In my lameness at not joining my comrades, I trolled down Seamus O’blogroll to catch up, and if y’all aren’t reading Skot from Izzle Pfaff!, a pox on you because he’s freakin’ BRILLIANT. Immerse yourself in the beauty of his prose, will ya?

Some months ago, Budweiser had the astonishingly shitty idea of teaming up with Clamato to release this . . . beverage that they called “Chelada,” a perversion of a perfectly fine Southwest/Mexican drink tradition of leavening shitty lager with tomato juice, lime and salt in order to create a refreshing summer drink (I swear this is true). And when it came out, J. managed to sneak a can of it into my fridge as a joke; when I discovered the offending thing, I swore to him that I would make him drink it.

This was the night. I pulled out the giant can--24 deathless ounces--and squinted apprehensively at the label, which, yes, was still trumpeting the good sense of this collison of Budweiser and Clamato. With a coroner’s clinical eye, I examined the “nutritional information” boxlet, and encountered this terrifying fragment: “Contains shellfish/clams.” I clouted J. about the head and torso and wept at our fate.

I poured the stuff into a couple of glasses; pinkish and wan, it looked like poorly oxygenated blood, or perhaps a pleural effusion. It bore virtually no head whatsoever, the carbonation presumably overcome by the angry, imprisoned shellfish/clam zombies. Even pouring it was dispiriting, like watching suicides falling from tall buildings. We smelled our samples and were not encouraged: it was a hellishly chemical lime nose that seemed to grouchily throw punches at the only other olfactory note, which was a sickly tomatoesque sweetness. Finally, we took a sip.

This was possibly as close to the American tradition of St. Patrick’s Day that we got that evening. For one brief horrifying moment, J. and I drank an alcoholic beverage that was, for all intents and purposes, like drinking pure, unadulterated malignity. For a mere moment, we were as one with all of those douchebags out there in all of those Stygian Irish bars, drinking the undrinkable.

Lessons learned while trying to videotape guitar sensei Jeff Massey in action when he and the band play blues favorite “Mean Old World” (originally done by Little Walter as far as I can tell, but with the blues, who really knows who originated what?):

-- No matter where you’re trying to shoot, some stupid fat guy with slicked-back hair is going to get in the shot and dance. Badly.

-- Blues songs are typically at least 15 to 20 minutes long, so your battery pack and SD card should accommodate more than five minutes.

Alas, we didn’t capture Jeff doing his “weedleeweedleeweedleeweedleeweedlee!” this time, but now that we know what song it is, we’ll be prepared the next time.

Prior to catching the band, however, I was tricked—TRICKED, I tell you!—into attending another sex-toy party. I say “tricked” because when Girlie presented the option to me, she said, “So, you want to go to Doris’ surprise party?” Here’s the conversation that ensued when we left:

So the other day as I was going through the Gawker comments as I’m known to do, one of the regulars was commenting on how, when he feeds his dog people food, he/she/it “farts like a mental patient.” I swear to GOD, that was the funniest thing I’ve read in about a week (after one of my editors sent me a fake story about how one of the towns was going to use its well-known paraplegic’s guy in a wheelchair’s lap to shoot off fireworks, of course. Yes, I AM fully aware that I’m going to Hell. Why do you ask?) Poppy didn’t find it quite as funny as I did, but Kaffy sure did, and we laaaaaaaaaaaaughed and laaaaaaaaaaaughed about it last night.

In other news, I came to the sad, sad realization yesterday that I can no longer walk out of the house sans bra.

Here’s something from my pal Mr. Allen that carries some poignancy in today’s times:

Remember the OJ thing where he [allegedly] murdered his ex and her friend?  You know, the thing where he’d [allegedly] show up at Nicole’s house, [allegedly] threaten her, [allegedly] stalk her, and try to seem like a great guy to everyone in his inner circle?

I believe the facts of the case are he is accused of stalking Nicole, accused of stalking her friends and being just a general dick to her friends and family, and then we all know what he did after that.

There are things you should just let go, like someone making fun of some stupid shit you’ve done, or someone saying to another, unrelated party, that you’re a jerk or an ass or whatever applies.

Like, what if OJ actually followed someone into a grocery store and threaten them in front of say, oh, I don’t know, 5 confirmed witnesses?  He probably just hasn’t thought out his shit very much, has he?  I mean, surely he’d never have been captured on some sort of video doing what he’d probably deny ever doing should his wife somehow find out what he’s done, right?  He’s not that stupid is he?

You’d think a rational, mature adult would know that’s how you’re supposed to act.

You’d think ...