Monday Blather
Oh, I am just not in the mood for another week. Not like last week, with a whole heap of guilt ladled onto the Saturday when I slept in. The house is now clean-ish though and The Action Transvestite is on tour again! Hurrah! (And curse you, Ticketmaster!)
This is the week where Ben makes his match. His entire fan club appears to be on tenderhooks , not wanting to jinx anything but unable to quell their cascades of good juju, rather like a starting lineup of racehorses with their prized legs lashed together with oddly colored fishnets.
I haven't met most of Bennish's most notorious and beloved friends but am terribly fond of the whole lot of them, mostly because he tells the most fascinating stories of their legendary exploits. It's like being bloggy acquaintances with superheros. We really ought to have a convention.
It has been brought to my attention (by a complete and unaffiliated stranger; not you, Beloved Reader) that this blog author's moniker translates to "Mrs. Unfortunate Pants". Liederhosen, Leiderhosen, Lederhosen; all trip out of as funny words to Americans and how can I possibly object to the Muse of Comedy with her lopsided groucho glasses, overly large shoes and charming penchant for fart noises?
The grand title "Mrs. Unfortunate Pants" may be appropriate on the more off-key days (like last week) and if it smarts of something funny, I would hope that sense would always be suitable.
In being saddled with an actual first name shared with no less than three cheerleaders at Pretentiousville High School, my parents were perhaps expecting a person entirely more sunny and whafty of character. And though they seem to still like me, they do wonder what violet-scented hell I came from as I make them eat food that is delicious but sometimes kind of creepy and abruptly served.
It is no matter: happily in adulthood most of the time we are satisfied with a moderate dose of irony as our loved ones address us in the words and revised names that lie much closer to the soul itself. Like you, my darling reader, my sweet.
This is the week where Ben makes his match. His entire fan club appears to be on tenderhooks , not wanting to jinx anything but unable to quell their cascades of good juju, rather like a starting lineup of racehorses with their prized legs lashed together with oddly colored fishnets.
I haven't met most of Bennish's most notorious and beloved friends but am terribly fond of the whole lot of them, mostly because he tells the most fascinating stories of their legendary exploits. It's like being bloggy acquaintances with superheros. We really ought to have a convention.
It has been brought to my attention (by a complete and unaffiliated stranger; not you, Beloved Reader) that this blog author's moniker translates to "Mrs. Unfortunate Pants". Liederhosen, Leiderhosen, Lederhosen; all trip out of as funny words to Americans and how can I possibly object to the Muse of Comedy with her lopsided groucho glasses, overly large shoes and charming penchant for fart noises?
The grand title "Mrs. Unfortunate Pants" may be appropriate on the more off-key days (like last week) and if it smarts of something funny, I would hope that sense would always be suitable.
In being saddled with an actual first name shared with no less than three cheerleaders at Pretentiousville High School, my parents were perhaps expecting a person entirely more sunny and whafty of character. And though they seem to still like me, they do wonder what violet-scented hell I came from as I make them eat food that is delicious but sometimes kind of creepy and abruptly served.
It is no matter: happily in adulthood most of the time we are satisfied with a moderate dose of irony as our loved ones address us in the words and revised names that lie much closer to the soul itself. Like you, my darling reader, my sweet.
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