There are no words for this…at least, none in English. Indeed, Bjork is obviously not the only kooky musical Icelander. This may not make Paul Oscar a global superstar, but whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s still got his poetry.
blame Perez for passing it along.
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Yep, another spookily accurate one. Wow, is this guy stalking me? Kool: haven’t had a stalker in ages!
Your Toes Should Be Blue |
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Your ideal guy: Zany, hilarious, and totally unpredictable. Stay away from: Anyone who has to get up for work in the morning |
What Color Should Your Toenails Be?
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Well, it’s true. The problem is, I’m a chick, so instead of learning from Mia Sara‘s insipid bimbette, I learned from the master. I learned from Ferris.
So, of course, I’m still single.
Oh, I attract my fair share of men. I attract more than my fair share of men who, while technically men, aren’t actually men in any real sense. See my posts on zeta males for the passive-aggressive response thereto. I attract men who are to Mia Sara as I am to Ferris Bueller.
And this is why I am still single.
Hey, why is the Groucho Club in London in the first place? I mean, was he a regular? Was he a citizen? Was he even “a bloody foreigner” who hung out there and presumably dazzled their women with his superior orthodontistry?
You have to ask these things. If you’re me. And me still single…imagine!
In any case, here is a lovely article from Australia’s Sydney Morning Herald on the life lessons in the great American masterpiece Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. This is all ye know and all ye need to know.
From the Sydney Morning Herald:
As the school secretary points out, “the sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads – they all adore Ferris. They think he’s a righteous dude,” and I’d have to agree.
Ferris Bueller pretty much embodies everything I believe a man should be: a little dangerous, immensely charming, funny, an optimist, adventurous, challenging, a bit dodgy, curious, subversive, latitudinarian and a dab hand with the sheilas.
Anyway, what follows took far longer to produce than it looks, so please read on and discover the secret to life according to Ferris…
And when you do, tell it to the men who are asking me out.
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Joseph Choate once opposed an attorney from wealthy Westchester County.
The attorney, in an attempt to belittle Choate, warned the jury not to be taken in by his colleague’s “Chesterfieldian urbanity.”
Choate, in turn, urged the jury not to be taken in by his opponent’s “Westchesterfieldian suburbanity.”
Gentle readers:
Some of you may have heard vague rumours of the approach of the anniversary of our natal day. The very clear-minded among you will be further aware that the glorious day has already passed (we are, sober as we may be, unsure whether it’s officially 07/10 or 10/07; just as soon as I get one memorized the federal government changes its mind. It’s like living in a disputed border town between the Carolingian and Mayan empires. And last time I checked, they’d switched it to YEAR/MONTH/DAY anyway, just to see if people still pay attention to the government: yes, the way we pay attention to our crazy, rich, nasty uncle whose sole heir we are). The truly perspicacious will know, additionally, that we spent the day, yea, even unto the week, chez Metropolitan and Mistress Cowfish.
And their home, while lamentably gin-free, is nonetheless a charming and well-appointed abode, once you’ve lowered your expectation and decided to grade it on a bell curve restricted to those lamentably deprived zones in the category “Gin-Free,” primarily found in developing, and oppressively theological, countries.
It even has a tiki bar!
On the plus side: tiki bar, relentless dry heat and scorching sunshine, wild animalage including quail toddling about in the front yard, views of the Milky Way and the hilltop vinyard from the hot tub, a fully stocked kitchen innocent of the touch of raw veganistas, pliant staffers, a nice walk to downtown with its bookstores and the large EATSQUID.COM sign (that’s what we call a good sign) and a great deal of beer.
On the minus side: oh, goodness. How to put this…my gosh…um…well…uh, the town.
Let us just say that Metro and Mistress C are perhaps the only people in the region who are neither intimate blood relatives nor parole officers. I’m going to have to start calling him Ruralpolitan. A friend of mine has an historic photo of a group of local farmers who’d rounded up some cattle rustlers; they are keeping a bead on their captives with the use of their shiny and evidently well-used tommyguns.
It’s like that.
The big news in the local paper this week is about a police standoff; they were stood off, it seems, by a drunk with a slingshot. One wonders what grade he’s in.
The local fashion columnist wrote with wounded pride about her humbling trip to the big city (Kelowna? Tacoma? Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump?), during which she was mistaken for a Pussycat Doll.
Ladies and gentlemen: the Pussycat Dolls.
You’ll be getting a sense of the level of sophistication we’re dealing with here. This is a place where Cosmopolitan is nothing more than a fancy crantini or a magazine.
Speaking of which, and you will not believe it, Mr and Mrs Master Cowfish live life in the high desert summer entirely without benefit of ice cubes. This bizarre atavism (for we know they have ice cube trays: we used them last year to make Strawberry and Blueberry cubes for the sangria, as any right-thinking person would have!) is a bad sign. Hopefully by the time I return in a month or so in the period of the New Moon they will not have quite slipped into Shirley Jackson territory, but I’m coming armed, all the same.
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Not much going on visually in this vid, but then if you’re really getting into the spirit of the thing what would you care/how would you know, because of course you’d be headbanging yourself and unable to focus, let alone read. It’s neither Metallica nor Megadeth, it’s some band you never heard of; their lead singer sounds like Elmer Fudd, so is it any wonder you’ve never heard of them? He’s Ozzy Fudd, Mark McCollum, if you must know.
From the Department of Useless Trivia, which is, naturellement, the most crucial department in the whole of raincoasterbloglandia, comes the stunning news that the great Loony Tune known as “What’s Opera, Doc” is fifty ears years old this week.
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Lyrics over the jump: Continue reading
raincoaster 