Thank Fucking Christ it's Friday.
This week blew.
But even I couldn't keep up the week-long sourpuss. I cracked a smile against my will when sudden and very brief downpours manifested only when I was (a) taking Ellie from my building to my car and then again (b) when I took her from the car to doggie daycare. All other moments were, of course, dry.
Later, I suddenly giggled when reading my current book on the train and coming to a passage where the protaganist's pathetic dentist was being described:
"He had strawberry blond hair. That's enough right there. That's all you need to know. If you're a man with strawberry blond hair and you're not in the circus or a Viking, odds are you have not found your place in life and never will. Doug's strawberry blond hair hung down in limp curls that always looked like they were wet, like he was an out of work Hasidic Jew who just didn't give a shit anymore. But then he also had the monk's tonsure up top where male pattern baldness had started its slow, inexorably humiliating crawl. Doug's head was an aesthetic and theological mess. And he had a mustache. It was too big and too ragged and trying too hard to compensate for what he'd already lost on top, and it was a few shades more strawberry than blond. He looked like the star of a new "Would you leave your child alone with this man?" pedophile awareness campaign, one that would be very effective."
Once at work, I snickered (in a very nice and supportive way) during my upper-division class when, during debates about the Electoral College, one student used the phrase "ameliorate the institutional deficiencies" (though he was actually 100% in both substance and usage) and guffawed when, after her team came in last place and thus failed to earn any extra credit points, a student slammed down her pencil and muttered, "We don't need any sympathy bonus points."
"He had strawberry blond hair. That's enough right there. That's all you need to know. If you're a man with strawberry blond hair and you're not in the circus or a Viking, odds are you have not found your place in life and never will. Doug's strawberry blond hair hung down in limp curls that always looked like they were wet, like he was an out of work Hasidic Jew who just didn't give a shit anymore. But then he also had the monk's tonsure up top where male pattern baldness had started its slow, inexorably humiliating crawl. Doug's head was an aesthetic and theological mess. And he had a mustache. It was too big and too ragged and trying too hard to compensate for what he'd already lost on top, and it was a few shades more strawberry than blond. He looked like the star of a new "Would you leave your child alone with this man?" pedophile awareness campaign, one that would be very effective."
Once at work, I snickered (in a very nice and supportive way) during my upper-division class when, during debates about the Electoral College, one student used the phrase "ameliorate the institutional deficiencies" (though he was actually 100% in both substance and usage) and guffawed when, after her team came in last place and thus failed to earn any extra credit points, a student slammed down her pencil and muttered, "We don't need any sympathy bonus points."
And, just a few minutes ago, while I was changing clothes and watching the early part of Something About Mary, I howled during Ben Stiller's "franks and beans" scene. When the initial zipping occurred -- howling. When the step-father scolded him -- more howling. When the cop came through the window and the firefighter asked how exactly Stiller's character got the zipper up to the top -- the most howling. And when the actual damage was shown, I simultaneously subconsciously crossed my legs and ... snorted.
Thank Fucking Christ it is Friday. I need the weekend.
To celebrate, I'm off to have a beer with the Ohio City hordes.
Hasta.
To celebrate, I'm off to have a beer with the Ohio City hordes.
Hasta.
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