I Had The Flu, and Other Tragedies.

By virtue of the no other fact than it has been 11 months since I’ve written anything here, I suppose that we’re compelled to recognize this as a new start. This sickens me since it’s the blogger equivalent of battered-wife syndrome. I keep coming back to my blogger-abuser with a look of quiet sorrow on my face while the entirety of teh internets motions me back into the kitchen.

Worse than that, the entire concept of a ‘new’ start highlights the obvious crapulence of all of your previous starts. Burn down the condo trying to make crème brulee? No worries, you hideously incompetent boob, you can have a new start!
I feel like I should be using safety scissors.

Well, here we are. It’s not going to be pleasant but we’ll all be better off if we just buckle down and work our way through the pain. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that I told my prom date the same thing…no…but I did say that to someone else’s prom date.

We don’t have time for that story.

Since I promised some kind of tragedy in my title, I suppose I should get to one. It’s the melancholy truth that there are no shortage of tragedies and one leaps to mind when I glance at the end of my second paragraph and take note of the words “hideous(ly)”, “incompetent” and “boob”.

I know you’re expecting that this is a segue to a story about the President, but it’s not. A greater shame upon your nation has haunted me for months, but it has come to pass.

Congresswoman Katherine Harris lost the election to become a Senator from the unimpressive state of Florida.

Now it may occur to you, if you’re awake, that the non-election of My Baby Katy is not the greatest tragedy of the last 11 months. In fact, one could fill a page much larger than this in just listing them; the war in Iraq, genocide in Darfur, continued political schism, the inability of CIA snipers to dispatch Donald Trump yet again, etc…

However, because I have proved unable to meet the duties of the blogger marital bed, I have been forced to focus on something to prattle on about. Also, My Baby Katy is the only one of the dozens of things I’d wish I commented on that doesn’t depress me to distraction.

Pictured here with the only members of her staff not to quit through the run of her campaign, My Baby Katy challenged the eerily non-insane Bob Nelson (D-Unimpressive Florida). The race was so stacked (ha!) against her that only something with a nipple on it would have thought that she had a hope in hell of winning.

Not that Katy did herself a lot of favors. Katy was a key figure in the 2000 Bush v Gore debacle and went absolutely mental on the campaign, claiming that Canada had Arabic street signs, that a vote against her was a vote for legislated sin and that she was privy to the existence of at least one terrorist plot against Indiana that she apparently had just made up for giggles. Oh, I also forgot to mention that she went through five sets of campaign advisors, made a pass at a college-aged reporter to get some good press and…and was about three pages of prosecutor’s notes away from being indicted for violating campaign finance laws.

She also gave an interview on the reprehensible Hannity and Colmes, where in a clear appeal to the Christian base, she kept desperately prompting her breasts to fling themselves free of the confines of her clingy, politico blouse and start answering questions for her.

We needed this woman in the Senate. Clearly corrupt, bitterly partisan, bordering on dementia and not afraid to let the Harris twins hypnotize the voters, she would have been a nice change to those more competent politicians who cannot be so obviously vile and must follow the more sublime road to hell by administrating wars.

By 2008, you’ll be begging for a blurb in Wonkette about Senator Harris installing a stripper’s pole in the Cloak Room.

Remember, I had the Flu
…For 286 days – really. They say that what makes a good writer is a mediocre writer who actually finishes what he starts. All this time, I thought it came through diligence, talent and hard work. What I can accept is that this notion is what makes a writer different from a person who merely types for relaxation. Since I relax by drinking heavily and insulting my wife in front of the kids, I have no use for therapeutic typing and need to work for a higher mark; just finishing. In the past, because I had no better material and the need to validate my laziness I creatively dodged my sloth.

But none of that was true and like my hero, The Barefoot Contessa, I will try to make crème brulee one more time.

Will it be frequent? Oh yes Jim, it’ll be frequent.

Will it be crap? What on Earth would give you any cause to believe that it would not be crap? In lieu of the previously well thought out columns that bored all 2.3 of my readers to tears, you will now not be entertained by a huge, lumpy torrent of crap.

Which brings me back to the flu – proof, meet my pudding.