Seriously, I got a screaming case of the don’t-really-cares. Besides, it’s Friday.
Well, kind of quiet. I suppose that’s good.
Sorry. Some days coming up with stuff to natter on about can be… involved.
What. THE HELL. Is. This?!?!?!
Ermengarde Stubbs was the beauteous blonde daughter of Hiram Stubbs, a poor but honest farmer-bootlegger of Hogton, Vt. Her name was originally Ethyl Ermengarde, but her father persuaded her to drop the praenomen after the passage of the 18th Amendment, averring that it made him thirsty by reminding him of ethyl alcohol, C2H5OH. His own products contained mostly methyl or wood alcohol, CH3OH. Ermengarde confessed to sixteen summers, and branded as mendacious all reports to the effect that she was thirty. She had large black eyes, a prominent Roman nose, light hair which was never dark at the roots except when the local drug store was short on supplies, and a beautiful but inexpensive complexion. She was about 5ft 5.33…in tall, weighed 115.47 lbs. on her father’s copy scales—also off them—and was adjudged most lovely by all the village swains who admired her father’s farm and liked his liquid crops.
It goes on. Terrifyingly, it goes on – and yeah, you’re going to have to click through to see the author. Ia, Ia-Ia, Ia-Ia…
I mean, wow, it’s like nothing is going on. Freaky.
…about how I have nothing to write a post about.
Sorry about that; between Iron Man 3 and the youngest starting toilet training today it’s been a bit of a distracting day. And that’s aside from… everything else, really.
…and what do you want under your tree?
Gimme a break, I’m running on vapors at this point. December during a lame-duck year is hell on political reporting; right now the big question in Dizzy City is How many politicians are going to completely reverse their previous positions on fiscal policy*? There’s going to be no more real action for another three weeks, and I’m running out of stuff.
*The answer is, of course, All of them. Welcome to Washington, DC: here’s your accordion.
…or confirmation to get through, or whatnot. So… I got nothing, really. Except that the Xbox is working! I still haven’t figured out what to sing yet, though. Nothing’s reached out and said This would be perfect, or at least perfectly embarrassing.
Although I no longer feel upset about saying HIT THE TIP JAR OVER THERE ON THE SIDEBAR. I mean, really: ‘crass’ no longer figures into it. I could put up pictures of big-eyed, fluffy kittens and I’d still not be anywhere as cynical as… this.
I got nothing about this story about Alameda County (California) Supervisor Nadia Lockyer (wife to California Treasurer Bill Lockyer) and an alleged sex tape allegedly involving her and a former meth addict. Well. Almost nothing.
…And no, the name of the party is not “methamphetamine.”