Big Ugly Man Doll

One of my favorite authors, Steven Brust, has run afoul of the long arm of the Medical Community, and is not, repeat NOT, looking for donations. However, lots of his fans are giving him donations whether he wants them or not. If you’d like to be one of them, the donation site is already set up: http://dreamcafe.com/donate.html. If you haven’t read his books, you should: http://www.amazon.com/Book-Jhereg-Vlad-Taltos/dp/0441006159/ref=pd_bbs_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1195067952&sr=8-2 Think of these as the best of Robert B. Parker meeting the best of Frank Herbert, with a very strong shake of Roger Zelazny thrown in. I’ve read nearly everything he’s every written, and all of this series. He’s a great storyteller, and I want to be just like him when I grow up.

Except for, you know, the money part.

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You may have noticed this recent headline: U.S. Anti-Nartotic Efforts Drive Cocaine Prices Up 44 Percent
Or you may just have noticed that you seem to be paying more at the, ah, pump when you go to get your own, than you were in January. Well, it’s true. Even the bananos are up, and a bowl of California cornflakes these days costs more than a block of Google.

So, what I’m wondering is what this is going to do to my stock options? If the cost of Devil’s Dandruff is blowing so high the crackheads are Ghost busting, I’m guessing my shares in the Bolivian marching powder market are golden. My investment broker warned me that Florida snow was a volitile market to crack, but between the Federal Reserve and the DEA, right now that little investment looks more like Star-spangled powder than weasel dust.

Happy trails!

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To cap off a fairly odd week, I dropped off the 5-yr-old Reigning Queen of Pinkness, Duchess of Fluff, and High Protector of Barbies at her pre-K class this morning. Needless to say, the hordes of moms, milfs, and nannys did not spare second glances for the BigUglyManDoll – after all, that’s why I’m the BigUglyManDoll – but The Fierce Pink One was quite excited to introduce me to her friends.

I did not catch my daughter’s comment, but the extrapolation was easy when I heard her friend giggle excitedly and tell her: “Oh! My dad’s name is Daddy, too!”

She’s probably screwed if she ever gets lost, but still… Damn, that’s funny!

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Njjules is after me to post something funny, but all my writers are on strike. I’m working with the union, but they said they’d kneecap my muse if she crossed the picket line.

Come on, folks – don’t they know when we shut down the funny, the terrorists win!

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Ya know, suicide is painless, or so the song says, but njjules pointed out a headline today mentioning that someone was “a suicide victim.”

I don’t want to make light of a tragic situation, since suicide is only painless for the person in question – pretty much sucks for the cleanup crew, you know?

But, the more we thought about it, I have a hard time with the term “suicide victim.” Because really, the person jumping meant to do it. I think the term “suicide victim” is more properly applied to a person on the ground, on whom the jumper has landed. Or to the poor schmuck who has to pee so badly he’s developing a bladder infection because he’s been sitting on the US Capitol Beltway for 4 hours while the cops help some idiot make up his mind on the edge of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. There’s your “suicide victim.”

Not that I’m bitter – or heartless. Just big and ugly!

I’m just sayin’, is all.

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