Headline Wars

This round so totally goes to Canada. Why? Well, let’s see…what did the widely respected Guardian have as a front-page headline two days ago?

Queen’s Grandson to Marry in Castle.

Like, duh. You think he’s going to do it in a graveyard at midnight, a Vegas Chapel of Luv, or some unpronounceable South American bureaucrat’s office? No; he’s Peter Fucking Phillips and he is going to goddam well get married at Windsor Castle and we DO NOT NEED A NEWSPAPER to tell us that.

The story, strangely, appears to be offline now. Perhaps they came to their senses, or perhaps I’m not the first to have remarked on the remarkable stupidity of that headline.

And what, you may ask, is this world-beating entry from the Socialist Republic of Canuckistan? Just this:

He’s Eating My Brain! I Can Feel It!

Naturally, it takes more than a grizzly bear attack in which he gnaws on your brain to keep a Canadian down; the fellow actually picked himself up after the bear was done with him and drove himself 25 kilometres to a gas station, where they called for help.

His hands were so swollen and bloody, he could barely get his keys out of his pocket, said Case, an experienced outdoorsman.

“I knew that if I didn’t drive and have the fortitude to control things, I was going to die.”

Case then drove 25 agonizing kilometres to the closest town to seek help. He finally reached a gas station and asked the attendant to call for an ambulance.

“I think my brains are hanging out,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m alive. I started wiggling my fingers and toes…”

“I said [to the doctors], ‘There’s nothing hanging out that you’re not telling me?’ They said, ‘No, you’re OK'”

“They started using the peroxide and, ‘Ooh,’ I said, ‘that hurt more than the bear!'”

Badassery. We haz it.

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Elizabeth Taylor, cinematic icon, heartbreaker, survivor, nutcase

Queen Elizabeth Taylor

She’s STILL big. It’s the pictures that got small.

You know, that woman may or may not be batshit insane but, given the fact that she literally cannot remember a time when she wasn’t world-famous, and given that she has earned her own way to her place in history, it’s hard to begrudge the old bat her jewels, her antics, her men, her millions, or her attitude. Of course she’s on a star trip: she’s THE star! She is, and always has been, Elizabeth Fucking Taylor.

Which reminds me of something Katherine Hepburn said about … was it Ruth Gordon?…

“Of course the bitch is good in closeups. She invented them!”

quiz: which 19th Century literary heroine are you?

I thought I took this before, but couldn’t find it. And who ELSE would I be?

Greer Garson as Elizabeth Bennet

Which Early 19th Century Literary Heroine Are You?


You are Elizabeth Bennet from Jane Austen’s fabulous book “Pride and Prejudice.” Elizabeth is witty, vivacious, smart, funny, beautiful, and all together amazing. However, she lets her pride get in the way of several things that could make her happy. But that is canceled out by her realization of this and her subsequent humility, which makes her even more perfect.
Take this quiz!

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Simon Cowell vs Edna the Mother-in-Law

This goes a long way to explaining why the man’s never married. If all their mother-in-laws are like this, it’s a wonder British men ever get hitched.

Edna totally pwns him, too. Enjoy watching the fearsome Simon Cowell conquered, eating crow and smiling through his pain, for the first and possibly only time in his entire life. Who doesn’t like to start the day with a little Schaedenfreude?

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Best Before: this post is entirely motivated by my wish not to have a stupid quiz at the top of the blog the day I get a direct link from Defamer

Saudi Shopping

There, I said it.

So now I’m just going to up and tell you about the time my mother was offered a quarter of a million for me.

Shoot. There goes the punchline.

So…previously on the ol’ raincoaster blogmy mother used to live in Riyadh with a CIA agent. Her job was at the King Fahd Hospital (I think every Saudi city has a King Fahd Hospital) in medical records, and, as one does, she had pictures of her children on and around her desk.

The Saudis, being relatively new to the modern world, had imported vast numbers of support and technical staff from the West, yea even unto Canuckistan, and occasionally ther would be slight episodes of culture shock in one or more directions.

This was one of those times.

The Saudis, being relatively new to the modern world but nobody’s fools, their Gucci tabs notwithstanding, had sent entire generations of young men to be trained in the West, choosing top of the totem pole jobs like doctor, dentist, etc. You won’t find many Saudis abroad studying to be lab technicians: that’s what Americans are for, duh. Support staff is imported, bosses are homegrown but schooled abroad.

And one of these Saudi doctors was in my mother’s office, no doubt complaining, as they all did, that the medical transcriptionist (who hailed from, if memory serves, Tennessee and had, consequently, great difficulties with English) had mistaken his Oxonian vowels, not to mention his Etonian (or at least Harrovian) consonants, and typed that the pregnant woman was dilated to “twenty-five hundred meters” rather than the “twenty-five sontemeters that he’d actually said.

And his glance happened to fall on a portrait of yours truly. And it is a fact universally acknowledged that a young Saudi doctor possessed of a secure job at the King Fahd Hospital must be in want of wife #1.

So he made an offer.

A quarter mil.

I should be honoured: Brooke Shields‘ mother was only offered forty racing camels. I did the exchange at the time and figured out I was worth about fifteen thou more than she was. Obviously the economies of Riyadh and Milan operate on completely different principles, if not planets.

Mother was nobody’s fool, and also possessed of the same demented and twisted DNA as I, myself: the family anything-for-a-story trait surfaced and she decided to bicker with him.

Fifteen minutes passed and she got the price up by forty k and a couple of pedigreed camels, but he wouldn’t go to three hundred thou, for very good reason.

As he pointed out, there’s got to be something wrong with a girl who’s 23 and not married yet. Smart cookie: it took my boyfriend of the time simply months to figure that out.

Yes, I was marked down because I was past my Best Before date.

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