By CHRIS PACKHAM
It was probably during hour 36 of my three-day marathon viewing of all the DVD season sets of 1980s vagcom Designing Women that I realized how good women have been to me over the years. Maybe it was smart, sassy Julia Sugarbaker's tough but tender liberal moralism, or Mary Jo Shively's super-sexxxy pragmatism, but I realized that, unlike me, women are unlikely to think that posting filth on the Internet constitutes a reasonable way of making $1 million. The subsequent remodeling of the front of my house to look like the set of Sugarbaker Designs didn't go so well, given my limited budget, although the walls above the cat litter boxes definitely needed a coat of paint.
There was a big debate on Friday, which I didn't watch because I was working. What with the approaching economic Armageddon during which all the hedge fund managers will be raptured up to heaven — assuming your idea of heaven is bankruptcy and weekly visits to the unemployment office — this is no time to be sitting at home on a Friday night watching presidential candidates. Instead, I rolled up my sleeves and sharpened some pencils and went to a rock concert in Lawrence, producing this review for the Wayward Blog.
After the jump, some news links for the ladies. Which look exactly like news links for men, only with much less body hair. Click here or on the Vandana Shiva Endowed Chair in Transnational Feminism and Trapper John, M.D. star Gregory Harrison:
Rest in Peace, Sidney J. Mussburger: I spent the rest of the weekend doing step aerobics at a Curves exercise franchise for ladies and eating some Newman-O's in loving memory of venerable Sockarooni sauce spokesmodel Paul Newman. I guess the artery-clogged and apparently tone-deaf fatties at Ain't It Cool News said it the best when they wrote,
Outside of his film work, he will also be remembered for his generosity, running a diverse company Newman’s Own which produces everything from popcorn (delicious, by the way … one of the best microwavable popcorns on the market) to spaghetti sauce to wine to salad dressing which gives 100% of its profits to charity.
Watching the slow descent from self-indulgent mourning into a reflective meditation on things you can force through your alimentary tract while moaning and rolling your eyes heavenward and simultaneously taking a crap was the best and funniest thing that happened to me all weekend, other than decrying the blatant sexism of this year's presidential campaign with my homies, the ladies. Also, if the result is more unintentional hilarity from Ain't It Cool News, I hope to be reading some unfortunate news about Harvey Keitel or Martin Scorsese in the near future.
Whenever a bard at the Renaissance Festival sings a randy song, a douchebag gets his astronaut wings.
It turns out that his father, Owen Garriott, was actually an astronaut who visited America's doomed Skylab in the 1970s and made two other orbital space missions. While he earned it with his aeronautic skills, physical toughness and the sweat of his matching 1970s Cape Canaveral terrycloth headband and wrist bands, embarrassing fancydancer Richard Garriott is just buying his way into orbital adventure, presumably taking along his cape and pantaloons. Meanwhile, my poor ass is stuck down in Earth's gravity well toiling at night on a romance novel that nobody is ever gonna read. I don't know how this link fits in with Daily Briefs for Ladies, so allow me to conclude by advocating for equal pay for equal work. Lady astronauts deserve just as much money as man astronauts, you guys.