The CEO of Jesus
Like I know anything about Cole Porter! God, these treacherous writers, they're all the same.
I have discovered I cannot work diligently on my book as the laptop here does not contain an A drive. This is kind of like discovering you have a third nipple, but that's OK, 'cause I'll write more over the weekend come hell or high water.
I guess a good topic might be streetlights, or tap water in my present condition, but maybe we could discuss something more enticing, like exorcisms. I actually went with a dear friend who happens to be a priest to see The Exorcism of Emily Rose. There was something vaguely comforting about this (or odd, depending on your viewpoint), because as someone who has been both blessed and traumatized by Catholicism, you wanna priest there when watching this stuff! Trust me!
The movie was actually quite good. Maybe more of a rental or a matinee than a plunk down your nine dollars type of scenario, but good nonetheless. And it's not a horror movie -- it's really a legal thriller attempting to determine if Emily Rose, the movie's main character, was legitimately possessed or epileptic and possibly psychotic. It's an intriguing premise based on a true story I will google down soon (google down sounds vaguely kinky, eh?), but the movie left me more sad than anything else. Sad because she died (you find this out right off the bat, so no spoilers here, children) during the exorcism, and sad because her own spiritual autobiography was a very heroic one. Maybe with a message the world can't really hear.
Yes, she vacillates between the sacred and the profane! Why not, it's where we all live anyway, I think.
But this is far too serious for blog land. Although the guy I found who is leading us all to salvation through his blogs would probably approve. I could start inserting pictures of Jesus' Sacred Heart, or insert music sound cards so "Ave Maria" blares out when you're reading my blogs.
My blog, my God, my dog! Soggy wog! Kerplog! Schmog! Schmog is what you get when you cross an egg-nog with a schmo. But now I'm just being silly.
As if! Silly!
I'm thinking about pie. Want...to...eat...pie. Say it in a slow, stealthy way, or like you work for a corporation that encourages you to deplete your brain cells slowly, by reciting their various brainwashing mantras dressed up as mission statements. As you can probably easily deduce, I am none too fond of corporations! Or companies, period! Me, I just wanna work for myself, although none of us can escape Mr. Man, Jesus knows.
I am especially not fond of the work places serious magazines occasionally tout in their "Best Companies to Work For" lists, the companies that provide you with child-care and on-site masseuses and nap rooms. Gee, could it be to encourage you to spend all your time there? Why, I don't know, Watson, but it seems logical! Not that it wouldn't be nice and convenient etc. -- I simply question the motivation. I work when I work, but I also like to go home and spend time blankly staring into space and contemplating the lint in the corner. Americans are ever workaholics, but the older I get, the more I question the way we do things 'round these there parts. Does anyone really want to spend all their time at work? Not even CEO's do that. Why, sometimes they play golf!
I also question why I am not Michelle Pfeiffer, but we can't all be tiny blonde haired creatures with perfect bone structure.
In fact, a schmuck once said to me, "You've got broad shoulders and a long reach." He was referring to my arms, which are long, but my shoulders aren't actually all that broad. In fact, I am a size twelve and almost 5'10, thank you very much.
I curse you! I spit on you!
I wish a 60 hour work week on you!
Now, was that a nice thing to say, Jesus?
Goodnight.
I have discovered I cannot work diligently on my book as the laptop here does not contain an A drive. This is kind of like discovering you have a third nipple, but that's OK, 'cause I'll write more over the weekend come hell or high water.
I guess a good topic might be streetlights, or tap water in my present condition, but maybe we could discuss something more enticing, like exorcisms. I actually went with a dear friend who happens to be a priest to see The Exorcism of Emily Rose. There was something vaguely comforting about this (or odd, depending on your viewpoint), because as someone who has been both blessed and traumatized by Catholicism, you wanna priest there when watching this stuff! Trust me!
The movie was actually quite good. Maybe more of a rental or a matinee than a plunk down your nine dollars type of scenario, but good nonetheless. And it's not a horror movie -- it's really a legal thriller attempting to determine if Emily Rose, the movie's main character, was legitimately possessed or epileptic and possibly psychotic. It's an intriguing premise based on a true story I will google down soon (google down sounds vaguely kinky, eh?), but the movie left me more sad than anything else. Sad because she died (you find this out right off the bat, so no spoilers here, children) during the exorcism, and sad because her own spiritual autobiography was a very heroic one. Maybe with a message the world can't really hear.
Yes, she vacillates between the sacred and the profane! Why not, it's where we all live anyway, I think.
But this is far too serious for blog land. Although the guy I found who is leading us all to salvation through his blogs would probably approve. I could start inserting pictures of Jesus' Sacred Heart, or insert music sound cards so "Ave Maria" blares out when you're reading my blogs.
My blog, my God, my dog! Soggy wog! Kerplog! Schmog! Schmog is what you get when you cross an egg-nog with a schmo. But now I'm just being silly.
As if! Silly!
I'm thinking about pie. Want...to...eat...pie. Say it in a slow, stealthy way, or like you work for a corporation that encourages you to deplete your brain cells slowly, by reciting their various brainwashing mantras dressed up as mission statements. As you can probably easily deduce, I am none too fond of corporations! Or companies, period! Me, I just wanna work for myself, although none of us can escape Mr. Man, Jesus knows.
I am especially not fond of the work places serious magazines occasionally tout in their "Best Companies to Work For" lists, the companies that provide you with child-care and on-site masseuses and nap rooms. Gee, could it be to encourage you to spend all your time there? Why, I don't know, Watson, but it seems logical! Not that it wouldn't be nice and convenient etc. -- I simply question the motivation. I work when I work, but I also like to go home and spend time blankly staring into space and contemplating the lint in the corner. Americans are ever workaholics, but the older I get, the more I question the way we do things 'round these there parts. Does anyone really want to spend all their time at work? Not even CEO's do that. Why, sometimes they play golf!
I also question why I am not Michelle Pfeiffer, but we can't all be tiny blonde haired creatures with perfect bone structure.
In fact, a schmuck once said to me, "You've got broad shoulders and a long reach." He was referring to my arms, which are long, but my shoulders aren't actually all that broad. In fact, I am a size twelve and almost 5'10, thank you very much.
I curse you! I spit on you!
I wish a 60 hour work week on you!
Now, was that a nice thing to say, Jesus?
Goodnight.
posted by lakeofthelongsun72 at 5:46 PM
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