Thursday, November 24, 2005

"As God As My Witness..."

From one Cincinnatian to the world... happy Thanksgiving.

Les: (broadcasting) I'm here with hundreds of people who have gathered to witness what has been described as perhaps the greatest turkey event in Thanksgiving Day history. All we know for sure is that in a very few moments, there are going to be a lot of happy people out here. Now the crowd is...the crowd is...(reacting to people staring at him and brushing by) the crowd is curious, but well-behaved. Oh! I think I hear something now. Uh, the crowd is moving out into the parking area, and...oh yes, I can see it now. It's a...it's a helicopter, and it's coming this way.

Andy: A helicopter?

Les: It's flying something behind it...I can't quite make it out. It's a large banner and it says, uh - Happy... Thaaaaanksss... giving! ... From... W.... ... K... ... R... ... P! What a sight, ladies and gentlemen, what a sight! The copter seems to be circling the parking lot now, perhaps looking for a place to land...no, something just came out of the back of the helicopter! it's a...a dark object, uh...perhaps a skydiver, plummeting to the earth from only 2000 feet in the air...and a second, and a third! ...No parachutes yet....Those can't be skydivers... I can't tell just yet what they are, but--Oh my God, they're turkeys!!! Oh, no, Johnny, can you get this? Oh, they're crashing to the earth right in front of our eyes! One just went through the windshield of a parked car! Oh, this is terrible. The mob is running around pushing each other...oh my goodness. Oh, the humanity! People are running about...the turkeys are hitting the ground like sacks of wet cement! Folks...I don't know how much longer they're...the crowd is running for their lives. I think I'm going to step inside...I can't stay out here and watch this any longer...Children are searching for their mothers, and...oh, not since the Hindenberg tragedy has there been anything like this! I don't know how much longer I can hold my position here, Johnny. The crowd...

Johnny: Les? Les? Les, are you there? Thanks for that on-the-spot report, Les. And for those of you who just tuned in, the Pinedale Shopping Mall has just been bombed with live turkeys. Film at eleven.

Venus: Les! Are you okay?

Les: I don't know. A man and his two children tried to kill me. After the turkeys hit the pavement, the crowd kind of scattered, but some of them tried to attack me. I had to jam myself into a phone booth. Then Mr. Carlson had the helicopter land in the middle of the parking lot. I guess he thought he could save the day by turning the rest of the turkeys loose...it gets pretty strange after that.

Andy: Aw, Les, c'mon now, tell us the rest.

Les: I really don't know how to describe it. It was...like the turkeys mounted a counterattack! It was almost as if they were ...organized.

Mr. Carlson: As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.

no, there's not really a Pinedale Shopping Mall here at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Dave The Reader Is Awesome!

Many thanks to Dave The Reader, who is already kindly helping to pick up the loss of revenue from the Great Google Nipple Ads Experience.

Dave! at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Shaking the Moneymaker

Because some of you have good taste but no lives, you've asked after the whereabouts of the Google ads formerly located at the top of the page. I know this is a very technical, web-specific explanation, but I am afraid they went bye-bye.

They went bye-bye because--not that I like to draw hasty generalizations about my readers--you don't seem to be the type of people heavily into buying fake nipples. Google, you see, uses a very specific program that the searches keywords of an advertising partner's webpage and spits out ads that, in very remote portions of the solar system, pertain to the copy contained therein. So because I made the world-ending mistake of typing the word "bra" four times in seven paragraphs here, Google made the very logical assumption that my readers have no nipples, and advertised accordingly. And you can only load your own webpage so many times before alerts concerning the September Super-Perky Sale grow tiresome.

Therefore: Bye-bye, Google. Hello, more ramen noodes.

eat! at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Pounding

I'm sitting here happily contemplating my liquor. It's pretty much all you can do, at this point in the Bengals-Colts game, which after the first quarter currently stands at 14,295-14,181.

I meant to gather some alcohol unto me on Friday night, because Flipper was coming to visit so's she could have a movie buddy for Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire; Goblet Of Fire Now Available Only At Target For $19.95. So I went to a liquor store so as to have some sort of wine selection not involving a cardboard box, and then I decided that I should invite Mr. Peach Schnapp's to the party, but, contrary to popular opinion, I did not need the bigol bottle, just a little bottle, the kind I keep strapped to the podium for sustenance between classes.

These smaller bottles were kept behind the counter, which was unfortunate, because it forced my least-favorite thing: Interaction with another human being.

And this human being, there at the liquor store, had been clearly intimate with the inventory for quite some time, preparing specifically for my arrival.

ME: I'd like a traveller's bottle of the Peachtree, please.

LIQUOR STORE GUY: (pointing to a bottle holding, like, two microns of liquid) This one?

ME: No, the next larger size.

LIQUOR STORE GUY: (pointing to a bottle of Peach Pucker) This one?

ME: No, the Peachtree.

LIQUOR STORE GUY: (triumphantly brandishing a bottle of peppermint Schnapp's) Oh! This one!

Then I made the fatal error of asking for two tiny samples of flavored Margaritaville tequila-- one mango, one tangerine-- and after first emphasizing that I wanted two bottles, one of each, no, one, of each, I got back to the Blonde Bachelorette Pad and found, not at all to my shock, two bottles of tangerine. Well, at least there were, indeed, two. I'll need them now.

drink! at: mb@blondechampagne.com

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