Look, children - that's the diction dolt living in that umbrella

I'm no fan of the Staff Call. In fact, I wouldn't walk across the hall for a free gyro wrap if I had to sit in on someone's Staff Call to get it. For I simply cannot concentrate on blogging with all the urgent-but-probably-not-THAT-important information that gets bandied about during those get-togethers. Loudmouths, the lot of 'em. Especially that guy who swaggers around like I put him in charge or something.

This is chortle-worthy:


I do hope you agree. If not, I'd really rather not have my jackass-like guffawing interrupted just to hear all about your warped sense of humor. So stick that in your rucksack and have a nice hike.

I'm slowly making it through all those old Scorpions albums I made off with from BitTorrent. If anything, their English got worse, their Teutonic-tinged pronunciations more pronounced, and their lyrics even lamer as the years dragged on. I say this proves my view that they're actually from Sheboygan and the whole tortured German rocker thing was but a schtick.

I've been injected with a full 200 mg of farm-grade testosterone. And boy, is my back furry. Not really, but I'm sure that's coming. So my 233 plus that 200 should put me at around 436, well within the normal range of 241-827. I get rechecked in a month. I'm still a bit fuzzy (cf. furry) on the details of how it's supposed to last that long or whether it isn't but is instead intended to prompt whatever it is in me that makes the magickal masculine material to make more. It's not for lack of asking, mind you, just my general lack of understanding of ambiguous answers delivered with a Jamaican accent.

(And yes, I do know what it is that makes testosterone, I'm just far too patrician to utter the word. I'll gladly call Sarah Silverman and have her say it to you if you'd like - she's kinda nuts like that.)

So that island doctor o' mine asked me whether I wanted the 100 or the 200 mg shot. She was planning to give me the 100, said she, but really wanted to know my preference. Strange, thought I. After jumping at the chance to get more, of course. I mean, I am a greedy, conniving, lemon-scented American with a heart of gold after all.

Aw, this is my very last piece of Bubble Yum. No, I'm not going into that diatribe again, but I did want you to know what I am actively and somewhat arduously saving you from.

I felt vindicated the other day but couldn't think of the word. All I could come up with was redeemed or exonerated. I knew they weren't exactly what I was looking for, so I didn't say anything. But now that I have the word I have no recollection of why I needed to use it. And since I didn't say anything for fear of thereafter being known as the diction dolt, neither does anyone else.

Don't you hate when you've forgotten something that no one else knew about and so there's no one to compensate for your poor memory? Don't recall, do ya? Well, just go ask your significant other.

Me? I use this petrified wireless mouse that I've yet to find a suitable replacement for. It's the best pointing device on the market, except that it's no longer on the market. It's a Logitech Cordless Click. And I want another one, sniffle.


Ain't it a beaut? The side-scroller is what's so amazing. I've yet to find another with even an inkling of the tactile pleasure that the Click delivers in spades. Here's hoping it never gets thrown from a 14-story office building or eaten by a cat.