Bow to your sensei BOW TO YOUR SENSEI

I thought I was going to be out having a cold one or two with Cyborgsquirrel right now. Apparently, I thought wrong. That's alright though. I'm still going to help him comply with the court order he received that requires him to post this picture as many places as is humanly possible. Said court order was prompted by the conflagration of a shortbus, a secluded park, and a "bathing suit area." I'll let you paint your own picture.

The government of my fine city says I owe them several hundred dollars. Naturally, the DC bureaucracy, gold standard of efficiency and paragon of precision that it is, is absolutely fucking wrong. And I have the cleared checks to prove it. Repeated calls to the examiner assigned to my case: unanswered. Repeated calls to the examiner's supervisor: unanswered. This year's tax refund: applied towards the money that I don't owe. No wonder everyone moves to Virginia. At least there you can pack twice the heat when you go to the Office of Tax and Revenue to discuss your case.

This picture of FJ has been driving me absolutely fucking insane. I know, I KNOW that she looks exactly like a specific actress or model or subject of a painting or curiously shaped rock formation or something that I have seen sometime in my life. I just cannot for the life of me figure out who/what it is I'm thinking of. My initial response, that it was somehow related to film classic The Ice Pirates, turned out to be inaccurate. Although to answer FJ's question, Robert Ulrich was not the only A-lister in the film: Anjelica Huston also made a major contribution. But you don't look like her either.

How about some music? You like music, don't you? Thought so. This song has been in heavy rotation in the Chulius' juke. This one's damn good too. One of them's a bit dirty, but it's still nothing compared to this. All links ripped straight from webjay, just so you know.

That's it for me, I guess. Before I leave, I want to make sure you remember: shortbus + park + bad touch = cyborgsquirrel.

"N" is for Neville, who died of ennui.

A boring day at the broom factory for your beloved emperor. There are all of three people in the office today, including me. Can I go home, there being so little to do? Oh, what folly that would be. So, here I am, updating my shrine to narcissism.

If you'll direct your attention to your left, you'll see that a number of links have been added and/or updated. High on the list is the blog of comedian Patton Oswalt (of "King of Queens" fame). One post of his in particular much of my readership will identify with. It has to do with his stay in Charleston, West Virginia, and the large number of meth kitchens exploding as reported by the local news. Having spent some formative years in West-Northwestern Arkansas, this is a very familiar phenomenon. He also makes one of the best analyses of the condition of our great unstoppable nation I've seen so far:

It's weird—I feel like me and my friends have been mockingly lip-synching to Kelly Clarkson, showing each other how hip and above it we are, while outside the whole country turned into one giant meth lab, run by people who believe in angels.

Also new is The Superficial (the content of which is occasionally not safe for the working). Mr. Superficial is basically the male (and hetero, far as I can tell) equivalent of the ladies at go fug yourself. The evidence I cite is this: he is my competition for the hand of Miss Scarlett Johansson. I see a cage match to the death sometime in our future. As happens so often, a quote from Christopher Lambert is appropriate: "There can be only one."

Warren Ellis once again offers something extremely disturbing.

In local news:

The Washington Post has been running commercials featuring resident Washingtonians talking about their favorite parts of the newspaper. In one, there is a slightly pudgy man with very suspect facial hair who LOVES the obituaries. Like, wants to marry them. I'm puzzled as to why the Post thought that this person, with his latent necrophilia, would entice people to purchase their periodical.

Alliteration is fun.

More fun facts: almost everyday, as I'm walking towards the Metro on my way home, I pass by a middle-aged Latino gentleman with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. I had thought that Hitler had put the kibosh on the moustachaplin as a fashion option, but I guess I was wrong.