Large and In Charge

Well, my plan of disappearing for a week just to see if anyone missed me seems to have worked, as I’ve been practically inundated with requests, nay DEMANDS that I post something. And here I thought no one cared.

The problem lately is that my boss, Dr. Phil’s good twin, has taken the dramatic step of having a kidney removed (I assume the surgery wasn’t for cosmetic reasons, but one never knows these days). And, because I’ve done such a good job these past months of surfing the internet all day and doing just enough work to appear competent, I’ve been left in charge of production operations for my major scientific peer-reviewed journal, and my two co-workers, Poinsettia and Palsy. Poinsettia is from Argentina, and tells me she would go dancing every day if she had the money, and plays Andrea Bocelli CDs at top volume (while singing along, off-key), and has the amazing ability to be shown a task repeatedly one day, and the next day have no recollection of how to do said task, nor that she was ever shown how.

Palsy has a framed copy of the serenity prayer on her desk, leading me to believe that she may be in AA, yet she smells like booze, and sleeps at her desk during her lunch hour. Most of my workday is taken up with doing her work, as she can’t seem to get any of it done herself.

Both ladies are black belts in karate, which I am not, so I just go about my business, keep my mouth shut, and write about them behind their backs.

I’m also doing quite possibly the stupidest opera ever written, where the director is determined to make us rehearse for a full three hours a night, whether we need to or not. If we run out of things to rehearse, the rest of the time is filled by the director or conductor telling mind-numbingly boring stories and name-dropping. I was informed the other night that the costume department has nothing to fit my manly frame, and apparently no money to spend getting me something, so I’m on my own in aquiring a costume. Lack of funds must be why the conductor wears the same dirty jeans every night. You may think I would be stricken by the indignity of it all; on the contrary, I can guarantee I will be the best looking thing on stage.

Having been gone, I’m coming in on the tail end of all this Jeff Gannon brouhaha – you know, the “reporter” from Talon “News” Service, who despite having no journalism credentials was given unprecedented access to White House Press Briefings, where he was wont to feed Scott "Caught-in-the-headlights" McClellan staged questions culled from Sean Hannity talking points.

It also seems that he may have been involved in the outing of undercover CIA agent Valerie Plame , a Federal crime.

Oh, and more amazingly, he’s gay military escort service websites. Not strictly illegal, but against the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and awfully hypocritical for someone who has promoted "ex-gays," defended Bush on gay marriage, and defended Rick Santorum’s equating gay sex with bestiality.

And I’m willing to bet the whole thing blows over by Saturday, thanks to the “liberal” media who lets Bush get away with anything.

Sigh.

Bamm-Bamm’s bigger brother, Randy-Randy, is also having surgery today, to remove his bladder, prostate, and whatever else needs to be removed to ensure that no cancer remains. The surgery is being done by Randy-Randy’s ex-wife’s new husband, a gifted and magnanimous urologist.

In a stunning show of humility, Randy-Randy’s ex-wife, Satan, is insisting that the credit for the life-saving surgery belongs entirely to her, because she GOT MARRIED TO A UROLOGIST.

Randy-Randy will appreciate your good wishes, and I’ll report what I hear from Mother Rubble, who has gone to tend him in his convalescence.

In happier news, horse-faced people the world over are rejoicing at the news that those lovebirds, Charles and Camilla, will be married next month.

Think she’ll wear white?

Also wed this week is long-suffering single gal Cathy, who finally married her gay boyfriend of 75 years, Irving. I am assured the wedding will not affect Cathy’s ability to cram her unreadable strip with too many damn words, but I sure will miss the hilarity of trying on swimsuits in the Spring!

Speaking of marriage, or close approximation thereof, Jet and I celebrate 12 years of blissful togetherness today. I’m eagerly awaiting his arrival for lunch, which is likely the only time we’ll see each other for more than five minutes this week, though he sent me a lovely bouquet of multi-colored roses for my desk, and he’ll receive his dozen red today. Mother Rubble sent a lovely card, and we’ll celebrate with a pot-luck with friends in a couple of days. Take that, James Dobson!