No, London Bridge is Standing Quite Nicely, Thank you.

The last three hours have been spent learning about Arabic possessive pronouns. Much like rabbits who have discovered beer, they seem to procreate before my very eyes. So tonight's post shall be more visual. Picture pages, if you will. Ready, Mortimer Ichabod? I thought so.


The boyfriend and I went to London last week to visit a friend. I love vacation. Now I hate work worse than ever. Here's why:
Have you been dead for the last five years? Because this is what the Internet is. A series of tubes. Duh. Actually, this is a kick ass exhibit at the Tate Modern in London. It's art, except it's also an amusement park ride. I think more art should be like this. You know, ridable.Also, they were overwhelming for certain boyfriends and friends. Pictured on the left, is boyfriend. On the right, is Englishguy. We met him riding horses in China. The horses had gas, and seeing as flatulence is constantly funny, without interruption, we all had a good time and became fast friends.

If the British could be scary or menacing in any way, this would be the gang sign for Westminster, where Parliament is. I mean, bless their hearts they try, but really. It just isn't happening. When I open a bakery I will name it CakeMinster. And there will be gang signs. I'm glad cultures mix. Who would have thought that Chinese lanterns and double decker buses would look so good together?
I did. That's why I took the picture. Jesus people, pay attention.
This is half of badger in the east hemisphere, and half of the badger in the western hemisphere, the rocking-est hemisphere of them all. Word.
This is N. She and boyfriend are pretending they both like cunnilingus. It is hilarious because neither of them do.
They would both prefer to ride to tube with me to COCKFOSTERS. I love London. Mind the gap.
Thanks London Underground!

Drinking is fun. Thanks Englishguy! Remember America: more pubs, fewer kindergartens. It's the way forward.

Seriously tired now. More later.

The Death of Free Booze, and Civilization

The King likes himself a drink. He can do with out, of course, but really: self-deprivation is just the beginning of a slippery slope to anorexia, right? And I couldn’t handle that. Too intense. I’m too weak and need things pretty and bright for life to continue. It is pretty much common knowledge that boozin’ it up during certain activities, such as bearing a child, driving a train or performing open heart surgery will lead to horrible results. Then, there are other activities that are best seen to with a couple gin and tonics under the belt, including breaking up with people, going to Ikea and listening to progressive rock.

And flying over oceans.

But not because it is scary. Flying isn’t really scary to me because either we will arrive safely at our destination, or we will die in a fiery inferno. There is very little middle ground when traveling at five hundred miles an hour in what amounts to a foil-wrapped gas tank.

No, flying requires booze the same way that both a visit to Ikea AND listening to progressive rock require a bottle of spirits: because the experience is painful AND because you choose to do it. Also, if you expect me to sit in a seat with my knees resting lightly on my cheeks for eight hours, then you have a responsibility to fill me with booze. Having just returned from Ye Olde Englande, I was shocked/horrified to find that transatlantic flights no longer offer free alcohol as one traverses the frozen north Atlantic.

You have no idea how much this insults me at a personal level. Flying is supposed to be cool and sophisticated! Not the airborne equivalent of riding the bus. I am still angry that no one wears fedoras anymore, or carries a walking cane, and that they found out smoking was bad for you. If I was king of the world, everyone would still be wearing pill box hats, drinking martinis and dancing to swing music. I know, you hate me. But I’d be in charge and what the hell are you going to do about it? Nothing. Have another highball.

The kick in the teeth? “Ladies and gentlemen, please be advised that federal law prohibits passengers consuming any alcoholic beverages not served by cabin crew, including duty free purchases. Cocktails, beer and wine will be available in economy class for five dollars, four euro or three pounds sterling. Thank you.”

Good thing I am the smartest man alive. “Cabin crew, please be advised that I am in the bathroom dumping duty-free vodka into an empty water bottle. Please bring a large supply of tonic water, ice, and limes to seat 38A. Piss off.”

I'm here for your Safety. That's why I am holding this basket of mints.

Lenten Hardships

Where was I, the innocents ask? Why has the badger been missing for so long? Why has he forsaken us? None of your damn business. Yeah, keep to your own, you dirty clenchers. I have my own life and I’m going to live it. I’m going to get what I want! So stay out! I never asked to be born!

In the words of Addison Shepard, a fictional doctor from a show that I would prefer to not admit that I watch: there is a land call passive-agressiva, and I am it’s queen.

So, to make up for not posting in, say, twenty eight days (coincidence that 28 days is also the length of most in-patient drug rehab programs, or not?), I am going to post 28 times before April. That’s right. You, precious reader, get to read twenty eight posts about random crap that will make your eyes bleed. Enjoy. It’s lent, so really, I think we are all supposed to be suffering, no?

Drinking With Babies

America does not like people drinking with babies. That is my recent discovery. My last foray into Northern Virginia included taking Baby M. and her mom (M.) to a Mexican restaurant for margaritas. Well, I mean Baby M drank milk because she is like six weeks old, but M. deserved some margaritas. She just had a baby.

And YES, before La Leche league tracks me down and starts beating me with socks filled with bars of soap, blah blah blah milk was pumped prior to drinking yada yada yada precautions were taken.

Our waiter, who had to be like seventeen, kept giving us the evil eye. I was the DD, so I made sure I was under the legal limit. M. did not, because she didn't need too. And, oh kind sirs, Brian or Greg or Cody (his generic name escapes me now) gave us the judging eye. He, snotty teenager, giving us, accomplished upper-twentysomethings, the judging eye. What does he know about having a baby? Did he push a baby through his cervix? Doubtful. Did he stay up all night while the baby screamed and ate and then soiled herself and then ate some more? I think he didn’t. Are his nipples raw and cracked because this lecherous creature pulls it’s very life from his chest? Definitively not. A thousand times no.

Brian is young and stupid, so possibly excusable, but everyone was jumping on the silent-judgment bandwagon.

Old women walking by: the judging eye. Young couple seated behind and to the left: judging eye. Bus boy: the judging eye. Set of parents with one year old baby: glasses raised in a toast. They understand. The hostess? Oh, judging eye, my friends. Where am I going with this? No where. I doubt it’s a great thing to get plastered all the time when you have a baby- for mother or child. But women with children are still adult people, so quit staring at them when they do adult people things, like buy books or vodka or go to movies or buy porn. They do not quit being people when they have a kid. They don’t have to stay at home and do needlepoint and prepare home remedies to be good parents. And sometimes they will do adult people things while still caring for their children in a highly competent manner.

So shut your pie hole, judging eyes.