There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Wherein nothing much happens.

Gee, so many interesting things have happened lately Ė I donít know where to start. For one thing, my computer completely refused to open pdf files today! Whatís up with that?

Seriously, though, blah blah dull. Although I was involved in a high-speed chase yesterday, it was only peripheral in that the individual who was in flight used me like an orange cone in a bike rodeo. He was a fugitive from the Border Patrol, which is probably the most boring branch of law enforcement. I know this because there is no CSI: Border Patrol yet. He was tearing down the side of the road in his red pickup (required by law, because itís Texas, yíall), then swoop swish he was around me, screaming down the driveway of EduMart on the wrong side. Then came the green and white SUV to trap him in the cul-de-sac that is the EduMart parking lot (Henry: itís what we call a ďcar park.Ē) and then another to catch him in the squeeze play. So that was exciting.

Then later the same day I felt dizzy and queasy and wanted to go home, but I compensated by staying at work and not really accomplishing a damn thing. I not only have writerís block, I think Iím getting readerís block as well. So I didnít accomplish anything on my ďTo DoĒ list (1. Find list.) and went to bed early.

So this person at work whom Iíve written about before because she was in Square State with us and was drunk and stoned the whole time has now just disappeared Ė fallen off the face of EduMart. I think sheís in rehab. I hope so, since the only alternative I can think of is ďkidnapped by aliensĒ due to my writerís/readerís block. No one will talk about it.

I was right about who would win Hellís Kitchen, so Iím going to try to continue my streak in a small way by predicting that this week Patrice will be kicked off Supernova due to the fact that she just sang a song of her own composition and was off key the whole time. Shortly, Toby will follow. And then Storm or Lukas. Or Lukas then Storm. I donít know, the future is hazy. So I see the final 3 as Dilana, Ryan, and Magni. Which brings me to Gilby Clarke. Who the fuck is he? I havenít seen that much blow comb action since 1983.

And can we talk about Project Runway? I donít know whoís going home next, but if Uli (or is it Ulli?) isnít in the finals, Iíll kiss a nerdy economist with no ass whatsoever. Of my choice. After last week, Kayne isnít safe. Robert is boring. NoTitsRedhead is too predicatable. TattooNeck and Vincent are both creepy, and Vincentís stuff sucks ass. That Twiggy thing was scary. Michaelís stuff is OK, but not stellar.

And in ACTUAL news that actually MATTERS, San Antonio teachers are once again being held to some weird standard Ė female teachers may no longer wear Capri pants or open-toed shoes. Now, I am no fan of the Capri pant unless the wearer is young enough to refer to them as pedal pushers, but what the fuck? Itís fucking HOT here. No hoochie clothes? Fine. Yay, as a matter of fact. No sandals? Ya know, Iím also not a fan of other peopleís bare feet Ė feet totally gross me out, and Iíd be just as likely to wear a cabbage on my head as sandals, but I know Iím weird about feet and hello? Sandals? Whatís next? A whole frickin state that refuses to acknowledge evolution? Oh, hi, Kansas.

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