I don't subscribe to W

Every month, this weird magazine that I didn't subscribe to, W shows up. It's one of those things you get free if you neglect to uncheck a box when ordering makeup on E.L.F.'s web site.



Anyway, this magazine is really racy and goes into the recycling bin before it has time to create an unfortunately awkward moment between me and Jen, or Mark and Jen, or really Jen and anyone else in the house. This month's features Bruce Willis and his new wife, Mrs. Willis. I don't remember her name. Emma? Ella? Eels? The cover, which is pretty skanky, is the most classy picture in the bunch. Let's just say that Eels Willis has no problem with nudity in a way that will make you wish for the good old days when Demi was posing naked and pregnant. And Bruce Willis is evidently out to prove that, like Demi, he too can have sex with someone young enough to be his offspring. Except that he's got photographic evidence he's willing to share. Even if you don't want it and didn't subscribe to it on purpose.

Bruce, please. Put your pants back on and don't let your wife talk you into any more age inappropriate photo shoots. Please.

Manhole...

...is a funny word.

Greek is a funny show.

Oh No! Mr. Kill Bill! (vol 2)

Aww, apparently David Carradine hung himself in his hotel room in Thailand. I really liked that guy!

I am Caine. I search for water.

:(

Even Royalty Occassionally Experiences Tech Issues

This made me laugh out loud. Tech AND pop culture humor combined, what's not to like?
Click here to see funny image. Prepare to read.

Wow, Am I Fantastically Lazy About New Blog Entries!

Plus, I have nothing to say. So...consider it said!

Everything I Know About Poetry, I Learned from Stephen King

LJ is doing a report on WB Yeats, who I suggested. Little does she know, that everything I know about Yeats can be boiled down to that scene early in The Stand where that Army guy is talking to his son-in-law about the apocalypse. In honor of Stephen King, Yeats, and LJ, here's some poetry about the end of the world.

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Shut Up, All American Rejects

There are few things more annoying in entertainment than listening to some bitter singer lord his success over an ex. Listen, jackbutt, just because YOU'RE successful doesn't mean that she's miserable. Get over yourself.

That reminds me of Sk8er Boi. Listen, Avril, if he's complaining often enough about his ex that you're writing songs about her, he's probably not over her.