the cheese stands alone

An Emaily Explanation

Dear Goddess,
I am sneak-emailing. Don't tell the GM1, cos I'm not supposed to be up, let alone mucking about on the computer.
I think you gave me your sinus thingy. The doctors pulled it out of your dainty schnozz and using stealth alien abduction technology, implanted it in my head and made me dream I was having probe sex with an alien who looked a lot like Colin Farrell. Or the Farrelly brothers. I get confused.
Point is, I've been laid low (was that a pun? Must check rules...) by a "serious" sinus infection. My doc likes to say "serious" a lot, in case I think she means "comedic" sinus infection.
It probably does not help that I had a sinus headache for three weeks before it blossomed into screaming adulthood, so I guess I can be booked for negligence.
In any case, when my right maxilliary sinus exploded, it kicked off a migraine chain. Kind of like a daisy chain without all that gang-bangy goodness. But the meds I was on for the sinus disaster precluded the migraine meds. Ergo, I spent three days pogo-ing between "please, for the love of god, shoot me" to "give me the fucking gun, I'll do it myself."
I was, at one point, awake for 29 hours as the pain just wanted me to stay up and listen to bad late night television. At hour 27, the hallucinations kicked in and I was sure Suzanne Somers was at my thighs begging me to be the master. Or something like that.
At hour 29, the GM1 got a bit miffed that no one at the doctor's office had returned my calls and he proceeded to storm the Bastille. He called them three times then stomped down there in person to get answers as to What Can Be Done Until These Stupid So Far Non-Effective Antibiotics Kick In?
Finally they told him to have me take the Tylenol 3 they'd given me (so far useless in the fight against crime) two at a time instead of one. Now, before you write me off as all tits and no brain, let me assure you I'd thought of this many many times but had been lectured "seriously" on the dangers of doing such a thing. So I didn't.
I am such a good patient. Might die of the goodness, but I'm good nonetheless.
In the meanstwhile, during the worst of it, my eye swelled shut and my ear went dead and my jaw refused to let me talk or eat. It was just before the migraine grabbed me by the balls for a second attack that I had the GM1 post the notice, as I suspected I would be outta commission for a bit and didn't want a "she's run off to SF to do drugs with Courtney" scandal on the blog.
Cos I know that's what you all think when I don't post.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the T3 times two did the trick and I fell asleep like a great huge falling asleep thing. I slept for almost 14 hours, got up to look at dinner and retch, and slept again.
The GM1 tippy-toed off to work this morning, with strict instructions regarding my behaviour, including "no drinky, no dancey, no bloggy". Apparently my one-eyed squinting at the monitor (and it would be my one good eye that goes astray, leaving the 20/150 one to carry the load) disturbs him, as does the subsequent gagging that follows once the nausea kicks in.
I am just one fucking barrel of fun lately.
So that's where I's been, missy and keep it on the QT, because the GM1 reads your blog and I don't need a spanking on top of everything else. I prefer to save that for when I can savor it.
And as I check this over for spelling flaws, ever perfectionist even on my deathbed, I realize it might make a sufficient post to explain Where The Hell I've been.
Forgive me if I pimp out our correspondence for my blog. :)
Yours in snot-hood,
LeeAnn

Only Mostly Dead

Put away those mourning rags and dust off the happy feet.... The Cheesemistress is back, evicted from the sickbed by her own ennui and resurrected as the New, Improved, 50% Less Bacterical Secretions Cheesemistress!
Okay, only the 50% less thing is actually true. Nope, there is no truth in advertising, Virginia.
I will be trying to catch up and resume my bloggy duties, particularly since I am on house arrest for almost another week. I bet the tourists are crying for their fairy floss even as we speak. Weep, tourists, weep, for the fairy floss floozie is fled the fair!
Yes, alliterative abuse is a side effect of the meds.
To all those who left me kind and thoughtful get-well comments, I gotta say I was pleasantly shocked that so many of you miss me and it was wonderful to read. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
Like the GM1 says, "Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snot up a lung and it's a comment bonanza."
I loves ya all like you were my very own.

Message

This is the GM1. LeeAnn is ill and won't be able to blog for a while. She asked me to tell you all this so you will not think she has quit and not said goodbye.
Thank you.
GM1

Now With Amazing Archival Action!

The ever-so-talented Scott Matthews, about whom I've raved before, has improved his site to include nifty archives so as to increase your Clip Clop Comix viewing pleasure.
Go see, go see.

My Dad Sends Me Jokes

This one appeals to me.

A study conducted by UCLA's Department of Psychiatry has revealed that the kind of male face a woman finds attractive can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle.
For instance, if she is ovulating, she's attracted to men with rugged and masculine features.
However, if she is menstruating or menopausal, she's more prone to be attracted to a man with scissors lodged in his temple and a baseball bat jammed up his ass while he's on fire.

Couch

Q: How many Freudians does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: Two... one to hold the lightbulb and one to hold my penis.... no, my mother!.... my father!.... NO! the ladder!

Confession Is Good For the Soul

I have to admit this: sometimes I post just to see the little numbers on the calendar change color.
Oh sure, like you never did, huh?

Perhaps Sleep Is Unnecessary

But what I really hate is when I'm lying in bed, in that hazy fog between dozing and totally awake, waiting for the energy to hit me so I can plummet to the floor get up, and I get the most wonderful, completely coherent vision of the Perfect Post, so I stumble partially-upright, stagger to the computer, and then realize I can't sit down because I have lost my pajama bottoms and everyone knows what happens to Good Girls who lounge about bare-assed, and by the time I've convinced myself it's okay because I'm the only one who sits in this chair and therefore it's only my own tush germs that would be moved from point A to point B, the muse has flown, possibly to some magic place where people don't stand around with full moon arguing with themselves about seat hygiene loud enough to wake up their spouse.
Or so the GM1 says.
So whatever really entertaining thing I was going to say here, fuhgeddaabodit.

I Sense A Distrubing Congruence In the Force

I'm sure this is a vas deferens vast relief to those of you who like to keep a tidy pantry.

And Speaking of Mind Games

A nifty word association game.
My only fear is they'll save these and use them for my commitment hearing.

Incentive

Blogger Survivor:2 now has a prize listed. Go see, go drool, and then go enter!

Today's Riddle

Q: What's a Yankee?

A: The same as a quickie, only you have to do it by yourself.

Outwit Outpost Outlast

Blogger Survivor, Season Two, is now officially commenced!
Those of you who want to follow in my illustrious and yet strangely humble footsteps as the Big Winner should immediately apply to Pylorns, who will be our host.

All those who wish to participate must email their name/blog/email address to me (pylorns at wetwired dot org) by the assigned deadline (see schedule). Please use the subject line: "Count me in."

Rules, regulations, and titillating tease of current and future prizes are here at Blogger Survivor.
And don't forget to check the Survivor blog often... there are challenges, votes, and lots of trash-talking. (Last season, I called Pylorns a doody-head.)
The possibility of someone getting naked for peanut butter is, of course, a given.

A Moment UnCheeselike

Yes, we're supposed to be above all that. We're supposed to be the Good Example, the Right Way, the Caesar's Wife. And yet there we are on film, making fun of prisoners and allegedly tormenting them.
No, it wasn't right, nor proper, nor acceptable. Yes, the wrongdoers should be censured.
But this apology business....
No, we should NOT have apologized. Have any of the Iraqi or Arab world apologized for capering in the streets when US military were killed? Has anyone come forth and apologized for Jessica Lynch? Thomas Hamilll? Pat Tillman?
For 9/11?
I'm sure we were listening, and not one word arrived.

I don't care if we're supposed to be Better Than That.
We shouldn't have apologized.

Stop The Presses!

Apparently the big story in the blogsphere today is that a blogger quit blogging!
Then after a few friends emailed a bit, began blogging again!!
This has caused blogworldwide excitement!!!
...because no one ever does this.
EVER!!!!

Stay tuned!!! Breaking details as they happen!!!!

My Calendar Is Slow

Having a mild case of the beal, I went in search of the Friday Five so I could write a post without actually having to come up with original content or clever opinions.
Except.... no Friday Five. They said "back in May", and it's May, and where the bloody hell is my Friday Five?
When I slammed the refridgerator door in a fit of pique, it knocked off a few of the little magnets and my calendar came fluttering down. It was then I realized it's only Thursday.
Could be worse. Could be Saturday, in which case I am going to get severely bitched at for missing work Friday. Which I didn't, because it's not.
Friday, I mean. Not Saturday.
Which, by the way, it isn't either.
But it IS Thursday.
I'm pretty sure, anyways, that it's Thursday.
Ah hell.... no I'm not.

Terms, Defining of:

I don't want to rule the world. I just want things the way I want them, when I want them. What's so difficult about that?

2000 Words

Harvey said once, in a fit of commenting madness, that "This place needs more LeeAnn pics." I imagine he means pics of me, but being the stubbornly obtuse cheesemistress that I am, I choose to believe he means pics belonging to me.
And with that, I give you a picture of a minor miracle....
My daughter, Kelly.

She's not only gorgeous, she has the gift of phrase-turnage.
This is her dog, Endo Beaner Bagby, of whom she says:
"He has little bumps all over him and his breath smells like a bucket of sea shells that has been left in the hot car after a day on the beach. "

I guess technically, he's my granddog. I can see how he takes after my side of the family. The little bumps part, I mean. And the glazed look. That's vintage Cheesemistress.

Told You So

I knew it wasn't my fault, I knew it I knew it I knew it!
The modem had gone completely ka-ka-licious.
So the repair guy, who was a very nice man despite the fact I had no Mt. Dew in the house and he was forced to drink Diet Pepsi, swapped it out with a new one and zing zam zoom, I have internet again.

Of course, I have nothing to blog about NOW.
Time to stand out on the balcony and wait for the neighborhood to provide.....

Update On My Woes

Neither rain nor snow nor gloom of computer bugger-ups can slow the Cheesemistress from her appointed damn near obsessive-compulsive template changes. Although I have to admit, what with technical difficulties, it took me over 4 hours. Now, that's true lunatic behavior dedication.
And in a related item, the ISP has admitted maybe there's a problem and are sending a guy out to "look at it". From the tone of their voice, they think I've driven a railroad spike through the cable somewhere.
Huh. Shows what they know.... it was a fondue fork.

Miffed (And Really, Is A Miff As Good As A Mile?)

My computer is constipated. Rather, let's be clear and restate: my internet connection is constipated. Let's be even more needlessly graphic clear: my ISP appears to have taken a tremendous, diarrhetic dump into my modem.
What I'm trying oh so delicately to say is, things are pretty shitty, computer-wise.

Most every page I've tried to access, both in IE6 and Mozilla 1.5, times out. Reloading sometimes works, but not always. Pictures come through about 1/10 of the time. Some pages just look extremely off, like something stripped all the prettiness code out.
Why, yes, it does sound like a virus... but...
(And how could I have a post about how shitty things are without having a "but"?)
I have run Norton, with updated virus definitions, several times. I have run AdAware, Spybot Blaster, and Clean Center. I tried to run the Symantec online check but that's kind of futile when the main problem is nothing will load.
I've downloaded nothing new prior to all this poopla. I've deleted nothing.
And naturally, when I called the ISP, they said why, of course there's nothing untoward going on in your area, you are just inept and cootie-ridden.... but
(see? another "but"!) we are having just a tad bit of trouble determining that your cable modem is functioning, so we'll send a guy to check it out.
So here I am, stalled on the side of the information highway, which has become an information dirt path through the woods, littered with trodden-upon poo.
Until later tomorrow, when allegedly the cable guy will come and fix everything all better.

Yes, as I re-read this I realize it is possibly the most boring, self-serving, whiny post but yet I feel compelled nonetheless to share with you this dark side of the Cheese.
Sorry. Smart-assery and tarded neighborhood tales will resume once I can face the keyboard and not cry in frustration.
I bet I hit "save" and it times out and I lose all this.
Damn.

My Dad Sends Me Jokes

A car hit a 10 year old boy and drove off.
The boy was lying injured in the road.
A passerby ran up and asked the boy, "do you want me to find a priest?"
The boy replied, "How can you think of sex at a time like this?"

I don't write 'em, folks, I just report 'em.

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head), Milking This For All It's Worth, Part the Last

Tiffany, who started it all, asks:
1)Just how afraid should I be of the cheese family moving to North Kakilaky?
Be afwaid. Be vewwy afwaid.
Actually, my sister The Executive has lived in NC for years and years now, long enough to have spawned the Scary Child. That's a post in and of itself which I shall reveal later someday. Now my other sister The Perfect Mother is moving there with her three, plus the Loins From Which They Spranged (the daddy).
I predict the National Guard will be mobilized at this time.
2)Are you more like Lucy or Ethel?
I am a Lucy brain trapped in an Ethel body.
3)Does Mary Hart piss you off?
Don't speak her name. That bitch is dead to me. *spit spit*

Tammi, who patiently waited until the planets aligned properly, asks:
1) Plane, Train, Automobile or Boat - you have 1 month to travel ANYWHERE - where, how and why?
You know those commercials, I think they're for Carnival Cruises, where the ex-cruisees talk about what it was like when they were the royalty on the ship? That's what I want. I want to go on a cruise and be waited on hand and foot and have gorgeous, pliant waitstaff bring me frou-frou drinks. And I want to keep the little paper umbrellas that come in them. I just want to float round and round in a nice warm climate and be the Queen for a while.
Actually, sometimes I sit in the bathtub in my bathing suit and drink my Fresca with a little paper umbrella in it.... but it's not the same.
2) The one song that never fails to make you smile.
"Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon.... it could bring a smile to the face of a nun with a wedgie.
And as a bonus.... the two songs that make me dance? "Bad Touch" by Bloodhound Gang and "Smooth" by Santana. The one song I have to sing along with? "Army" by Ben Folds Five, especially the line "And my redneck past is nipping at my heels."
3) Favorite type of bird and why.
Hummingbirds. No, wait, flamingoes. No, I was right the first time, it's hummingbirds... no, it's those bigass orange-eyed owls.....
Okay, could I have a flamingo with big orange eyes that flies like a hummingbird?

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head) Part 3

All kneel at the feet of DaGoddess as she asks:
1) Can I borrow your car? Mine's giving me the automotive equivalent of the middle finger today.
My car never gives me the finger. It merely holds out an open palm, begging for more and more money. And any day I don't gots to have my wheels, dear, you are certainly welcome to 'em.
2) When are we going to eat hot dogs together again?
One of these days, your schedule and mine are going to synch up properly and then, if the restraining order from Oscar Mayer has expired, oh yea verily, we shall eat weiners.
3) Do you think we'll get kicked out of Ikea/Price Club for eating hot dogs the way we do?
I think both Ikea and Price Club should have to pay us for eating their hot dogs. The way we do it, nothing less than a sale-day crowd would be attracted.
And a corollary question from Bob:
1.Have you considered producing a Bloggers Gone WILD! video when you and Da Goddess eat hot dogs together again ?
We actually did try that, but the camera kept melting.

Xade (spelled like it sounds) asks:
1. If I have already posted this thing on my blog before, do I have to do it again or is it an 'all you can ask' kind of deal?
This kind of thing is like breathing or watching "Teletubbies".... you can do it as much as your system will allow. But remember, moderation is the key to clean living.
I wonder if there's a 12 step program for bloggerholics?
2. Cause I didn't fall under the 'First five people get an honest answer' category, does that mean I can just assume that you weren't exactly telling the truth in your first answer?
Never assume, because then you make a donkey out of me and my.... wait... okay, never legume because then you make a bean out of.... that's not right.... never resume because you should Finnish your Dutch treat.....
Nevermind.
Just know I would never, ever lie to you, Xade. Maybe to the rest of them, but never you. Just use the secret decoder ring.
3. How exactly does one become a Munuvian, do you have a secret ring or handshake or somethin?
It's a complicated process involved DNA restructuring, a series of biomodifications, and the vast and overwhelming generousity of the wonderful Pixy Misa, without whom I would not exist.
Okay, yeah, Mom and Dad had a little to do with it.

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head) Part Deux

Lovely Maura asks:
1. Of what are you most proud in your life?
I'd have to take the easy answer here, Maura, and say of course my marriage to the GM1. It's my one shining successful move in an otherwise self-checkmated game.
If you want the SECOND most proud moment, a moment where I felt like a peacock in full flaunt, see the continued answer to this in the extended entry**
2. Top Ten DVDs if you were stuck on a deserted island (with a DVD player, TV with surround sound, and a generator).
Holy crap, Maura, you play rough, girl. Lessee.....
Fifth Element
Kill Bill Vol. 1
Fight Club
The Thin Man series
Moulin Rouge
Grease
Paint Your Wagon
Princess Bride
Young Frankenstein
and of course, Chicago
3. Here's a million bucks. What would you do with it (it doesn't all have to go in one place)?
I'm about to get all Responsible and Boring now. I'd pay off all my debts, give cash gifts to all my family, and buy a house so the GM1 can have a dog. Oh, and buy the dog as well.
And maybe a cruise.
With Tom Hanks.

Pixy, who obviously has forgotten who (or what) he's dealing with, asks:
1. Is the Goldbach conjecture correct?
I believe not. It's socially impossible to get three primes in a room without all that nitpicking and infighting that makes the soiree just impossible.
2. What "proof" did Fermat have in mind that would not fit into the infamous margin?
He intended to prove that, at the time, the margins were just too damn small. He succeeded.
3. Why does the universe appear to have one time and three space dimensions?
Because there's never enough time but you can always find room for jello.
(Sorry to have to go all super-genius with a non sequitor complex on you with this one, but sometimes rational thought just won't do...... okay, yeah, like rational thought and I were ever in the same room.... HA!)

**1. My second most proud moment was a very fleeting one, and trivial, and probably stupid. But it's mine, I tell you, mine!
At one time, I could dance. I don't mean classically trained ballet or tap, nothing any self-respecting terpsichordian teacher would cop to. I mean shake dat booty and wiggle dat thing. This was back in the late 80s, when club dancing was all shimmy and big hair and spandex.
So one New Year's Eve, having just moved to San Diego, the soon-to-be-ex (may he rot in a hell of moldy fishhead stew and crotch-itch) and I called a truce in our ongoing war and went out. Being the big spender he was, we walked four blocks down the street to the local dive. STB-ex had thoughtfully taken the opportunity while I dressed to get shitfaced in advance, and by picking a fight with the bouncer before even setting foot in the place managed to ensure I'd have a lovely New Year's Eve all on my own.
Did I mention that I had all our celebration money in my own hot little pockets? Yeah.
So I went on in, commandeered a tiny table next to the dance floor, had a couple of beers for Dutch courage..... and I danced all by myself for the next four hours. I knew no one there. No one knew me. And all us no ones had nothing to prove and no rep to uphold.
Clothing stayed on. Movements never went lewd. Gravity remained my buddy and didn't suck my ass to the ground in a sudden power display.
At one point, the band, before going on break, applauded me.
A couple of women asked me if I gave dance lessons. I drank free the entire night. And no one (yep, the infamous No One again) made any kind of advances or hits or whatever.
Maybe it was coming through that I wasn't dancing to entice or lure. I was dancing to celebrate. Celebrate the new year. Celebrate that I was young and healthy and living in SoCal. Celebrate that final sweet "click" in the brain that made me realize it was absolutely 110% over with the Ex and I could move on.
Danced my ass off, I most certainly did.
And the next business day, filed for divorce.

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head)

DRC asks:
1. If you could be alone in a room with one person for 24 hours with no repercussions, who would it be?
Tom Hanks. Without question, Tom Hanks. I have had a Tom Hanks fixation since "Bosom Buddies." It's now increased to the power of a neurotic obsession. I can't watch any movie, or at least any part of a movie, where something bad happens to Tom Hanks. I cried hysterically for three days after I saw "Cast Away".
To this day, I curse the name of Helen Hunt.
Curse you, Helen. Curse you again.
2. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
In a penthouse, with room service and a spectacular view.
With Tom Hanks.
3. Would you ever be on a Reality Show?
Well, now I know that I don't know you in life-outside-bloggery, DRC, because my friends and family are sick unto death of hearing me go on and on and on about how my dream is to be on "Survivor". I'd settle for "Big Brother", but "Survivor" is the true enchilada.
If I can't have Tom Hanks, by the way, Jeff Probst is a damn close second.
Wait, if I'm a really good cheese, can I have both?

One of my idols, Teresa, asks:
1) Do you change your hair color everytime you change the colors on your blog?
Not anymore, but in my *coughlonglongagomisspent* youth, I was known as Rainbow Head. I have quite literally, at one time or another, had every color hair possible. My most memorable was the time I sported mainly copper-penny red, with fuschia bangs and rat-tail. Remember rat-tails? Yes, it was that damn long ago.
2) Are you going to apply to be on the next version of Donald Trump's Apprentice so we can get behind the scenes blog reports? (after the Fairy Floss cart - Trump's requests should be a piece of cake -right?)
I want to be the one who follows the Donald around with the hair spray supply. Talk about job security!
3) What's your favorite article of clothing?
Back in those days of yore that sound so much better now than when I was actually living them, I had a black shiny spandex dress, with a zipper running completely up the front and another completely down the back. It was quite the girly-est thing I've ever had, and it was my Weekend Party Till You Drop Dress. Nowadays, modesty and zoning laws have retired The Dress, and my favorite bit of clothing are my plaid Converse hi-top sneakers.

More answers later.... it's almost time for "Survivor", you know.

Just Ask

Other than the underwear ads and the little tearout strips of perfumey paper, one of my favorite part of a magazine is the Interview. They get some wildly famous celeb cornered and ask them blindingly invasive questions like "Who inspired you to act?" and "Do you hope the movie is a success?" (I always want them to say something like "Lizzie Bordon" and "No, because failure makes me hot, baby, red-hot like the surface of the sun in a tight thong and no tan lines! Hot, I tell you!")

So Tiffany has this new meme and being the plagaristic, soul-sucking content vampire responsible blogger that I am, I snuck up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned to look I stole it from the other side and ran away laughing because that's just the kind of evil, content-vampire I am, except I have much better sneakers, look... see the plaid? Don't you love plaid sneakers? I could die for a good pair of plaid sneakers, they're so.... je ne se quois, doncha know? decided to help spread the word.

Anyway, the way it works is: you ask me any three questions in the comments here. First five people to do so get absolutely honest answers, unless of course it would violate my witness protection status or involves my pubic hair.
And best of all, it completely absolves me from having to think of interesting, new content for a least another couple of days.
Then, go do the very same thing on your blog. Be brave, be daring, be willing to answer stuff, and when you do open up and tell all, tracky-backy to me.
I like that phrase.... tracky-backy, tracky-backy, tracky-backy.

Ask Me Stuff, Will You? Why, I Oughta....

Robert, one of our new fresh fodder for the great and terrible hungry gods Munuvians, has received several questions from some PR firm who wishes to have bloggers fetch their coffee, spitshine their Jags, and do all the grunt work while they party with anorexic nymphomaniac models in the south of France answer a few questions. As I get way too much spam as it is, I am using Robert for my own evil ways as a mere pawn in this power struggle to get out the word about new ways to increase my erection sending my answers to him to forward on to Mr. James Fryer, the PR hack who is so very interested in us bloggers.
Here's what I sent:
1. How do you typically source material/stories for your blog/site?
I make it all up. Every single word. If it's a slow news day, I pretend I write for the New York Times and write some kind of fantastical nonsense piece about the .03821 percent increase in the price of beets being directly linked to the Bush administration's plans for complete world domination. And in making beets cost more, too, the bastards. In fact, everything I've ever written is a total and utter lie. Including that statement. Think about that.
HA! You're having a brain hemorrhage now, aren't you? Paradox rules!
Yes, I watch a lot of "Star Trek" reruns, why do you ask?

2. Have you any examples of a story that you have broken on your blog, being second sourced up other blogs or the mainstream media?
I was the very first to post about the dire consequences of the lack of beer in my fridge. Later on that day, other bloggers expressed a similar and equally distressing lack of beer. Actually, it wasn't equally distressing, because it was then about them and not my problem anymore, and as we all know here in the cult, it's all about me. Yes it is. It IS. Don't make me do that Vulcan mind meld thingy again.

3. Do you believe people use or will in the future use blogs as a news source over the traditional medium of newspapers, tv and radio? And have you any evidence to support this?
If anyone is still listening to the paper, reading TV or watching radio for their news needs, they should just stop it. Stop it right now.* Anyone who takes breaking news seriously in this country knows that all right and proper news information management comes from those of us with way too much time on our hands a burning itch in a rather embarassing spot desire to be the first to get the scoop and an illegal police scanner a constant raw news feed from our second cousin who used to go to aerobics with the sister of an intern at the local network radio station a reputable reporting source.
*and because it's silly. Did you actually read that sentence? No? Just skimming again to see if I mention "breasts" or "hot naked jungle sex with fairy floss vendors"? For shame, for shame.

4. What are your views of the commercial sector adopting blogs to communication with customers, and other target audiences?
I think it's hot, a terrific turn-on. The very thought of the commercial sector makes me want to rip off my clothes, rub low-calorie psuedo-dairy products on my body and run shrieking in ecstasy amongst the cartons of fairy floss pre-production materials and old sno-cone holders in the back storeroom at work, at least until my break is over. Can't be late coming back from break, you know. There are RULES, dude!

Recommended Reading

I was going to add on some illustrations from the book but there is a rather threatening injunction on the author's website telling me all the foul things that will happen if I do such a thing, so all I can do is tell you to have a friend buy it and copy it for you at work.
Yeah, like you were really doing something else more important?
I didn't think so.

Another Reason I Need To Move To UK

Win your weight in cheese.
Pardon me whilst I go have some private fantasy time....

In Case Anyone Has A Spare Genie In A Bottle Or Something

Speaking of looks (well, weren't we?), I have a confession to make....
I'd give 3 years off the backend of my life to look like Meg Ryan in "Addicted To Love".

My wishing aside, it's a pretty good movie, with one of the better lines ever...
"That girl of yours is a carnival ride!"
Rather like what I'm having engraved on my tombstone:
"Here lies the last E ticket attraction."
Death has no room for false modesty.

Fixer-Upper

I've been trying to catch up on my backblog (get it? back log... back blog? Too early yet? Alrighty.) and I am sensing a trend here....
I've read one screed against women who wear makeup and get their hair done, one denouncing of cosmetic surgery, one hissy fit against body piercing, and one self-righteous fuss against fashionable shoes.
Let me say here and now, so it goes on my Permanent Record, the Cheese is FOR all these things. If I'd had the better end of the genetic lollipop, maybe I wouldn't have to wish for all the time and money it would take to retailor myself into a gorgeous hunk of sizzling womanhood. As it stands, I will die before I give up my good mascara and my yummy shoes that make my legs look all modelish-chiseled.
Unreal body images forced on us by magazines and fashion empires? Balls.
Ancient Egyptians used cosmetics way before Vogue was published.
Beauty is only skin deep? Balls again. It's a 50/50 shot that the troll on the bus is a true Mother Teresa, just like it's even odds that supermodel is a puppy-kicking sociopath.
It comes down to the right to choose. I am very very much for the right to choose. I am the Pro-Choice queen, baby. And if I want to spent my time at the Lancome counter and worship Nordstrom's shoe sales, then it's my choice.
You want to go out in the world baldfaced as a newborn baby? Your choice.
But keep your judgemental paws off my belly ring.

Invisible

Can anybody see this or has my blog eloped with the bunny?
I'm seeing naught but albino penguins in a blizzard.
Damn.

PS... nevermind, seems to have just been a computer burp.

Easter Greetings

In case anyone has forgotten, here's the real reason for the season.....

Dibs on the ears.
Happy hoppy Easter, everybody! from all of us here at The Cheese.

Waiting

I have the word "DUCK" stuck in my head.
I don't know if it's an omen or an oncoming stroke, but I'm not leaving the house for a while, just in case.