Thursday, January 08, 2004

Miss Thirtyfour D

Most of you are aware, I am sure, of the acclaimed excellence of my world-famous rack. When my magnificent horse-owning era dawns for me, however, I shall refrain from saddling any of my fillies with such names as "Miss Thirtyfour D."

That is the actual name of an actual filly that Gary "I Just Ride 'Em, I Don't Name 'Em" Stevens will ride today at Santa Anita. This less than a month after climbing aboard "That's An Outrage." Seriously: You can't win like this, Gary. This is the Thoroughbred-naming equivalent of heading down to Deck the Walls in the mall to pick up a quality print of "Dogs Playing Poker" for the State Dining Room of the White House. Does he just flick open the DRF and go, "What undignified-named mount can I get today?"

Let's just go the full nine here and dig up some claimer named "Booger." (Owner: Dave Barry. Headline: "GARY STEVENS WINS TRIPLE CROWN ON DAVE BARRY'S BOOGER.") Kentucky Derbies are won by Man 'O War... Affirmed... Charismatic. Not "Slap And A Lap Dance."

Since foals are usually christened with a nod to the sire and dam, I dug up Miss Hooters Billboard's pedigree to discover from whence her breastosity came.

And it comes from: Nowhere. Her father is the great Bertrando--through whom she is related to the even greater Native Dancer-- and her mother is named "Fine Fettle." So this poor lass is somebody's Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale gone horribly, horribly wrong. I think I will fly out to California this afternoon for the sole purpouse of leaning against the rails to holler: "GO, GARY! I'VE GOT THIRTYFOUR D HERE!!!!" Then I will get back on the plane, quietly satisfied that my life now has meaning.

She is more mercifully named, however, then some of the horses I've seen at the local track, where I have watched, but absolutely not bet on, the following:

-Stinkey Pant's (sic, literally)
-Bushers Chad (okay, that's a porn alias if I ever heard one)
-Naughty Dreadlocks
-Dimpled Ballot (and this one's not even Florida-bred, people)
-Bongsilver (no, really)
-And "It's A Boy", who is-- wait for it-- a gelding.

Bear in mind, however, that the above was written by a person who at the age of nine very cheerfully rode a horse named "GaiBar" and didn't find a single thing suspicious about it until last month, when she announced: "When I left the chute on GaiBar--" and then wondered why people burst out laughing.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Nobody Memorializes Like My NASA

From the NASA PA Office to my inbox to you:

Glenn Mahone/Bob Jacobs
Headquarters, Washington Jan. 6, 2004
(Phone: 202/358-1898/1600)

RELEASE: 04-009


NASA Administrator Sean O'Keefe today announced plans to name the landing site of the Mars Spirit Rover in honor of the astronauts who died in the tragic accident of the Space Shuttle Columbia in February. The area in the vast flatland of the Gusev Crater where Spirit landed this weekend will be called the Columbia Memorial Station.

Since its historic landing, Spirit has been sending extraordinary images of its new surroundings on the red planet over the past few days. Among them, an image of a memorial plaque placed on the spacecraft to Columbia's astronauts and the STS-107 mission.

The plaque is mounted on the back of Spirit's high-gain antenna, a disc-shaped tool used for communicating directly with Earth. The plaque is aluminum and approximately six inches in diameter. The memorial plaque was attached March 28, 2003, at the Payload Hazardous Servicing Facility at NASA's Kennedy Space Center, Fla.

It is just as I have always suspected, then: these Seven, like the Challenger crew and the Apollo Three before them, talk to us still.


Have you seen this amazing Mars footage? You can totally see me not caring about Britney Spears' marriage all the way from another planet. It does this NASA addict's heart good to see pictures of a bunch of rocks beaming out from our blushing neighbor. How the United States of America can simultaneously produce both this and two entire seasons of Joe Millionaire, I am at a loss to explain.

Monday, January 05, 2004

Yeah, thanks.

The last time I was at the track, I was walking by the paddock on my way to the Little Fillys' Room, and passed by a jockey getting last-minute instructions from a trainer. She wound up a detail-laden speech by flinging her arms out and saying: "Big finish!" The jockey suddenly became very, very interested in the details of his whip. Since he couldn't laugh, I picked up his slack and snickered the entire way to the toilet. "Big finish!" Did he and the horse have a solo in the tap-dance finale? Break it down for him, lady. How else is he supposed to know not to fall off or, you know, get to the finish line before everybody else does?

The horse came in eighth, btw. Crappy finish!

I forgot to tell you guys

that 2004? Is already ruined. Happened at 12:00:04 AM on January 1, when ABC cut away from the shots of people celebrating in Times Square because the producer understood that the whole entire world, in order to properly ring in the new year, really needed to see Dick Clark just absolutely tonguing his wife. I mean it was like he was digging for gold in there, people. The party I was attending fell silent in an unholy mixture of shock, horror, revulsion, fear, and the untorn resolve to never touch another human being ever again.

Things were looking up some twenty three hours later, though, when I departed from visiting with a high school friend and her husband ("Guess what! Ten year reunion's coming up in '05! Happy new year!") and as I pulled onto the highway I caught an opossum in my headlights. I swerved to miss it and immediately heard the following: THUMPTHUMP. So, a quality New Year's Day, top to bottom: The Relic, Reunions, and Roadkill.


"Yes, sir, I did bet on baseball," Pete Rose told commissioner Bud Selig during a meeting in November 2002 about Rose's lifetime ban.

"How often?" Selig asked.

"Four or five times a week," Rose replied. "But I never bet against my own team, and I never made any bets from the clubhouse."

"Why?" Selig asked.

"I didn't think I'd get caught."

Can we get a standing ovation for Pete here? And his graduate degree from the Bill "I Think That Stripper Liked Me" Clinton School of Ethical Rationalization? Oh, you'll get in the Hall now, Pete. Because NOW we trust you. You dipshit. You should be disallowed on the basis of your hair alone.

I Think There's Also Some Sort of Small Animal In There

I finally cleared out the 1.7 billion file folders crammed into my desk. (Oh, we do party, here at the Blonde Bachelorette Pad.) Apparently I have not only saved, but FILED, the following:

-$2 in Burger King gift certificates

-Crumbled bits of what seems to have formerly been a leaf

-Connector cables for the printer I owned two printers ago

-The paraphernalia for claiming a $30 rebate from Circuit City that I totally mailed in five weeks ago, which breaks the laws of physics, time travel, and the US Postal Service, but I'm re-mailing it anyway

-A blank Halloween card featuring cows (no envelope)

-87,000 news stories on how Gary "0 for 4" Stevens was going to win everything not nailed down at the 2003 Breeders' Cup

-Notes for what is clearly some sort of marvelous, world-saving essay. "blades= count, push, 4.9" they say. Also: "grosuintsfl! Remember FED!" Okay. That's a Pulitzer.

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