It’s Wednesday. Is it ever Wednesday. It’s that Wednesday, in fact, when you’re invited to a fabulous cocktail and catering showcase in a swanky hotel and you get there and the staff says Sorry, it’s not in this hotel, it’s in that hotel, and you go to that hotel and wander around, peeping in the ballrooms and concluding (on very little evidence, it must be admitted, except the Board of Trade cards left on one of the tables) that it looks like no balls were had that day, not even those of the cute bellboy, because you were running a bit late and besides, still weren’t entirely convinced you was in the right hotel, and when you ask the staff they say you were worried for good reason because the event is not, in fact, in that hotel, but in still a third one if it’s anywhere, and now you’ve got a 15-minute walk ahead of you in your flowered sandals which are very pretty but definitely more akin to a cheese wire between your toes than one is or should ever become used to, and so you go halfway to the third hotel, decide you’re hungry and your feet hurt, and stop for a #14 with beef and a diet coke.

THAT Wednesday.

That Wednesday when your computer scan renders the system so unstable that you conclude that it, itself, is a threat, and you delete it.

That Wednesday when you’re 48 hours behind on something that isn’t even due yet and you’re already two days late with it.

That Wednesday when the office is full of people having meetings at the back and guys doing construction at the front, and, very definitely, the smell of dairy products gone bad ages ago, perhaps when Elvis was last in the building, and now lying, forgotten, in a dark corner where they are becoming progressively more expensive cheese products by the day.

That Wednesday when, if you open the door to get some fresh air, the crackies chat you up.

That Wednesday when you think THIS would be a good post.

That Wednesday when you fantasize about winning the lottery and opening this:

The Progress Bar, loading in progress. I'll take the seat closest the whiskey

Ahhhh, that’s more like it. And so, in the name of progress, we present my inaugural link roundup at the ol’ raincoaster blog, a new tradition which is destined to continue at least until Google has seen the error of its ways and reversed The Soundtrack for Losers Situation. Yes, this is what I get paid for, three times a week.

Mean Disney Girls just a bunch of drama queens (raincoaster)
The Beatles, Captured! (Lolebrity)
Rihanna is disoriented, hideous (Ayyyy)
Reznorvision coming soon to your screens? (AgentBedhead)
The Face of Kotex! (BusyBeeBlogger)
Some people will do ANYTHING to impress Sandra Bullock’s castoffs (CeleBitchy)
Spot the cyborgs among us! (CelebrityCosmeticSurgery)
Violent repeat felon seeks custodianship of Lindsay Lohan (CelebDirtyLaundry)
Michael Bolton, it is FAR too late for respect! (CelebritySmack)
Gaga a Go-Go (CityRag)
Naomi Campbell’s feet are HUGE (CojoStyle)
Yes, everyone but me DOES have a book deal (DailyStab)
Macaroni Rascals (DListed)
A foursome isn’t just for golfing and bridge? (EvilBeet)
Sly, stylin’ (GabbyBabble)
Brigitte Nielson is looking younger (GoFugYourself)
Get your Bieber Babies! (HaveUHeard)
Michael Bolton is the Rodney Dangerfield of show pony has-beens (INeedMyFix)
Catching up with Bristol Palin’s favorite show (IBBB)
Oh holy Jeebus, even Hilary Duff has a book deal (JustJared)
This will be some actress’s lowest career point (MovieLine)
Baby Buble (PerezHilton)
B from the block (PinkIsTheNewBlog)
Backney! (PoorBritney)
The Mysteries of Minnelli (PopBytes)
Jon’s got a Ham in his pants (SeriouslyOMG)

And special bonus links:

What we have here is a failure to communicate: Comments vs no comments; the eternal argument

Bukowski: the worst hangover: (warning, this is NSF Peace of Mind)

Harry Potter and the Homework of Vengeance: A GOOD story about spammers

And I’m selling this link service, so if you run a gossip blog, jump on this bandwagon now by leaving me a comment. When I have five subscribing blogs, the price will go up. That’s what you call high-pressure tactics. I read it on JohnChow.com. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with an imaginary bartender.