This morning I saw someone getting a blowjob in a car. A fairly ...vigorous.. one, the speedily bobbing head seemed to indicate. You know how you see a bobbing head, and for like half a second, you think someone is rummaging around in the glovebox, but then it clicks, and you realize what you're looking at is really RHYTHMIC, purposeful bobbing, and then you're somehow fascinated and can't look away as quickly as you should? Well, good morning to you, too. In broad daylight, within sight of my office building.

In a related vein, I have to say that when you live in a group house, probably the most disgusting thing to find when you put your hand between the couch cushions in search of the remote is a small, used, single-use, flavored lube containter. You know that one time, when a spider crawled on your hand, and you yelled HAAH and flung it really far across the room? Well, that's nothing compared to this HAAH and accompanying fling.

I no longer live in a group house. (cue: opening strains of the Hallelujah chorus)

And I have a new couch being made specially for me up in Olney, Maryland, by little munchkins to whom Todd Oldham has personally taught the upholstery arts. Oh, the imagined joy of sitting on cushions where no one has ever sat/fucked before. I've never done it! My bum can't wait.

Upholstery arts --> Dark arts --> Harry Potter --> I really love this picture of Hermione Granger that came out on the internet today:



The Segue. It's not just a gyroscopically-inspired human transporter that makes George Bush fall down go boom! anymore.

When I used to be able to play on Killoggs all day at work, I feel like I used to be a more fun member of this site. I don't read it cover to cover anymore, and I notice that when I do come out from under my bridge to make a comment, I sound pretty cantankerous and retarded. So, sorry for that. It's like I'm one of those old crankypants talking heads who used to be in Nixon's cabinet, and now gets trotted out twice a year to respond in a reliably bitter-old-fart way on The MacLaughlin Group. I don't want to be that guy. I want to be Eleanor Clift, the one who's on every week, sounding smart and with-it.



So, here's a good one for you: I had a really good laugh on Friday night, enough to make my abs ache the next day. I was at a bar with some friends, including a friend's mom. The Olympics were on the bar tvs. Screens big/close enough to see the action, but not quite big/close enough to make out all the words. And really loud, the mom cried out, "Look who's skating, Bob De Jong and ...Oyster Scrotum!?!?!?!" We were laughing so hard, it was difficult to see through the tears, but we finally saw that the dude's name is Oystein Grodum. It would've been minorly amusing if *I* had said it, but it became high hilarity when it came out of the mouth of a sweet little mom with dimples and bad eyesight, wide-eyed and slightly buzzed, and holding her finger up to point at the tv throughout the whole episode like a little impertinent statue of liberty. Plus, doesn't Oyster Scrotum just conjure up the most amazing mental imagery? I can't get over it.



I had Ethiopian food last week with a big group of girls, and one of them insisted on having regular white bread rolls brought to the table, because she thinks the injera bread "feels like a penis." Color, texture, weight, and "sponginess," in her words. She is utterly and completely freaked out by it. Now I've never been one of those people to go off my food after hearing it compared to something strange, but let's just say I could definitely see her point. It's even the right temperture! Still, as another diner pointed out, chowing down, "Yeah? So, what's the problem? I like penis." Yes, most of us do. I found myself wondering if her aversion to "injera bread" caused the downfall of her last relationship. Then I felt guilty for thinking that. I hope she doesn't read Killoggs.



I went to the bank today, and stopped to watch a crew of guys replacing a big section of brick sidewalk. There were six of them at least, with some loud humming machinery and many stacks of sharp red bricks. They had ground-tampers and stampers and levels and scrapers and scoopers and a small backhoe with jackhammer attachment. They were gonna make that section of sidewalk level and perfectly engineered if it killed them. And out loud I heard myself mutter, "Still can't beat ancient Rome, dumbasses."

All those layers! Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

Seriously, there were like nine layers.