Happy MLK Day! Mr. H and I have the day off, which means we are going to go spend money. We will probably take the less fuel efficient car, just because.
Yesterday, we went to Andover (where white people were invented) to watch football. The fondue was awesome, and after the game, we all swapped keys. Wink, nudge.
It turns out that there weren’t only white people there. There were folks of the Indian and Latin persuasions in attendance. They won us over with their samosas, but little do they know that we sent them home with smallpox!
It was quite the thrill to watch our founding fathers, the Patriots, defeat some sort of pagan followers of a horse deity. Next week, the blue bloods will no doubt triumph over some blue collar steel workers. The rabble should learn that hope is futile.
Once more into the bleach!
This is just to say…I would like to be done coughing, I would like it if my clothes were not housed in trash bags on the floor, and I am a big fan of the serial comma. David rightly spits upon the AP.
Pop Culture round up: certain readers found The Story of Nicholas inappropriate fodder for MLK day. No offense was intended to Dr. King’s legacy, and I thought the story spoke for itself. I guess just wait until February; we’ll surely have a treatise on how all Black people look alike for Black History Month.
John Kerry, huh. I love it when the media gets things all wrong.
American Idol is starting again. Paula Abdul’s eyes seem to be migrating to opposite sides of her face. The effect made me yell out “Oh my God, she’s wearing a Halle Berry mask!”
The Apprentice is a good show if you’ve ever worked with marketing goons who are into “teambuilding.” I believe it is on Wednesday nights. I totally fire people the same way as Donald Trump. “This has been a really hard decision…no it hasn’t, you’re fired!”
It is a terrible story. The Story of Nicholas. (as told by Mr. H and his parents)
Mother: One day the boys came home, and they asked if their friend Nicholas could come over and play. I said “who the hell is Nicholas?”
Mr. H: So we pointed out the window, at the kid in the yard.
Mother: I said “Isn’t that Johnny? His name is Johnny. Why are you calling him Nicholas?”
Mr. H: We said “we don’t know.”
Mother: Then I realized– and I said “Don’t call him that anymore, his name is Johnny, call him that.”
Me: I don’t get it.
Mother: He was the only black kid in Acton!
Father: sotto voce, in loud restaurant: Nigga lips!
Me: Oh my God.
Mr. H: I wondered why I’d say “Hi Nicholas!” and he’d hit me!
Me: *snorted Chardonnay out of my nose*
Mr. H: The big kids used to tell the little kids to call him that, and we thought they were saying Nicholas.