Overthunk

My new guilty pleasure show, never having been much of a country-western gal, is HBO's Deadwood. It's a tightly written, beautifully shot show revolving around the gold-prospecting culture in one of them there states where people used to prospect for gold. As with most HBO offerings, it's engaging, sexy and entertaining. However, for some reason, the purveyors of this Western omelette feel the need to pepper it with the occasional rat turd: namely, the F word. Now, lest you think me a terrible prude, I have fucking nothing against the fucking F word. Properly used, it can convey jest, life-threatening danger, or just a simple desire to fornicate. In this dusty jewel of a show, though, it drops from the sky to plop into every third or fourth sentence, disrupting the intricate cowboy/carpetbagger/strumpet stylings of the show's stellar cast. Tonight I watched two 57 minute episodes, and in the first I counted approximately 75 uses of a fuck-related word. In the second epi

Round about song skip # 600... just a fair warning for those of you whom I may or may not have addicted to this programmable internet radio contraption. After you flip carelessly through the 600th song in one month, it informs you that you've reached the end of the line, and unless you pay $2.50 per month, you will have to forfeit ALLL the programming you've done thus far in favor of about 7 preprogrammed stations. While this is marketing genius, it is also somewhat akin to telling a black tar heroin addict that from now on, lemon lollipops and the occasional Vivarin will have to do. My response to its insolence? Well, after a week of Jonesin' for My Sweet, Sweet Station I gave in and shucked over the $2.50/month. So, lest you push the envelope one song too far, you're now armed with the truth.

. What does it matter that you are a fish of great quality, if no one's fishing? But then again, maybe that's an apt metaphor... maybe in the net, I'd be suffocated, trapped. But maybe, on the other fin, I'd be happier swimming in my own little pond than here in the big wide ocean. Anyway, now for some damned-helpful tips for you small fry. What not to do in the great game of Plenty O' Fish In The Sea: 1) Have blackly regretful thoughts about the past, to which there is no returning, while the future just keeps on bearing down on you like Obi Wan on Anakin. 2) Try to "keep up" with people you once dated, as they may be tracking your IP address. 3) Write blogposts that are just lame fishing metaphors, drawing even more lamely upon your lack of meaningful posts (repeated quiz postings). Ahem. Now back to our regularly scheduled pseudo-hilarity.

But apparently, I'm a Great Catch You scored 50% bitchiness, 70% sexual drive, 55% cleanliness, and 60% self confidence! You are a fantastically great catch. You are nice enough, confident, clean and super-sexy. Lots of people want to get their hands on you so the hard part about being you is trying to choose a partner worthy enough for you. The What Kind of Lover are You? Test written by steeni on Ok Cupid

You scored as Darth Vader . Darth Vader 78% Padme Amidala 72% Anakin Skywalker 69% Obi Wan Kenobi 44% R2-D2 44% Mace Windu 42% Yoda 39% Chewbacca 33% General Grievous 28% C-3PO 28% Clone Trooper 25% Emperor Palpatine 11% Which Revenge of the Sith Character are you? created with QuizFarm.com

Breathtaking.

Well, I've been tagged by NH (of The Unseen Blogger fame) so here goes: If I were a writer, I'd write fabulous, insightful books. Or movies maybe, which would be wildly imaginative (and hilarious no doubt). Or TV sitcoms that don't suck. If I were a musician, I would usher in a new era of girl-rockin' the likes of which the planet has never seen, like Heart + Guns N Roses + Pat Benatar + Smashing Pumpkins. Yeah. If I were a gardener, I'd plant a garden that was part Palace of Versailles, all neat and orderly, and part jungle, with lots of vines. I love vines. This garden of mine would most definitely have a koi pond, and secret passageways and grottos in which to hide. If I was a psychologist, I'd invent a cure for being inconsiderate and use it to repair marriages, work relationships, bad shopping experiences, and general malaise around the globe. Or take on a famous, troubled client, and fancy myself like Dr. Melfi. If I was a world famous blogger,

Time: Yesterday, 4:00 p.m. Place: Griff's, an all-too sparse Big D hamburger chain that makes cheap, yummy fast food Why: HAD to have a corn dog (insert weiner joke here) What went down: Drive-thru guy (young, male person, somewhat tough looking): "What's that on your hand?" Me (34, pale, on my way home from work -- decidedly not even anything approaching cool looking) : "Oh, I just write stuff on it to remember." DTG: "Oh, you got a bad memory? M: "Yep." DTG: "Been smokin too much reefer?" M: "Nah, it's not that, I'm just gettin old." (thinking to self - not lately, don't tempt me) DTG: "Well I'm just kiddin', I don't wanna get in trouble, I don't mean to say you smoke reefer... but maybe you do." It is these side-dish situations, orders of fries to go along with the general meaning of existence, that produce questions that can never be answered. Was I bein