Happy Anniversary...to me. *Sigh.*

Yes, folks, it's been but a tender month that I have been on this thing, terrifying you with my inner workings. Sure, for you it must feel like an eternity being grilled on a hell-fire spit being basted by imps. I tell you what, though: not since that seal-pup clubbing excursion I went on a couple of years ago in the Canadian pack ice have I had this much fun. I hope you all are getting some kind of amusement out of this; if not, I am, and I am selfish and bizarre enough to maintain this thing for my own pleasure.

Oh, and I love seal-pups. I would never club them. Now, if there was an expedition that rounded up and incinerated sea-lampreys, I would not only lead it but also fund it entirely with the money I make selling junk under the railroad trestle near campus. Sea-lampreys are, quite simply, the most vile, wretched beasts that have ever existed. Them, and hagfish. Seeing picture of them or what they do is enough to make me want to eject my lunch through my nostrils. Go ahead, "Google" "lamprey" and you will see what I am talking about. They are the fanged clowns of the sea. They are the Dick Cheneys of the oceans. Dead, cold eyes. Covered in mucus. Once they attach themselves to you and rasp your skin off, they tie their boneless bodies in knots and tear gory hunks of your flesh off. You heard it here first: Dick Cheney is a sea-lamprey in ill-fitting suits.

I dare you not to think that the next time you see him on TV. He's a lamprey, and Sandra Day O'Connor is some sort of large, flightless bird like an emu or a cassowary or a rhea. It's true.

A recent phenomenon has me puzzled and intrigued. By "intrigued" I mean "my skin crawls like it is being trodden upon by hundreds of spiders that are large enough to be wearing the pelts of small mammals." Now, devoted readers, surely you have noticed this, and I am not just huffing too much model-glue: on hundreds, nay, THOUSANDS of cars and trucks (can't forget minivans, too) in Monroe County, Indiana, there are magnetic "issue ribbons" affixed to the bumper. Most appear, at this point, to be yellow ribbons or flag-colored emblazoned with some strongly-worded command or patriotic catchphrase. For example, "The Power of Pride" or "Bring Them Home" or "United We Stand" or *shudder* "These Colors Don't Run." Also "Better Dead than Red" and "Osama is a transvestite." What's bizarre is how they are detachable. If you've shelled out the $4.50 for the fun ribbon, are you really going to feel any less strongly about your issue in a few months? I can think of some fun new ones that, if I saw them, I would festoon my car entirely. Feast.

Gray and pebbly: Leprosy awareness.
Pinkish fading to gray: Pork, the other white meat awareness.
Orangish: Fake tan awareness.
Greenish-brown: Post-nasal drip awareness.

Now, I have to give the pink ribbons their dues: breast cancer awareness is paramount. That's not a joking matter in the least.

I've used far too much bleach in my wash and I can smell the chlorine-ness all the way in my room. My underwear will fear me now, as was my plan. Shape up and be white or I will Clorox you into submission. It's like the spray bottle full of tepid water (or is it??) that I keep at the Front Desk to keep hysterical students at bay. Just one shake of that bottle and they behave themselves just fine.

I have French to study, and I want to do it about as much as I want to spelunk into Mount St. Helens right now. Being vaporized by liquid-hot magma or learn how to conjugate the pluperfect tense? Decisions decisions.

Good night, Indiana.

Dom (Demir)