Middle of the night considerations while wondering why I don't just fall down when the earth spins round and round
"I don't believe in failure. It is not failure if you enjoyed the process." -- Oprah Winfrey
OK, yes. That is ignorant. So does that mean that if I had fun convincing an entire nation with fear and lies to join me in a crusade to invade a country that never threatened my country, say that it is going to be oh so incredibly easy, and then lose in an incredibly embarrassing fashion where many, many people die needlessly, that I am not a failure? (No, in that case, I reek of fail regardless of how many times I try to convince myself otherwise. But I had fun, so it's OK. And my daddy still loves me.) But anyway, hooray. I'm elated our standards are so low. Thanks, Oprah.
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Do not attempt to speak to a cat in a fake, poorly enunciated Irish accent. It doesn't work. It's frightening to the cat and might induce vomiting on your shoes that are over there lying in the corner. That wasn't my experience, but Ralph (Wolfie) didn't seem impressed.
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A simple excursion to Cracker Barrel for my grandma's 85th birthday last Friday included:
1) My mom seeing her friend in the parking lot--a friend my dad dated before meeting my mom whom he still holds many grudges against--and dad walking way, way, way out of the way to get into the restaurant without being sighted while mumbling all along the way about "Your mom better not invite her over to lunch."
2) A server who admitted he drank eight cups of coffee and, as a result, could not control the volume of his voice.
3) My grandma, who is one of the kindest people I know, giving me a look that could kill when I did not want any of her strawberry shortcake. I took a small bite so I would not have the misfortune of feeling her anger. The nicest ones carry the most unholy wrath when provoked.
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Musician discovered tonight on the well-stocked iPod my brother expected me to buy from him for $250, but for which no money has yet to be exchanged nearly a year later: Sondre Lerche
Speaking of which, you know how some baseball teams allow their players choose a song to play when they come to bat? Mine would be Icky Thump.
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Speaking of unholy wrath, the sponsored voice inside my head today is Lou Dobbs. (In case you were not aware, I rent my brain to various political talking heads for a fee. Some work with me better than others. But, dammit, why did I let Dobbs in there? I mean, the money is nice and all, but I shouldn't be whoring out my brain to just any loudmouthed commentator. But I suppose it's better than the day I let Bill O'Reilly AND Sean Hannity control my brain. It wasn't worth the tumors or all the babies they made me eat after stealing them from orphanages, which were set on fire.) For a split second there, I was truly outraged at the war on the middle class. Unfortunately, he is yelling at me too much, and I don't know what to do in my cash-driven schizophrenic state. If I'm not mistaken, he just accused me of being an illegal immigrant who loves communist China, and I have to go to sleep to get Dobbs out. It's really too bad. Had he been a little less forceful, I could have been on the border right now building a wall, fixing our broken borders. Oh well. Bye now.