When All Else Fails...
Ore : 10:37 AM
Shorter John Derbyshire: "Niggers are stupid."
Shorter Mark Krikorian: "Fucking wetbacks..."
Shorter Ramesh Ponnuru: "Stem-cell research is murder!"
Shorter Jonah Goldberg: "Am I an idiot? That was a rhetorical question."
Golden oldies bonus completely unrelated to the above wingnuttery:
"She's like a visitor in her own face!" - Jennifer Saunders.
PS Get in the holiday spirit and FEED ME! I'm hungry:
Briefly Back From Hiatus
Ore : 10:59 AM
A choice quote: "Now it's in my man cave, and I can share it with all my friends."
Ore : 7:42 AM
DRAG QUEENS OF DEATH
"How was lesbian film night?" Of course, I meant watching movies at home with her friends -- Mo would rather chew rusty nails that sit through "Even Cowgirls Get The Blues."
"Bah... Everybody just wanted to fawn over Ronnie's new sewing machine."
As we rounded Davies Medical Center, an early evening snap of October chill squeezed through our hoodies, mine baby blue, hers brown and embroidered in beige skater-tag patterns. I didn't mind it, though; the cold that nightly assails Doctor C's seaside castle, to which I would return the next day, is far more vicious.
"Halloween?" I asked, comfortable enough with my old friend to speak with a hint of envy at the fact that I would miss any festivities on my favorite holiday of the year.
"I'm thinking of staying in," she replied falsely yet kindly, perceiving me at once. And seeing in the next instant that she couldn't deceive me. "Okay, unless I go to Andi's party."
"Hmm... I am in love with 'Randy Wang.'"
"Predictably race conscious. Personally, I favor Mr. Ectomy."
Our conversation continued in this vein as we strolled down Castro Street -- easy, full of light and as free of cares as a twink years our junior. And for good reason -- it was the last night of my vacation away from the castle. I resolved that on this night especially I would ignore my impending return to work and my quotidian existence down the peninsula -- I would not for a second trouble myself with thoughts of mad scientists and their man-sized insects and killer robots. No, that night would be laughter and gentle mayhem -- a safe, gay time in that squeaky-clean homosexual Disneyland. And I would meet tomorrow's irritating horrors with the hangover they deserve.
It began pleasantly enough. Though Mo found The Mix boring ("All these girls and not a looker among 'em..."), I was glad. My most trying experience was running into a one-night stand from months ago and attempting to extricate myself from the conversation without letting him on to the fact that I had forgotten his name.
I did once get a start from seeing a silver Mustang that looked remarkably like that of Candy, my most normal coworker; it was parked in the driveway next to the Castro Theater. But I convinced myself that couldn't be her as surely, during my vacation she had been devoured by a pack of feral, genetically engineered toddlers.
"How about the Glass Coffin?" Mo asked at length.
"Ooh, the Twin Peaks! But I'll feel so underdressed without my IV drip."
The Twin Peaks was as charming and restful as ever; soft chandeliers, soft carpeting, soft music -- none of it of course did the slightest to soften the ravages of time affecting the clientele, nor to discourage the occasional dedicated gerontophiliac. But it was a welcoming atmosphere for conversation and a fitting cap to the evening. She and I took adjacent seats around a small end table in a mirrored corner.
Three cocktails in, I had solved the mystery of the Twin Peaks, which had been haunting us since we walked in. Just why were the drinks so strong and cheap? I laid out my theory. "One, this place has been here forever, and is probably owner-owned and operated -- they can afford to offer cheap, strong drinks. Two, the clientele has been loyal from antedeluvian times, and the owner would never risk alienating them by gouging or skimping. Third, and most important, if you're a centuries-old regular, and not already on dialysis, you can take whatever the bartender slings your way. And that, Dr. Watson, solves the mystevery of The Twin Peaks."
"Well played, Inspector Homeslice, well played."
I bowed slightly and smiled. Little did I know the mystery was only about to begin: Just as Mo turned to examine the incongruously futuristic jukebox, the room spun cruelly in a flash of flattering amber light, and I was no more...
I thought I was in front of a parked car, until I realized I was staring down a klieg light. The backlit silhouette of what looked like a bear who had his hair permed in an early 90s Staten Island salon stood off to one side. From the silhouette emanated a gravelly, nasal voice. "So the trap is sprung, and we've got two of Castellofabrizio's most valuable minions."
Two? And as my eyes adjusted I saw, sure enough, sitting nearby, bound in maribou-covered chains and gagged with a fetish ball, sat Candy. "Valuable?" I asked, more confused than anything. "But we don't even work in R & D."
"Valuable enough," snapped a softer, higher voice out of sight. "Martiny, keep that shotgun steady -- this bitch knows kung fu."
With that, and as the shaggy, bosomty creatured moved into the light, I saw who our captors were. The pancake makeup, the overdrawn lipliner, the massive platinum wig crowning that horsey face with its trademark beauty spot, the D cups strapped to a linebacker's body...
"Yeah, we're out of ball gags, but no one is near enough to hear you scream."
"I suppose not -- not above the music downstairs."
Peaches Christ, off to the side, laughed, and her sidekick Martiny smirked. "Really," said Peaches, "you presume to know where you are?" As she chuckled, her eyeshadow under those Golden Arches eyebrows glittered like something wild and insectoid.
I ignored her for Heklina, who I knew was calling the shots. "That's funny, Heckles, I never figured you for a wrinkle queen."
Her face hardened even more than usual. "You get to call me that once, cunt, and only once. Now tell me, if you value your life -- where is Castellofabrizio's synaptic burner?"
Martiny, the littlest, trashiest queen, gave me disapproving scowl and turned her aim to Candy...
TO BE CONTINUED
Now here is where I let you guys know I'm in a bit of a pickle. I had the flu last month, and as such, lost out on almost half my paycheck. However, if you like me and value this blog (not that you should), you are heartily encouraged to help me get groceries, new work boots, and give my doctors their co-pays:
Every little bit helps. I want to keep this blog going, and to do that, I need to keep my head above water. And it's either this or I take out one of those horrible pay-day loans, or sell my dirty underwear on eBay to some pervert in Montana.
LOVE YOU ALL! Thanks.
Alls I Have To Add Is This
Ore : 8:43 AM
Ore : 6:25 PM
The worker, Roger William Hurd, told investigators he didn't know how the bomb got in his truck and was released Friday afternoon.Ah, if only that name included "Muhammed" or, even better, "Hosseini" -- Michelle Malkin and the Little Green Fascists would have gotten weeks worth of posts out of this story. Considering all the seriously deep, stanky doo-doo on modern conservatism's plate, they need the distraction.