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insomnipotent
01/19/2006 = 12:09 PM

I've still got my beg on, because I did a little soul-searching and decided that, yeah, I am still fucking greedy I am still fucking needy I would like to win, please.

So Click here to go to the Everyday Hogwash website and vote for my Electric Snide blog entry of January 13th as Hogwash of the Week. Voting for my Electric Snide blog entry of January 13th as Hogwash of the Week is open from now through the 20th now closed.

If you missed the original entry, you can read it here or here.

I have no coherent thoughts this day, as my poor benighted brain has decided that my being a slow-sleep insomniac is not enough fun, and has therefore invited premature waking to the party. So now it takes me five million years to fall asleep for all of one or two hours, after which I wake up at, like, 3:00 am, and I'm up. There ain't no lying back down and trying to recapture the sandman — that son-of-a-whore is long gone.

I'm up, I say. It's not the same as being alert.

I got an envelope in the mail yesterday containing one of those plastic bracelets. This one is red, and reads, simply, "BFF," so I am jumping to the conclusion that it is from my hetero-lifemate, who is a) my BFF and b) the only person I know spazzy enough to send something to their BFF without including a note.

The reason no one has ever coined the word fungry is that no one can decide whether it should mean "having an appetite or craving for amusing foods such as cotton candy, pop rocks, and peachy penguins," or if it should mean "fucking hungry."

It's a pity, because if fungry were a word, we could shut up all those bad riddle fools who try to make us remember what the third word is (besides "hungry" and "angry") that ends in "gry."

You know Stacy London, the fashion expert on What Not to Wear (the U.S. version)?

What was it, do you think? Was she a mean girl in school who never outgrew her fondness for making people feel like shit, or did the mean girls bully her and make her decide to get revenge as soon as she grew up?

Because she is just hateful. Bitterness oozes from her pores.

Pity the poor soul who has to fuck Stacy London — it'd be like dipping one's dick into a beakerful of carbolic acid.

Why isn't there a comic book hero named The Doodler? Depressed corporate tool-of-the-man in pointless meetings by day, brilliant artist and crimefighter by night. When boredom rears its ugly head ... It's a pen! It's a notepad! It's ... The Doodler!

He could live in the Cavern of Graffiti. Drive an airbrushed VW Microbus. Stop the Evil Ennui with a single whiff of his Super Sharpie.

Man, I wish I could draw.

Is anyone else appalled that William Shatner's kidney stone is worth more (financially, not sentimentally) than my wedding rings?

I find myself wishing I had enough money so I could buy the damned thing back from the top bidder and pay a surgeon to implant it back into Shatner, just on general principle.

Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a jeweler.

I don't like my nose right now. It keeps fooling me into thinking there is French toast nearby. Mean old tricksy nose.

The other (wee small hours of the) morning, whilst watching television and waiting for some sort of broadcast day to begin, I found myself singing, very softly, to the tune of The Stars and Stripes Forever,

Be kind to your web-footed friends,
For a duck may be selling insurance ...

during an AFLAC commercial.

In case Gilbert Gottfried wasn't sufficiently annoying in and of himself.

I saw a sign for Garbo Lobster. Their slogan ought to be "I vant to be a prawn!"

I know. That was shellfish of me. Blah blah fishcakes.

drinking: tiger shot 99¢ energy beverage fizzy-lifting drink
listening to: Bud Buckley, Inside the Night
my new bff bracelet: makes me feel all teenybop