There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Ikea may be carrying my designs this season!

I got a fantastic bonus along with my tv: it came with its own tv stand! Well, it came in a big cardboard box that is acting like a tv stand. It complements my day-core nicely, since my nightstand consists of two copier paper boxes stacked up. I am actually stupid enough to have looked at this "furniture" and thought "Hmmm. Maybe if I threw a tablecloth over the top..." Yeah. Because no one would ever recognize a cardboard box once a tablecloth is hiding it! I am clearly the queen of both subterfuge and decorating. I have started referring to myself mentally as Algernon, because while I am certain that I get dumber every single day that I spend on this planet, I am also aware that I'm getting dumber. Sometimes it takes me an hour and a half to find the cheese.

I went to the newsagent this morning to buy a map of England (so's I can find my boy on Friday) and some ibuprofen (so's I don't sit at my desk and cry all day). The ibuprofen was about 4, or approximately $7.20. The box contained 16 tablets, 200 mg each. My loading dose of ibuprofen is 1000 mg, or 5 tablets. At 45 cents per tablet, that makes this morning's dose a $2.25 investment in my future. Of course, buying things like ibuprofen at the newsagent means you're going to pay a bit more, but since the fucking chemist doesn't open until 9, well after the time I like to be at work, well, then, I didn't have much choice. And why the hell do I have to go to a chemist for pills, anyway? I'm not asking for osmium or seaborgium, for Christ's sake. I'm not fighting Superman, I'm just fighting cramps.

So last night I had a choice of watching many old American tv shows or something called The Celebrity Awards. The old shows were CSI (is David Caruso still alive?), The Fresh Prince (that Carlton is such a little scamp!), and My Wife and Kids. Now, these were all new to me because it's precisely the kind of crap I won't watch when I'm in the States. As it turns out, it's also the kind of crap I won't watch anywhere.

So it was all about The Celebrity Awards, which are, as you may have surmised, awards people get simply for being famous. In England. Because I didn't know who ANY of these people were, except for Simon Cowell, who did win Celebrity of the Year. They had performances by singing groups I'd never heard of, by lip-synching pop ingenues I'd never heard of (and hope never to hear of again), presentations by the famous, for the famous, and they were all over-dressed, over-collagened, plastic-boobied, big haired strangers to me. One of the performances featured this woman wearing a headset (yeah! That fooled me into thinking she was really singing!) and singing the old disco classic "More, more, more (how do ya like it? how do ya like it?)." Well, maybe that's not the title of the song, but it doesn't really matter, because why would you take such a generic song and re-make it into a new version that is indistinguishable from the old one? Oooh, I almost forgot my favorite part -- one of the presenters was Victoria Silvstead (sp?), Playboy big-booby girl of the year, or something. She can barely read but was clearly not capable of memorizing her moronic scripted patter, so she resorted to shifting around the neckline of her dress until a bit of areola peeked out. Don't you wish you were watching, too?

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