I'm Praying to the Aliens

Busy, busy, busy. Must stay busy for the hive. Busy, busy, busy.
Must make honey for the hive. Busy, busy, busy. Then, I die.

Mmm. Fly guts taste like chicken, if you are a garden spider.

Silly human. Earth-anchored bi-ped always dreaming of self flight, you have to create machines to bring you closer to the sun while I, the smallest of all the birds, take to the air with the ease of an afterthought. You are humbled when you look at me, I know.
Now, fill this feeder.

Don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation. So, come any closer, and I'll bite your head off.
That goes for you, too, silly little birdie.

One of us must maintain hegemony over this feeder, and I do not think it is you, silly little bug.

Yawn. When I grow up, I will eat you ALL.

Stop Me if You've Heard This One

A rabbi, a preacher, and an imam walk into a bar, sit down at the counter, and order drinks.

Wiping the counter, the bartender looks at them and says, "Gents, I respect the fact that you are all men of God, but I tell you what. I don't think I believe in the Big Guy upstairs."

The rabbi looks at the bartender and says, "I understand. It's tough to keep one's faith in these trying times."

The preacher follows up with, "That's okay, my son. God believes in you."

Then the imam replies: "Off with your head, infidel!"

And I'm the one who is intolerant for not wanting a mosque built two blocks from Ground Zero?

Jogging for the Master Race

What is it they say about good intentions? That behind every sweetly condescending do-gooder is a little Hitler just aching to get his or her freak on?

What's next, a ban on high heels because of the cost of foot surgery?

Chewing gum because of cavities?

Rubber bands because of sling shots injuries?

Well, at least we can take comfort in knowing there is one thing that our Mr. and Ms. Busybodies will never ban:


Praise Jesus and pass the Cuervo.

Symphony of Destruction

I just found out Dave Mustaine is going to be at a local Borders bookstore on August 26 to sign copies of his memoirs. Am I gonna be there? What, are you kidding me? The man who has written what are perhaps some of the best thrash metal, anti-government songs ever and I'm going to pass up the chance to shake his hand? Not a chance.

Move Clip Wednesdays: Best Opening Scene

I almost jinxed with Buzz and chose Natural Born Killers. Then I remembered the opening scene to one of my favorite movies, Charade, with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. It features a delightful bit of repartee between the two about half way through this clip that oozes a wit and charm rarely seen in movies today.

Ladies and gentlemen, THAT is how you flirt.

And Hepburn's outfits are to DIE for.



To check out what every one else is doing this week, head on over to Milk River Madman's place.

Maybe, Baby

Last Sunday I ran the La Luz trail run for the fifth time and posted a P.R. for the course. Prior to that, I'd spent the past six weeks sticking to a rigorous first-time marathoner training plan, in preparation for possibly running the Duke City Marathon on Sunday, October 17. I'm calling it the "Maybe Marathon" because although I was perfectly fine running my first ever half-marathon on this same course last year, I'm not so sure I'd like the Duke City to also be my first marathon.

On the one hand:

1. It's fast and flat
2. It's my home turf
3. The weather is likely to be perfect

On the other:

1. It's not an especially exciting event, and a part of me thinks my very first marathon, which ranks up there in my mind with some of life's great "firsts," should either be a rock and roll marathon where the energy is off the charts or someplace a tad more scenic, like, say, Big Sur.

Anyway.

This week I'm supposed to be back on track with the training, but instead I've been a slacker of the first order. Of course, it didn't help that I spent the first three days post-La Luz working dawn to dusk in Hotlanta and eating all manner of fried green tomato and garlic grits type things. Neither was the weather conducive to scooting my bottom out the door. Not only was it hot, the humidity hovered somewhere around one-hundred-gajillion percent and while I can take the heat, when the mug kicks in, I go all Scarlett O'Hara on myself. "As God is my witness, I will never sweat again!"

At least I managed a four miler on Friday and yesterday I hiked five miles with Maddie the Dog and some friends up in the mountains. Still. Hiking is not running, regardless of the quad burn.

Today, I am avoiding looking at my training schedule. Because I know what it says. It says: "Put down that donut you pansy-ass bum and do your 15 miles!"

La, la, la, la, la . . .

In the Air Again

Work is calling. Or, rather, banging me over the head. I'll be back in a few days . . .