snood/bellicose/pone/ranunculus/warp/dilly-dally

snood: An ornamental net in the shape of a bag that confines a woman’s hair; pins or ties at the back of the head

Geeze Louise, if I’m ever so down on my luck that I find it necessary to squish my hair up into a tight snood, will at least one of my friends promise to take me down, on the spot? Get bellicose on me, rap me round the ears, soundly, with some old corn pone, just do something to bring me out of whatever warped reality I’ve stepped into like toxic dogshit. [I know, I know, that sentence is flawed. I celebrate its flaw. Reader, see if you can find, and celebrate, the flaw in the last sentence. There, good. Now, so what, and onward.]

I fear the crustiness of age and would like it to pass me by. Just magically, miraculously, keep on going. On to the next crustacean. I want no part in snoods, excessive consumption of age-reversing products, or paying for my groceries in change. Hell, by the time I get to the change-paying years, I think pennies will have been long since outlawed, and, with any luck, change will be a thing of the past as well. Maybe even bills will be gone, and credit cards as well. We’ll go with the chip system, a half hour operation at most, whereby a miniature chip is inserted in the wrist. We won’t even have to hold our wrists to the scanner; we’ll just walk out and get completely rung up with the groceries, etc. Childbirth should also become a thing of the past, in the future. Close your eyes, visualize—with the help of your N-Zigabyte internal heart drive and M-Hz cereprocessor—the child who will best fit into your family. Include year of birth, gender, sexual orientation, and the usual vital stats and then select delivery method. Super saver shipping on all babies visualized in the month of December—typically a slow month.

Darn it Lily all I’ve got left in me is a handful of dilly-dally and a whole mess of wishing you hadn’t landed your balls in the sandpit again type of blues. I’d like to call up Lawyer Joe and his sniveling, enabling sister sometime and let them know how darn lucky they got when they landed you. They could actually start making money if they cared to. It blows my mind, how rarely competence is rewarded.

And so I am going to stop being such a slave to competence. I’ve noticed it only lands me into similar sandpits. Oh, Em’ll do it! Type sandpits. Let some really dedicated and competent person earn that praise, I want no truck in bouquets designed to reward me for being effin diligent.

I solemnly declare to not even give a damn about typos anymore. It hurts me fingers to correct ‘em.

My give a damn is busted! And I sure wish I could take credit for that line. Cain’t. Not gonna. Nighty night.

Words for 01/16/2008:
du jour
honied
horndog
wild blue yonder
wigless
dorkbutt
cradlesong
bellyache