Well-Read

We're all still alive, surprisingly, after this.

Picture it approximately one million times huger, and in color, and you have officially not missed any of the horror involved with seeing the banner-sized version of this. I still say that picture is a touching portrait of a man in a Lady Godiva wig and a shirt from Wet Seal.

I appreciate all of your virtual support. Many thanks to in-person attendees Josh The Pilot, Friendboy Andy, Scott The Taller, and Fletch The Extremist, who must be met to be believed. Fletch is a business major seeking to expand his literary horizons. The highlight of his evening was stumbling upon a sorority's flyer for a breast cancer awareness event, the centerpiece of which is... a taco bar. So, mission accomplished for Fletch.

I read this, which no one seemed to like very much, but I had the microphone and was therefore in the right the whole entire time, so screw 'em. I felt it was appropriate, with this upcoming Derby being the first since I can remember without Pat Day. Furthermore, I knew it would touch the warm hearts of my students who were in attendance from the University of Airplanes, to whom I had just taught Seabiscuit, because only the truly great educators instinctively know that what a bunch of pilots and rocket engineers want to read is 300 pages worth of horse story written by a girl.

There was an excerpt from another essay about a fairly personal topic that I will totally tell you all about in... (counts on fingers) nine days now. It has to do with acting like a total tool, which as you well know by now is a way of life with me, but this was about acting like a total tool in a psychologically-diagnosable fashion.

But everybody clapped, and I got a whole free bottle of water just like competent public speakers do, and went to class today feeling fairly good about everything, until one of my students who was in attendance said, "You know how we had that unit on public speaking? And you told us not to say 'um' or sway or twist our hands? You did that the whole time!" And I smiled and said, "Easier said than done, isn't it?" while actually thinking, "I'd like to see YOU stand up in a roomful of your professors and admit to constantly assuming the fetal position as a result of everyday life, biatch" but sometimes, if you let them feel a little superior, they pity you, and sometimes show up to the next class slightly less hungover, maybe even carrying a pen.

Josh The Pilot taped the whole smash, including some wonderful footage of the floor, and I'm getting it transferred onto DVD, and I will put it on the website, which I have absolutely no idea how to do. So! You have that to look forward to.

I'm tryin at: mb@blondechampagne.com

If You're In Town Redux

Reminder: This is going down tonight. Some of my students may attend, although they want extra credit, because, as one pointed out, "It'll be just like class. We'll only be sitting there listening to you talk."

Stetson has put up flyers all over the place, and in the building housing the English department there's even a banner, which is very disturbing, because what you want to do is walk down a hallway is see a reproduction of your head, actual size, especially when it's this picture.

It's Already Brough-et

Josh The Pilot and I were discussing my latest MSNBC.com article, and he said, as all good boyfriends should, that Stick It sounded horrid, and although he enjoyed Bring It On, a director can make quite a difference in a movie, and--

We now bring you the transcript of the conversation that followed:

ME: You saw... Bring It On?

JTP: Yeah. I have the DVD. And--

ME: You... own the DVD?

JTP: ...and in the commentary track, the director said...

ME: You own a copy of Bring It On and you watched the commentary track? And nobody was threatening you with immediate castration?

JTP: Yes.

ME: I do not love you ANYMORE.

new boyfriend applications being accepted at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Welcome MSNBC.com Readers

This is God's country, one of violent debate over the superiority of various sub sandwiches. You will be happy here.

Regulars, y'all can just stick it.



best! gymnastics career! ever! at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Ringling, Ringling

You should know that I can no longer enter Firehouse Subs, International Speedway Boulevard location, any more. This is why.

1) I came in, perused the very large menu offering entire herds of buffalo in a wrap, made my selection, and, when asked by my Hunger Extinguishing Specialist what I would like, I said the following: “A sub with only mayonnaise.”

2) He paused for a moment, and his pause gave me pause, as I was completely befuddled as to why my order might create confusion for any competent human being, and he said, “You… just... want two pieces of bread? With mayonnaise?”

3) The person behind me in line, I might add, was the assistant to the dean of the college where I teach.

4) As I waited for my mayonnaise and bread and—here’s a novel concept—other things within the sandwich, I stared into space thinking about what a ditz I am, and how I mustn’t stare into space so much, and really should pay more attention to my surroundings, and at the very least not answer the question “What’s your name?” with “Fine, and you?”

5) This caused me to miss the Hunger Extinguishing Specialist asking me, four times, if I would like my order to go.

6) I fled without checking my order, in the process attempting to exit through the entrance.

7) They’d given me grilled cheese instead of my requested sammich. But with two Oreos! I contemplated eating it anyway, but—no. I shall not consume ill-procured Oreos.

8) Return inside. “You’re back,” the Hunger Extinguishing Specialist said flatly. “We were wondering if you would notice.”

9) Shut up, Hunger Extinguishing Specialist.

10) On my way out the door, I attempted to throw away my receipt. The trash can bore the words TRASH in large letters, and for several seconds I pressed very hard between the R and the A, wondering why the little trap door did not swing open. Possibly because the TRASH I was pushing on was in fact a name plaque and the place for actual refuse was the extremely obvious hole at the top of the bin.

11) Witness to the TRASH incident were two Marines with many, many ribbons on their uniforms who I had unwittingly cut in front of in my eagerness to make a colossal ass of myself in their direct view. I’m sorry, United States Marines Corps.

THIS WEEK ON BUSTEDHALO.COM’s “CATHOLICS WITH LARGE, VATICAN II-ERA AXES TO GRIND”: More hatemongering!

I hear Subway’s not bad at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Lenten Observance UPDATE

Graeter's mint chocolate chip ice cream achieved at 11:41 AM.

Sweet at last.

Eater Easter at: mb@blondechampagne.com