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You Just Can't Keep A Good Count Comfit Down!

2002-12-17 - 11:23 a.m.

Yeah BAY-BEE! Count Comfit is in the hiz-ouse! Yo Yo Yo! Trust me, if you read that last part with a Nick Champagne inflection it would be much funnier.

Now, moving on after so few of you got that last joke (and after poor Rachel was forced to have painful flashbacks) we've got to get started! I've got to go to work, and as the wizened Dick Walden has been known to say, "We're on the clock with a schedule to keep!" (Dick Walden's also been known to say, "Regrout the bathtub or no TV for a week!" But, that one really doesn't work well with the situation at hand)

So yeah, I've been pretty M.I.A. lately. And it all started with Count Comfit. I'll explain. See, I had to do that presentation for my Shakespeare class, which I briefly touched upon the cross-dressing aspects of in my last entry. Well, long story short it went very well. The presentation, not the cross-dressing. All I did was wear a blue wig and a floral tiara (and I must say I was simply ravishing), but it was one long ass presentation. I hadn't performed anything in front of an audience since Rumors - lo those many years ago with the gun shots, and the doors slamming, and the yelping, and the hot toddies and all the on and off-stage drama involved therein. Anyway, with Ben already moved into the new house I didn't have anyone to practice my lines with. So I had to take the help where I could get it. When we'd have a free 30 seconds at work I'd go over my lines with Jamie, Kate, or even Natalie if she was available (ok, never Natalie, but you can imagine what it would be like if I did), but the big gold medal must go to Andrea, who made copies of my lines and would help me practice them after work on the phone. Poor Andrea, she had to deal with my hummingbird attention span each night as I jacked myself up on coffee drink, Red Bull, and soda. And then I'd start saying the line involving Claudio as, "Kill Clamato" opposed to Claudio. And then I got scared that I'd actually say Clamato instead of Claudio in class. But fear not, no Clams in any sort of juice form came forth last Friday on the first floor of Hamilton Smith! The section that gave me the most trouble was the Count Comfit part. Oh how I cursed and spat at his name! It's now been four days since Ryan (Benedick) and my (Beatrice) performance, but I'm going to see if I can type the Count Comfit section out right here and now to see if I could retain it. Now, you good people have no way to know if I am cheating, which, despite it being my nature to cheat at everything, I will not cheat at this. Ok, here goes: "Princes and counties! Surely a princely testimony. A goodly count, Count Comfit, a sweet gallant, surely. O that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake. But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue and trim ones too! He is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving!" Oh yeah baby. Count Comfit's got nothing on me! For the record, I have no fucking clue who Count Comfit is, I don't know why he's such a sweet gallant (surely) and I don't know what my fascination with his name is all about. I can't explain it. What I *can* explain is why I looked so ravishing:

[Me, sans the tiara, right before class]

So what else? Ahh, we did finally make it to the big O.G. Kate, Andrea, and I ate so much that the waitress was going to call poison control as she feared an overdose on Tours of Italy and breadsticks. But we assured her she was dealing with some Grade A professionals here. Oh, so so so full afterwards, but it was definitely worth it and we have Mr. Blick, and well, I *guess* Kate to thank for that.

"Kiss my pink Estonian ass motherfuckers!"

Jeeze, please excuse Mr. Blick. He doesn't get to make special appearances often, and when he does he gets a little crass. It's much like going out to breakfast with Jimbo. Except Mr. Blick doesn't swear as much. Or urinate uncontrolably. But speaking of Eastern European men who can't keep their emotions in check! Oh Luka Kovac you Croation Sensation. I'm not gonna lie to you people. I am an Abby/Luka supporter from way back. No Abby/Carter pour moi! Ok, I still have a hard time with that whole "You're not special and you're not that pretty," business that Luka shot her way but he more than made up for it when he went after that guy who hit Abby and beat him up in the pool hall. Oh poor misunderstood Luka. And now they make you travel backwards in time just so you can kill your patient in reverse! Wow, what a sad Christmas episode. It touched on death, cancer, the Holocaust, drunken desperation, and Luka's dead family! If only Romano could have been allowed to be super snarky, it would have been a *bit* more light-hearted. But yeah, I thought the backwards format was cool and don't think it was a "rip-off" of Memento just because it went backwards in time. Was it a rip-off of Citizen Kane and Back to the Future too? Oh man, that would be really fucking cool if it was though.

Yeah, so anyway, classes are all over, but I am still studying for finals, as impossible as that is what with the mall being open until 11 now and me living in Little Kabul, NH. Here's the thing. We had to be out of the apartment, well *I* had to be out, since Ben was already gone, by the 15th. Since right before Thanksgiving it's been just me, my shit, and Ben's TV, furniture, wall hangings, etc. So we've moved a little of my stuff over in the past few weeks but not much, considering that, you know, I had to still *live* at 1018 Lilac Lane. So on Sunday, Andrea and Aaron decide to help us as much as they can. Which is a lot actually, since Aaron and Ben worked on unpacking all the shit once it got to Rollinsford, and Andrea graciously let us use her van to assist with all the moving rigamarole. And anyone who has ever been in that back yard at 1018 can attest to, it is wicked fucking muddy. Well, it had rained for about 2 days straight before Sunday so it was even worse than usual, which made all the moving of my precious cargo (i.e. - comics, Hair Bear Bunch poster, fabrege eggs, etc.) that much more precarious. What made it all that much more super, awesome, and fun was the inclusion of the aforementioned Dick Walden. As soon as he showed up to the place he was all, "Chop chop, come on guys, we're on the clock here, we've got a schedule to keep, hapabrap brap-a-crap crap." So yeah, that was annoying, but he brought another van, so that helped things. But he mainly bitched about how much easier it would be to have a pick-up truck, which was driving Ben up the fucking wall (his dad, not the imaginary pick-up truck) and it just kept going on and on until I finally heard Ben yell, "Dad, do you have a pick-up truck in your back pocket?" And Dick responded meekly with, "Um, my back pocket? No." "Well then shut up about the damn truck and let's just keep working with what we have." See, Ben really gave him the what for there. So finally, after exhuming all my belongings (which include things I packed up from 145 Holman to transport to Rt. 4, various watches that I unearthed that had gotten lost when I got drunk, miscellaneous Fred boxes full of miscellaneous Fred things, etc.) and having the pleasure of hearing Dick Walden say things to me such as, "Looks like you need to work a little faster Bub," and "I don't understand why you have so many things Bub," and my favorite exchange of "Looks like we didn't get a lot of work done in the last hour!" Z: "Is this the 'royal we' you're speaking of?" DW: "Nope. The 'you - we'." Z: "I see. Well. I'm gonna have to disagree with ya there." And then I just walked away to my room, leaving an astonished Ben alone with him in the living room simply agog that I didn't try to stab his father in the neck.

So Rollinsford. Rollinsford, Rollinsford, Rollinsford. Well, it IS a house. That much is true. And as Ben continues and continues to remind me, my room here is bigger than my room at the New Meadows. Also true. But see, my *old* room had the added luxury of a ceiling. and finished walls. and heat. and electricity that didn't involve a Rube Goldburg invention with extension cords, a bowling ball, a tinder box, and three ice cubes to get a lamp to work. There is so much dust (of the free floating and the saw varieties), insulation, ladders, plastic wrap, work lights, nails, plywood etc., in the place where I "sleep" (the absolute loosest defenition of the word) that I won't actually be staying there again for the next few nights. I plan to stay at Kate's tonight and maybe Andrea's on Wednesday. Hopefully, without me sleeping in the work space Ben and Aaron will be able to get more done. As it is now, Ben sleeps in the living room as there is no actual room outside of my lean-to upstairs for him to sleep in. And when I *do* sleep in my lean-to I need to be wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and 5 fucking blankets. The bathroom that we have is antiquated to say the least. There is no door, it's just an oversized Chinese fan. ("Hmmmm, that sounds like a dandy idea!" - Larry Frates) The shower head is at my chin, and to shave at the bathroom mirror I need to limbo just to be able to see myself. There is dirt and dust EVERYWHERE so after I get done cleaning myself in the shower, I get out and all the dirt sticks to my wet feet and I am then muddy. 30 seconds after taking a shower. And my brush is packed somewhere so I have to comb my hair with my HANDS. All my shit is in boxes in this shed in the backyard. Which is fine for safety and all, I mean I don't think Jebriath the town drunk is gonna steal it or anything, but I don't know where ANY OF MY SHIT IS. Since I wasn't there when it got unpacked. I was off in Dover plotting to tie Dick Walden's shoe laces together and push him into an alligator pit. So I know my Scotland, PA poster, and my bathroom supplies, and my notebooks are SOMEWHERE - I just don't know where. And everything that's IN the house is so cramped that it's all stacked on top of each other. The VCR is on the cable box, which is on my box of comics which is on the fish tank, etc. Our whole house resembles an "I'm going to the moon and I'm taking a . . ." game. Yet, I'm not mad at Ben. Far from it. Like I said, he's doing as much as he can as fast as he can. The only thing is, unless I want my lungs to finally give out (which is where they are headed considering they seem to sieze up on me every 10 to 15 minutes while I'm in that house) I'm going to have to find some alternate accomodations for a while. Which is what I'm doing. Thank GOD Christmas is coming when it is. I never thought I'd say it, but a plate-smashing, eye-scratching, blood-curdling sit down meal with my extended family is just what I need right now. Sigh.

It's been real,

Sierra Sweetster

ps - "Oda Up, Wingnut!" (Sorry, I just had to do it.)

pps - How could I forget?! The bitch is back! That's right - that trick ass, goat fucking, ass kissing, chlamydia spreading, Aerosmith loving, dumb as a bag of dumb bricks, BEE-YATCH Tracey Lundgren is back. She's working downtown and they were trying to keep her existence secret from me so I didn't assassinate her. But I know she's there. And I hate her with so much intensity, that 1,000,000 white-hot suns just won't do the trick. That's right folks, THE GOAT FUCKER KNOWN AS TRACEY LUNDGREN IS BACK, SO ALL YOU GOATS BEWARE! You know, cause she fucks goats and everything. So, beware and stuff. So to recap: TRACEY LUNDGREN IS A STUPID FUCKING HO BAG (who consequently fucks goats). GOOGLE THAT, BITCH!

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