Well, we’ve had some bombastic requests from members of the machosphere to lighten up on the “what lip gloss texture are you?” quizzes and up the “are you just a manly man or do you actually make Paul Bunyan look gay?” quizzes, so here’s the macho-iest one I could find, stolen from the Phantom Lord of Ultimate Darkness:
Your Penis Name Is… |
|
|
Operation Global Media Domination
Indeed, no sooner had I cried to the heavens with wailing and the rending of garments (well, they were slightly torn already, but surely that counts? Like, God wouldn’t be picky about placement in linear time, would he? Ya think a deity doesn’t have better things to do than fart around with continuity details? Puh-leez!) about the loss of my paid gig than the clouds parted (probably accompanied by the Red Sea, but I can’t tell from here…anybody got Google Earth?) the angels sang (NIN’s Year Zero
It’s a scary, only-virtually hedonistic place in there, Gizmodo: the kind of Xanadu that a Zeta Male imagines is heaven…imagines from the comfort of a Barcalounger in his mom’s basement. IE his mom’s basement, but with more stuff!
Anyway, I lost a job and, true to form, I whined. I mean, if I hadn’t whined you’d have had grounds to send in a missing person’s report, as I’d obviously have been abducted and replaced with some sort of replicant. Some pray, I whine. What can I say? The payout rate is better when I do it my way.
Fun blogging to re-commence in 24 minus n hours!
Which reminds me: for some reason I thought there was an underwear hook on this post…if it re-occurs to me, I’ll make an underwear-related post to explain. Gawd knows what it was, only it had something to do with doctors and Amy Winehouse.
Attention girls, women, womyn, ladies, and Eddie Izzards of the Blogosphere: over at TeenyManolo we are giving away a super-stylin’ Stila lip glaze stick, worth $16.50 in American Greenbacks. You put out for us, you win a chance to get us to put out for you. Which is kind of like gender reversal, but whatever.
To tell the truth, I’m horrified at the idea of flavoured Martinis in the first place. Oh sure, it was a kick ten years ago at Delilahs (I never DID get all the way through the Martini menu, at least, not that I recall…) but when one is a grownup one should not order Bartender’s Rootbeer and the ilk except on Eighties Night. And one most certainly should not call it a Martini.
Nonetheless, this is one scary-accurate quiz. Oogatz! It knows me as well as my best friends (you can tell they’re my best friends because I let them pick up the tab).
You Are a Chocolate Martini |
|
A bit of a cheapskate, you’re likely to mooch ten dollar drinks off both friends and strangers. You should never: Drink and dash. You’re gonna get caught leaving someone with the tab! Your ideal party: A posh celebrity party you crash, with an open bar. Your drinking soulmates: those with a Classic Martini personality Your drinking rivals: those with a Blueberry Martini personality |
It was a beautiful Sunday. Not a drop of rain, just enough sun to burn off the moisture from the Seawall, leaving it perfect for skating. A slight sea breeze, keeping it cool enough to be enjoyable and Chinatown fresh enough not to attract too damn many screaming shithawks. My chores were done, my work was done, and I was free.
I checked my email.
Suddenly, it was no longer a perfect Sunday. It was a deeply, irrevocably flawed Sunday.
It was the Sunday on which I found out that the contract which makes up 40% of my income had vanished, Poof, into thin air. The company just stopped paying their bills, it seems. The company for whom I’m subcontracting is going to pay me for my work to this point, but not beyond, so suddenly I find myself with a considerable amount of free time and a considerable hole looming in my bank account.
Naturally, I self-medicated in an entirely irrational fashion. I figure if the universe can be irrational to me, I can be irrational right back. I went on what someone on a budget as tight as mine would call a bender: I went to the Ovaltine for a house burger and diet Coke, $7, then I took myself down to the A&N boutique where I bought two new, lacy bras for $4.98 apiece and three summer tees at 3 for $9.99, and then I went for a long walk down Robson where I saw many, many shoes I now cannot afford and even walked right past the 40% off sale at the Gap without so much as going in or even pining much, and then I went to Dix and bought myself an IPA and a Red Truck Ale and a very nice man heard me out and bought me a conciliatory Red Truck as well, although believe me, when I’m on a vegan diet it doesn’t take much to get me quite entertainingly loopy and I was, and then we talked about El Alamein and Monte Cassino and Ypres and many similarly cheerful topics dating from before we were both born.
And then I came home, thought about working out, thought ah, fuckit tonight because, really, how often can anyone, even me, have a day like this, and decided to work my aggro out watching V for Vendetta yet again. If I’m still aggro-acious in a few hours, I’ll suck down a coffee and go out for a run.
Anybody need a blogger?
raincoaster 