the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

September: rhymes with dismember

Well, shove another statue in my ass, how the hell did it get to be September already? I thought I was bein' all productive, putting up a post early in August, thinking I'd follow it with at least one or two more...and then BAM. Now it's cold and my ass is all jiggly with the shivers, and not in a good way.

First things first (because it's more arrangey that way): The winners of my caption contest are Bone Machine, for the timeless "She's got Sandy Duncan Eyes." and Sheryl Stephen for the heartwarming sentiment, "Oh, Sonny, you just dislodged my mucus plug with your teeth!" I couldn't pick just one, so I am crowning Bone and Sheryl the King and Queen of the Cotillion Prom. Or is "Cotillion Prom" redundant? Either way, I'm forced to wear something made of taffeta and to put my hair up into ridiculous turd curls. Go on and dance your spotlight dance, you two.

In other news: Now that my local store has closed, I'm driving a half hour each way to a different store, and working an average of six hours a week. Like a 30-year case of diarrhea, it's gettin' old. So, my chaps and I are actively back on the job hunt. I'd really like to find employment as a court jester, or perhaps the pastie technician at a strip club; I'll keep you informed on my career progress.

Speaking of progress, how awesomely fucking awesome is it to have Project Runway back on the air? I'll give Bravo props for trying to give us a substitute, but let's face it: The Fashion Show was nothing more than a scrap of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of Tim Gunn's always-polished shoe. It was like asking for a Classic Coke and instead being handed a warm glass of piss. Well, maybe I'm being too harsh here; warm piss isn't as bad as The Fashion Show, not if it's fairly fresh, and doesn't have those lemonade fleaks in it.

Also, I did, in fact, make it to the zoo this summer. Here, have a camel's ass:

Camel's ass

And, finally, I'd like to offer proof that just because you're about a thousand years old (in cat years) doesn't mean you ain't still cute enough to stop traffic.

Eeyore prefers to summer at the Monkey-Head Hilton condo. And where's that catnip julep he ordered ten minutes ago, hmmmmm?

That is all. Transmission ended.