The world is a better place with you in it

My former supervisor's ex-boyfriend's dad invented the Pop-O-Matic button.

Baby Mama's grandfather, or an uncle's grandfather or something, invented the machines that line up bowling pins so we can knock them down again.

Someone I know (Dr. Cheese?) dated the guy whose mother invented Jazzercise, allowing him a life of arty ease.

To make this blog more socially relevant, more currently bloggish, I should ask what Paris Hilton has ever invented. Why is she so famous when school children don't know the name of the founder of Jazzercise? In fact, I'm not even sure which friend of mine dated the son of the lady who invented Jazzercise.

The more I type the word Jazzercise the more I think I dreamt the whole thing anyway. Plus, I think Paris Hilton invented a new kind pocket vagina which is currently available exclusively in Japan.
It's crazy snowing here in Chicago. The falling snow is consistent but it's fast, then slow, right now it's teeny flakes of sideways wet snow, when about 30 minutes ago it was lazily dropping snowflakes the size of ATM receipts.

Insufficient funds, God says.

I received the official offer letter from Kid Prison and everything is copacetic--except that I'm receiving exactly 12 cents less a year than originally promised--but that should be offset by the available profit sharing. I don't know that I want to share in the dividends of children in correctional institutions. Do I have to take a kid home, or is the profit sharing just a misdemeanor committed against my person or property? A pair of big earrings?

I saw the Slits on Wednesday and it was bananas. While I don't feel pregnant, there was such pagan lesbo lunatic crusty punk good time vibes there that I wonder about giving birth to a unicorn in a couple of weeks. Cuddles gave a brilliant drunken speech about Ari Up's Right to Be Totally Insane outside of the Continental, and if you've ever been to the Continental, you know that was the single smartest thing ever said there. Ended with: "You never see David Bowie and think, Oh, that's a fashion mistake."

After my annual St. Patrick's Day thought cycle about the English, mostly hating the arrogance and colonialism but loving their musicians, it was just plain bizarre to walk back into 1977 with all the white Brit love of Jamaican sensimilla and reggae; absolutely unironic but not without palpably creepy sense of, you know, Race and Stuff. Ari Up, as a unicorn, may be exempt from self-reflection. Perhaps this is why she wears such shiny golden pants.