Nothing has changed out here, Sandy—people still fight over Vikings in Minnesota. I live just a few miles from the Kensington Runestone Museum, and I know better than to dispute it now. (Nah, not really. If some asks, I’ll tell ’em I think the runestone is a hoax.)
I get a lot of mail from publishers, and this one had me going for a moment…one thing I don’t get is much mail from right-wing sources (other than the usual excoriations, of course.) This one looks so much like authentic Republican PR that it took a moment for it to sink in.
Speaking from the heart, not from the brain, this legendary Commander-in-Chief takes us on a journey through his momentous life. The great man we hear here displays his mother’s steely resolve and vindictive temper, his father’s keen mastery of language, and his own unique gift of deciding.
That’s a work of genius…satire that sneaks up on you. I almost trashed it before I realized what it was.
Don’t miss the movie! I may have to buy the book.
…just for an excuse to have this wedding cake.
(Don’t worry, Mary—I want the bride to be the same person I married the first time.)
I was going to encourage you to read this post by Flea that says nice things about my superpowers (it’s a vanity thing, you know), but then I saw something there that sent chills down my spine: Jimmy Dean’s Pancakes and Sausage on a stick. With chocolate chips.
Excuse me while I run for the bathroom.
I have to draw the line somewhere.
The dish in front of me is grey and shiny.
“Russian dog,” says my waitress Nancy.
“Big dog,” I reply.
“Yes,” she says. “Big dog’s penis…”
We are in a cosy restaurant in a dark street in Beijing but my appetite seems to have gone for a stroll outside.
Nancy has brought out a whole selection of delicacies.
They are draped awkwardly across a huge platter, with a crocodile carved out of a carrot as the centrepiece.
Nestling beside the dog’s penis are its clammy testicles, and beside that a giant salami-shaped object.
“Donkey,” says Nancy. “Good for the skin…”
I’m sorry, but butchering random animals, sometimes endangered animals, for the purpose of consuming arbitrary small bits of their anatomy because of a perceived magical benefit…no, thanks. Besides, if driving a big car is a sign of a tiny penis, I suspect anyone caught needing to consume a tiger’s erectile organ is deeply inadequate, not just in the crotch, but the brain as well.
Oh, boy…Boingboing mentions something squid-related and everyone sends me email. Should I mention that I brought up Squid Soap back in August? (Hah! That Doctorow fellow thinks he’s so cutting edge. Poseur.) However, Craig Clarke just sent me some information on a holy cruciform-shaped scrub brush, and it seems to me that we have to get these two products together.
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If you’re going to wash away the sins of the world, you ought to do it with squid soap, I think.
It’s time for another edition of that popular game where I browse through the mailbag and see what peculiar images people have sent to me, prompted by my peculiar reputation. It’s not all flabby, slimy squid this week!
Now we’ve got unconfirmed rumors that Steve Irwin was born again shortly before he died. You may recall that Charles Darwin was also tarred with claims of a deathbed conversion, too.
The message is clear. Don’t convert, or you’ll die.
The only question is whether it’s Jesus that does the execution, or whether wandering evangelicals are actually serial killers. And since I don’t believe in Jesus…
