More Death

BFF mentioned this in passing a few days ago, and I guess it's time for me to get around to telling it, as much as I intend to tell. Unfortunately, my dear friend Sasha passed away on April 15 after a couple of months of chronic illness that I will not further describe.

Sasha, known in some circles as TechNoir, was a complicated person, and the most private person I have ever known. She would hate even the fact that I linked those two names in print, as much as I would hate it if someone linked my serial killer Internet name with my actual name. So I'm not going to tell you much about Sasha. She was older, she was a woman, she had a job that was Washington-appropriate, she had a couple or three careers in her long life, she liked some stuff--I'm willing, at this juncture, to admit that she liked politics, the Internet, gaming, and various sports teams that are better than your sports teams, unless your sports teams are the same as hers, which are mostly the same as mine. She liked pushing Whispers' buttons even more than Ilse or I do, and Whispers his own self will tell you that this is quite some mathematical accomplishment, being that Ilse and I enjoy pushing his buttons far, far more than is healthy or kind. She liked pushing a lot of buttons--while I was a target-rich button environment for 20 years in my own right, she also enjoyed hanging around Databoy, a kid laden with buttons. She was, in fact, the original Ant Queen, the creature for which I had to create (and quickly retire) my nonexistent alter ego Insuffricubus, to the delight of some, the bewilderment of many, and the apathy of most. She made many of us better. There is no need to discuss the rest of the math.

I miss Sasha terribly. I'm lucky to have been in a position where I could.

Yeah. Fuck Blogging for Reals.

Or for Real, the Franco-loving fucks.


Damn, that's terrible audio, innit? I like being nostalgic about shit that happened while Brezhnev was still alive, don't you?

Here's some more bad audio. I'm stuck on this song this week:



Liverpudlians are funny. Take cur, beewur of darkness. And yeah, I know whose birthday was this week. No, it's not a holiday here either, never has been. I get weepy in December, because that's just a weepy fucking time on top of the unpleasant anniversary, but the birthday, not so much.

Here, here's another John Lennon tribute:




Okay. I lied. It's not a John Lennon tribute at all. Did you catch Neal Innes there, in the red plaid jacket, red bow tie, and years-ahead-of-its-time pornstache? Fucking awesome. Rutles forever, bitchez. Most awesome sketch ever, at least tonight, and I'm not even drunk.

Heh. Like apples, Sasha?

A Promised Discourse on Walmart Derangement Syndrome

So it all started over at BFF's place, my godzillan steps into a likely unpopular speculation that makes even me a tad fluttery as I try to articulate it. He linked to a YFWP story about a Walmart going up on Rockville Pike, on the heels of another over in Aspen Hill, the second and third MoCo Walmart-branded legacies of Old Dead Sam (there's a Sam's Club in Gophershole, and maybe another over in Wee-Tone, or maybe it's the other big club box--beats the willies out of me).

I don't give a flying fuck about Walmart any more than I do about any other ginormous retailer. Sasha weeps of a tragedy in that the proposed Wallyworld outlet will glass over a shithole shopping center that happens to contain her favorite bagel joint. Fuck that, it can move across the street to the abandoned former Hooters.

Comments hilarity ensued, all in good fun, and it took blogquaintance Richard (who is, I posit, as literary and thoughtful as I am snarky and reductionist--and if you think I'm overdrawing my credit for snarky and reductionist, then please do me the favor of extending him my overdraft and then some for literary and thoughtful) to crystalize my point; from the perspective of the loosely affiliated community over at BFF's place, what's the difference between Target and Wallyworld? Richard--like Ilse--frequents Target. I surmise that this is, in part, because Richard has a youngish child. From a complicity perspective, Target is a lesser evil for those of us who have to cover little growing humans in textiles--and I think we can all admit that this level of complicity is probably preferable to alternatives like, say, the Division of Child Welfare. I suspect that many of us will admit that it's even preferable to draping our wee folk in homespun.

The point extends, as it did in BFF's comments; unless you're living a life completely withdrawn from our consumerist culture--including your diet--you're not free of complicity in this nightmare. I suspect few of us in that circle are so completely withdrawn. I know Sasha isn't--one of her plaints about the proposed WallyWorld is that it'll increase traffic on her secret back escape hatch into...a nearby Target.

I'm not trying to throw unreasonable stones here. At rock bottom, "I fucking hate Walmart" is good enough, isn't it? I myself dislike asparagus and Exxon and the Dallas Cowboys while buying into all manner of related corporatey goodness. But let's get real. On the merits, Walmart is no particularly worse than any other big box (I'll concede its hostility to unions, though I'll ask if Target, since we seem to have defaulted to them as the comparison, is a UFCW bastion).

The YFWP story points up some proposed legislation by my local county's governing body:

But after the Aspen Hill announcement, five County Council members sponsored a bill that would require some big-box retail stores to sign, or make a good-faith effort to complete, a public-benefits contract with community groups. After its introduction last Tuesday, the legislation drew ire from developers, big retailers and chambers of commerce.

The bill, which has not been passed, would affect both Wal-Marts because they would be more than 75,000 square feet.

Well. I wonder what the fuck that means. Oh, look:

"If these big box retailers want to move in, they have to sign a binding agreement with the community, and the community has a major say in what that store looks like," [Council President] Ervin said.

Community input could include whether employees are hired from within the county and whether the business uses green technology.

So...ginormous superstores already in place are exempt? Wow. Cuz, uhm, there are a boatload of big boxes round hereabouts that easily exceed that 75,000-foot mark. Ervin, a notorious sack of crap, also seems to be using the issue to drive a wedge between two sizeable unions. One of them is a UFCW local. The other is a UFCW local consisting of county government employees--a constituency that Ervin, as noted in my linked post, despises, reviles, and shits on at every opportunity. I sort of think the proposal is reflexive obstruction. On the other hand, I'm not all that sure how much it matters--I reckon Wallyworld is probably capable of conjuring up enough of some shitstorm of corporate responsibility to outsmart the likes of Valerie Ervin.

Oh, right, the point: Sasha supports this legislation. I'll pass on levying (in detail) the guilt by association, at least here.

A final note: No word yet on what poor Hans Riemer thinks of this. But maybe he'll see his name in Google reader (the point, in fact, of this paragraph), blanch when he sees my blog's name next to it, and let us know. That is, if he thinks anything shareable yet (he's a clever lad, our Hans, and one of my favorite things about him is that he typically shuts the fuck up a whole lot and lets other councilmembers duke it out in the pages of the Gazette). Full disclosure: I once ordered a glass of water for Hans at lunch when he was off taking a phone call. I'm told that doesn't mean I have to register as a lobbyist.

Things Literary and Artistic

First things: it started for reals today, the faraway project that has consumed me and torn me from the loving bosom of my family, and late tomorrow I shall leave this place out by the highway off in deepest America for at least 4-5 weeks, the longest stretch I will have been away from it for nearly 8 months. Joy doesn't start to describe it, fellow East Coast urbanites.

I can also say that not only did it start, it started really, really well, and I am proud of and grateful to the several dozen underesteemed, mostly youngish rural Americans who work for me on this project, for their cunning and tremendously hard work and their motivation and their commitment to a thing done well for an entity I despise, despite that entity's best efforts to queer the deal. Opening Day for a big project is always fraught with little buggy things. Not so today--I can't imagine how, realistically, it could have gone better. By about 10 AM, when it became clear that we shot, we scored, I had secured from battle stations and the adrenaline crash had started, and the magnitude of the crash makes clear that this was one hell of a fucking rush. You're not reading this, mostly youngish rural Americans (and if you accidentally are, STFU, because it's a total coincidence that you think you know who I am, and it's someone else who's not me), but thanks. A tear to my eye, much larger than the one I gave Julius James last week, for reals.

But I digress, and I bore. Funny, if mostly unintelligibly clouded by literary wankitude, discussion of Moby Dick over a post and a couple of posts worth of comments over at BFF's.

I'm with the Dick haters. I learned long ago (see BFF's for cryptic clues if you give a fuck, or don't) that the novel (sperm!) is an extended and dreary metaphor (sperm!) about boyparts (sperm!) and their issue (sperm!). That is to say, it is about sperm, sperm, sperm, harpoons, sperm, sperm, harpoons, sperm, sperm, and sperm. Sure, epic framing story, way better than, say, The Menagerie and far superior to the horrific crap the same folks erected around Harlan Ellison's epic and legendary and beautiful The City on the Edge of Forever. And BFF will tell you that it's melodious, or some such poofy literary shit, and frankly, he's entitled to that sort of poetry because, well, you know, he just is.

But seriously, kids. Sperm. I have yet, in 40 years since, to hear a more compelling explanation, even from BFF, who's about as superior to me at comp-lit stuff as the Federation are to the Pakleds technologically. Hmm. Seems I'm vigorously rubbing a theme here. Oh well. Some say that's my greatest utility, and I have no cogent defense agin that theory. And let's not trivialize the Star Trek/sperm connection.

Let's flip elsewhere for further literary and artistic insight. It says here that some assclown hilariously thinks that Picasso conceived cubism as a misogynistic plot. The punchline, of course, is that the assclown writes this for First Things, a mostly Catholic journal that makes a dedicated pretense of interfaith contributions. Boggle. But read Edroso's post for some awesome commentary and meme-extension on this majestic assitude.

"Why?" you might well wail."Why do you, Landrucutus*, of all people, feel a need to pretend to any fucking substantive insight on literature, art, or really, anything other than sports or farting?"

It's a fair question. The truth is that you know what I think about me, and about Wisconsin and Egypt and admiring, and agreeing in every respect with, a SCOTUS opinion authored by Antonin Fucking Scalia, and rural America, and the ICC, and what My Local Locality's governing legislative body is getting ready to do to my wife and her ilk (which includes BFF's wife). The truth is that, of late, I've mostly used this space to whimper and otherwise proclaim my pulse to beloveds whose primary and utterly understandable reax (of late) are along the lines of, "Oh? You're not dead in a ditch somewhere along I-75, or tied to a tree grunting and squealing? Well, good for you, then, I suppose, sure, why not?"

I gotta say, I've thought about this long and hard (SPERM!) for the half hour or so I've spent writing this, and I'm pretty sure it boils down to fundamental insecurity about BFF's massive superiority in literary appreciation and his considerably less substantial superiority (mostly on account of being married to an artist and having fathered another artist, imhoe) in art appreciation, which is all a shame because we're not at all competitive except that's a lie and we are, totally. That's sort of an astonishing realization (except it isn't and shouldn't be), given that I just started popping this off (sperm!) after I read a couple of things and connected some dots that aren't really connectable except in the stream (sperm!) of my consciousness. Jealousy? Really? Jesus H Fucking Christ on a Wobbly Fucking Dryrotted Crutch, Landru! Get a fucking grip!

Finally: someone in one of the hotel rooms bordering mine is going at it really long and hard (sperm!). I mean, thump thump thump thump thump thump thump, at a really astonishing pace and rhythm, I mean we're talking like Surfin' USA or 52 Girls, sustained for a ridiculously long time. Salud, neighbors. And, of course, sperm!

Just thought you'd like to know.

*My friends call me either Landru or "Hey, Asshole," although my mother still tends to stick with "Dammit" and my wife mostly goes with, "Dood, what the fuck?"

One Shining Purple Moment

Unlike my good friend Purple, I am not a showman¹. I go about my business. I lurk. Exuberance is not my thing². I prefer not to reveal my feelings and motivations to those around me, unless I'm in comfortable company.

There are moments, though, when I am moved to action, when I forget my surroundings. I arrived at the day care with little Bam-Bam⁴ this morning, and "Beat It" was playing on the boom box as he and I went through our routine of safely stowing his coat and backpack and leaving him to his fate for the day. I began, as is my wont, to sing to the little tyke, right there in the multipurpose room of his diversity-rich school, there among his fellow day-care pupils.

Let's leave it at this: it appears that fat middle-aged white guys belting out Weird Al Yankovic lyrics is just a touch beyond the range of these kids' normal expectations.

¹ Purple knows this to be a damned lie. I simply prefer, in general, a considerably narrower audience than he does. Sasha³ also knows this to be a damned lie, but that's just because she's a Myers-Briggs slut.

² Purple knows this to be a damned lie, but can shade and correct the record as he chooses, because I'm digressing out of control here.

³ Who posted the awesomest Valentine ever.

⁴ Who outweighs his older brother by about 12 pounds and can no longer truthfully be said to be "little," but old habits die hard, said the nun as she prepared for...uhm, never mind.

Frightened Fascists

Sasha is spot-on here. WTF are the Republicans thinking? They're following up the panic fuck-you of the Mooseburgers selection with an appeal to fear of terrorists weather? They're going to do what instead of doing the business they descended on St. Paul to do (I mean other than rousting hippies)?

Of course, in a rational world, this hypocritical shit backfires. We get to point out that Sarah Palin is a fuck-you to every woman in America. We get to point out that George Antoinette and John Antoinette literally ate cake while New Orleans got blown away the last time. We get to call them on their bullshit.

Will it work? I'm pessimistic. But I'll make the effort. What a pack of shallow, fearmongering twits.

Peace in Our Time

War is over. Happy Christmas. War is over, now. Hello Hitler and Hello Kitty Rave Whore have done their jobs and can go back in their little boxes now.

We now return to regularly scheduled programming.

Sasha

Thinks we're playing, with this whole "disturbing images" thing.

We're not. Put that damned hippie whalesinger picture in an inadeqate airplane and send it crashing to the bottom of the fold, or my army of Hello Hitler clones will take extraordinary action.

Oh yes they will.

I?

Am going to keep posting disturbing images until Sasha pushes John Denver below the fucking fold.

Bitch.

Other Peoples' Feelthy Parts

Oh dear. Oh, dearie dearie me.

What a dumbfuck.

On a considerably less well-documented note: oh dear (h/t: Sasha).

Lawks, even (yet another h/t to Sasha, and yes, I know I violated the no-Malkin rule, but it's too good to pass up).

There's only one place to turn, in troubled times such as these.

Could You Please Be More Fucking Dumb?

bDr gives us this, a post on the mind-bogglingly stupid Talkleft, written by the wildly inappropriately named Big Tent Democrat who is, it seems, a blithering idiot.

From Jeebus of Spamalot*:

I understand that Senator Clinton, periodically when she's feeling down, launches attacks as a way of trying to boost her appeal.

According to Tented Pants Pseudocrat, who appears to be one of those guys affecting deeply outraged feminism because he thinks it'll get him laid**, this is "sexist."

Go ahead, watch the video:



This is a video of Senator Obama thinking his way through a minefield of a question about an opponent who has repeatedly attacked his race, his intellect, his experience, and the fact that he has more delegates than said opponent. This is not a video of Senator Obama making a remark that is, in any respect, sexist.

Check the comments thread on the Talkleft post, too. It's enough to make you question whether you wish to remain a Democrat. Not that it's necessarily Talkleft's fault (although like calls to like, of course), but many of these people are, without a care in the world, fueling the Doughy Pantload's fire. I'm a sexist because I don't think Obama meant that answer in a sexist sense? Fuck you, bitch. I'm not even an Obama supporter.

Get it straight: if you are a passionate supporter of either Senator Clinton or Senator Obama, you have a moral responsibility to vote for the Democratic nominee. Any other stance makes you another fucking Naderite.

Period.

*Jeebus of Spamalot motif is probably the intellectual property of the above-mentioned this guy.

**Sasha tells me that TPP is a male. I have no other information on this individual's gender, and if I'm wrong about your gender, TPP, I sincerely apologize. Which makes you no less fucking stupid. And please enjoy this actual sexism along with my apology, if appropriate: Golly gee whiz, are you ever a maliciously ignorant cunt.

And So, Minions Endorses

-Alies Muskin for Montgomery County Board of Education at large, because most of the other candidates want to make sure that your children get out of high school without knowing what homosexuality is, assuming they're not altar boys; and

-Kathleen Sengstock (Richardson) for one of the four MoCo Democratic Delegate slots reserved for women.

Minions respectfully suggests that you never vote for Tommy Le or Deb Vollmer for any office in any jurisdiction (Minions voted for Vollmer twice, twice upon a time, before he realized that she was an unreconstructed Greentard). Minions notes somewhat less respectfully that Lih Young once (metaphorically) pissed in John the Daftist's tea, and appeared to enjoy it.

Minions scoffs at those who straightfacedly suggest a single fecal bacteria's worth of substantive difference between Senator Clinton and Senator Obama.* Then it laughs at them. Then it points and laughs at them, especially if they argue the case with any vigor whatsoever. Minions will, of course, vote in November for the Democratic nominee, whichever lying traitor to the liberal tradition it turns out to be.

Other than that, Minions releases you to your conscience, assuming you claim one. Minions, of course, makes no such claim.

*Minions just barely respects friend Sasha's decision to vote for Obama because The Big Dog showed her his genital warts, or some such piffle. At least she's not claiming anything of any substance, at least not out where you people can hear her. Minions suspects friend bDr just plain has a damaged circuit or two, but love is a many-splendored and, in Minions' case, pretty much unconditional thing.

Getting It Totally Wrong

While my good friend Sasha can't do math, mostly because she hates this man

so much that she can't even type the URL for CNN,* she got the principle spot on.The count of delegates won so far is paltry and close--38-36 in Senator Obama's favor, by CNN's count. Those who are talking about Senator Clinton's superior position and the imminent death by primary of Senator Obama have feces stuffed between their ears.

It's like Sasha and bDr and I have been telling you: the media are looking for the most entertaining race possible. The media heavily favor a Clinton nomination because it allows them to sell the most advertising--mostly by smirking: "I'm not saying Hillary's a bitch, but look at all these people who do!"

This is close. Pay no attention to the heads, because they're just giant tubs of shit. Vote your vote, and we'll see how it counts up. I'm not a fan of either candidate--for the moment, there is one for whom I would vote if you held a gun to my head, but they both reverse shitheadness with such stunning speed that this could change in a heartbeat if Hillary's race-bashing reverts to being more offensive than Obama's sucking up to Reagan while violating Ronnie's Law--and make no mistake, it will. And then it won't. And then it will. Maybe. These two are taking turns shooting their own genitalia off, in my book. Who knows who will get the last shot?

But enough about me. This is about you being lied to. Don't listen. Just vote.

*And death by broomstick to Blooger for not allowing me to type out the URL in line without loading additional characters into it because I, apparently, am too fucking stupid to know what I want to type, even in the fucking HTML editor.

The Feedback Loop

It has been suggested (by Sasha, who is my Secret Alien Overlord) that I create open threads, so that those of you who drop by with some regularity looking for my offalerings feel more comfortable simply saying hi, outside of the context of whatever I've chosen to rant about.

I've decided instead that I should just tell you that all threads here are open. If you're reading this, chances are you are a personal friend, and most of y'all know each other (or know of each other). As Blackdogred is fond of saying, this thing here is for me and mine. There's no such thing as off-topic.

The rest: tired, cranky, and crankier. And tireder. Maybe more later in the weekend. Or not.

This, On The Other Hand?

This is handsomely uniform.

This has been another edition of What Happens When You Ask Me To Post.

Your Wish Is But My Command

What a silly uniform. Marilyn Monroe is so trite. Your face wasn't made for cats-eye glasses. You ought to have your moustache removed. A goatee looks silly on a girl. And what's with the Heiniken? Can't you drink American beer, you terrorist-loving Commie? I mean, the Dutch are serious cheese-eating hippie surrender monkeys.

This has been another edition of What Happens When You Ask Me To Post.

Cher Does Coach K

You might think all this hatin' unseemly. Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.

In other stories, Rahm Emanuel is a megafucktard. Seems he told new Dem congresscritters to stay away from the Colbert show. Because he's afraid Colbert will make them look bad.

I have no words for this kind of asshattery, really. We just might want to reconsider that whole putting-Rahm-Emanuel-in-charge-of-getting-people-elected thing, though, if he's going to be all fascist about it. What a dipshit.

Enjoy part two of the holiday. Minions record so far? An acceptable, respectable, but unspectacular 12-4. We'll see what sorts of apple carts get upset today.

Ketchup

Busy week.

These not-bunnies are sleeping after eating Landru's blogging time this week.

But the world refuses to sit still as I don't blog it, so I'll catch up a bit here.

John Edwards (the Presidential candidate, not the other douche): What a spineless fucking piece of shit. Granted, he eventually expressed something vaguely resembling support for Amanda Marcotte and ShakesSis, who he had hired to reach out to the netroots. But he waited 36-48 hours after the faux explosion around them (caused entirely by noisemaking right-wing fucktards), before acting. Sasha points out (privately) that Edwards is either a complete pussy, or merely an ineffectual one. To the extent that it was possible that I'd support Edwards in the primary any more, it ain't now. That a so-called progressive candidate could find himself at odds with the "sentiment" of various posts by unshakeable feminists is not exactly what anyone would call progressive. And the outrage over girls saying "fuck" is sheer hypocrisy. I'm not a big fan of either blog (ShakesSis is linked here, because I occasionally mosey over and get a dose of whatever they're peddling), but this shit is way over the top.

Anna Anna Anna Anna Anna Nicole: I don't want to laugh at this tawdry tart's misfortune. It's hard for me to sit here and write that she was dumb, or something; she parlayed those tits and that ass into megawealth. On the other hand, I just heard the first "choked on her own vomit" story of the ensuing media frenzy. While Anna Nicole Smith was and is pretty much irrelevant to me, I must simply remind you that you can't dust for vomit.

Looney Astronaut: Sasha and I were discussing how this week's news alone should be outstanding fodder for TreyStoneParkerMatt, but sadly, they're not producing new episodes of South Park at the moment. Hopefully a wacky astronaut chick driving hundreds of miles in diapers to fuck up a workplace rival (and remember, Wacky Astronaut Chick says she wasn't involved with Studly Astronaut Boy) will remain topical until they start cranking some new stuff. And if there was no fucking involved, Victim Chick must leave quite a mess in the ladies' or around the coffee machine, to be provoking that much hatin'. This story is, by the way, the funniest. Thing. EVAR.

The Super Bowl: I think I done said all I'm gonna, in the game-night posts. The Cum Cannon just couldn't sling enough spooge to get the job done, and that's sad. From a high comedy perspective, the game rated about an A minus; the rain was a hoot, bashing the Cumslinger is a hoot, and it just doesn't get any better than 5-6 turnovers before halftime in the Super Bowl. The commercials this year neither heightened nor diminished the thing's comedy potential, although it was a pretty lackluster set of commercials. And Prince with a shadow demon penis? Priceless.

Futbol: Of course, blackDogred has addressed this thoroughly and essentially without fault. The U.S. mens' national team played a friendly against Mexico the other night, and it was massively entertaining. Unfortunately, I've gotten to the same point with USMNT that I've gotten to with the Terps; I dislike almost as many of the USMNT players as I do Maryland basktballers. While this is sad, it doesn't keep me from spewing bile when our boys play the Mexicans, who are aging, melancholy, unsportsmanlike pussies. The good news is that I can forget about this a few weeks into DCU's upcoming season and focus on hating Bruce Arena (who was in the booth with Eric Wynalda for the Mexico game, and THAT, friends, was pure comedy gold).

And in closing:

Greg says, "Fuck you, Michelle, Gun Counter Gomer, and Dan Riehl!"

More New and Improved

Okay, I lied. I had to reconfigure the Blogger template and stuff, so a couple of links got dropped. If yours was one of them, I had given you up for dead, so welcome back.

The labels list is now intact. Thanks to Sasha for the idiot-proofing. I'm still working through the archive, coding older posts with labels.

Changes

Mmkay, some things have changed around here. Note the new, more accurate pictorial representation off at the top of the sidebar. That's as close as it's gonna get, right there.

Links have come, links have gone. I have these friends, y'see, and they're in the habit of totally shutting down their blogs and starting new ones and trying to keep me from playing their little reindeer games. But I'm on to them, oh yes. I have ways of tracking them down. And this I have done. You'll notice new links to Fold to Combine and five point five over there in link-link land. Both are written by fine human beings. Consume their intellectual output. And in the case of five point five, go belch the national anthem and piss your name in the snow and generally make a horse's ass of yourself, because she's all Serious and shit, and if enough of us trash up the place and make it look like she built it on an Indian graveyard, she'll have to think up a new name and URL and move there at four in the morning and not tell anybody. But we'll find her. Oh yes we will.

I have left up links to several blogs that publish even more sporadically than this one. The reason for this is that I can't stand to tell most people that I killed their links. Especially my wife. That'd really suck, telling my wife that I dumped her for five point five.

I've also dumped some political and semi-culture stuff. Politics bores me, and I'm just no longer into certain forms of nominal culture that I used to find appealling (to the point where I'd write about them in other fora). What I'm really angling for is an invitation to replace Footsteps Falco over at Kissing Suzy Kolber. But that's gonna take a while.

Remember, I'm still not posting much. I have to really want to rant to take the trouble to log in to Blooger and type stuff, mmkay? The main purpose for this blog is to give me a nice navigation tool to all that stuff on the right. It has nothing to do with wanting to entertain you. If I wanted to entertain you, I'd link to that YouTube of me and Ilse stripping down and singing, "I've Got A Brand New Pair of Roller Skates, You've Got A Brand New Key." We clear on this?

Good.

Here. Now I think of it, have some YouTube. The one on the right is Ilse. The one on the left is K-Lo.