I have been unable to post due to an odd mixture of Full Moon Fever (even if there was no full moon), work-related bad juju, and the shits.

I am only kidding about the last part, but yeah. Busy. Busy like a fox. With distemper.

Everyone here was in a snit on Friday. I thought either a catfight would break out, or one of the bosses would pee on me as a display of dominance. Either way, not good. Well, kinda, but not unless you're either German or a Japanese businessman.

All of this had to do with a bunch of scripts I had to copy for a certain cable network, whose amazing rise from a channel o' sex and boobies to, well, a channel of sex and boobies, has earned my begrudging respect. Never mind that they warped my young mind by showing movies such as:

Fast Times at Ridgemont High (wettitty!)
Scream for Help (her best friend? With the titties? Gets run over.)
Porky's (chock full o' titty)
Little Darlings (considerably less titty, but Matt Dillon - hooboy)
Weird Science BIGGER and BIGGER titty(ies)-! And CHET-!

...when I was in a very impressionable pre-adolescence, and would sneak up at night to watch said filth when my mother was very audibly sawing logs. And so my budding sexuality was permanently corrupted. Thanks, H(airy) B(utt) O(dor), as my 8th grade friends enjoyed calling you, for teaching me about the ways of the world (titty!) and !@#$!@, !@@#$@#3, and @$@&*%^...!

Now we have The Sopranos, Deadwood, and my new favorite, Big Love, which should really be used as a drinking game, where we take a shot every time we see little Billy Paxton (CHET!)'s tidy whitied ass humpin' away on one of his three wives, two of which are rather attractive, and one who is straight fugly.

Yeah, our shit would be fuhhhed up.

But honestly. I think one out of every three words on every other show is an expletive, or possibly "boobies". And still, to this day, my mind is warped by my furtive late-night HBOing-oing-oing, especially Little Darlings, and Matt Dillon's character, and his pretty, pretty lips, and his darkly brooding-with-teen-angst eyes; who shared used chewing gum with his potential lovers, which pre-pubescent adolescent me thought was dead sexy, and what he had to put on from that brown paper bag in order to eff Kristy McNichol (what was that in there, anyway? I didn't know about condoms at the time, so I thought he had to wear a brown paper bag on his...thingy. And then later? She was mad, so he had to eff Miss Mousie, instead. Which really screwed with my head. Then, later still? In a bizarre twist of fate, I semi-met the writer of this coming-of-age masterpiece, and, by darn, she runs a chihuahua rescue-!), and titties, and big, floppin' titties, and flyin', wet titties, and suntanned-everything-except-for-the-titties, and expandable, computer titties, and geeks who wear bras on their heads. And, whew. I should really stop thinking about this kind of crap while ovulating and chewing somebody else's used gum.

It's no wonder I am now such a conflicted individual.
I blame H.B.O. for my sexual dysfunction, not to mention my phobia of brown paper bags.

Excuse me, I'm going to wear my bra on my head now, and see how long it takes me to get fired.