Dan bid 175 floundering American dollars on that trifling piece of junk (thanks to 7.3 of you who bought his new book, plus tax)--including the little bits of Scotch tape that Dear Abby/ Ann stuck all over it (apparently she was a compulsive taper)--at her postmortem garage sale/auction thingy in Chicago. Then he dropped 200 bucks on her typewriter--maybe because the estate's executors won't let him buy her dusty old bones until the fire ants have finished picking them clean.
Dear Abby/Ann's typewriter! Dan can't type!
And now he needs to sell 8.3 more books.
And I think y'all might recall that fairy tale a few weeks back about Janeane Garofalo and me renting Hammer films and painting each other's toenails or something. Pulled that right out of my keister, I did. See, the thing is, well, I really like Janeane Garofalo. Like lesbians like lunch. Like the deserts miss Loraine. Like the man with no lips would like having some lips. So I'm sure you can imagine my reaction when my friend David Schmader informed me that he has not only hung out, but indeed chilled and kicked it with Miss Garofalo, and--why, didn't I already know that? Yup.
They're still scraping the top of my exploded head from the ceiling.
And did you hear about Kathi Goertzen? Squealing her car into the handicapped space, rushing to use the ATM, and then squealing away, all the time flagrantly refusing to even act handicapped? Now that's just rude.
And no, newscaster hair doesn't qualify as a handicap.
I'm sure you'll agree that of all irritating things ever, Tim Eyman is the most. Which is exactly why this here report of him bitching, "Fuck.... Come on.... Fuck," at an excuse- me-for-taking-too-long-for-THE-Mr.-Tim-Eyman Olympia traffic light that refused to change upon his command is the only one you'll ever read here, chosen solely for its illustrative poetry and ironic pique.