When Margaret Cho speaks, all the little boys sit up and listen.
Well, OK. All the little boys of a certain orientation, winkwinknudgenudgesaynomore, sit up and listen.
First: “Don’t Stalk CZJ!“, an impassioned plea to leave Catherine Zeta-Jones aLONE.
Second: a bit on Donald Rumsfeld’s evasiveness, entitled “Indignant, Ignant Rumsfeld“. It’s sort of eerily timed because, for the past several weeks, I’ve been having dreams in which I am trying to ask Donald Rumsfeld searing questions about torture, the Red Cross, the Geneva Conventions, etc., but am never successful. (The weirdest parts of those dreams are the locations and other persons involved – the blue-ribbon panel composed of the 5 guys from “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy“, hearing testimony in a Gitmo-like prison cell; or the starting rotation for the Oakland Athletics, leading a church camp that just happens to have Rummy leading a workshop on Noah and the Ark.) Naturally, after every dream, I wake up livid, and build a long rant in my head about how eeeeevil Rumsfeld is as I’m shaving and brushing my teeth. And thinking about Rummy is most definitely not the way to start the day.
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