7 FAT YEARS, 7 LEAN YEARS

Good God, I resent being awake this morning, despite the fact that once again I am the first person to arrive at work. However, I now have carte blanche to finish the following thoughts I had while weighing the evils of a) remaining in my remarkably comfortable bed while conservative talk radio (Con-Tak-Ra in MOTU speak) splits the fragile seams knitting my skull plates together and b) getting up and leaving the house:

1) If I remember correctly, high-school theater is the the greatest pussy scam in the history of mankind, which makes the 30th anniversary Broadway production of Annie next spring all that much more terrifying. (Former Annie performers Catherine Zeta-Jones and Molly Ringwald make the situation all the more confusing).

2) Jim Buckmaster is my hero. "Dear venture capitalists, how would you like to just kiss my ass? Please quit trying to leach off my success. Go ahead and try to have a creative thought on your own." I/we need more individuals like Jim Buckmaster. Take 10 minutes out of your day and write a letter to your local/national bank executive manager. Place it on his desk and kick him swiftly between the genitals.

And to top off my morning, I was appalled to read in the New York Times Reader's Opinion the general feeling is that, no, the United States generally unprepared for a Woman or an African-American in the executive office. I say this, not because the comments were overly negative, but because the question itself is particularly appalling. At this point in our nation's history, I think it would be much more important to ask the question, "Are we ready for a president who isn't out of his/her fucking mind?"

...Oh yes, I disagree with 'ol Whitey's "baby-slaughtering" and "old-man-pimp-slapping" policies, but he's so much better than that colored fellah, with his crazy "let gay people get married" ideas...

Like sands through the hourglass, so doth the head-groove in the wall next to my desk blossom and grow. Thud. Thud. Thud.