If Balls and Walnuts doesn’t seem particularly ballsy this week, and if the nuts just ain’t nutty enough for you, there’s a reason. Patients. Not all of them, mind you, but enough of them, nasty bitter evil people whose lives are not complete if they fail to ruin mine. Old-timers here will remember that I call these people brainsuckers: think vampires, minus the sex appeal. It only takes one a day to make me miserable, and this week it seems I’ve had three or four times that many.
But the week is over, I have a martini well in hand, and I’m ready to snark.
Thanks, Kate & Blue Gal, for the heads-up. As you might imagine, I missed the news yesterday (online or televised). As usual, updates are posted at The Christian Science Monitor‘s site for Jill.
Happy day!
D.
Not 45 minutes after I got home, the ER called to tell me I had a post-op hemorrhage. Everything went well, but the whole thing ate up my evening. It’s late, I’m tired, so this is good night.
Be sure to check out some of these medical stories (see below, if you’re joining late) — some chilling tales, and no shortage of great writing.
D.
First Beth posted her scone recipe . . .
Then Kate posted hers . . .
Then Lyvvie dared me to bake ’em both and let ’em battle it out in my mouth, upping the ante with the statement,
please tell me if you use real butter…I’m in the mood for some food porn.
And how could I deny anyone with eyes like hers?
So: this Saturday, it’s a Scone Off. My son and my wife will judge. I’ll blog on the results, and I will try to make it as pornographic as possible. Which means I’ll have to plan for leftover butter.
Don’t forget the Barbarous Craft contest, folks. I know you all have stories to share.
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As for Brownie appearing on Colbert: what. an. idiot. Could he have looked any worse?
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Lyn Cash has posted a great joke . . . and oh boy do I ever dig that photo.
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Lilith has links to Brokeback spoofs . . . including Brokeback of the Dead. Bub, I don’t know how to quit you!
D.
I can understand why a man would take a pill that would make him swing a wider or longer pipe. As long as you gals continue to write posts like this, guys like me will continue to wish we could add an inch here and there. And there. And over there. Make that two inches.
But why would a guy want his balls to grow?
I heard that, Maureen. (If anyone would know, you would.) No, I am not obsessed with my testicles, despite the name of the blog, despite the fact I work gonadal references into most of my fiction, and despite my daily self-exams which are essential for the early detection of testicular carcinoma. No, I do not want them to grow. What would be the point?
Perhaps it’s cultural. A certain guy of a certain nationality that a certain one of my readers knew very well was exceedingly proud of his large testicles. But I suspect he was in the minority. Trust me on this: in the high school gym showers, we weren’t comparing nut sacks.
Phoenix Woman has a diary up at Daily Kos regarding journalist Lara Logan, whom I blogged about the other day (scroll down a bit). Seems the wingnuts are after her. Why? Because she spoke the truth. Yeah, yeah, I sound melodramatic, but damn it, reserve judgment until you have watched the video.
I encourage you to read Phoenix Woman’s brief post and do what you can to support Ms. Logan. It’s easy — a phone call, an email. That’s all it takes. It’ll be your mitzvah for the day.
D.
Once again, I will wade out into my Sea of Ignorance, get in deep over my head, and cough, sputter, and puke my way through yet another Smart Bitches Day. Today’s topic, since I received very few orgasms from y’all (and, besides, Beth has already said every damned funny thing about orgasms possible), is breaking up.
I shall begin with a quote from that other expert in love, Matt Groening: