Drip drip drip

Caught on the Barbed Wire of Sensation

Monday, March 24, 2008

Live From La La Land



Sometimes I look at the statistics of who, if anyone, might be visiting my ill-tended little blog, and today looking at the details of one individual who stopped in here by accident left me feeling a little sickened. This person had been directed to Barbiturate Bimbos via Google by employing the following search words: homemade euthanasia cocktail for dogs.

This does not portend good things, folks. It's just plain bad. I love my dogs. I love dogs in general. I'm a touchy feely animal lover. I don't want to think about nefarious dog killers even taking a glimpse of my blog . . .it sullies my cyber aura. So, in the figurative tradition of taking a pill to make the pain go away, I've created a little alternative explanation so that I can feel a less creeped out. It goes something like this: Someone has a dog with a terminal illness. They're low on funds because they've already spent oodles of cash on treatments that didn't cure their pet, and now, well, they are turning to google for a painful solution. Understandable, right? (Except for the part about how only someone with a little medical knowledge and access to appropriate chemical compounds would be able to achieve a humane euthanasia, which hints at torture rather than euthanasia, which by in Greek means "to die well").

But wait. I've brought this on myself. Barbiturate Bimbos . . . sodium pentothal . . . euthanasia . . . see where I'm going with this? This is what you get for dabbling in the dark arts or the perverse fun of laughing up the shadowy underbelly of the macabre stuff around us all the time. Sooner or later it becomes more serious, more concrete. Sooner or later it's no longer a joke . . .

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

A weekend of promise and why we never learn . . .


A trip to the zoo. An ice cream cone. Saturday, Sunday mornings in bed. Langorous bouts of coffee drinking. Still life with backyard. A book in hand. A talk. A friend. A taste of freedom. A partridge and a pear tree. A dizzying orgasmarific fun fest.

Oh fellow boring sufferers, why do we never learn? Why must we continually ache for those things which are mere ephemera? Because hope springs eternal, or more likely, we blissfully, willingly fall prey to our short-term memory? Alas it is too much to bear.

To cope with the ever eluding weekend, the weekend that passes in a hazy, unsatisfying blink I suggest an antidote. Plan a horrid weekend. One filled with a distinct lack of promise. Trips to the DMV if you can. Purposefully cold and congealed oatmeal. A painful lack of caffeine. Certainly narry a cocktail, nor an herbal hour in sight. Deprivation and the maintenance of longing: let them become the order of your weekend. Your King Deprevation and Your Queen Unrequited Longing in the Kingdom of Unsoftened Sorrow.

Cold baths. No friends. Stale cereal. Taxes. Dusting. Broom closet organization. Removal of corns and other pesky calluses. David Lynch's Eraser Head. Nietzsche auf Deutsch. Telephone calls to an insurance company . . .

In adhering to the tone immediately above one can ensure an escape from the delusional, hazardous weekend ephemera so commonly found among the more gullible, the pitiably soft among us. Time to stand straight and tend to the sock drawer!

Monday, March 03, 2008

Discovery of Size Difference Between British and American Cadbury Egg Size Sparks Violent Riot!!



Monday – San Francisco woman writhes in fury and indignation upon discovering that Cadbury Eggs produced in the United States are smaller than their British counterparts, which, unlike the American candy eggs, are manufactured in Britain. Unbelievable. In the land of super-size me we're being cheated. How are we to maintain our enviable girth in the early spring if we're being deprived of the fuller, more fabulous Cadbury eggs that the Brits get to nosh on?

So, business proposal/plan extraordinaire: Go to Britain. Buy many, many Cadbury Eggs (including the exotic mint and orange flavored crème eggs). Sell. Become rich enough to build a fortress entirely out of British Cadbury eggs.