Paris Hilton has a book coming out.
Jesus H. Fucking Christ.
Enough.
Stop.
No More.
Your fifteen minutes is over. I've decided it. Go away. Stop showing up on the television. Get your face out of my newspaper. Don't fuck anyone else on camera. Don't act, don't sing, don't model, don't breathe. Just fucking go away you evil little harpy. You perfect embodiment of everything that is wrong and sick and pathetic with American society today. Take your skinny, blonde, stupid self and fade into nothingness.
What has this woman done (other than get fucked six ways from Sunday by a has-been TV star's husband)? What the hell is she going to write about? (were I more creative I'd write a fake excerpt, but I'm not so I won't anyone else want to take a crack at a brief excerpt from the Paris Hilton book?)
I can't fucking handle it. That does it, it's either Paris Hilton or me, one of us has to go.
Avast matees, it’s almost here. What are you doing September 19th?
Folks who know me or have read this blog for more than a year know that I’ve been excited about “Talk Like a Pirate Day” since I first heard of it in 2002. Last year September 19th I was held up in bed with strep throat and did not get to participate beyond a couple of text messages to friends.
This year will be different. I’m going to commemorate this momentous day and I’d love to do so with some friends. Here are the options I’ve come up with.
1. Talk Like a Pirate Party—While this has it’s advantages, TKAPD ’04 falls on a Sunday and no one likes to wake up to a trashed house on Monday morning before work, so this might not be the best option.
2. Talk Like a Pirate Bar Crawl—I’m all for this one, but I think I might have some problems getting friends to sign up for it on a Sunday
Let me know what you’re thinking; if you’re up for a little pirate themed celebrations on a Sunday and September.
And in honor of four weeks till TLAPD 04, I think I'll start telling pirate jokes again (suppress the groans, I haven't told any in a while).
Were you really watching the TV last night? Come on, I understand that the Rams are one of your favorite teams and that the Chiefs are your fantasy football defense, but you weren’t actually watching that game in the living room when I got home from work last night at 9:30.
Maybe if you were using one less entertainment medium while watching the game I would have believed you. Unless you are one of the amazing multi-taskers ever to grace the planet, I can’t possibly fathom that you were watching the game with any interest.
I sat on the Lazy Boy next to you and watched you as you modified photos and surfed the internet using your i-Book. Your attention intermittently passed between the computer screen and the hipster music magazine that sat to your left. I know you weren’t listening to the game, because the music from your headphones virtually drowned out the TV volume for me.
But despite all that, I asked, “Hey, ahem, Hey, EXCUSE ME” –you remove the headphone from one ear—“do you mind if I change the channel”
“Well, I’m kinda, uh, watchin’ that.”
OK, so last night. I'm sitting in my room watching Six Feet Under. Normally, I watch it in the living room with one Joe, another housemate, but I got in late from work last night and another housemate was eating dinner and watching tv on the couch. So as not to ask the other housemate to change the channel from the Giants-Cubs game, I made some food and watched the show from my room, which is on the same floor as the livingroom.
About ten minutes into the show, I think I hear a phone ringing but I couldn't tell if it was in the background of the show or in the livingroom of my house. I thought to myself that if it was in the house, the other housemate (we'll call him "Paul") would answer it because he was sitting on the right side of the couch, about three feet from the phone. When the scene on the tv changed and I still heard the phone I decided to go into the living room to investigate, thinking maybe "Paul" was in the restroom. When I opened my door and ran to the livingroom to the livingroom to get the phone, I saw Joe sprint up the stairs (he was outside having a smoke) and grab the phone on the fifth or sixth ring. I also see "Paul" sitting three feet from the phone completely ignoring Joe and me running for the phone.
Joe answered it and it turned out to be a wrong number. This sort of thing has happened before, such as when someone locked me out of the house when I was doing laundry downstairs and "Paul" didn't answer the house phone. Everyone in the house has cell phones and we really only have the home phone for delivery and internet access. When Joe hung up the phone he calmly asked "Paul" why he didn't answer it. To which "Paul" replied that he no one calls him on that number so it wasn't for him. When we both informed him that on more than one occasion we had each taken messages from his mother h the following exchange occurred:
"Paul": Well then, it's virtually never for me. And if it was for me, I'd just let it ring, they would leave a message, and I'd get it later.
Joe: No. No Paul, you wouldn't. I'm not sure it would be on the machine later.
OH, Fuck the Franconia Roller Rink
I was supposed to get to the office by about 10:00 this morning. I've got a significant amount of work to do and there were supposed to be people there office who required my presence. At about 9:55 I began my morning routine (about an hour late, but hey, it's Sunday, it's OK to be a little late on Sunday). Shower, shave, coffee, cereal, paper, etc. I got dressed, got my crap together, and headed for the door. It was at about this point that I realized that I did not have my keys.
"No matter," I think, "they're somewhere in the house; per usual I've just misplaced them. It'll take me five minutes and I'll be on my way." I misunderestimated the situation. Flash forward two hours, I've ripped apart my room, the livingroom/diningroom/kitchen area, and the bathroom. No keys. At this point I’m not sure what to do. I know I had them when I got in at 9 last night. I’m pretty sure I placed them on the kitchen table along with the newspaper and my phone. But the newspaper is still there and my phone is in my pocket. I’ve sorted through the mail that was scattered on the table, placed the mail each of the housemates’ “inbox,” washed and put away the dishes that were on the table, and even checked under it. Still no keys.
--At this point I’m getting irritated and frustrated, this is my life. A general lack of awareness that leads to situations like this. All I have to do is pay more attention, slow down, make an effort and shit like this won’t happen so often.--
The only thing that remains on the table is a case of beer, one of three purchased in anticipation of a party that was supposed to happen last night. (Which really never materialized, the organizing housemate had to run down to Richmond because his sister was in labor, which turned out to be false labor. I didn’t invite anyone because I wasn’t sure I’d be around.) At any rate, the only thing left atop the table is the case of beer. I begin to head for the rooftop upstairs deck. For some reason, it has occurred to me that my keys may have wanted to enjoy the beautiful evening and the night air and thus made their way up to the roof. I can’t believe the possibility hasn’t occurred to me yet; that’s exactly where they are.
I wheel around and head for the stairs. As my foot hits the bottom step, I again notice, in my peripheral vision, the sole occupant of the table top- - a lonely case of Miller Lite. And with a calm purposefulness that would shock anyone who had witnessed my frenzied two-hour long search for the missing keys, I walk back to the table lift the case of beer, pick up my keys from beneath it, and walk out the door.
It wasn’t until after I was half way to the office that the following occurred to me: I was about to be three hours late for work because my keys were concealed by a case of beer.
There is some symbolism there, something indicative of my life as a whole. And I laughed quietly for a good five minutes.
I had to run three blocks to catch the bus this morning. I did make it, however upon boarding the bus, I realized that I could hardly breathe, much less speak.
That does it, next week I'm getting back in shape.