Have a safe and drunken new year’s, why don’t you?

And happy birthday to Woodroe, whose birthday is always filled with drunkenness, merriment, vomiting, and making out.

Today is Gene Clark’s 34th birthday. Damn, but that sumbitch is old.
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Last week there was a discussion about Bunny Bread, and when jp! pointed out the special “Plantation” formula of Bunny Bread, it reminded us all that Southern offensiveness is still alive and well. Here is photographic proof of said bread.

On Friday night, Larry, Jaxxie, gorjus, and I ran into our realtor, Paulie, who took a shine to gorjus. It is really not my fault. Really.
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Our friend La Cat has recently moved to Phoenix, where she hates her job. While she is miserable, her emails are fucking hilarious.
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Last night, gorjus took Larry and me to dinner–I tried to get him to take us somewhere cheap, but as he uttered the words I didn’t do anything for your wedding I decided it was perfectly ok for him to take us to an expensive dinner. Even though he was, you know, our minister.
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Warning: if you are a vegetarian, you may find offense with this post. In that case, heed this warning. I want no comments about how Eating Chicken is Wrong.
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bulb sent out an email directing us to look at Choose the Blue, a website that reports what political parties companies donated to–and how much.
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A few weeks ago, Larry called on his way to work and excitedly told me the following, which made no sense:

You have to go the long way to work and pass State Street and Woodrow Wilson. There’s a man with a dummy and a huge sign and it’s about Jesus and the dummy and…you have to see it. Bring your camera.
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Last fall, when I was teaching at a major university in Alabama, I only kind of knew this mildly creepy guy named Ron.
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These random thoughts popped into my head as I drove to work this morning, listening to Louder than Bombs.
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At last! The last wretched day of National Poetry Month!

This is the last poem you are going to be made to read. And it is good. It’s the only one I can think of in which the speaker pines for a beloved he hasn’t met yet. Although he announces that he has given up waiting for her, and how it is ridiculous because he doesn’t know anything about her (“I don’t even know what songs / would please you”), the last few lines indicate that despite the fact that she hasn’t shown up yet, he still really does have hope. . .

Be gone, National Poetry Month!
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. . . Pepsi is bubbly and brown while the Pope
is flat and white. Pepsi doesn’t have a big white hat. The Pope
can’t get rid of fender rust. Pepsi is all for premarital sex.
The Pope won’t stain your teeth.
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This little poem’s advice applies to aspiring writers, or just those who want to become more aware of their lives.

Put it all in,
Make use.
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