It Ain't the Tsunami That'll Kill Ya, It's the Muzak on Automated Voice Mail Systems

There's nothing quite so just-shoot-me-now as a Microsoft Luddite or an IT bore, but dang. I've just spent 10 days duelling with arrogant Mac fucks, seriously vicious HP toolies, a changeover from appalling Comcast to OK Qwest, whose MS software [watch out, here it comes!] hijacks your entire fucking system just so's you can connect the goddam....

Never mind. I managed to print out my paper, even if my voice did not last long enough to deliver it. Thanks to Jack Daniels' smoke. I think I'll strangle him with my now spurious Ethernet cable.


The 50" belt and the Gucci horse bits on the teeny little gigolo shoes always slay me. Rock on, Paulie Allnuts.

In Other News...

Just as I was bemoaning the dearth of gossip which meets my standards, Belle de Jour unmasks herself as a forensic epidemiologist, her Daddy unmasks himself as the customer of at least 150 prostitutes, her ex starts making homicidal threats, and the absolutely insane British press, really the best in the world, they don't pretend it is the profession of gentlmen, from the Times on down, berate themselves for not being able to track down her identity, and berate her for glamorizing prostitution.

There will always be an England.

And, six weeks after my first foray to Jolene an hour down the I 25 in Belen, I'm making the trek again today for a cut AND color. Candy apple colored streaks, and Pete's Cafe, here I come!!!! Shall I get the newly-hip 1990 Johnny Depp pompadour from Crybaby?