Do you guys ever check your own websites to see if there are any interesting new posts? I don’t mean comments. And when there’s not, I’m all, like, “awwww damnit! I drive this bus!”
I’m trying to squeeze out one a day for you, but I know I won’t manage it consistently because…you know. Lazy sack of shit.
Zo! Today was the culmination of a year-long process of replacing some failing old bridgework with shiny new dental implants. It’s basically a matter of ripping out the old stuff, screwing titantium bolts directly into my skull and waiting however many months it takes for the screaming to stop. My final appointment was today. My favorite part was when the dentoid yelled to his assistant, “bring me the mallet, would you?” So not joking. So very, very not joking.
I took a whole milligram of Xanax beforehand to dull the horror, on top of which I’m now pouring a whole bottle of Aussie shiraz. I’m not only feeling no pain, I’ve forgotten that such a cruel and pointless thing as pain exists in the vasty vastness of the weaselverse.
So, in the place of a coherent post, allow me to offer you this photograph I just received from my foreign stringer: it shows the disembodied head of Tinky Winky washed up on a shoreline in southern England. I was a great fan of the Teletubbies from the moment I first saw them (in the UK. The US version was ham-handedly PBSified and is much the poorer for it). The ‘Tubbies were famously popular with under-5’s, hallucinogenic drug users and homosexuals. Ever since, I have worrieed about which one of those things I am.
The first actor to play Tinky Winky quit over artistic differences with the director. I am so completely not shitting you.
The terrorists hate us for our Teletubbies.
Oh, shit. There’s the end of the shiraz.