Das Wheezus

Wake's sales rank is, at this moment, number 193 on Barnes and Noble, which has done our Wheezus the courtesy of featuring the book on the front page of the Books tab. The news is less kind at Amazon, which appears to have its head up its ass on this one despite a big push by Simon Pulse (the publishing label).

Fuck Amazon. Our Wheezus rules the universe.

Love and congratulations to Wheezy, aka Lisa McMann (I think we can safely say she's out of the closet now).

Also: thanks to Wheezy for the unexpected kindness of mentioning both me and Ilse in her acknowledgements. She lovely, the Wheezus; when I read a selection of her works a while back, I loved one, so-so'd another, and trashed one. Yeah, just guess.

Neener, neener, she showed me. Love and rockets, Wheezy.

My Friend Wheezy

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So, buy my friend Wheezy's motherfucking book or I'll hunt you down and...well, I'll hunt you down, and after that I don't know. But if you want something suspenseful, perhaps you should just

buy my friend Wheezy's motherfucking book, motherfucker.

Making Sausage

Unlike bDr, I do, from time to time, incorporate messaging into my management of the sidebar. Sometimes a link's removal indicates that the link is dead (the late Ben Olsen's Beard) or that the blogger has stopped posting (some of the disappearances from the "Friends" box, although I'll admit that one ill-tended blog remains because the blogger could kill me in my sleep, although it'd cost her an insurance payout). But in the other sections? If I remove a blog, chances are I not only stopped reading it, but it pissed me off. Firedoglake has become extremely tedious, and with regard to anything written by Josh Marshall, I take my orders from Bob Somersby--I'm grateful that the Daily Howler pays attention so that I don't have to.

We are seriously hunkered this weekend--long, bad week, the kids are away, and we've had heavy social commitments for every kid-free weekend since about October--so that's all I got.

Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!

My greatest cultural accomplishment ever. Scroll down to the letters.

Take THAT, published author friend!

Blogging R Hard

It's been a while. Life is pretty overwhelming right now. There was a delightful visit from the Wheezus and her husband Mister Wheezus that, most pleasantly, consumed a buttload of time, and there's this thing going on to the effect that right now, Purple would, in all likelihood, most kindly characterize me as a hemorrhoid* despite our mutual thousand-million-white-hot-suns passion, and there's an extended legal struggle with Ilse's ex, and it appears that Save the World will have no further use for me in about 60 days, so I have to get a job get a job get a job.

If you got anything from me right now, it would be whining, and of course there's plenty to whine about, from fucktards actually celebrating the death of Steve Gilliard and deigning to compare the commentary on his passing to the commentary on the passing of Jerry Falwell, to the high comedy of fucktards trashing the President that they, in their pig-ignorance and hatred, brought down on us, to the impending untimely demise of the only team in the Stanley Cup finals not named after a Disney movie, to the distracting and damaging futility of presidential debates 18 months before a presidential election, to one of Lindsay Lohan's multiple addictions not being mindless and very, very dirty sex with me.

See? Wasn't that eclectic? And marvelously substance-free? That's what you'd get. If I were blogging, I mean. Which I'm not. Go read the links. Those people actually post things.

*I'm sorry. I meant "infected hemorrhoid." Didn't mean to short-sell you, there, buddy.

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.

Enough

Yes, yes, you want news. And you want it from me. And I only give you news when I'm avoiding other things I should be doing. And my avoidance mechanism hasn't kicked in for the last six weeks or so, because my self-preservation mechanism has been overspeeding.

Okay, the rundown: Ilse and I got married on Friday the 13th, which was also Lee-Jackson Day. The best man was our friend the Wheezus, and the matron of honor was our friend Purple. BlackdogRed could not be troubled to attend, the first of my many weddings which he has missed. Something about open-heart surgery, or his sister's funeral, or feeding hungry tribespeople in the Amazon, or something. Selfish fuck. Same for my brother, 32-Ounce, who was busy raping the government in the ass, or vice-versa. Thanks to Wheezus and Purple for making sure that our witnesses weren't county employees.

I am more or less fully employed, which means I actually leave my cavern about three days a week. So far, those days have been whirlwindy, and I haven't had time to steal time from my employers by blogging. That may sort of start to ease on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. When I am working at home, my avoidance mechanism leads me to other things besides blogging, Civ4 and NHL Hockey 2006 being the other things of the moment.

Yesterday, I went to the cardiologist. He told me things my heart surgeon hadn't told me. Things like "You're going to die," and "We're going to crack your chest," and "Your coronary arteries are more clogged up than we told you earlier." These things explain the general pastiness and the shortness of breath and the abject failure of December's cardiac procedure to enable me to respire when I run up the stairs. These things are not good. I am losing weight very gradually, and I will quit smoking soon. Smells like more overhaul work in the next couple-three years, though. And, of course, I'll just get all that fixed in time to die of cancer or a Malkin/Duke-inspired aneurysm anyway.

In world news, they're still pigs. Muslims hate us, so the best course is to hate them back. Anything short of return hatred is coddling, Communism, or cowardice. Administration officials lie without consequence, and shoot their friends with impunity (breaking Texas fish and wildlife law in the process, I hear). Then lie about it, without consequence. After attempting to cover it up, without consequence. Then use it as a rhetorical weapon against us when we bitch about it. The first person to suggest, in my physical presence, a correlation between Ted Kennedy's driving and Dick Cheney's weekend misadventure, will be the victim of a felonious assault. And the world will be a better place.

Actually, the correct response to a suggestion of any correlation there is that you'd rather hunt with Dick Cheney than ride with Laura Bush. Then, at least you're defending yourself when you commit the felonious assault.

In local news, it's cold. And it snowed. There are those who did not wish to believe me when I said there would, most affirmatively, be a mid-February snowstorm, because there always is. They're crying now. And sliding. And cold.

In television news, there is no television news. I am told that a new season of Survivor started recently; I haven't seen it, and I don't intend to. I'll watch the finale in a few months, because there is some tradition that must be respected, but my intent as of right now is to watch it cold, without having watched any of the rest of the season.

In sports news, the Terps suck, speedskaters, figure skaters, and freestyle skiers are pussies, and the U.S. womens' hockey team, which I sort of dig, will win the silver medal after taking an unholy whipping from 20 Quebecois chicas named Danielle Omelette and Pauline Dusalope. I have decided that the way women look in hockey equipment is a crime against nature, and a particularly unkind one, at that. I still watch, though, because beating the snot out of Commies in hockey is what made our country great, and I expect it to continue to do so.

More sometime. Apologies to those of you who keep clicking this space hoping to find something. Try Tuesdays or Wednesdays, for now.