:: I wrecked my life partner at scrabble yesterday. Like I wasn’t even playing defense for the second half of the game and finished with a Z and two other tiles on my rack and still won by almost 60 pts. here’s the catch though: the only reason(s) I managed to win by that much were because i threw a tantrum and threatened to quit if she used the space i was planning to spell “quota” (with triple word score in) and then later i insisted that the british spelling of “realised” was a legit move. what’s the lesson here? is it, don’t cheat? or is it don’t be a sucker? i think we all know the answer to that. never mind.
:: I like the Smiths more and more every day?
:: an white-label preview from forthcoming, still-untitled, no-longer-about-dennis-haysbert short story:
prior to that he had spent 30 minutes sitting on the toilet waiting to eliminate waste. after the initial time commitment, and a hasty conclusion that results were not attainable under the present conditions, dennis had made and consumed a large pot of black coffee and returned to the bathroom, where he obtained the demanded satisfaction but found it hollow, particularly after his toilet, of the variety that responds not to a pulled lever but to a small motion-detector, flushed the visceral proof of his coffee-led victory before he had a chance to tour the battlefield.
dennis’ bathroom was equipped with a great number of modernities. not modern conveniences so much as just modernities. the automatic flush, for instance, was a source of little satisfaction or convenience, although if dennis had lost the use of his arms, ask him then what he thought of handless flushing. certainly it was rewarding to not have to use your hands when flushing, or wrench your back (just stand up first, mr. too-busy), but, well, there was a certain reward of its own in deciding whether or not to flush at all, and whatever germs he was avoiding in the handless, pivotless flush weren’t really in play, in a political sense, as dennis was the only human being to have used this restroom, at least permissably, in several months, and any germs left behind by the football-watching guests of the previous autumn had likely died, although who knows.
The theater of embarassment in the restroom had faded to another afternoon on the couch in front of the window, looking out on a sidewalk not that far from a college campus. As a result, or a symptom, or side affect of that campus was a proliferation of these fearful 6-foot tall girls with no hips, but very closely managed, clean, show-dog hair – not a spot of dirt on them. On the surface they seemed at least, in ahem, marital physics or whatever, very desireable. great lawns of flat stomach, round, sloping unmuscled shoulders, these titanic legs that were notably not naked, covered by either a too-big skirt on account of the lack of hips, or by whorish hillbilly blue jeans. but something about their continual interference with his attempt to stare at nothing made Dennis desperately uncomfortable, in a way that was probably 60% sexual, and 20% having to do with their lack of fashion sense, or rather, their lack of knowing without asking what dennis would rather have them wear.
enough of them had unlikely, and Dennis suspected often, falsie, chests that their weird turkey struts down the street were impossible to ignore; even a Dennis who could physicallly restrain himself from eyeballing pretty girls in public (the prevent defense only prevents you from winning, as they say). it was an inescapable, interminable problem, all this bouncing, demo-targeted flesh wobbling by as he heroically struggled, for a second time wrangling with his own digestive tract, to make it through a large bowl of unseasoned boiled baby carrots. now and them one of these lanky women would swoop down and perch on a stoop or planter or bench and sit down, telephone lashed to face, or digging into a purse-satchel-something for energy bars or makeup.
the faces of the girls: the problem or at least a problem that Dennis was having, was the overoccurence of something cruel and vulgar in their facial contours. the overemphasis wasn’t inhuman or even detectably weird. Martian or ape-mouth would represent a jerky misstatement of facts on his part; nor does ugly or violently unappealing or manface adequately address what was tripping Dennis up. It was their anger, a ferocity, competitiveness, staring across an invisible, eternal line of scrimmage across at some fictional, hunted running back, about to steered from his lane into their gangly arms to certain spinal-column malfeasance. Maybe the running guy was Dennis’ masculinity, or his possession of a destructive gaze, or another girl, the true, or false, competition; maybe to the eyes of the lanky girls Republican motherhood was crouched behind center, hands poised to toss some kind of cryptoreversemisogyny down their throasts. that he doubted; but these women were mad, and Dennis, from his window perch, felt pretty certain that he had better find another part of the house to eat his carrots in.