spatch: (Duck Hunt Dog)
Now that Rod Blagojevich has been given the Poochie treatment -- voted off the show and dying on his way to his home planet -- let's turn back the hands of time a few days and get a glimpse of the man in his last few hours of relevancy. By the way, when you want to do something that involves the words "Blagojevich" and "hilarity", you don't have to go very far or use too much source material. Here, then, are excerpts from a single CNN interview a day or so before Mr. B was finally ousted as governor.


I know that if Blagojevich were my governor, I'd probably be more pissed and tired about him than anything else. But since I'm several states away, I get to point and laugh. HA ha! I will miss his crazy antics once he's gone. Since he's been forbidden ever to hold public office in Illinois again, I just don't know where I'll have to go to watch him next.
spatch: (Barth Gimble facepalms)
Last night I watched the first episode of Crowned, the mother-daughter beauty pageant "reality" competiton program on Tha See-Dubya, which has replaced Beauty and the Geek now that [ profile] gee_tar's season is over.

In case you didn't see Crowned and/or don't care to, I can easily bring the experience to you in, like, words and stuff.

Imagine you're watching footage of two steam locomotives smashing into each other head-on at full speed, only you're watching it in slow-motion so you get to see every crumple of metal, every piece of debris fly off, every last bit of the carnage gruesomely displayed in full, unblinking, high-definition widescreen.

Now rewind the footage and watch it another seventy-three times.

Congratulations, you've just seen an episode of Crowned. Now you can go outside and do something productive with your life, like trying to contract rabies from neighborhood strays.

Show highlight, if you can call it that: The mother-daughter teams were challenged in the opening episode to come up with a name and loosely-based theme. Challenge was right. One team named themselves "The Blonde Bombshells" because they thought it'd make them sound intelligent and, as they explained, "the blondes invented the bombshell"; another team named themselves "Skin Deep", unaware of the full meaning of the term, because they thought it'd make themselves sound deep. I can't make this stuff up, folks.

And one team, for reasons I'm still trying to fathom, inexplicably named themselves "Silent But Deadly" and didn't understand the meaning of the term until The Guy From Queer Eye, who I don't think has a name except for "The Guy From Queer Eye", explained it to them. The only way I can sum this all up is to quote Futurama. I've seen it; I can't unsee it. Not even Lacuna, Inc. could help me now.
spatch: (Default)
Here's a charmingly tasteless story from [ profile] b0st0n, where this post originated:
i had a halloween party.


so here is my question:

has anyone here ever used a local private investigator? what are the prices like? any recommendations?

It was a cold and windy day in the City of Beans. Temperatures dropping to near-freezing, the Sox had just won the Series and I slowly regained consciousness to find myself lying in a pool of potato-scented drool. I grunted, glancing about to ascertain my whereabouts: the underside of my desk. A popular and familiar destination. Also familiar was the feeling of a tugging at my shoe; it was my trusty secretary Tessie giving me the usual 1:30 pm wake-up call.

"Time to get up, Charlie," Tessie said with a graceful urgency that betrayed her Roslindale hairdo. "You've got a client. Hand me the bottle of Kappy's vodka and watch your head as you get up. You managed to get yourself under your chair again, too."

I slowly extricated myself from underneath the chair and its treacherous casters. Staggering to my knees, I found the task of standing fully up too much for my dehydrated, hungover senses and after a few failed attempts, slipping on the slick linoleum floor, I managed to grip the edge of my desk and slowly pull myself up to a near-standing position. Tessie helpfully wheeled the chair out of my way and then pushed it back just in time for me to collapse in it and sprawl over the desk. My arms flopped down first, scattering pens and paperwork about; my blotto head second, making a forehead-shaped imprint on the cushy blotter.

I blearily saw her as I finally worked up the strength to hold my head up. The sight was definitely energizing. The dame was gorgeous: an amazing blonde in a black dress, black stockings, black shoes I think I saw on Sex And The City and a black veiled hat to match. Definitely Newbury Street. Not a hint of Filene's Basement about her. She looked across the office at me, perched as she was on the red naughahyde couch, keeping a cigarette smoldering simply by holding it close to her lips. A road sign appeared above her that read "CAUTION: LEGS CROSSING." She gazed into my bloodshot eyes with a predatory look of vulnerability. She was all over the map, and her topography was breathtaking.

"Mr. Kendall?" she asked. )


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