Meet Claudette!

Why is "dress up" in quotes? How does one MILK a spirit, particularly a holiday one? What is polyresin? Since when is Spring the only season? If I put Claudette in my toilet after I take a dump, does that qualify as anywhere she would look charming in my home? I have questions, Claudette, questions that need answers if your existence is indeed pure and not, as I highly suspect, a malignant incarnation painfully aborted from a gaping soulless abyss.

Aside from those questions which are based purely on the ad itself, could you please explain your religiously-biased and seasonalist tendencies? The holidays you celebrate are all Christian, and the only season you celebrate is Spring. Why not just come out and say that your Spring outfit was originally going to be Easter? What are you trying to pull? You think you're appealing to a broader base of consumers simply because you throw in a neon flower mumu and claim to celebrate the pagan season of Spring? Please. You don't fool me! Summer and Fall are better seasons by far and you know that!

And also, you're lazy Claudette. There, I said it. To celebrate an entire holiday (or that ONE season), all you do is put on a different hat and cape? If you're going to pull out the same tired outfit year after year for the same holiday, at least have the decency to change the pattern! Your lack of imagination is staggering and only fuels my theory that you come from place of eternal blackness. What? Prove me wrong! ZOMBIES have more originality than you.

How dare you, Claudette. How.... DARE you.

Des Choses Intéressantes

(Translation: "interesting things")

(You may not find them interesting in the slightest. On the other hand, you may find them right droll, I daresay. I hereby claim you pugnacious if you discover them to be the former and delightfully whimsical should you conclude the latter.)

People are going ape shit over Michelle Obama's clothes. Ape. Shit. I cannot for the life of me understand it. She's an incredibly beautiful, wealthy woman who (GASP) wears department store clothes and manages (SOMEHOW!) to look elegant and put-together. She of course wears designer duds to fancy shindigs; state dinners, G-20 Summit galas, et cetera. But the hilarious thing is that people keep comparing her fashion sensibilities to that of Hillary Clinton, whose tenure as First Lady was during the 90s. The 90s which, at its best, was a decade of ill-fitting, shoulder-pad-sporting hell. If you managed walk outside and not look like the slightly more dressed-up version of a Fly Girl backup dancer, you won.

Speaking of the Obamas. I was watching a brief news bit this morning and our very own, U.S.A.-blooded Brian Williams was interviewing some Brits about their thoughts on the Obamas. Hard hitting stuff! Journalistic fluff aside, he walked up to a lady who began speaking about her excitement at the Obama's arrival. Her name was Trudy Cogdell. I burst out laughing because that, that is the most British-sounding name in the English language. Go ahead - say it with a really bad cockney accent. TruuuDEE COGdewwl. Oh sure, you can think of something like Sir Archibald Flufferbottomshirington, but that's just silly. At most, his last name is simply Fluffer. Trudy Cogdell, however, is someone I expect to show up on my doorstop and offer me sweetbreads with mum's puddin'. She's a woman of the people, salt of the British earth, someone who can scrub your dingy whites until they're clean and bright.

Our "friend" Scott will be heading down this weekend for revelry and shenanigans. We haven't seen him since New Year's, which means that it has been far too long. We will probably also hang out with our other "friend" Evan, a gentleman of leisure (pronounced LEH-zure) and pleasure. Together, they become the formidable ScEvan 2.0.1, a dense humanoid hybrid comprised of massive probability and protracted alcohol ingestion. I expect some kind of singularity at their joining, something to do with Earth's magnetosphere and heightened boson levels. I've told NASA to scan for loose ScEvan particles in the stratosphere, should they escape the singularity. They are easy to spot because they're usually wasted drunk and hollering Tenacious D songs at passing cumulus clouds.

My office is on the second floor overlooking a basketball court. A red-haired college kid was pacing back and forth. I recognized him as one who worked in the downstairs café. I couldn't yet tell he was perturbed until out of nowhere, he picked up a clump of sawdust, hurled it at the entrance to the café and screamed, "FUUUUUUUUUUCK! FUCK IT! FUUUUUUUCK!," and stormed off. When I inquired about the incident at the café a bit later, the barista told me that he had been asked to not do his homework when customers were in line waiting for him. Rather than simply say OK, he quit on the spot. Thank goodness we have a robust job economy for him to fall back on! Oh wait.

April has become, unsurprisingly to me, the darling of my Twitter group following. Everyone wants a piece of her. Everyone says how snarky and funny she is. Her wit is legendary. Her literary flourish, unmistakable. They wish they could meet April, shake her hand and take her on a play date. I have made excuse after excuse as to why April has something or another preventing her physical self from manifesting physically. What they don't know, but are soon to find out from reading the following, is that April isn't a human at all. Rather, A.P.R.I.L. stands for The Assembled Party of Really Intelligent Lemurs. "She" is actually a gathering of adorable monkeys whose sole purpose is to spread joy and laughter through Twitter. Oh, and to fling poo. It's all covered in The A.P.R.I.L. Bills of Laughter and Poo Flingage.