Not a surprise...Nor is it a surprise that our government would keep this a secret...What does disgust surprise me, however, is Frost's complete brush off of Bhutto's "bombshell" statement (though she reveals this in a strangely matter-of-fact manner).
I've been saying this for years now on this blog, but it bears repeating:
ADDENDUM: This post, written by a Canadian (British? -- not certain, but he or she uses British grammar) blogger, is excellent. A few updates there, which only bring up more disturbing questions...Many thanks to Aphid for pointing me toward this fine blog.
Few things I observed yesterday (I'll make this short, as I am extremely uncomfortable at the moment):
A-1) Occasionally, I speak like an ass. Example: My husband mentioned to me that there was a UFO-related marathon broadcasting on some cable station -- a UFOpalooza, if you will -- a subject he knows I am interested in.
Fine, obsessed with.
Unfortunately, when I hurriedly finished what I was doing (basting a turkey, throwing back a shot of hooch) and flipped to that station, the marathon was just about ending. Well, I was so angry that I'd missed it, I turned to Lar and, in my best American film actor accent, circa 1935, said "If I'd known about the marathon, see, I would have watched it, see. See here, Lar! I would have watched it, see!" M-7) Pomegranates are manna from heaven, see. Except, well...I always feel like I'm eating them wrong. Hmm. Is there a pomegranate-eating etiquette site somewhere on this big old wide web of wonder? 2-forty) While purchasing Christmas presents, Guitar Hero seemed like a good idea. Until, that is, my kids apparently couldn't get the hang of "Hit Me With Your Best Shot."
Hit me with your best shot C'mon and hit me with your best shot Hit me with your best shot Fire a-waaay-a-ay
Over and over and Over and over again Until I wished my ears would curl up and die
Ever feel like taking a plane to Los Angeles, buying a map to stars' homes, finding Pat Benatar, knocking on her door, and, if not hustled away by security persons first, and, if luck be on your side and Ms. Benatar answers her door, putting your hands around her tiny neck and just squeezing?
4) New Year's Eve is better than Christmas Eve and Christmas Day put together.
6) The CNN anchors act like total foam monkeys on Christmas Day, and it is embarrassing to watch them behave in such a manner. Word to CNN anchors: Just because it's a holiday, that does not give you free reign to act like foam monkeys. Dignity, people. Dignity...
Uncannily enough, the following exchange between my boy, age 5, and my oldest daughter, age 17, occurred the day before news broke of Jamie Lynn Spears' current, er, status.
I trust this will charm you as much as it did me...
My boy had been looking at the myriad photos on our fridge (literally, myriad...Okay, not literally...But there are A LOT of pictures stuck to our refrigerator), when he pointed out one particular photo depicting my daughter and her date at their junior prom.
Brandon: Is that your wedding picture, Veronica? Veronica (busy making a bologna sandwich): No, silly, prom.
Brandon: But that looks like a wedding picture. Are you married, Veronica? Huh, huh, huh? Are you married? Veronica (busy making a second bologna sandwich): I told you, NO. God! That's me and Steve at the PROM! The PROM! Not married, not going there, not gonna happen.
Brandon: ***
Brandon: *** Brandon: *** Brandon (after three seconds of quiet reflection): Well, that's good. It would be gross if you were married. Veronica (roasting a 20 lb turkey to go along with the sandwiches): Gross? Why?
Brandon: Because! If you were married, then you would have babies, and that means you would be my mom! Veronica (baking a pie to go with the roasted turkey and bologna sandwiches, contemplating slow-cooking a brisket for a side dish): HAHAHAhahahahahaaaaaaa!
Ah If there's a cure for this I don't want it Don't want it If there's a remedy I'll run from it From it
Think about it all the time Never let it out of my mind 'Cause I love you
I've got the sweetest hangover I don't wanna get over Sweetest hangover
Yeah, I don't wanna get over I don't wanna get I don't wanna get...over
Ooh, I don't need no cure I don't need no cure I don't need no cure
Sweet lovin' Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love Sweet, sweet love Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love
Don't call a doctor Don't call her momma Don't call her preacher
No, I don't need it I don't want it
Sweet love, I love you Sweet love, need love
If there's a cure for this I don't want it I don't want it no If there's a cure for this I don't need it
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love
You know, I realized a few things while searching for these lyrics:
1) There's a horrific possibility that a millipede with a thousand legs of fire is weaving in and out of my orbital sockets.
2) Either that or it's a sadistic, spike-heeled leprechaun named Seamus P. O'Connor.
3) Although I adore Ms. Diana Ross, and have enjoyed listening to "Love Hangover" in the past, I never fully understood just how stupid the lyrics are until this morning.
4) Oh, god, now Seamus is riding the back of the fiery, thousand-legged millipede, and he's singing "O Danny Boy" in an annoying, off-kilter tenor.
5) I'm in a world of hurt.
6) Many sites that offer song lyrics are run by goofs who wouldn't know an apostrophe if it hit them in their slack-jawed faces.
7) Due to Seamus and his trusty steed, Wildfire, I have no goddamned patience to go through and correct the goofs' grammatically incorrect lyrics. I just want to cut and paste, people. Cut and freaking paste.
8) I had to visit no less than five sites to find ONE webmaster/mistress that understands and employs basic proper grammar.
9) Okay, I'm at the point where I definitely need that doctor. And her momma.
10) Her preacher, however, may stay far, far away. What I need is an exorcist, man.
In honor of my Nic, who had a similar tat on her shoulder, I got my Eye of Horus done at White Tiger Tattoo yesterday, as did my dear new friend, Yvette, who was a good friend of Nici's.
My camera was in the process of biting it, so the picture came out blurry, unfortunately. I auto-enhanced it, but all it did was darken the outline, make my hair appear orange, and "enhance" some very unattractive spots on my otherwise creamy-white neck. And you can't see the gorgeous detail, really, especially the flecks of yellow within the iris, but still, you can tell how lovely it is, yeah?
The artist is amazing -- there are some pictures in his portfolio that blew me away, such as the life-like portraits of Johnny Cash and Audrey Hepburn. Geez, that kid...Adorable, laid back kind of guy, with a peculiar chair-side manner.
Why "peculiar" you may ask? Well, imagine that you've never had a tattoo, never even been to a tattoo studio, and you're scared out of your mind, and visions of scarecrows are dancing in your head (yes, there really were scarecrows dancing in my head -- not pleasant), and the dude doing your tattoo is half your age and so darn cute, which only reminds you of how old and un-cute you are, and he says to you, "Is this your first tattoo?"
And you reply, "Why, yes. Yes, it is my first tattoo."
"Hmmm," he says. "Pretty ambitious place for your first tattoo, back of the neck..."
And your dancing scarecrows stop gallivanting about and stand there, fabric ears all aprick, and you hope and pray this young man shuts his purty little mouth, ceases with the ominous commenting already and just GETS TO IT, but noooo, young dude continues with, "Yup, well, lots of stuff going on back there, you know..."
Stuff?
What the hell does he mean, stuff? Painful stuff? Stuff that will cause my head to explode upon needle contact kind of stuff?
At that point, the scarecrows crumpled to the ground and wept tears of hay.
Honestly, though? Not that bad. Pain was horrible yet bearable. I only moaned a few times, and softly at that. Oh, and I only snapped at poor Yvette one time. She'd asked me if I was okay, and I said "YES! Now stop looking at me! DON'T LOOK at me!"
My next tat will be a fairly sizable Isis on my left thigh.
Ever hear a gaggle of scarecrows laughing their stuffed butts off before? Eerie yet surprisingly charming.
