The weather is nice. It reminds me of why I love living in Michigan. Not too hot and not too cold. Also, much eye candy to peruse. Joggers, walkers, cappucino sippers, strippers, nurses, nuns, cod-cookers, cod-carriers, podiatrists, opthamologists, press operators...they're all wearing spandex and jiggling with movement. Ah! Michigan is grand...it is, in fact, Michigrand.
My sister Melissa is driving across the country to deposit a car to her friend, Karen, a hot married blonde mother of one, in the driveway of her new house in Las Vegas, Nevada. Karen is going to be a cop, which--of course--brings to my somewhat-sickened mind images of a hot blonde woman in a cop's uniform, pulling me over for blowing off a stop sign or accelerating through an orange traffic light. Why, in my mind, does the lady cop have on black leather thigh high "boots" and why, do tell, does she hold in her hand a cat o' nine tails, which she smacks softly, seductively, into the leather-gloved palm of the other? What, do tell, does she intend to do with that oh-so-scary implement?
Melissa is driving across the country in Karen's new Mazda; she is driving with another hot blonde friend of hers named Lori Jean. I told Melissa before she left to have fun, to enjoy her trip and her friends but, for the love of Saint Peter, not to pull a Thelma and Louise at the end of the trip. For the love of God, Meliss! Don't. Do. It! She'll have an interesting story or two to convey to us when she gets back. I'm absolutely sure of it. She will post it here, for all of us Internetters to enjoy.
In totally unrelated news, a neighboring suburb was the setting for a dog attack. An attack in which a doggy lunged at an eleven-year-old boy and mangled his face, a bit, resulting in 40-plus stitches across his cheek and around his eye. I bring this up why? The offending doggy, which was immediately put down, was a Boxer-Pit Bull mix, kinda like this character. Lou worries me, sometimes. He is a sweetheart--that is indisputable. So, uh, don't even try to dispute it, mmkay? But he, too, is a Pit Bull mix. They are, by nature, more aggressive than some other breeds. (Or is it just their upbringing?) He's fine around me and every other person he has ever met. The thing is, the only other people he has ever met have been full-grown adults. The woman I am seeing right now has a two-year-old, a two-year-old who enjoys fucking with the family pussy, a cat named Tiffany. Lou is not Tiffany. Lou has big teeth and strong jaws. I just...worry, sometimes. Not to be overly dramatic, but I don't think I would be able to live with myself too well if Emily went at Louie in the wrong way and he took it as an aggressive move and dealt with it justly. And swiftly. Ever-so-swiftly. I just...worry, sometimes. Then again, you know what they say: Worry is interest on a debt not yet accrued. Or, uh, sumpin' like that. To summarize: Lou and Emily have never met (hell, Emmie Sue hasn't even been to my house yet), nothing bad has happened, but...I worry. Sometimes. Any advice, Radio Land?
What the hell is the big deal about the Spiderman movie? There have been two already. They were both good, but I don't recall constructing my own bukake kit after (or during) the films. They were superhero action flicks, with a whole hell of a lot of special effects. So what? And they starred Toby Maguire. Again, so what? All right. 'Fess up, ladies. What is so damned appealing about this dude? Is it his dreamy eyes? Is it his rosebud smacker? Is he hung like a water buffalo? Does he just have it? Enquiring minds want to know. And, since we're on the subject, how in the hell does fucking Justin Timberlake pull the tail that he pulls? It's a mystery to me.
On another totally unrelated topic (yet, huh, coincidentally related to the topic of dogs): All. Fleas. Must. Die. And please don't give me that shit about all creatures are on the planet for some reason, that they are all an integral part of the Earth's fragile (rhymes with "guile") ecosystem. Fleas suck. Literally. And it would not bum me out in the least--in the least, I say!--if they all exited stage-left yesterday. Fucking pests. Not that I, uh, have any, you see, taking up residence in my house, you see, like an overbearing relative, you see, intent upon eating all my food and leaving the toilet unflushed after doo-doo-doing a "number two." No. Uh-uh. I'm just speaking, uh...generally. All. Fleas. Must. Die.
Oh, one last thing: In two days, on the seventh, I'll be celebrating my five-month anniversary of sobriety. I'll be celebrating with a couple bottles of wine. Because nothing says "Huzzah for extended abstinence!" more than rapidly swallowing generally-toxic beverages till one is "lit up" and "blasted" and manic and sickened. Bartender? Gimme a glass of Grape Nehi, please.