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October 13, 2004

Well, there go my grand plans for this post.

Based on the comments I’ve been seeing on my last post, I was going to relent, and actually explain, in disgusting, excruciating detail, exactly what’s meant by the terms ‘Cleveland steamer’ and ‘hot lunch’. In direct conflict with what tiny fricking little bit of decorum and common decency I possess, I might add.

(And you gotta know that if I hesitate to talk about it, then it’s not fucking pretty. Have you seen some of the crap around here? I get the willies just proof-reading some of these train wrecks.)

I was also going to revisit my thoughts about women taking off their clothes in Canada. Well, not all women throughout the country, of course — and not every time they strip past their skivvies. Specifically, women stripping in bars for cash, while droolly men watch with glassy eyes and tenty pants.

(And more specifically, doing so in a country that doesn’t have any paper money smaller than a five-dollar bill. Because those two things don’t go together, people. Somebody dropped the ball here, and there is nothing good about it. You’ve either got to spend way more than you’d want to, in order to show a little appreciation for the shimmies being shaken, or you’ve got to try navigating little bitty coins into littler bittier stripper thongs. And the last thing you want in an otherwise sexy woman is a jingle in her G-string. If you know what I’m saying.)

Anyway, that’s pretty much out the window for now. I just got an email from my ISP saying that they’ll be dropping service for a couple of hours to fix some technical cockup or other. Personally, I haven’t noticed any problems lately, but apparently little Johnny’s boobie porn wasn’t downloading fast enough, and somebody complained. Whatever.

In any case, they say I’ll be cut off from the rest of the world starting at 11pm or so, which is just a few minutes from now. So all that nasty shit I mentioned earlier will just have to wait. Or never happen. Or be largely forgotten, except in those uncomfortable silences when neither of us knows what to say, but can’t bring ourselves to mention it.

(Yeah. Welcome to my family reunions. They’re all like that, more or less.)

And — much as it pains me to admit it — I’m pretty much tired of talking about strippers, too. There’s only so much you can milk out of such an easy topic, and I think I’m a couple of smarmy innuendos over my limit. So consider my stripper-milking over and done with.

(Okay, really, that’s the last smarmy innuendo. I promise. Until tomorrow, at least. Really.)

So, next time you hear from me, I’ll be back to talking about my regular, everyday, rarely naked, non-glittered, and un-vanilla scented life. It’s not ‘rock star’, folks, but it’s all I’ve got. And I’ll make it sound just as damned cheap and tawdry as I possibly can. See you when the network’s back up. Cheers!