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Eating The Flesh Off The Bones Of Burl Ives

2006-12-18 - 11:10 p.m.

Present I Can't Wait To Give: Shannon & Ben's (aka - The Coles!)

Listening To: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The Beatles, Arctic Monkeys, The Doors

Quote: "I will use my maxi-pad face to kill you Yoshimoto!" - an extremely inebriated Jason, to Zach

Ok, to avoid the religiousity of the original lyrics, I SUPPOSE I can see why they would excise the mention of "Parson Brown" in Winter Wonderland. But (1) they supplant it with "CIRCUS CLOWN", which: ew. and (2) they retain the FOLLOWING line: "He'll say: Are you married? / We'll say: No man / But you can do the job when you're in town." Oh. I see. So he's some sort of snowman/circus clown-hybrid killing machine that, when he's in the Christmas spirit, marries people (but only - and I mean only - when he's in town). All that, coupled with the fact that Rachel Ray won't stop glaring at me with her soulless gaze of warmed over death (yummo!) on every Nabisco product from here to Rapid City, well . . . I guess it just means I'm having some sort of cilantro based breakdown. I mean, doesn't it?

Work has been particularly & schizophrenically totalitarian lately. But for some reason, I've been able to let it roll off my back. I'm not entirely sure why that is. Oh wait - yes I am. What's happening to my life? Besides the normal bullshittery. I mean, I was 100 ft. to the right of Barak Obama on Sunday and then 100 ft. to the left from Dustin Diamond (aka - Screech) on Friday night. What a life, right?

But in reality, it was more like this:

I just want to bite the flesh off of the bones of Burl Ives. It's true. I can't help it. He's just so . . . cannibulee - you know? Sorry, my fleshlust for Mr. Ives causes me to blatantly make up words. Such as, oh, I don't know - "canibulee". It's just . . . well, first there was Thanksgiving, and all that went with it, and then the Reunion, and all that went with THAT, and, and, and - work + work and Christmas presents, and Christmas wrapping, and reconnections, and foreign contacts, and South African correspondance and Italian interuptions, and late night mixing, and coloring outside the lines, and trivial pursuit matters, and toothpicks in meat, and slow back and forthery, and glances downward, and BKV-related delays, and electronic banning, and later night swearing, which leads to foxy boxing - or murdered tasking, and family way announcements, save the date attachements, and calzone splitting.

I guess. It just makes me want to eat the flesh off the bones of Burl Ives. I mean, IS THAT SO BAD?? IS IT??? I can only hear that fucking CD so many motherfucking times before I just say, YES, I TOOK OFF THE PRICE TAGS. YES, I ALREADY HELPED THAT MAN. YES, I KNOW YOUR CHILD IS A GENIUS. YES, YOU CAN USE THE BATHROOM. NO, I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU CAN GO TO LUNCH. But . . .

I don't care. It doesn't bother me. Not like it used to. I wish I could send everyone Christmas cards. I do. Since I send some pretty mean Christmas cards/postcards. Man, if you're getting a card or postcard - bully for you! Especially if it's a postcard - because MAN are they sweet.

Man, are they sweet.

I need to get to 100. I'm getting there. But we're getting down to the wire. Plus, the thing about the person. And the stuff. We'll see. Wish me good luck tomorrow, huh?

It's been real,


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