I quite like Good Friday. The chants at the morning service at the Convent of St. Fidelis of Sigmaringen down the road are always so lovely. Although I’m Catholic, and therefore not particularly religious, I do find the stark dignity of that empty tabernacle quite stirring.
Neverthless, we did get our praying out of the way pretty quickly this morning, so we could get on with the important business of gossip, showing off our new hats and handing round pictures of the grandkiddies, interspersed with the odd bit of actual business so that we didn’t have to deal with it at morning tea. There may well have been some man or another up the front of the chapel, wearing a dress and yammering on, but none of us was paying much attention except during the hymns.
This morning we worked out who was bringing what to the next bring-and-buy – I’m doing Cherry Bakewells and a caraway seed cake – set the date for the next Convent Fair, and managed to find a nanny job for poor Mary McKenzie.
While she was on holiday in New York a few months ago, she got rather too excited in a nightclub toilet with one of the boys from Jersey Shore. She’s not sure which one. All she can remember is muscles, big hair and a cloud of Axe body spray which really isn’t much help. Now she needs the work to pay for a nice new pram and some DNA tests.
We aren’t missing out on much by not listening during mass, as we do have a rather uninspiring roster of priests thrown our way each week.
Father Seamus, who I seem to recall lead the service today, is a nice and pretty young man. Unfortunately he’s frightfully stupid and exceptionally fond of the Virgin Mary, if you get my drift. He can speak about her pure, forever untouched femininity for hours. The poor dear will come crashing out in a few years and be much more entertaining, but for the moment he’s a dreadful bore.
Father Flarety only ever talks about birth control, homosexuality or and the environment (he’s against all of them), but in the heat of his oratory the poor sot usually forgets which of them he is denouncing. It doesn’t seem to make much difference anyway. He also has a tendency to wander off during communion and not come back, which makes for a nice early mark. Last Sunday he got his hip flask mixed up with the communion wine. The blood of Christ had a kick to it that day, let me tell you. We had to take old Sister Luigi out into the vestry and fan her for a while.
And Father MacDonald is now so old and so wizened that he can’t be seen over the altar or the lectern, even when standing on a milk crate, so no one has any idea what he talks about.
Anyway, I really just wanted to wish you all a happy non-denominational Easter/Passover for this weekend and share with you a personal email I received from Marcus Bachmann reminding me that it is Michele’s birthday today. How lovely that the day of her birth falls on Good Friday this year, the day when Jesus died for us, the day when the tabernacle is as cold and dark and barren and empty as Michele’s heart.
This Friday, April 6, is a very special day in the Bachmann household – it is Michele’s 56th birthday!
This past year has flown by, and Michele has spent the year working incredibly hard fighting day in and day out across this country for the conservative values we hold near and dear. In addition to being the voice in Washington we always know we can count on to tell the truth, Michele has worked extremely hard as a wife, mother and conservative activist.
I really want this birthday to be special for Michele, but I know that what would mean the most to her is if she was able to hear from you.
I’ve put together a special online birthday card for Michele and I hope you will follow this link to sign the card. On Friday, I will compile the messages to show her that people from every corner of the country appreciate the hard work she does.
Michele is facing a formidable election this year, and the Democrats would love nothing more than to see Michele be defeated. Please sign the card to show you stand with Michele, and afterwards you’ll be given the opportunity to make a special donation to show Michele just how much you support her work.
Please consider making a $56 – one dollar per year, or even $112 – two dollars per year, contribution. But, if you can’t afford to give that much, a gift of $10 or even $25 is greatly appreciated. Every donation received is one step closer to ensuring Michele’s campaign is victorious this fall.
On behalf of the entire Bachmann family, I want to personally thank you for your continued support of Michele. It is not easy to stand up to the liberals and mainstream media who attack her and our values, but I know that your support means the world to her.
Michele and I are blessed to have your friendship.
P.S. Not much time remains until Michele’s birthday, and I need your help to ensure she has a great day. Please sign the birthday card for Michele and afterwards make a donation to her campaign. Thanks, Marcus.
I hope that Marcus has found a nice present for her. Perhaps a stepladder and some nails so she can climb on up there next to Jesus and show him how a martyr really dies. I must send her a basket of muffins.
I will leave you with two things to properly sweeten your day after Marcus’ dish of saccharine and suffering.
First this song, which I have linked to before, but which I play for myself almost every day. It’s dedicated to the Senegal national football team, the Lions of Teranga, by a Swedish girl of Senegalese ancestry called Mary N’diaye. It’s so joyous, it has a great beat, she has such a lovely voice and the video has awkward straight boy dancing, so it always brings a smile to my face.
Secondly, if you will indulge me, I’m going to link to one of my old stories, which I reread the other day and which I think deserves another whirl. It cheered me up anyway. It involves Bill O’Donoghue, an adorable baby, cake, lesbians, graphic vengeance and a rather sweet ending.
Happy Easter weekend to all. I hope you have a pleasant weekend and that you find an opportunity, on this Good Friday, to reflect upon the importance of sacrifice and self-denial.
Now I’m off to buy a cheeseburger and a quart of gin.
I have no idea where I am. This happens quite frequently and, I suppose, is to be expected after about 80 years or so of intemperate dedication to the pharmacopoeial pleasures. However, there is loud music and I have a 40 dollar cocktail in one hand and Brad Pitt in the other, so wherever I am it’s fancy.
Brad keeps bitching because Angelina got turned away by the bouncer for wearing open toed shoes, although I suspect it had more to do with the fact she smells like a civet on heat when you get up close. Brad, frankly, looks like shit. Nineteen kids and a girlfriend with both daddy and brother issues will do that to you. However, I’ve given the poor thing a pill, so he should perk up soon.
Gloria and Anderson are off trying to find coke, if they can stop arguing for five minutes about which of them is taking home the twin Albanian sailors who Gloria picked up earlier at Katie Couric’s party. Leitenant Prek and Leitenant Preng (for those are their names – what can you expect from a place that had a king called Zog?) are on shore leave for a few weeks and on the make in New York, and Katie hired them to serve as shirtless waiters because (apparently) “it’s my party, and I want it to be special”.
Prek and Preng were the highlight of the party, as half naked, bemuscled men bearing cheesy lobster tarts so often are. Otherwise it was just the usual for one of Katie’s parties – non-vintage champagne, too many bankers and media types with powdered noses, Katie complaining all the time because there’s not enough coke at her own damn party, and Dan Rather passed out in his own sick in the bathtub. People tend not to admit they have coke in Katie’s presence because she gets quite grabby if she thinks the lines aren’t being dispensed fast enough. Every time she heads in the general direction of the bathroom, there’s a brief stampede as everyone tries to hide in the kitchen.
Anyway, we escaped from Katie’s apartment by tossing a baggie into the spare room and leaving while she was still tangled up in the duvet, grabbing the lieutenants on our way, and then ended up here, whatever it’s called. I gave up remembering the names of nightclubs years ago. My drink is good. Brad’s pill is so good that he’s started eyeing up Prek’s tattoos, while Prek and Preng are currently gazing into each other’s eyes in a manner which would, if weren’t a filthy old thing, be quite shocking.
Oh, I forgot. At Katie’s party we ran into Gore Vidal who, I’ll be frank, I had thought was dead. At our age it’s often easier to assume.
He looked very well, and we spent a most enjoyable half hour chatting about whether Santorum would be more entertaining to watch under the influence of mushrooms or ketamine, and a great new technique that Gore developed for hiding laxatives in battenberg cake. Hint – it’s in the jam. Just before he left with one of the other waiters, Gore told me a positively eye watering anecdote about Onassis and Jackie and a cucumber that I dare not repeat. Such an old charmer.
Well dears, there’s still no sign of Gloria or Anderson, so I’m going to take these three boys back to the safety of my suite at the Plaza before they make a scene on the carpet. I hope you have a lovely weekend too.
Music in this post, as often, with thanks to the invaluable Alfitude.
One of the many joys of being as filthy rich as me is the ability to declare your weekend begun at 10am on a Friday morning, or indeed at about 9.15 on Monday, concepts like “weekday” and “weekend” being essentially arbitrary anyway.
Happy weekend to all. Time for a drink and some music then. First, courtesy of the always lovely Popbitch – Rebecca & Fiona’s Dance, a perky little thing with some lovely female vocals and lots of lovely buzzy beats, that just cries out for a trance remix.
Also The Temper Trap’s Sweet Disposition, by reason of a further viewing of the delightful (500) Days of Summer. I haven’t been able to get Hall and Oates out of my head all week.
You will be pleased to know that preparations for the Convention in August are progressing well. The girls, on the whole, seem to think that Marge and I should just front up at the first Santorum “meet the delegates”, get some other old dear with a hat and a grudge to slip Ricky a shitload of laxatives hidden in a slice of chocolate cake, release Marge’s squirrels into the room and then make a break for it. I think that’s rather unsubtle. We shall see.
Sandra bet me that she can seduce two Paulite delegates per day, and at least four on the last day if Ron Paul doesn’t get the nomination. Sandra’s fond of giving the odd pity fuck. She says that the tears make it sweeter. Sandra is not a nice woman sometimes.
I took the bet, although I suspect I’m going to lose. If she were wearing a Santorum badge I’d say the odds would be firmly in my favour. Santorum’s young, male delegates are either going to be pinched, virginal godbotherers or closeted gays and, while Sandra likes a challenge, I suspect that would handicap her just enough.
Romney’s cute boy delegates are either going to be Mormons or bankers, and usually both – which would be much more fertile territory for Sandra even if a lot of those Mormon bankers are going to be fucking each other.
I don’t know if there is such a thing as a Ron Paul gay. I shudder to think. Google tells me that the top result if you search on “gays for ron paul” is the charmingly named Gays for Ron Blogspot, which hasn’t been updated since February 1, 2008. So that’s not much use. I’m not going there. Perhaps one of you can go check and find out for me what a Gay for Ron Paul looked like during the last Presidential election.
Mrs Chen (who lives in 5B) says that Sandra should walk up to Ron on the convention floor, pants him and pelt him with elderly eggs. Again, a little unsubtle, I suspect. Mrs Chen does hold onto a grudge. She’s like the last limpet in the bucket.
So, we’re still undecided on strategy. Any suggestions will be gladly received.
On a more practical note, however, I have started stocking up on convention pharmaceuticals, and I am hunting the archives for a recipe for Mamie Eisenhower’s Black Cherry Ice Cream Cake – Newt’s favourite. I think I can cram enough speed into it that Newt will spend the entire four days vibrating in a corner somewhere, without affecting the taste. Mamie liked her icecream sweet, thick and pink, just like her men.
Anyway, that’s where we are up to.
Don’t forget the Balloon Juice Fitness Club which I will post as close to 6pm on Sunday as WordPress and my elderly brain will allow me. Last week’s was sadly under attended. Slackers. Don’t make me come in there and make you exercise.
If you will excuse me, my dears, there is a vanilla and pear daiquiri with my name on it currently frosting its glass on my swim-up bar, and the pert-chested and rubescent MI6 officer who stuck around after David Cameron’s visit to Shady Pines keeps tugging the top of his speedo at me. Most distracting.
I hope you have a lovely weekend, and I shall speak to you all soon.
Well, my dears, there has been much excitement at Shady Pines. Today was the second Monday in February which means, of course, that we have just held the Shady Pines Caucuses.
This is quite a long post, so you might wish to make yourself a cup of tea or have a cigarette before you start reading. Of course, if you are a reader of delicate disposition and sensitive morals, you may wish to move on to another post or, indeed, another blog. One that’s not so obsessed with poo jokes, perhaps.
Buckle up. This isn’t going to be pretty.
Those of you who paid attention in your Civics classes (Do they still have those?) will know that the Shady Pines Caucuses have been run every four years since 1960 as open caucuses which send three delegates directly to each convention.* The candidates usually attend and are each asked to give a five minute speech before the caucusing starts. That first year, Jack Kennedy bought all three Democrat spots, while the Republican side gave all of theirs to Barry Goldwater after Nixon fell off the stage during his speech and became lodged in a large ornamental vase. Apparently the swearing curdled milk for several hundred feet in either direction.
I first participated in 1984, when I caucused for Gary Hart just to fuck with that bastard Mondale’s head.
Of course, this year President Obama didn’t come – he has better things to be doing, like trolling bishops and sticking Santorum faces onto the Oval Office dart board. He did send a video message, a lovely fruit basket** and a signed picture of himself with his adorable family, all delivered by an adorable secret service officer. Because we are all so excited about the Republican race, we persuaded Marge Albrectson to be the Democrat caucus all on her own. Later she told me it was very exciting and there was a great amount of spirited debate (which actually consisted of Marge trying to strangle a squirrel for five minutes while it held on to her lower eyelids with its claws – I peeked at the security footage).
Ultimately though, the President won unopposed, and we sent a nice note of congratulations back to the White House.
The Republican caucus had to be moved into the large ballroom as almost every resident had put their name down to participate. There were gurneys and wheelchairs and machines that go ping everywhere. They even trundled in Florence Carney, who has been in an iron lung since 1952 and can only communicate by blinking, and whose last vote in any election was for Thomas E. Dewey. We put her up the front so she could see properly, the poor dear.
This year, we had a little difficulty with the press. They were mobbing the front gate dreadfully, and the candidates cars couldn’t get by. Thank heavens we had upped security for the day. It only took five minutes for the two nice “security contractors” from Academi to clear them away. I watched the tall, blond one with the muscles poke Chuck Todd in the testicles with an electrical cattle prod for at least a minute and a half, which quite made my day. Sarah Palin turned up late with a Fox newscrew. When she was turned away, she tried climbing over the back fence and was lightly mauled by Muriel Heppelthwaite’s pekinese, after which we locked her in the broom closet. I can still hear her screeching from here. Such language. It would make a crack-addicted fisherman blush. Read the rest of this entry »
Did I ever tell you, my dears, about the time that Ayn Rand lost her shirt to the mafia?
I suspect not. Now, let me see.
It was, I think, 1965. Times were hard for Ayn. Bitsy Trump had banned her from her home after the unfortunate Christmas party incident (you all remember that one, dears) and the time she came home to find Ayn hiding in her walk-in pantry with two hams and a kilo of beluga stuffed down her raggedy old knickers. As you know, once you were off Bitsy’s invitation list, you were about as popular as Sidney Poitier at a Klan debutante ball. Ayn was even reduced to buying her own food.
However, worse was to come.
Ayn had gotten herself involved with two legitimate New York businessmen, both members of the Inaffidabili family, and both young men on the make. The Inaffidabili had previously focused on such honorable trades as running queer bars and shaking down shopkeepers. However, a few months previously, an up-and-comer called Vito had become head of the family – the two prior incumbents having eaten something which rather disagreed with them (to wit, their own tongues). Thereupon, word had come down that new blood meant a new way of doing business, not least one in which the ability to breathe was considered a discretionary benefit.
Frankie and Gianni Inaffidabili were Vito’s nephews, and were at the forefront of the modernization and diversification of the family’s business holdings. Frankie was the brains, while Gianni was, to put it charitably, not. Gianni’s talent was more in the area of graphic ultraviolence, usually involving the aforementioned tongues.
Gianni loved amusement parks, and a few months before he had, to his joy, visited Disneyland. Frankie went along to make sure that Gianni behaved himself, after an unfortunate incident the year before when a naked Gianni had humped Donald Duck in the middle of the Macy’s parade.
Gianni had had a wonderful time throwing up on the teacup ride, loitering outside the performers’ change rooms throwing steamy glances at Chip and Dale, and almost capsizing the boat with excitement during the fifty-seventh rendition of “It’s a small world after all”.
Frankie, however, had spent his time more profitably. He eyed up the lines of sweaty square-staters with their wallets open, and the screaming children lugging around sticky, dusty stuffed mice. He tried the food and sidled up to a few of the more disreputable looking employees to check on their rates of pay.
Frankie recognized that he was witness to a scam beyond the wildest dreams of the Inaffidabili, and returned to New York full of ideas.
Ayn was, as everyone now knows, an inveterate, if ceaselessly unlucky, gambler. The woman would bet on two flies on a dog’s arse, and would invariably end up putting her money on the one with the dicky wing and no sense of direction. As a result, she usually owed her bookie big time. Even more usually, although she had scads of cash stashed away under the floorboards of that monstrosity she called an apartment, she didn’t pay up, on the basis that debt was something that happened to other people.
Other people, for example, like her bookie, who also owed money to his bookie, who in turn owed money to a rather ineffectual member of the Inaffidabili family called Donkey. (Due, I understand, to his laugh, which sounded like an ass on heat, and not to his ten inch cock. Just a coincidence, apparently.)
Anyway, as a result of what today would be called a “leveraged buyout” by Frankie – the “leverage” referring to the crowbar Gianni used to tip Donkey and his new concrete shoes off the boat and into the Hudson – all of the former Donkey’s debtors were called upon by Frankie and Gianni for a little chat about their ongoing ability to have little chats, and its unfortunate dependence upon prompt payment.
Ayn was, at least in the short term, lucky. Gianni was a devoted reader of her demented potboilers, having had only a copy of Atlas Shrugged to read while hiding out from the law a few years earlier. When he saw her he fell to his knees and kissed her lumpy fingers, all the while babbling to Frankie about what a genius she was and how she had thousands devoted followers “just like me”, and then babbling to her about how this was as good as, no, even better than Disneyland.
In an instant, Frankie had an idea, a moment of (if you will forgive the pomposity) afflatus, the plan appearing whole in his brain as if put there by the gods.
They would build “The Ayn Rand Experience”. Right here in Ayn’s apartment, her devotees could pay for the opportunity to live her life, to be, even for a few shining moments, their heroine. I must add that Frankie was not entirely convinced that there were, in fact, hordes of sweaty palmed, developmentally-delayed furry-fetishists* willing to fork out ready money to sniff Ayn’s bedsheets. Either way, it didn’t matter. Even if they didn’t come, it wouldn’t be Frankie’s cash that was on the line.
In short, Frankie saw here an opportunity to combine interests both new (theme parks) and old (taking avaricious arseholes to the cleaners) in one tasty package.
With a few soft words that spoke of worship and profits and the difficulty of typing novels with no fingers, Frankie reeled her in. Within a few short minutes, Ayn was the non-silent partner in a new and glorious enterprise, and found herself forking over several hundred thousand rather dusty dollars untimely ripped from below her floor.
Within a few short days, Ayn’s apartment had been transformed. Outside, on the street, there was a neon sign that flashed, and a little canvas booth from which tickets could be purchased. The punter, having forked over a disgusting amount of money, would be escorted to the lift (now renamed the “Taggart Comet”) by a man dressed as a train conductor, who would make choo-choo noises as the lift … sorry, Comet flew them to their destination on tracks made of the finest Rearden Metal.
Stepping off the “train”, our brave adventurer would find himself facing an enormous cut-out head of Ayn Rand, which had been affixed around the door to Ayn’s apartment, with the door inside her gaping mouth. More than one laborer felt a frisson of terror when they were installing that, let me tell you. It was like coming face to face with a baleen whale with a grudge.
Inside, if one dared enter, there was a cavalcade of delights – Ayn’s office, where the discerning reader could see hundreds of signed first editions of her books; the toilet with a little bronze plaque commemorating the place where Ayn first had the inspiration for Atlas Shrugged; and even the typewriter room, where Ayn kept the monkeys chained up while they churned out her next opus horrendum.
The main bathroom was turned over to educational entertainments for the children (on the assumption that even devotees of Ayn Rand must reproduce every now and then by simple blind luck). Outside the door there was a cutout of Howard Roark with his hand about three feet off the ground and a little sign that said, “If you are not this tall, you are a failure and may not ride.”
Those who were worthy to enter were able to sit in a plastic tub in Ayn’s bath and float around while a score of identical little animatronic children in business suits sang a jaunty tune called “Existence is Identity, Consciousness is Identification”. A dozen repetitions of that ringing in their heads and most children were ready to believe anything. Afterwards they could see the holy relics of St Ayn – the little collection of yellow toenail clippings she kept in an eggcup on the shelf and the plug of manky hair in the sink.
In the spare bedroom, automata (made by the same manufacturer as those in Disney’s Hall of Presidents) endlessly acted out the rape scene from, well, it wasn’t quite clear which of Ayn’s books it was from, but frankly it could be any of them, amirite?
In the main bedroom, one was free to roll around in Ayn’s bed, although for maximum of ten minutes and one’s pants had to stay on. For an extra ten bucks, an actor dressed as Ayn would roll around with you in simulated coitus, making hooting noises and weeping just like the real thing.
At Gianni’s insistence, there was even an animal mascot called Dagny the Dog – some poor schmo being paid a buck an hour for the privilege of wearing an animal suit, prancing around the foyer and fending off the increasingly lusty advances of Gianni.
Sadly for Ayn, the whole thing was not a success.
There were few visitors at that time willing to fork out a three days’ pay in order to live the Ayn Rand experience. Gianni went through about seventeen times, but as he didn’t have to pay that really didn’t help the profit figures.
Gloria Vanderbilt and I visited on the second day it was open, just so we could say we had experienced the full horror. It was a fine, crisp Saturday day and yet, besides the two of us, the paying public consisted entirely of a young couple from Idaho who had gotten awfully lost on their way to Coney Island, and Alan Greenspan, who spent his entire visit in the bedroom moistly fapping away in the corner.
The rest of the world showed its indifference. I think Truman rather caught the vox of the populi when he said, “Sarey dear, if I wanted to feel like a talentless freak who everyone laughs at, I’d go home to visit mother.” **
Within days, the Experience was closed down, Gianni stripped Ayn’s apartment of anything of actual worth to “recoup Frankie’s expenses”, and most of the apartment had been transformed into a cocaine refining facility. Ayn was allowed to keep her bedroom, but only because the chemists who worked there said that the room gave them the heebie-jeebies after about ten minutes.
I visited her at home once after that, but that sad little room, with its bed made out of remaindered novels and the single candle guttering on the cold radiator, along with Ayn’s sad bitter eyes, was just too depressing. I hustled her out of there and took her shopping at Tiffany.
After I’d bought myself a nice new necklace, we went to Central Park, where I bought her an ice-cream and then, when she was distracted, kneed her in the groin and pushed her into the duck pond.
Shortly after that, Ayn decided that the only way to make some money was to hold a charity auction. However, that’s another story…
* Please note that I am not suggesting that all furries are sweaty palmed devotees of Ayn Rand. I know that most of you are perfectly normal and charming people, if a little too fond of polyester. However, I am sure you will admit that the addition of mindless devotion to Ayn Rand turns an otherwise quite sweet little fetish into something entirely repulsive.
** I asked him what the Truman Capote Experience would be like and he said that no one was going to pay fifty bucks to be insulted and roughly sodomised in the back of a truck, when they could have the same thing for free all weekend in the meatpacking district.
It’s apparently something past 9am. It’s dark and hot and there are random blinding flashes of light. I’m not exactly sure where I am. It’s possible I’m just at home at Shady Pines and having a stroke. However, I have a vodka/rocks clutched in one hand, which makes me suspect things are going to be ok.
Gloria is off trying to find some coke, after Katie Couric spent twenty minutes begging us for a line and then, when we relented, snuffled the whole fucking gram in the men’s toilet with Lauer. It was good coke too, having been, I am reliably informed, smuggled in from Peru only last week inside one of the spawn of the Jolie-Pitts. A little gritty on the nose but with fine blue notes in the upper register. I miss it already. Gloria had better get back soon, because reality is starting to intrude into the fine French electro.
Gloria is the only one in a fit state to go hunting for more drugs because her pill hasn’t kicked in yet. Her pill hasn’t kicked in yet because she keeps checking for text messages from Anderson, who promised to be here, but is a no show so far. I do hope he comes. Not only would it get Gloria back in the mood, the last time I saw him – at Splash, I seem to recall – Anderson started telling me a wonderful story about Marcus Bachmann, but didn’t have time to finish, so I still don’t know whether they ever managed to get the GI Joe action figure out again.
The evening has been a bit of a blur, dears. It’s Sandra Frazer’s birthday, so we are all in New York. We started off at a little drink thing at Gloria’s – just a few dozen of Sandra’s besties, all very casual. Gloria, as usual, had laid on the Billecart and the totty in equal measures, so when we asked Sandra what she wanted for her birthday, she pointed imperiously across the room she wanted “that”. “That” turned out to be Ryan Gosling, so we’ve spent the last twelve hours stalking the poor darling across New York.
The party was lovely, except for that bloody Angelina, who cornered me and WOULD NOT SHUT UP ABOUT HER FUCKING CHILDREN. Between that, her unresolved jealousy that I had Brad before she did, and the fact that she smells like someone dumped a bottle of patchouli oil in a birdcage, she’s almost unbearable. She latched on to our little group as we were leaving for the club, even though Gloria had one of her maids wave a little brown baby out the window to distract her. Eventually we managed to ditch her in some diner by ordering coffee and then scarpering when she went to the bathroom. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s Friday afternoon, which seems like a decent time for our (semi) regular job thread over at Balloon Juice … (Is it blog whoring when you whore someone else’s blog?)
If you are looking for work, looking for talented people, or just have ideas as to how the aforementioned might contact each other, have a look over there, or post here, or both – it bothers me not which you choose.
Our first two threads are here and here in case anyone wants to go back and check if someone responded to their message. If you posted before, feel free to post again. As my great uncle Rupert (the pretender to the Perrott Baronetcy of Plumstead) used to say to me when I was just a young girl, “No one ever got their end in without asking. Several times, if necessary, eh what?” No matter how many times I kicked that man in the groin, he always tried on his next visit. Still, he came to a sticky end, so that all worked out alright.
Oh, and if I was asked, I would say that the Balloon Juice thread is an open-ish thread. Don’t stomp on the job talk, my little loves, but feel free to chat amongst yourselves. ETA: Oh, and don’t feed the you-know-whats.
You might also like to go and visit the lovely Mr Clark at Slacktivist and see what’s happening on his jobs thread. Go for the jobs, stay for the glurge. Great post, even better word… “Glurge”. Like “moist”, only more so.
Speaking of work, this is an opportune moment to explain why I haven’t been posting as much. I have a job. Well, at least a volunteer one. I am, get this, traveling with Michele Bachmann’s campaign entourage.
Now Madam and I have a little bit of a history, but I’ve been playing good Republican woman for almost seventy years now, so it wasn’t hard to talk my way on to the bus. I just dropped a few mentions of “Dear Karl” and the odd “As Nancy said to me at the funeral…” into the conversation with her campaign manager, and flashed around the 4 carat Tiffany (which I won from Nancy Astor in a game of strip cribbage), and before I knew it I was gazing into those crazy snake eyes and being pressed against a perfumed and shapely bosom. That Marcus sure does smell good.
I even have a business card. “Sarah Howard” it says. “Community Liaison”. The other side has a picture of Michelle looking notably crazy (and that, my dears, is an achievement) and staring up at a dyspeptic-looking eagle. I’m not sure if the eagle is supposed to be America or Jesus or what, but whenever I look at the damn card, I hear Rush playing in my head and get a brief sense-memory called “3am-pot-smoke-filled-Mystery-Machine”.
I am liaising with the community. In particular, a rather cute, but horribly conflicted Log Cabin Republican youth with gold-dusted Idaho farmboy thighs, who appears to want only two things in life – to elect Michele Bachmann as President, and to crush out the last flickering flame of his heterosexuality on little old me. I live to serve.
Would you believe that on the first night, they wanted me to stay in a Motel 6? I just found out which hotel Michelle was staying in each night, and then booked into the biggest suite they had. You should have seen her envious glances at my complimentary fruit baskets. However, it used to make the oranges sour and the strawberries positively mealy, so I stopped inviting her to visit after about a week. There was no more mention of the Motel 6, let me tell you.
Anyway, I have my weekends free, so I will be posting here and at Balloon Juice then, and keeping you all up to date on the goings on.
Finally, a couple of you have asked how to get in touch. You can email me from the link on my About page. I do try to respond to emails and website comments, but I’m an old woman who spends her days trying to win the Republican nomination for a pair of false eyelashes, a blouse and a grudge, and her nights pressed against a boy who smells like fresh mown hay and squeaks when you bite his nipples. I barely have time to eat, let alone respond to things like lawyers’ letters, so please be patient with me.