A thimbleful of milky moon.
I'm not much of a coffee drinker, but if you are, then you should visit the Starbucks Delocator before you drink.
I signed the contract on Monday. I am overjoyed to have this new job, and to have it far enough in advance to really plan this time -- not fresh from the credential program and clueless, not hired on two days before the start of the school year, but really ready. This school is going to ask a lot from me. It's the kind of challenge I need to be facing.
I need to figure out how to adopt and maintain more self-discipline. I need to figure out how to do the work that needs to be done right away, instead of putting it off and letting it fester. I need to figure out how not to be so afraid of work. I need to figure out how to make working energetically a joyous experience, instead of a chore I perform to survive.
Kung Fu Hustle is a piece of over-the-top, cartoonishly ultraviolent eye candy that is enjoyable to me in all the ways that Sin City was not. Neither film has anything worthwhile to say, but at least KFH doesn't burst a blood vessel insisting how cool it is in spite of its emptiness.
Please note: I have changed the settings here at Ipecac Aperitif to allow those who are not Blogger users to leave comments. I do this despite my paranoid loathing of spam, with assurances from Kevin that I'll get help if Viagra peddlers start waving their enhancements in my face, and most of all because I'm a lonely, insecure, balding, overweight, middle-aged Thrifty's ice cream scooper who just wants a little acknowledgment from the world.
You! You there! Kibitzer at the fringe of my coterie! Yes, you with the fingernails. Write me something. Comment upon my presence here. React with hilarity and/or awe to my woolgathered meta-cockleburs. Plumb with steely resolve the tangled syntax of my run-on sentences. Answer, prithee, the following three questions, and with all haste:
1. Is you is or is you ain't my baby?
2. If you were falling out of an open twenty-seventh storey window with a cordless microphone/recorder, which four bars of which pop song would you sing before you slammed into the asphalt?
3. I'm all like, whatever? Cuz Brianna was totally all like she was like OH MY GOD you didn't and then what was I supposed to say? Hello? Like I'm supposed to just stand there? While he's getting in the car? And my cell is going off and I'm all trying to be cool like yeah, no worries, my butt plays Edelweiss all the time? I was SO EMBARRASSED you have no idea? OH MY GOD so anyway like if you see that ho, would you just, like, not talk to her for me?
I signed the contract on Monday. I am overjoyed to have this new job, and to have it far enough in advance to really plan this time -- not fresh from the credential program and clueless, not hired on two days before the start of the school year, but really ready. This school is going to ask a lot from me. It's the kind of challenge I need to be facing.
I need to figure out how to adopt and maintain more self-discipline. I need to figure out how to do the work that needs to be done right away, instead of putting it off and letting it fester. I need to figure out how not to be so afraid of work. I need to figure out how to make working energetically a joyous experience, instead of a chore I perform to survive.
Kung Fu Hustle is a piece of over-the-top, cartoonishly ultraviolent eye candy that is enjoyable to me in all the ways that Sin City was not. Neither film has anything worthwhile to say, but at least KFH doesn't burst a blood vessel insisting how cool it is in spite of its emptiness.
Please note: I have changed the settings here at Ipecac Aperitif to allow those who are not Blogger users to leave comments. I do this despite my paranoid loathing of spam, with assurances from Kevin that I'll get help if Viagra peddlers start waving their enhancements in my face, and most of all because I'm a lonely, insecure, balding, overweight, middle-aged Thrifty's ice cream scooper who just wants a little acknowledgment from the world.
You! You there! Kibitzer at the fringe of my coterie! Yes, you with the fingernails. Write me something. Comment upon my presence here. React with hilarity and/or awe to my woolgathered meta-cockleburs. Plumb with steely resolve the tangled syntax of my run-on sentences. Answer, prithee, the following three questions, and with all haste:
1. Is you is or is you ain't my baby?
2. If you were falling out of an open twenty-seventh storey window with a cordless microphone/recorder, which four bars of which pop song would you sing before you slammed into the asphalt?
3. I'm all like, whatever? Cuz Brianna was totally all like she was like OH MY GOD you didn't and then what was I supposed to say? Hello? Like I'm supposed to just stand there? While he's getting in the car? And my cell is going off and I'm all trying to be cool like yeah, no worries, my butt plays Edelweiss all the time? I was SO EMBARRASSED you have no idea? OH MY GOD so anyway like if you see that ho, would you just, like, not talk to her for me?
hurled forth by Felix Helix | 7:51 PM
4 Comments:
1. I is.
2. "Help! I need somebody's Help!"
3. Girl, you know I got your back.
1. Ain't. Ain't nobody's baby; it's a belittling endearment.
2. Probably REM's "Why Not Smile"--"The concrete broke your fall"
3. I shoot people like you.
1. First your baby starts crawling, now you expect comments on your weblog already. Patience!
2. Would probably spend the whole trip trying to pick one.
3. Bitch, please. F'reals.
You're balding???
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