While the residents of Moore, Oklahoma are coming to grips with the horror that happened yesterday, their belovedSenators didn’t waste any time in fucking them hard in the ass. Actually, Sen. Coburn would probably prefer to ass-rape the poor of this country as violently as possible, but it looks like Sen. Inhofe isn’t sure if he’d like to aid in lubrication–granted it doesn’t cost too much and loosen up other parts of the body–so to speak.
A little rough for you? Too bad. If you’re offended by my salty language, you’re not paying attention.
See, if you haven’t noticed, the GOP has this thing about NOT helping the poor, and they’ll go to any lengths to do it–including stalling federal monies to help out disaster-ridden areasuntil cuts are made to OFF-SET the costs of disaster relief. Where are these cuts supposed to occur, you ask? Why, to programs that benefit the poor and under-served in this country, that’s where! C’mon guys! We allll know that the folks/entities who REALLY need our help are the 1 percent and big oil! Wee! (Like I had to tell you. If you don’t know, then once again, you ain’t paying attention.)
Sen. Tom Coburn (courtesy AP)
See, Coburn’s misguided and archaic conservative values are more important than actually helping his constituents, and he’ll get away with it because he’s retiring in 2016. He doesn’t have to worry about re-election so why the hell not?
The ideology of Coburn and his ilk is much more important than ensuring that US citizens are relatively safe and cared for. What’s even more disturbing is there isn’t any economic rationale for this choady behavior. In other words, they’re doing it just to be assholes.
What I find surprising is none of the pundits and other GOP mouthpieces haven’t come out in support of Coburn … yet. I’m hoping that maybe they’re just as in shock as the rest of us who care about our fellow Americans, and believe that we need to pull together when disaster strikes.
But, who knows.
However, if memory serves, his fellow conservative legislators will be toeing the Coburn line soon enough. Before that happens, I hope they all have the balls to watch some of the footage of survivors, and witness the anguish on the faces of those who lost loved ones in the twister.
I’ll even provide a smidgen of the footage for them to look at whilst yanking the puds of BP, Wall Street et al.
Why am I surprised when an infamous person’s 15 minutes of fame is extended thanks to the brilliant idea of making a sex tape?
I keep hoping that humanity will man-up and put the kibosh on this phenom and actually heap huge rewards upon those of us who worked out asses off and played by the rules. But, as long as there’s a buck or two–or a million–to be made, Z-list celebs and their penchant for recording every fucking move for their half-wit fan base will continue until the sun explodes and kills us all.
Let this sink in and we’ll discuss it.
From The Daily Beast.
Report: ‘Teen Mom’ Signs $1M Porn Deal
“Looks like Farrah Abraham’s “sex tape” is being made into a porno after all. The Teen Mom star reportedly inked a nearly $1 million deal with Vivid Entertainment for the release of her tape, after initially claiming it was for private use only. The porno with James Deen allegedly comes with a classy title, too: “Farrah Superstar: Backdoor Teen Mom.” While most suspected the tape was good old-fashioned porn, Abraham and even Vivid founder and co-chair Steven Hirsch ran with the “sex tape” ruse for a while. Deen, meanwhile, tried to set the record straight that no one would believe it was for private use. “I said I’m like the worst person for this job because, not to be arrogant, but people are gonna know me,” he told The Daily Beast.“
For those of you who don’t know who Farrah Abraham is, she is one of the stars of MTV’s reality series “Teen Mom.” Like all of the participants on that show, Farrah realized that as soon as her water broke, being a teen mom just plain sucks wang because not only does she have to deal with the trials and tribulations of being a teenager, she’s also a new mom! From what I’ve heard, being a new mom at any age is the toughest gig around. From time to time I would watch the season which featured Farrah, but had to stop due to the chronic laryngitis I got from yelling at the tee vee.
Admittedly, Farrah was different from most teen moms featured because her baby daddy died in a car crash prior to the birth of their daughter, Sophia, so she didn’t have worry about which baseball cap the baby daddy would be wearing when he picked up their kid for a play date with his new girlfriend’s kid. Or whether or not his facial hair was properly cared for.
the sage advice of the King of All Snake Oil Salesmen, Dr. Phil, and we can use an egg timer to tell us exactly when she’ll be spit out of the ass-end of the porn industry. Well, that and the fact that she’s about as bright as a dove bar.
Am I completely surprised by this? Nah, but what this tells me is I need to have a teen mom, make a sex tape and collect a sub-mental fan base.
I’m fried. Burned out. Toast. Beat to a pulp. Dead behind the eyes. Numb.
And I haven’t done anything physically taxing. It doesn’t make sense.
I’m suffering from knowing that I have no purpose, nothing to offer and nothing to show for my roughly four decades on this rock.
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Being unemployed blows fucking donk.
It has zapped my energy, my will to create as well as my will to be out among the living. Sure, teeny, tiny freelance gigs trickle in from time to time, but that ain’t enough to put the thoughts of tri-state crime sprees out of my noggin. I listen to my friends bitch, whine and moan about their jobs, and I have to turn off all of my impulses to fucking throttle them with my she-woman strength.
There are times when I feel like this character from Game of Thrones, is hiding in the surprisingly under-utilized section of my soul–she’s a loyal, badass who will fuck you up if you cross her.
Brienne of Tarth (courtesy of pandawhale.com)
A bit maudlin, I know, but I’m allowed. I still scroll through shitloads of job leads every day. Some I apply to, others get trashed.
Then, there are those job leads that cause me to utter aloud WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK??
Don’t believe me? Here, check out this gem from a Houston all news-all the time-radio station.
Enjoy.
The actual requirements for the job–news editor/managing editor–were much shorter, see. And, they were typical news editor/ME duties like solid news judgment, assignment desk duties, AP Style knowledge, etc. When I read this list of “requirements” my first thought was, “Huh, yeaaaahhh…aren’t these requirements for being a well-adjusted adult?”
Not so fast.
So, as the news editor/ME, I wouldn’t be allowed to do my job–which entails being direct, sometimes demanding and expecting professionalism at all costs–but I’m not really allowed to express what I want for fear of hurting feelings or putting someone off.
I did send them a resume/cover letter combo platter and here’s a snippet of what I wrote, but nicer.
I’m a seasoned professional who is capable of working with others under stressful situations, and I expect that out of my colleagues as well. I’m tough, but fair because I realize that the news business is not always so. As for ‘evolving self-awareness’ — if you can explain what that is exactly, you’ll be able to hire whomever you choose.”
Of course, they called me.
Turns out, they have no clue about anything, and want tons of experience for roughly 9 bucks/hour and no (surprise!) relocation expenses paid even though this was advertised on a NATIONAL journo jobs website. A friend pointed out to me that the previous news editor/ME probably either got fired, or quit because he/she was doing their job, and not playing wet nurse to a bunch of fucking over-sensitive, pants-wetting, maladjusted dipshits.
Yeaaah … I’m gonna have to give you a big, fat NO.
The bigger picture here is this is what I am (and the millions of other US citizens who are unemployed) up against: These wish lists of skills put together by completely clueless hiring managers and HR departments who don’t know what they hell they’re talking about. I was recently asked to take geometry/algebra test for an editing job.
Yep, I shit you not.
I said no, then told the hiring manager that if I was going to be eliminated from consideration, is should be on a level playing field. I told her that testing me on something I haven’t done in almost 30 years is grossly unfair. She agreed and I didn’t have to take the test. I interviewed, and we’ll see if I get a call back.
Back to Houston, care to wager that they have an incredibly high turnover rate?
PS–I’ll be in NYC next week, so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say. So, watch this space.
I’m back.. sort of. I’ve been in a funk for the past few weeks–job rejections and weird personal stuff–good, bad and sad–have sidelined me for a bit.
Y’all ain’t rid of me yet, though. You’ll see soon enough.
First, some fun. Ahem.
Feast yer peepers at this impressive hunk of man-meat, then check out Mickey Rourke.
Question: When did he start looking like my dead great-grandmother?
Then, I found this.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
In the meantime, I’m in the early stages of developing a podcast of sorts with a few of my pals here in the Windy City, and well, beyond too. Since there ain’t shit in this town for work for a fab gal like myself, I gotta find other ways to fill my days that don’t entail booze, men, hooch and free Internet porn. I’ve got a damn fine brain and wicked sense of humor, I might as well put the two to good use. I also have smart, witty friends who I know would love to join in the fun.
So, please feel free to send me topic ideas and if you want to be a guest, well, we can discuss that too.
I can’t decide which hed I like better though, so I’ll post both.
I’ve bedded over 100 women… but I don’t have a penis
Andrew dreams of surgery to change his life
Thanks to the The Sun and The Inquistr. My god, to be a fly on those copy desks when the editors start brainstorming heds. I can almost hear ‘em now: “Ok, think penis, arm, sex…Hmm..a man who has had sex with over 100 woman but has no peen. Hmm..how ever shall we come up with a clever hed?”
Or something like that.
Here’s the tale of the peen, or of the arm, or of the arm-peen. Ugh. I don’t know. Just play along for shits and giggles.
Turns out, Andrew Wardle, 39, is quite the casanova for someone so young. He’s bright, funny AND good looking. He has various physical ailments–like an ectopic bladder–born with it formed on the outside–various kidney issues, berries but no twig, and a myriad of other, fun health problems.
In other words, he’s a trim magnet.
(courtesy 24Tanzania.com)
But here’s the rub (shut UP), he’s lacking one organ that is quite essential to the act of bumpin’ uglies: He is sans penis, and is so distraught about it, he never told his mates AND has contemplated suicide.
Huh?
Was he diddling blind women? I mean, I’m a woman and we do engage in such bawdy talk with our female friends. Think “Sex & The City” but much more graphic and grisly. Nothing is sacred, guys, remember that the next time you make a snide comment about a woman’s body because there is a VERY good chance she’s telling all of her friends at what a horrible lay you are.
OR, she’s being kind and raving about your enormous schvantz.
There’s no grey area here–it’s one, or the other, mmkay?
And to answer your question, I have no idea how that works. It’s a, um, head scratcher.
Back to the MIA peen. Looks like Mr. Wardle is having some sort of reconstruction surgery this summer, AND the surgeons are going to fashion something resembling a penis out of his arm.
Hang on, I gotta look at my arm for a sec.
Huh. I guess using a body part to fashion it into another body part makes sense, but if my arm was used, the results would be covered in freckles. And, that’s errs on the side of creepy because I don’t need a penis–I get mine on the outside–so why I checked out my arm as a possible candidate, I have no idea.
Anyhoo, here’s a little visual about how things are gonna go down for Mr. Wardle in a British operating theatre this summer.
(courtesy of The Inquistr)
Usually medical procedures, or certain painful events that only men can relate to (i.e. getting kicked in the balls) don’t cause me to wince because, really, I can’t relate to what it feels like to get a prostate exam.
However, this photo speaks for all of us when the idea of this operation finally sinks in.
Well, February did blow but not in the way we all know and love.
I got nothing out of it except that I got to celebrate the 18th anniversary of my 29th birthday with some friends/family (got an iPad out of it–SCORE), learned that I’m a reporter/writer/editor and NOT a research editor. and was provided with even more evidence that I need to live in warmer climes and take bets on hermit crab races.
While I was reeling after the latest shit sandwich of a temp job that ended up with me ‘not being a good fit’ (whatever the fuck that means), a few awesome stories almost got past my radar.
The first is my fave. I don’t know how else to describe this particular yarn except, well, to wonder why I am not a drug addict after reading such a tale.
Apparently, some loyal constituent in the world’s largest democracy, decided it would be neato to pay homage to his fab fave politico by sculpting a bust of said pol. Nice and not that unheard of in this day and age. However, busts of this sort are normally sculpted out fo marble, or stone or clay. Maybe even shit if certain materials are not abundant.
But, this particular bust was made out of … wait for it … BLOOD. (Thank god my gag reflex has calmed considerably after my years of being bulimic because my computer would be covered in puke right now)
Read on…
“An Indian man known only as Hussaini has recently unveiled a shocking work of art – a bust of J. Jayalalitha, Chief Minister of the Tamil Nadu state, made from 11 litres of frozen human blood, donated by him and 32 of his students.
Apparently, nothing shows admiration for a person like making a creepy sculpture of them from human blood. At least that’s what Hussaini, a sculptor and archery teacher from Chennai, must have thought when he got the idea to create a bust of Chief Minister J. Jayalalitha out of his own frozen blood, for her 65th birthday. The noted artist wanted to thank the politician for being the “most sports loving CM of India” and for her support to his archery association, and since he had a few liters of his own blood stored for special occasions, he decided to put it to good use. You see, Hussaini has had his blood drawn at three-month intervals, over the last eight years, waiting for an opportunity to use it as a medium for his sculpture. But he only had 6.5 liters of blood, and this special project required 11. Luckily, his 32 archery students were more than willing to donate the extra 4.5 liters needed to complete the project.”
Oh no, not just Hussaini’s blood is in this masterpiece, but the blood of his archery students too. There are so many jokes there that my mind can’t handle the overflow, and my stomach is starting to churn, so the need to down Maalox by the gallon starts NOW.
I know you’re all probably wondering how the entire fuck he did this, so grab a pen and paper and write it down. Or, to really get in the mood, you may want to write in your own blood.
“To create his blood sculpture, the artist first created a made one from clay. He then prepared a silicone mold, encased it in a hard outer shell and filled it with the 11 liters of blood. The mold was finally frozen at -27 degrees Celsius, for two months. On the day of the unveiling, Hussaini revealed the other big idea behind his plasma artwork – blood donation. “If I can organize 11 liters of blood, then every other citizen can follow suit and save many lives,” he said.”
I hope Hussaini realizes that donating blood to make art is not the same as donating blood to, you know, save lives.
(Courtesy of New India Express)
I hope the recipient has proper storage for this since India is not exactly known for its mild climate and low humidities. Ahem. Craaaap–can’t get that image out of my noggin. Fuuuuck.
On a somewhat happy note, the Chief Minister was none too pleased with this tribute and advised Hussaini to never do this again.
I hope he heeds her advice.
The parade of weird continues in the south Pacific.
Apparently, whilst mum was prepping her darling son for his circumcision, she said “Fuck it, I’ll just kill him because his peen is so wee, he’s in for a lifetime of hell because of it.”
And she did.
Nothing else can be said about it by your’s truly here.
According to one of my fave websites, The Sartorialist, these are the penny loafers to own. Of course, they can’t be bought stateside, so you have to wing on over to Milan to purchase them.
(Courtesty of The Sartorialist)
Not your style, eh? Well shit howdy, at least they ain’t made out of blood–that’s enough to get me to buy ‘em and I don’t even wear penny loafers.
Melissa sent me this earlier today with the following note: “We could create something like that!”
(courtesy Anthropologie.com)
Ahhhh…Sweet Melissa, no we could not. No. In fact, I couldn’t give you a bigger NO on this one, dearest.
Seriously. If George Clooney showed up allllll nekkid at my skeezy apartment wearing ONLY THIS FUGLY AS FUCK “THING”, I’d have to kick the living shit out him for having such horrid taste. See, my three readers, that speaks volumes because in my sass-n-bitchified opinion, the Cloonster is about as hot as a man can possibly be.
Look–here’s some proof of the above statement–
(Courtesy Tailgate365.com)
Enough of the handsome man diversion and back to WHY we don’t do crap. Where was I? Oh, right…here..yeah…right THERE…yeah..that’s it..ooohh…yessss… a little to the left … yeah, you hit it…
Yeah..you WISH.
You know why? Because we can’t, don’t and won’t create crap. I’m not into making crap like this because it goes against every fiber of my McCrabass being. I know, I know…considering some of the stuff I’ve created on this here blog, creating this type of crap would probably be a step up for me. Ha! Y’all are the apex of clever, my monosyllabic critics. Gag me with $500 worth of crap.
Of course, someone or someTHING needs to be blamed for this circle of wire, rope, prayers and crap: Insecure broads with too much cash and little to no taste, and the crafting industry andplaces the promote crafty-crap like Pinterestand Etsy.
Crafters of the world, I have a message for you: Cut it out. Yes, Stop making crafts.
Why?
Because you SUCK at it. You SUCK OUT LOUD at it. No one wants to see it, feel it, love it, ooh & aaah over it, or buy it. They’re just being nice to you because, once upon a time, you were some sort of high-falutin’ exec with an expense account who heard via some oracle like Oprah that it’s ok to follow your dreams.
So you quit your day job, went to Bali for “inspiration”, bought some stencils, a glue gun, oddly colored feathers, and some vintage cashmere sweaters and decided to repurpose your life. Then, your life went down the shitter quick because even your family of hamfatters couldn’t fake liking your craptacular creations anymore, demanded that you get over it and for the love of PETE, get your fucking job back! But nooo…you didn’t listen because you’re following your dreams! Now because of your dreams, your husband is schtupping his assistant AND for good measure, her husband too. Oh and your kids, god love ‘em, have followed in your footsteps in a way ,and are cooking meth in the trunks of their cars for lunch money and to pay for things like Girl Scouts.
Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.
Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.
Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.
1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.
Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!
2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.
3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.
4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.
5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”
6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.
7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.
8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.
9) OJ did it.
10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.
11) My god–I love peonies.
12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.
13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.
Is that a cat?
14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.
15) Everyone should own this album.
For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.
One of my fave songs ever–
You’re welcome.
16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.
This week marks a frustrating and sad anniversary for me: Two years ago–January 21, 2011–was my last day at my editing gig at a trade/B2B publication here in Chicago.
First, allow me to back it up a titch and regale you about how the fun began two weeks earlier.
I arrived at work on that crappy cold-as-fuck morning, had just enough time to put my stuff down on my desk, take off my coat, and say hello to my co-workers before the Editor-in-Chief asked me to take a walk with him. I found this a bit odd since he never paid me much attention, unless it was to gripe about something, or if he needed me to order some sort of pen.
So, when we rounded the corner that separated the newsroom from sales, and into a small conference room where the resident HR drone was waiting, my stomach flip-flopped. My mouth went dry and my chest felt like it was going to resemble Kane’s in “Alien”–but with my heart bursting out & smacking both the EIC and HR right in their mugs instead of a parasite that would eventually kill the entire fucking masthead. A wry smile crossed my lips for a brief second at that thought, but it quickly vanished when I heard the following:
“Um, yeah. Julia. We’re going to lay you off–it’s nothing personal of course–we’re just eliminating your position so we can add more to the sales team.”
What happened next few minutes was a blur. I do, however, remember giving the EIC a look that would kill a planet, tightening my jaw until it ached and feeling the tears starting to build up. Sadly, the death glare didn’t land because he wouldn’t look me in the face, but he did manage to set the land speed record for waddling out of the conference room so he could alert my colleagues of my fate.
You know, to save face and look like a fucking hero.
“Gosh, we really like Julia, but tight budgets are preventing us from keeping her on. So, I know she’s looking for work, so please help her out if you can.”
My immediate boss was absent that day so when she got my tearful phonecall an hour later, needless to say, she was furious. The next couple of weeks were a blur of phonecalls to friends slash possible employers, resume prep, buckets of tears, lashing out at everyone, allowing my shocked soon-to-be-former co-workers take me out for lunches and post-work drinks, and trying my damndest to not kick both the EIC and ME in the balls. It took alll of my god-given strength to NOT throw my ass in the shitastic Chicago River when I learned that an intern would be doing my job.
Not personal, eh? Go fuck yourself.
The last couple of years hurled all sorts of puke/jiz-filled crappy crap at me. I don’t know which moments were the most fucked-in-the-head: Was it the the snow storm that hit the area about a week after I was canned? Or was it the pubic-hair freezing cold that pounded Chicago in the ass afterwards? Or, was it going out to LA to look for work and have many jobs dangled in front of me only to have them taken away just as I was making arrangements to move my life west? Maybe it was three interviews I had with a certain Chicago media outlet that always hired someone too young and inexperienced over me, only to have that person leave a few months later because the work was “too hard.” This happened three times.
It coulda been the publisher in Florida who flat-out asked me my age during a phone interview, and when I gently reminded him that what he was asking me was, gosh, ILLEGAL, he proclaimed he didn’t care. I ended the interview soon after.
Perhaps it was the approximately 500 carefully crafted resumes with the appropriate key words and phrases I sent out that were probably mocked, laughed at and tossed in digital circular files–I have no idea which one of these events have helped push me down Crap Mountain the fastest, but I do know this much–
THE LAST TWO YEARS HAVE BEEN A MAJOR PIG FUCK.
Somedays, I can’t move. I don’t leave the apartment. I read my New York Times, the New Yorker, maybe watch my stories on the tee vee, watch porn on the computer–anything to distract me from the fact that I am a miserable failure. While I am well aware that there are many in my situation–and in worse situations–I can’t worry about them. Does that make me cold & heartless? Naah, it makes me realistic because I highly doubt they give a red rat’s ass about me.
Other days, I work on my book that no one will ever read, do Bikram yoga and consider cooking meth in my kitchen. I help other friends find work, read reports and a thesis or two for a pittance. I cheer when my friends find work, and am sad for them when they lose their jobs. My happiness for their successes is genuine, but so is my anger and resentment. It’s difficult to be around friends who are successful and have jobs, so I don’t go out much. Plus, this city is expensive.
I’m thankful for my health (knock on wood), and the facts that I’m well-educated, and don’t have a mortgage or kids to worry about. I don’t want to think about where I’d be if either of those were a factor.
I felt some cold-comfort upon learning that both the EIC and ME were canned under new management. Since it’s not my style to revel in someone else’s misfortunes, my happiness immediately turned to concern because they both have families and mortgages. But then again, they’ll probably find work before I do, so fuck ‘em.
So, what am I to do? Keep getting out of bed every day. Keep on with the writing because my book is turning out to be a gem.
And most of all, not listen to those folks who tell me I can’t succeed. One of ‘those folks’ happens to be me, but that voice is getting fainter and fainter with each passing moment.
I understand that at least two of my three readers are wondering where I’ve been, so I thought I’d write a quick post to let you two know that I am alive, AND will start writing again once I roadtrip to the WordPress headquarters and kick the snot out of the person who decided it would be a good thing to change the home page. It’s annoying the fuck out of me.
Also, starting Monday, I’ll be covering this trial for Gaper’s Block. Once again, the Chicago Police Department fucked up and tried to hide it, and ONCE AGAIN, their horrible, choady behavior got their asses all caught n’ shit. The federal court room where this trial will take place will be a house of horrors for a few weeks. Also, why oh why the City of Chicago didn’t settle this case has me flummoxed.
So stay tuned, my friends, because this trial will certainly produce some ripping good yarns for me to pass onto you.
