Well, THIS will fix EVERYTHING

In other news, life no longer has any meaning.

nooooooooooooooooo at mb@blondechampagne.com.

Pointy

Because I am a scholar and only expose my mind to that which is fit for it, this weekend I settled into WE’s Charles and Camilla: Whatever Love Means.

The quality of the program is nothing less than what one would expect from the WE, which can only aspire to the credibility and massive cultural impact of Oxygen.

Largely I was tuning in to see how the wedding was depicted. The whole thing was a part of WE’s “Royal Treatment Weekend,” an entree-of-the-hall round up of every single House of Windsor related object of televised floating detritus it could lay its pink beribboned hands on. So every time I surfed past WE Princess Diana was flinging herself down a staircase or Queen Elizabeth was sniffing “I blame you for this, Chaaaaaaahhhhhhhls” or Chaaaaaaahhhhhhhls himself had come down with a nasty case of the Skywalkers and was whining, “But Mummy…that’s not fair.” Boy, I wish we had a monarchy, here in America.

Whatever Love Means ended with a wedding, all right, but it was the good one, the one where Charles and Diana were married. I don’t remember much of this event myself, except for the fact that it took place on a day when my family and I were to go to the late, great Americana Amusement Park, and the stupid thing had better be over soon because I wanted to ride the Little Dipper, and the Little Dipper waited for no government, foreign or domestic.

‘Tis a sad thing that I recall far more of Charles and Marriage: The Sequel, which took place right around the same time as the funeral Mass of Pope John Paul II. The funeral was only slightly less depressing. The Deuce, in death, looked more robust than the Queen, who frowned and clutched her purse and reigned supreme over a great many horrible hats.

It’s bad when viewers, faced with a head-to-head comparison of the leading forces of the Catholic Church and representatives of the best families of England, are forced to conclude that the cardinals and bishops wear the less ridiculous hats. If I were Camilla, I would have turned around halfway down the aisle all, “No way I’m ruling these people. I'll be back when you're not dressed like a one-nation scene from Seussical.”

to the Queen at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Welcome MSNBC.com readers!

Be at one with the roaring.

squeak! at: mb@blondechampagne.com

God Says BWAH

While home I was home with Jim the Baby Nephew, we partook in a great deal of Sesame Street, and you will be happy to hear that Bob McGrath is still around, although likely not as happy to discover that he is now frighteningly old and strongly resembles a cadaver in a sweater. (“Today’s show was brought to you by the letter 'C'!)

Jim and I also watched Gloria Estafan inform us for three and a half minutes that “Hola Means Hello!” and I was sad that I did not catch the next installment, in which we would have doubtless learned that “Growing Economic Integration Means Increasingly Lackadaisical Border Control!”

But there’s new things to learn as well. I was born way ahead of the Teletubbies, and so I have little knowledge of them other than the fact that the purple one is gayNOTTHATTHERE’SANYTHINGWRONGWITHTHAT, but some fool (Hi, Grandma!) bought him a battery-powered Teletubbie doll. The red one. Its name is Po, and Po sings mind-enriching songs like:

Po Po Po Po PO!
Po Po Po Po Po.
Po Po Po Po POOOOO!

and then Po laughs, and Jim laughs, and every adult within earshot dies a little inside.

Jim also has a moving Santa Claus doll that plays “Jingle Jingle Jingle” when you press his hand, which Jim does on an incessant basis. Po and Santa are all part of God saying BWAHHHH! to Aunt Beth, who once laid herself down in front of a horrible object in Pogue’s department store called Mr. Christmas, which electronically beeped Christmas carols, and if you plugged it into your Christmas tree, the lights would flash on and off in time with the music. This was the best, most obnoxious thing the entire combined wisdom of mankind up until the year 1981 had to offer, and Grandma said that the precious child should have it.

Sorry, Mom.

I'm too much at: mb@blondechampagne.com