2002-12-06

I think a full day of answering bum-snoggingly stupid questions has caused some sort of minor mechanical breakdown in my cerebrum. I've got crossed wires in there somewhere. Every time I open my mouth to say "I'll look into that for you," what comes out instead is "GO SCRAPE YOUR COLON BLOODY WITH A WIRE BRUSH, YOU FLAPPING TIT!" I think I need to have a specialist jack open my skull, "Ray Liotta in Hannibal"-style, and take a look.

Tomorrow I get to embark upon the epic joy of Christmas shopping. Since my family is all the way across this great and inconveniently enormous country of ours, I have to start Christmas shopping pretty early to make sure everything is wrapped and mailed on time. And because I have to start Christmas shopping early, I will also start Christmas smack-talking early; so bend over, grab your ankles, and prepare for three weeks' worth of wassailing cheer to be jammed up your chimneys, kids. I hate malls at the best of times, but the combination around Christmas of the extra Hoi Polloi drifting around and clogging every aisle and escalator like so many constipated manatees, the obnoxious insistence of every shop on playing albums produced in the ninth circle of Hell (Mariah Carey's Christmas album, for instance), and the fact that I'm not fucking shopping for MYSELF, goddammit, all come together to make Robin extra congenial this time of year. Goodwill towards men and all that can kiss my ass. Bloody importunate relatives.