Thursday, July 15, 2004

I TOLD you it was all about the cross-linking

While catching up on an email buddy's site, I discovered that John The Catholic Packer fan has ALSO recently waved the banner of the Blonde. JTCP is a fellow member of the Notre Dame family, and every now and then he will type to me about how awesome I in fact am, so you know that, like Marla, he is also a magnificent human being.

I see this as a trend. Yes, let all the world link to BlondeChampagne and the whole entire site will just turn over to me waving regally at My People.

Back atcha, Fellow Grotto Adherent.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

It's All About the Cross-Linking

Major good-taste props going out to Marla, The Proverbial Wife today and her big ol' plug for this increasingly frightening little stall on the Internet. Originally known as "Inky" to me, she and I palled around back in The Day on a pay-to-read network, Blogit, which if you really loved me you'd subscribe to for .000000001 cents a click.

Marla, back atcha, babe.

Warning: Marla's blog does not contain profanity.

Stretch Out With Your Feelings, Baby

The Real World sucks, I've found. It's nothing but wax build-up and The Man.

And I'm stuck here. I have no choice but to face reality, begin contributing to society, and put my degree in political science to work by marrying Obi-Wan Kenobi.

I bet he has some kickass health insurance, which is the primary quality I seek in a man. Also, when Obi-Wan does get old, I already know what to expect: He's going to turn into Alec Guinness. This is an unmitigated plus because God only knows how any of us are going to geezer out, and you could do much, much worse than a Depends-age Alec Guinness. When Jerry Hall hooked up with Mick Jagger, for instance, all she wound up with, eventually, was an old Mick Jagger, who is looking more and more like Moses these days, assuming Moses spent the entire Nixon administration exceeding the recommended daily allowance of the narcotics food group.

call me Obi-Wan, you're my only hope at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Well, great.

You know this post? The one from about a month ago? The one where after I wrote it I walked around quite assured that it was this century's coming of "Shooting an Elephant"?

Yeah. It's dead.

The entire metaphor, the entire brilliant, carefully constructed day-job-as-lethal-starting gate metaphor, is officially crapped up. Rock Hard Ten, damn him, has overcome his raging case of Gate Phobia.

He did it on Saturday at Hollywood Park in the Strub Stakes. You should have seen the look on this pony's face. Where before the gate crews attempted to pet and cosset and in general woo him into the slot, a new starter-- a Red State voter, I'm thinking-- took hold of the Rock with a Thou Shalt Not Screw With Me hand and for a week proceeded to scream at him until he understood who was in fact the boss. And once race day came he yelled "BACK BACK BACK BACK!" right up in the Rock's grill and then slapped his overgrown ass directly into the gate. No bucking. No spinning. None of this pansyass "I AM GOING TO GET INTO THE GATE! WITHOUT ACTUALLY GETTING INTO THE GATE!" crap. No, Rock Hard Ten trotted into that box. He TROTTED. And then meekly stood there while another horse had his bridle replaced.

Puss.

Well, he did win by three and a half lengths. I think he surprised himself. "Ohhhhhhh, so this is what happens when I don't diva out during the loading! Well, live and learn and screw Blondie's essay up."

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Check Please

Lately I've been subsisting on the Diet of the Clearly Depressed. Here is what I ate today:

Breakfast: Bile, angst

Lunch: Croutons.

Dinner: Seventeen french fries. Pie.

Part of this was the product of being quite out of food, which necessitated a trip to the grocery, which I had neither the money nor the energy to undertake. This would have involved movement, and also putting on a bra. I went, though, and got a quarter of a watermelon. Pudding, too. I'll need a good breakfast tomorrow.

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