. From now on, I'm totally calling the cops rather than making semi-polite requests for crowd control when their patrons are screaming/singing/revving their engines/fighting at 2 in the morning. That'll show those frickers not to frick with this motherfricker.

c'mon.

Seriously. If the weather gods insist on sending us such beautiful days, the earth gods should get on the ball and send an earthquake that causes the ground to open up and swallow the entire university so that I don't have to go to work.

I would like to specify, though, that this earthquake should spare the human resources department so they can still cut my paychecks for May and June.

if we can't blame the liberals...

at least we still have the victims to hold accountable.

Not because they're intellectuals, because they're intelligensia, because they live in sin-slash-ivory towers, but  because, of course--they're pansies. 

One glance at the source of this piece of garbage should say it all:

But let me also say this: Jesus. Christ.

notably less amused.

Jamey came scampering (remember that verb; it will make sense later) into the living room the other night, tee-heeing, and insisted I watch "something really funny" on his computer. I prepared for a good laugh, sat back, and was subjected to this:

[Edit: Okay, I guess some of you couldn't open/download the wmv file, so here's an easy access, but lower quality, version from YouTube:

There. Now VOTE! End edit.]

W! T! F! That's not funny! That video made me actually CRY. Like, tears came out of my eyes, and I wasn't laughing. I was moaning "no, no, noooo!" while I punched Jamey and then informed him that the movie was not only unfunny, it was cruel, infantile, barbaric, sad, and mean. MEAN!--yes, dem's fightin' words.

He shrugged and said, "Well, I didn't make the video, you know, but it IS funny."

I. DIS. A. GREE.

Let's take a poll. You may vote anonymously, but I encourage you to leave comments below. Assuming you agree with me, I mean.

Get Free Opinion Polls

SO not funny.

like licking out an ashtray

I find it strange that Portland, the city so green it's emerald, hasn't banned smoking in all establishments yet. Seattle did it, Madison, shit, Milwaukee will probably go smokeless before Portland. Weird.

Less strange is how, despite the absence of a ban here, many of the hippest, swankiest, packed-ed-est joints in town have either banned smoking altogether, limited smoking to one room (and seriously, only the brave will brave these rooms), or limited smoking to the outdoor patio. I'm thinking Sapphire (not so hip, but swanky), Doug Fir, (both swanky AND hip), Savvoy (hip hip hip, swank swank swank), Holocene (HIP with a caps lock H-I-P), ACME (neither hip nor swanky, but good shows and awesome patio) and so forth. These places, despite pricey drinks and smoking bans, are always packed with the fashionable youf of today. I use that as my very scientific evidence that banning smoking does not, necessarily at least, spell out death to all of these businesses.

Last night I went to the Basement Pub, one of the cutest little joints in town (with great atmosphere, a huge fishtank, and a great jukebox). However, it is about as well-ventilated as an actual basement. Clouds of smoke just billow out the door when people enter and exit. Baby and I had one glass of wine, and it was all I could handle: I literally had tears streaming out of my eyes, the smoke was so thick. Granted I'd been playing tennis earlier and my nerd-allergies already had my eyes all irritated, but still. Gross.

And now? My hair smelled gross until I hosed myself down, my clothes smell gross, my bag smells gross, like really, really gross, and we were there for like an hour. Even my cell phone smells gross. Gross.

It's just too bad that most of the coziest little haunts still haven't banned smoking. Like My Father's Place, Basement, Bonfire, Tube (oh, lord, that's a smokey one), Bar of the Gods, Nitelite, Clinton Street Pub, Dots--need I go on? Sometimes you just want to toddle out to a local watering hole and chat over beers with friends, but NOT come home smelling like an ashtray.

There's no point to this post, I'm just a cranky old fart.

I want to be "one less."

Don't get me started on count and non-count nouns. Karl, that means you. Anyhoo, this exchange between a consumer and the Coca Cola company made me laugh.

Please save our children's understanding of the English language from the advertisers.

P.S. Confidential to Karl: usage and pronunciation are different. Yes, they ARE.

comic relieves (and DRANK)

did I mention that I have a student named THOR this term? and that he's AMERICAN?!?!?

BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHaaa!

I am such a childish ass. AND I'm going to get like eight Thors/mothers of Thors/friends of thors surfing in here through some lame google search being all like, "waaaaah I have sand in my vagina!" To which I will reply, "VASELINE!"

Be glad you didn't get emails, bitches (unless you're jennifer or rah, in which case--sorry ladies).