graceland's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Someone send Papa a hook up I've been hearing The Roots "Seed 2.0" in my head for days. I guess my brother has too because everytime I call him and there's a lull in the conversation he sings, "Ahhh beep ditty bahbahbah boooo." If you know the song, and you know my brother (A Grateful Dead, Polyphonic Spree fanatic), you find this really funny. I've been mistyping "there" and "their" a lot. It's pissing me off, particularly because I default to "their" and that makes me think I must be spending a lot of time either talking about people or thinking about talking about other people. T'ain't good. N't'all. In good news, Jesse Jackson has gone to Florida to save Terri Schiavo. I don't know about you, but I feel better knowing that the Reverend is praying for Terri in close proximity (and in cadance, no doubt) to her crib. I've been deriving entirely too much enjoyment out of the daily photos of the Jesus freaks protesting in Florida. It's become morbidly fascinating to see their photos each morning in the paper at they throw themselves to the ground in prayer with mouths taped or in lynch mobs literally bearing crosses for Terri. After this brouhaha, I'm going to need a scandal from Matthew Hale or someone equally fucked to satisfy my America's Lost Its Fucking Mind hobby. I think that if this shit was unfolding outside of my bedroom as my husband and family duked it out, I'd either will myself to recover to tell the nation to get their homes in order before stepping into mine, or I'd check out and haunt those strangers tacking religion and political motives onto my existance. But that's just me. And there's that "their" again. I definitely need to stop talking about people. I'm out. But wait, one more thing. I wonder if the Pope could do blow through his nasal feeding tube? And would it be any good? Hell, if you're 85 and with Parkinson's so advanced that the food you eat is potentionally misdirecting into your lungs, rip some rails, man. Get fucked up. Find Jesus in a lava lamp. Burn some myhrr, dude. Blast the Christian rock. Go meet your boss with a grande exit, man. That's all I'm sayin'. As one Catholic to another. 8:38 p.m. - 2005-03-30 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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