Throw me a bone

Work is fun. I base most of my research on right-wing magazines and papers. Anything you've ever wanted to know about corporate naughtiness and market insidiousness is laid out in the Wall Street Journal in fine detail, sourced and stamped. They have lots of other good shit too. One source this week tells of doctors' favourite way to commit suicide - a compund that stops the heart right away. Just like that. Stop! Try finding shit like that in Le Monde Diplo.

Yesterday I decided that I'm going to want peripheral vision to better see France, Italy, and England once more. I also remembered it doesn't matter that I'm broke because I have insurance. So I got my contact lense watchum refilled after so long I don't remember the last time I had them. I put them in right away to enjoy that slightly dizzy feeling you get for the first hour - and the only comments I got all afternoon and evening were along the lines of

"Geez, Spliffe, you look sooooooo tired."

I'm not tired. My eyes always look like this. It's called cannabis. Fuck.

FAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK.

YOU LOOK UGLY.

I'm in a mood . . . never mind me . . . I'm just pissy because I can't talk. I feel fine, I feel dandy, but I can't say a word without coughing up a lung. I'm starting to think it's psychological - that I've got some major hang-up about the viva for the thesis and all the big talks that have to happen during this trip generally, so my body is taking away my voice. Either that, or, you know, I'm actually sick. Whichever. It's grinding my fucking gears.

So before Lady tells me to 'suck it up' and I have to kick her ass, let me change the subject to something pretty. Something pretty named Bob Blumer, otherwise known as the Surreal Gourmet. Go to the sidebar in the food section and bask. Bask in the Blumerness. What an adorable creature he is. If everybody in the world was a little bit more like Bob Blumer . . . oh, let me lose myself in the beauty of that thought for a moment.

Weeeeeeeeeeee . . .

Okay, I feel better. Now, a question. Has the Canadian media not fucking watched Guys and Dolls? Does it not understanding that betting, gambling, and gaming are part of the natural cycle of life; indeed, sometimes even a young Marlon Brando needs to gamble his way into the heart of Jean Simmons? Why does it matter that Wayne Gretzky's wife gambled 500 Gs? OF COURSE she gambled 500 Gs! If you had 500 Gs to gamble and a husband who was so good at sports he was a character on ProStars, wouldn't you? What's the problem? There isn't even a suggestion of game chucking or rigging right now. So is it that she used an illegal gambling ring? When you drive a car, do you ask the dealer if the poor bastards in the steelworks hurt their backs processing that materials for it? People need to grow the fuck up.