If you've got it, flaunt it. If you haven't, flout it.

Look - I know what you want. And while I'd really like to provide you with lists of my favorites in many categories, I simply won't allow myself to commit to any log of superlatives. This is because I know how susceptible I am to the recency effect. Which is to say that any such list that I produce would read like a who's who of the High School Musical trilogy.

Y'know - I'm sick and kinda tired of being penciled in. Just once - and actually once would be more than enough but it's really as low as I'll go - I'd like to be penned in.

Got another injection of the man magick today at the doctor's office. I then went to get the testosterone patches that were called in to the apothecary section of my local convenience store, but was told upon arriving that those patches must be special ordered. Probably from Frederick's of Hollywood. And I was so looking forward to having bright and shining dreams tonite from wearing the patch to bed. You see, I've heard tell that nicotine patches do that very thing when they're worn at night. But since testosterone patches are meant to be worn day and night, the psychedelic effects have probably been boiled out.

And speaking of that doctor's office, I sacked out in the examination room twice today while waiting for the doctor to apparate. Ever since the former head surgeon (look for the dirty knees) took a sabbatical and promptly dropped dead that place has been a comedy of errors. Why, it's just a madhouse -- what with patients getting correct diagnoses the first time, nurses missing opportunities to tell normally-sized people that they're overweight based on the BMI chart, doctors seeing patients punctually - sometimes even before the appointed time, and office workers being pleasant to others. A madhouse, I tell ya.

But I did (finally) get another 200 mg injection of testosterone packed in a hot mustard carrier fluid. My island doctor didn't ask me how much she should give me this time, but she did start out by saying that I was to get 100 and then doubled it for an unknown reason. That's likely one of those situations that require questioning. But alas, I just sat quietly in awe.

I swear I could not feel the needle prick in the least. Which is really a shame since I do actually love acute pain. But y'know - I got the shot even before my current level could be assessed. I know this because I got the shot before they even took any blood.

Gosh, I sure hope it was as low as I told the doctor it sorta seemed to be since I'm pretty sure she really shouldn't believe everything I say.

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.

Kick 'er out o' bed

I really thought I wasn't going to make it to an actual entry today, what with all the clean-up I've been performing on my previous posts. That's right, it takes time for me to get these thingies to my liking. So while it may very well seem as though my contributions to the blog-o-sphere just kinda spontaneously combust from the end of my virtual pen, I can assure you that each word is carefully crafted and lovingly placed in its position proper.

I found a quite humorous concept in picture form today:


It's the prancing moose. Get it? Okay, I'll try to keep this under a thousand words, although I shouldn't proverbially be able to. Ferrari S.p.A., you see, has a prancing horse symbol. So now Swedish offerings such as Volvos and Koenigseggs and Saabs and ABBA have their own version of this iconic, um, well...icon.

Went to a going away party today for a girl who worked for me in '98. It really doesn't seem like 10 years ago, but then I've proved time and again not to be the best one to ask when someone needs to keep track of a decade. I'm always a year or two late for everything.

Y'know, it's amazing how differently people respond to me now that I am not fishing for their approval. I don't know (nor should I much care, I suppose) whether I come across as having more confidence or just a shorter fuse, but there's a definite decrease in the gibes and aspersions cast my way of late. This even holds for jerks I've known for years and who've always had nothing but active enmity for me.

All I know for sure, and I suspect this is really little more than a hunch, is that it's awfully ironic how accepting people are of you when you don't care whether or not they accept you.

It's also ironic how much time you find you have for that ironing you don't need to do when you take your clothes to the cleaners and don't have to worry about all that laundry. But then iron-y stuff is always pretty ironic, wouldn't you agree?

I've been debating telling you this, but since I've finally come to grips with the fact that there really isn't anyone out there anyway, here goes. I have low T. So low that it's off the scale. Sure, that's troubling, but the more urgent issue is which restroom to use.

I go tomorrow to my LSD PCP to see about getting my testosterone raised to a level that should have hair sprouting from my fingertips within a week. I don't know exactly why I thought to have it checked other than my tendency to associate more with the woman's side on Cosmo quizzes. That and my lack of body hair. Oh, and the fact that I can hit soprano C. Not really, but I am a tad concerned about how my upper register will react when I start taking those sexy hormones.

I mean, I don't want to just squeak by as Jesus in "Godspell" next February.