The Way Things Are






2006-02-08, 1:58 p.m.

Ha. I got an email this morning from one Heall Lefevre, and the subject is ďJudah or axesĒ. I guess I pick axes, because that Judah was one backstabbing mofo. I donít need that. I could totally clear some cedar, though, or even clear out my list of People Who Must Die, if I had me some axes. How many axes are we talking about, Heall?

In other news, we had some goddang quesa-dillahs for dinner again the other night, cooked on the Gary Coleman Grill, which is really a George Foreman Grill, but LG canít stop saying Gary Coleman, and by the way, today is Garyís 38th birthday. Anyway, I had my little cooking station set up, grilling first the onions, then the green peppers, then the chicken, etc, and I was really enjoying myself, because I am a woman of simple tastes and am easily entertained, and I could see the TV.

I told LG, who was doing homework at the table while I cooked, ďI think Iíve found my calling. Iím a goddang quesa-dillah griller.Ē

He looked at me blankly for a moment, and then said, with dawning comprehension and relief, ďOh. I thought you said you found your colon

Wouldnít that be a little disconcerting for the person cooking dinner to announce that they have found their colon?

The Big Work Proposition churns forward. At least, we havenít come to a deadlock in the negotiations, although I think some dreadlocks in the negotiations might make things interesting. Iím excited, Iím scared, Iím worried about being discovered to be fraud that I know I really am, all that ďFear of SuccessĒ kind of bullshit. I called a friend in the same line of business that Iím going to be careening into, and asked about a thousand questions, and he answered my questions with more questions, so itís all about asking the right questions and being comfie with the answers I get. First I have to figure out all the questions. But isnít it fun when your questions just open more cans of questions? Iíd rather be opening up cans of whoop-ass, myself, but itís hard to finagle that into earning a living, at least when youíre one of the smaller, spiny mammals like me.

Speaking of whoop-ass and all its redneck connotations, tonightís the big rodeo night. Um, you know? Itíll be fun. I like the rodeo, I like live performances like music and comedy, and itís all about getting over my tendency toward inertia, putting on my getting-up-to-go-out clothes, and forcing myself to stay awake past 9:00. I wonder if DW would mind if I brought my Big Book of Sídookie? I could wear one of those little headlamps...and shit, give me some straight-leg jeans and sensible black loafers, and Iíll be set for the nerd rodeo.

But really, calf-roping and barrel-racing and bull-riding are not things I see every day, and itís always interesting and entertaining. Horses PREEETTY. Plus, itís fun to pick out the women with their big man-catching hair, and see what their name is written on their western belt. There are a lot of Crystals, Tanyas, Donnas and Pams. Not to make fun of actual cool people with those names; I feel your pain, as your names have been hijacked by the cowfolks.

And then after all the livestock runniní and jumpiní, thereís Bill Engvall, who is perhaps the most normal and least redneck of all the blue collar comedy tour comedians. Seriously, I donít think I would have accepted tickets to see Larry the Cable Guy. Sleeves cut off the shirt with those big, flabby fat-boy arms? Ew. I donít want to look at that.



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