. . .

Okay, Ernest Borgnine walks into a bar

For those of us in our viewing (listening?) audience who are not reading this, who are for example skiing through... the... Alps or something, well, I just want to say that right now, right at this very second, though not at the second that you read this, unless you either a) HAVE sorry have a time machine and are using it to read emails as they are being written for some odd reason (in which case you must have an invisibility and intangibility machine as well, as I just swirled around and waved my arms behind me, in which case why are you wasting your time on this trivial reading emails as they're being written stuff when you could be ruling the world? Don't tell me you couldn't rule the world with a time machine alone. With the other things, you would be unstoppable.), b) are psychic and are reading my mind from a distance, which is slightly more likely, or c) are living in your own little world, which is the most likely of all considering a) who I am, and b) who I'm dealing with, I'm listening to The Masochism Tango. Well, at least, I was when I started this whole mess.

(Um, Cheri, I feel obligated to warn you. Since I have resolved to keep the sex jokes to a minimum, but I just had the urge, the next paragraph will contain one, and you can skip it.)

So. I hear reports that both of youse have SOs (as opposed to SOSs). One Jewish, one Tim. Does this mean my chances for a menage a trois have dropped?

There. I feel better now.

And there's the Masochism Tango again. I am so blessed.

I went shopping for CDs yesterday. I picked up (among other things) Duck Stab, and the Smoke Two Joints single. And stuff.

No. No. No! No! NO! NO!!!

No.