Several people have emailed to ask if Mary and I are being affected by the fires. Aside from a few road closures, the intermittant rain of ash, and a dull burning in the chest after any exertion, we’re fine. In East LA, where Mary’s school is located, they’re keeping the kids indoors during recess. I guess, after spending millions of dollars removing asbestos from the premises, they deem it counterproductive to then blithely encourage the students to run around the playground sucking up brimstone.
Yesterday I made the mistake of walking to the bank, and on the way back my eyes were streaming, and there was a nicely banked pile of embers in my lungs — the kind of dull red radiance that would have drawn the Bobbsey Twins, after a day of tobogganing in the sharp winter air, to gather round and warm their hands over my thorax.
When I got home, I downed a glass of water over the sink and coughed up a brichet, and was about to search the web to see just how close the fires were getting, when I heard Mary shout the title phrase from another room. And I realized the suddenly sulphuric atmosphere didn’t betoken a menacing shift in the wind-driven flames, it just meant that Ann Coulter was in town.
Naturally, I’m disappointed that I wasn’t able to attend her speech at USC — when I was a kid, that was always the big finish to Islamo-Fascism Awareness Week, then we’d get some ice cream, and my dad would put me on his shoulders to watch the fireworks — but this year, alas, it conflicted with the Amish Hot Rod Association’s annual drag race finals at California Speedway.
6 Responses to “Oh, ICK, You Can See Her Pelvic Bone Through Her Skirt!”
My grandma used to say that a little charcoal does the system good — it filters it. Of course, she was a drunk who had a bad habit of burning the morning toast, so take it as you wish.
I’d think measuring the ash pile up on your window sill would probably be a better use of time than imbibing coulterism.
I’d think measuring the ash pile up on your window sill would probably be a better use of time than imbibing coulterism.
Hallelujah! They’re alive!
Okay, that moment of freak-out-resolution over, think of it this way, Scott: With that level of charcoal in your body, son, you are fully prepared, ahead of time, to deal with any drug overdose that may ever occur to you!
Think of it — a night out on the town with Slash and the boys, a few bennies, a coupla speedballs, some fierce hash brownies — you’re already ready for it! Let ‘em throw their hardest drugs at you, you’re O.D.-Proof! You’re invicible!
One would hope, anyway. There’s got to be SOME point to this arson-driven insanity. I’m glad that y’all are okay, but as for the O.C., well, let’s just say that I wouldn’t weep for days if the whole pretentious suburb went up, but that’s just me. I’m evil like that.
I’m not, unfortunately, sufficiently evil and/or recovered enough to bear the brutality of seeing shim’s pelvis jutting through another W. Palm Beach-Marshall’s-clearance-rack bland black shift. Much less that FACE. Urp. I’ll kack up my pain patch AND my Chantix. So forgive me for wussing out on this one, kudos to Mary on having the titanium eyes and ovaries to deal with it, but, in the words of the formerly-intelligent-now-a-bitter-bloated-sellout Dennis Miller: I. Am. Outta Here.
Okay, that moment of freak-out-resolution over, think of it this way, Scott: With that level of charcoal in your body, son, you are fully prepared, ahead of time, to deal with any drug overdose that may ever occur to you!
Think of it — a night out on the town with Slash and the boys, a few bennies, a coupla speedballs, some fierce hash brownies — you’re already ready for it! Let ‘em throw their hardest drugs at you, you’re O.D.-Proof! You’re invicible!
One would hope, anyway. There’s got to be SOME point to this arson-driven insanity. I’m glad that y’all are okay, but as for the O.C., well, let’s just say that I wouldn’t weep for days if the whole pretentious suburb went up, but that’s just me. I’m evil like that.
I’m not, unfortunately, sufficiently evil and/or recovered enough to bear the brutality of seeing shim’s pelvis jutting through another W. Palm Beach-Marshall’s-clearance-rack bland black shift. Much less that FACE. Urp. I’ll kack up my pain patch AND my Chantix. So forgive me for wussing out on this one, kudos to Mary on having the titanium eyes and ovaries to deal with it, but, in the words of the formerly-intelligent-now-a-bitter-bloated-sellout Dennis Miller: I. Am. Outta Here.
That was no pelvic bone — that was an erection.
[...] World O’ Crap: And I realized the suddenly sulphuric atmosphere didn’t betoken a menacing shift in the wind-driven flames, it just meant that Ann Coulter was in town. [...]
I’m new, so I’ll make it short. About the wildfires: my sincere condolences. About that biggot spewing anorexic, I’m glad I’m not the only one who didn’t take her comments as a joke. Nice title.
Hey, Scott, here in the effete East, we godless treasonous Francophiles spell what you coughed up into the sink a “briquette”. But maybe they’re different out your way. Brichet sounds a lot rougher and lumpier, and I hope you’re ok.
Ann must either have strange (and doubtless psychodynamically significant) posture, one helluva pubic bone, or be wearing rather an overstated merkin. Or maybe it’s a brichet.
Ann must either have strange (and doubtless psychodynamically significant) posture, one helluva pubic bone, or be wearing rather an overstated merkin. Or maybe it’s a brichet.
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