Your tail bone's connected to...well...nothing.

Did you know we all have a tail bone?

Of course you did.

But did you know this?... When you slam that tail bone directly into hard pointy plastic at the speed of 1g, it really FUCKING HURTS.

It hurts in that 'funny bone' ringing way. That rings up and down your spine. It makes your entire torso ring with incessant pain.

And really, there's nothing more disturbing than your ass ringing. Really.

Especially when you do it the very second you sit down on Space Mountain at Disneyland.

When you drop into your seat, and mis-judge the distance in the darkness, landing straight on your tail bone on the pointy seat divider. And suddenly you're ringing with pain just as you're strapped in to a flat-as-a-pancake rocket seat that will jostle you with drops and about 50 right turns slamming down on said tail bone for the next 3 and a half excruciating minutes.

This wasn't me. I'm just saying I IMAGINE it's painful in that ridiculously funny way.

Go Long

I'm sure you're all now well aware of my schoolgirl crush on little seems-like-jail-bait Justin Long. He is however, a manly 29, which makes me just a regular stalker instead of a child molester.

That being said...here's a nice photo of him in the new Die Hard movie - in theaters tomorrow. He's the one on the right. Nothing against the guy on the left.

Yippie Ki Yay Moth....

Spiders Documentary

Just can't get enough...

Snot what you think...

I don't know what the hell happened to me last week - but I am insanely sick this week.
Flu/Cold/Virus-who knows. Doctors pretty unsympathetic, and I should buy stock in Dayquil.

As a jolly reminder of what fun it is to be phlem-y...here's a re-post on the origins of Snot.

200 or bust!

Dwight D. Eisenhower was President of the United States for eight years after serving as Supreme Commander of the
Allied forces in Europe during World War II. Early in his career, however, he didn't win many accolades. Referring to his mediocre stint as an undergraduate at the U.S. Military Academy, he said, "If anybody saw signs of greatness in me while at West Point, they kept it to themselves."

I mention this only because I found it in remarkable parallel to Hyperion's announcement regarding my 'bedpost notch tally" - only a sad 118!

Clearly having schtooped only 118 men, I have much to do. This is only mediocre. Much as Dwight D. Eisenhower did, I shall push towards my goal despite a lack of recognition or applause. The Presidency of under-appreciated whoring awaits!

Clooneyfied

George Clooney needs to leave me alone.

Seriously.

I can only say 'I'm not interested' SO many times before I have to get a restraining order.

I went out with my friend B last night to Hollywood to see a movie. As we approached Hollywood Blvd, suddenly we were accosted by bright lights and the streets were blocked, traffic insane. Possibly construction, I thought. But I knew of a secret little parking spot behind the theater that I only shared with my closest of friends. So pulling in, I was SHOCKED to see a gigantic tent over the entire parking lot blasting Sinatra, with palm trees.

I began to smell something was up, so we parked far away, walked to the theater, where I was confronted with the realization that something was amiss.

Paparazzi were EVERYWHERE. Red carpet, movie lights hanging from the sky brighter than the sun.

This type of hype can only be attributed to the presence of Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney. Holy Sweet Jesus it was Brad Pitt AND George Clooney! It was the premiere of Ocean's 13.

I knew Clooney was behind this. I KNEW IT! I elbowed my way thorough the throngs of photographers, gawking bystanders, and gaggles of screaming girls. I crossed in front of supermodels in evening wear grubmling at the flashing lights and cameras. I literally had to cross the red carpet the wrong way to GET to the theater. I could almost sense Clooney smirking from the shadows.

Only Clooney knew my favorite parking spot. Only Clooney would have dared set up something THIS elaborate and THIS dramatic to ruin my evening. I rebuffed him, and this is how he repays me. That evil grey-haired bastard orchestrated this whole thing!

I stomped across the red carpet screaming 'LEAVE ME ALONE GEORGE CLOONEY - I HATE YOU...YOU...STALKER!'.

I just hope he heard me over the Sinatra and screaming girls.