When six year old little girls call the shots then crowns, earrings, bracelets and rings become mandatory as we all stretch mediocrity to the stature of royalty. I did not partake at the time, because I’m far too pretty as it is. Any prettier and there will be morale issues at my office, and I’ll not sabotage my beautiful face again.

    I love this man platonically and the place not at all. No further descriptions will be forthcoming because, frankly, you don’t deserve it.

IN homage to my MIA blog-mate, Arthbard, I bring you this field photograph of what might be the most redundant expulsion of the Idiot’s Guide series*. I suppose it might be bested by a theoretical “Idiot’s Guide to Idiocy,” but until then, this will do nicely.     If you find that your superstitious fears are too complicated and confusing, and you’re tired of all the overly-technical textbooks on the subject, then here’s your book. * For a far superior exploration of the Idiot’s Guide series, you might wish to consule Arth’s insanely humorous article, Blog Entry for Stupid People.

I drive before my American shrine to the ancient fertility goddess, huge and pendulous breasts drape across the instrument cluster; gray and plastic and nonetheless blessed. Surrounding these maxi-boobs are the pert and perky miniatures which adorn the rest of my environment, and from their areolas gust winds of heat and cold and universal good.     Purchased for $2000 from my beneficent and meticulous brother, Gerald, this sculpture of torpid lividity* is a 1999 Grand Am, 129,000 miles young.** I only wish you could fondle it the way I can fondle it every day.     Theoretically there could be an extra breast explosively visited upon me should I strike another object as I once struck an object not so very long ago. But that was in a car which was not only a different color, but provided almost 100% less boob-esque. I should stop typing, as it is strictly prohibited by my automobile insurance riders.     First, I must tell you about the spreadsheet. Entrusted to me at the time at which I took custody of the rolling Shiva, each row indicates a service or product visited upon her in times past, and the columns details date, type of service or purchase, location at which said purchase or service was proffered, wether or not there was a warranty and when such an thing might expire and the odometer reading at the time of service. From this record I’m able to determine two things: My brother is doing nothing to disprove the stereotypical image of the engineer My mobile Aphrodite is well maintained and a fitting addition to my family, albeit one which can neither consume health insurance premiums nor eventually participate in the selection of my retirement home (should the occasion arise). * I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. ** About 207,000km

    Samantha has been taking piano lessons and Saturday was her first recital.
    The fourth child to play the crowded recital hall at the local Evola music center, she performed two pieces. Each was only about 30 seconds long, but she did a great job at each. Her posture was good, her hand position was proper, and she kept her eyes firmly on the sheet-music. Confident and happy, Sam eagerly posed for the above picture during intermission*.

    She says she can’t wait until she gets to do a recital again, which warms my heart. I’m so happy to be able to offer her these opportunities.

    One of my enduring regrets is that I never really took piano lessons.

    When I was about ten or eleven my family purchased a larger home. It was pretty big, and attached to the living room was a small library/den. One wall was taken up by a set of built-in bookshelves and the other wall was conspicuously blank.

    Purely for aesthetic reasons, my parents adopted a 1934 Kimball upright piano and ensconced it here. As the aged instrument was mainly intended as a piece of attractive furniture, the fact that it was no longer in tune and had several dead keys was not a concern. It was this piano which I fooled around on for the years I lived in that house.

    Though I was not shy about my interest in the instrument, and the Kimball was loud enough that my activities with the thing were hardly secret, I was never offered any opportunity to get lessons and, to make matters worse, I was frequently told to stop that noise. So here I am, 35 years old and unable to play any recognizable tunes nor able to read music. Not to mention the fact that, because of the Kimball’s many dead keys, I was forced to play everything in one of two keys, both of which were mostly made up of black keys. And, lastly, the constant requests to stop playing undermined my confidence to the point that I usually don’t want to play in front of others. Despite this, I have placed many of my compositions on SafeT’unes, so you can listen to the wreckage that ensued.

    I want to make sure that Samantha (and Riley, when she’s old enough and if she’s willing) will have the opportunities that I didn’t have. So when she showed interest in the piano, I put her in lessons. And no matter when she asks, I always tell her its OK to play the piano.

    And I make a point of telling her to turn the volume up so I can hear her.

    If I have anything to say about it, she will never be told to “stop that noise.”

I stepped into my boss’ office and stood next to him. As he cringed, rightfully intimidated by my aura of unstoppable masculinity, I placed one booted foot upon his desk and leaned in close, sliding my aviator glassed down the length of my nose to better show him my smoldering coals of manly eyesight.     ”Let me tell you something about law and order, Jeff,” I said, resting one hardened, muscular hand upon his girlish shoulder.     His response? The only one possible under the circumstances.     ”Get that thing away from me!”     I apologize for making every other man on Earth feel more girlish in comparison, but I really don’t have much choice in the matter. Take it up with your God–he signed off on it.

I don’t know about you, but personally I am expecting to see some f@^&ing brilliant picket signs. There better be, or else the irony will give me blood poisoning.     Step it up, people. Is this the best you shiftless lot can come up with?

I’m not ignoring you, but I’m transitioning to a new laptop and I’m coming down off of several weeks of intense projects at work. You’ll soon get some holloween pictures.