Stupid poo-head quiz.

Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader?

I was a heart surgeon this weekend. Tonight, I’m a badass.

So . . . great weekend. Had a grand time out on the island of length with my lovely friends. I’m still so pale that I appear to be a beacon of light yet I’ve decided not to care. I’m embracing my whiteness. So what if I’m the color of salt.

My ass hurts. Not because of the weekend (I didn’t have THAT kind of fun) but because of the 8 miles or so I’ve ran over the past two days. After being incredibly lazy during the weekend, I’ve decided to run it away. (OK, so I use "run" loosely here . . . let’s say jog/walk.) This is fine but now my right ass-cheek hurts. How do you pull a muscle in your right ass-cheek, you ask? I have no fucking idea.

I ran (just work with me) up the East River yesterday. There were small groups (families, as some might call them) along the river, grilling out. Yup, full-fledged BBQs with small grills and blankets and kids. Now, there’s only a good 20 feet of space (and I believe I’m overestimating) between the FDR and the river but that wasn’t going to stop them. The BBQs were in full swing! It was kind of sweet, actually. Not sure I’d like to eat a burger locked between speeding cars and a somewhat smelly mass of water but . . . whatever! It’s all in the name of fun!

Now, I can say with a certainty that I wouldn’t want to eat a freshly caught fish out of the East River but, apparently, there are some who don’t mind.

Anyhow, this is all just to say that somewhere between running past cookouts and fishing poles, I pulled an ass-muscle. I’m one hell of an athlete.

I didn’t do much better on the treadmill tonight. I was a good thirty minutes into my run when I went for my towel and pulled the emergency stop string by accident. I’m not sure I have to go into detail about the shock of running a good 5.5 miles/hour before coming to an immediate halt. Jarring? Yeah.

Yeah.

Feeling good. Feeling fit. Feeling healthy. Let’s hold onto that, shall we (crossing fingers)?

Word.

You know that "laughing but shouldn't be laughing" feeling?

Child Ruins Monks' Intricate Sand Design
AP

KANSAS CITY, Mo. (May 24) - The little boy spotted the pretty pile of colored sand on the floor of the vast hall and couldn't resist. Slipping under a protective rope, he danced all over the sand, ruining the carefully crafted picture.

Never mind that it was the creation of eight Tibetan monks who had spent two days cross-legged on the floor of Union Station, meticulously pouring the sand into an intricate design as an expression of their Buddhist faith.

They were more than halfway done with the design - called a mandala - on Tuesday when they ended their work for the day and left. The little boy showed up sometime later with his mother, who was taking a package to a post office in the hall.

"He did a little tap dance on it, completely destroying it," said Lama Chuck Stanford, of the Rime Buddhist Center in Kansas City.

A security tape shows the boy's mother returning to the mandala, grabbing her son by the arm and walking out of camera range.

The monks saw the destruction Wednesday.

"No problem," Geshe Lobsang Sumdup, leader of the group from the Drepung Gomang Monastery in southern India, said through a translator. "We didn't get despondent. We have three days more. So we will have to work harder."

The monks are on a yearlong tour of the United States and Canada to raise money for their monastery. The original monastery in Tibet was destroyed.

In a ceremony Saturday, they will sweep up the sand and offer bits to onlookers for their gardens. The rest will be placed in the Missouri River.

"The belief is that it will carry the blessings all over the planet, from the Missouri River to the Mississippi to the gulf and to all the oceans of the world," Stanford said.

Well, shit. But sand is made for stomping and kicking. Right?

Danielito

The most amazing person I've never met: Mammalpants

You're the coolest, Mr. Hamilton.

The Landlord - Part II

Outtakes!

Kitlers!

Holy crap, I can't stop laughing . . .

Cats That Look Like Hitler!

Well, sure, this makes sense.

Baby 'Bubba' Gets State Gun Permit

I think we're dead.

I'm in love.

As I'm the chick who stops at every handmade jewelry designer's / artist's roadside stand, I LOVE this site. And, um, check out the amazing prices . . .

Well, crap, I guess now you all know where I'll be shopping for gifts from now on.

(Tim: You should TOTALLY sell your photography on here. I'd buy it!!)

Etsy

I just don't think I can express how fantastic I think all of this is. I can't stop looking at everything.

Then, when you have found the shrubbery, you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forest . . . with . . . a herring!

There’s a large piece of shrubbery in the lobby of my office building, with paper wrapped around it. Someone bought someone else a shrub . . . and had it delivered, no less. Not a pretty arrangement of flowers but a large, 3-4 foot shrubbery. I just don’t know where to begin . . .

My ass is currently being pummeled by a cold / allergies concoction of some kind. It’s a lot of fun, believe me. That, and it’s really doing a lot for my looks. I mean, who isn’t attracted to a red, runny nose?? Hot, I say. Hot. As soon as I can figure out which drug will help, plan on me buying stock in said drug.

In the meantime, I can’t take a day off to whine because I have a shitload of work to do. And I can’t wait to finish up the cover I’m working on -- one can only do image searches of “disgruntled teenagers” for so long before wanting to strangle someone. Am I right? Why, yes. Yes, I am.

Here’s hoping things start looking a little sunnier (less stuffy) by Thursday. I have an interview, which I’d rather not sniff through. Although, sniffing all of my answers would make me somewhat unforgettable . . . decisions, decisions . . .

P.S. When I was doing my google search for the exact Monty Python quote, I found this: Monty Python and the Holy Grail in Glorious Legocolour . . . JUST. AWESOME.

She's allowed to do anything she wants.

Aunt DoDo and Lisbeth take Manhattan tomorrow . . . Best. Time. Ever.

Who knew it was possible to adore someone this much?

Where are my pants?

Got the following email from my younger sister's boyfriend, Paul (Hi Paul!):

Muggy,

I am not sure why, but this made me think of you.

P

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_Pants_Day

I think this feeling is called "pride." It truly is an amazing day.

(I'm totally not wearing any pants right now. It's breezy.)

America's Finest News Source

If Someone Wanted To Publish My Blog Entries For Money, I Wouldn't Say No

I'm a receptacle . . . wait, what?

SCORPIO (Oct. 23–Nov. 21): "The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place," said Pablo Picasso, "from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing stranger, from a spider's web." Now substitute your own name for "the artist" in the above statement, Scorpio, and you'll have your assignment for the coming week. In other words, be alert for and open to the feelings flooding toward you from every direction. Regard the whole world as a giant classroom where you'll be taking a crash course to upgrade your emotional intelligence. —Rob Brezsny, Village Voice

Bring it.

P.S. Fabulous time last night, Miss. Kath. (Next time though, please remember to wear your shiny, white mumu.)

Funny.

The Landlord