Who is Matt Lattimore?

And why is he popping up on my computer screen about A BILLION TIMES A DAY, telling me to buy a Titanium Turbo razor? I don’t WANT a Titanium Turbo razor, especially not if it’s recommended by someone whose claim to fame is starring in something with “Sasquatch" in the title.

So the Pope is dead, I suppose you’ve heard. And now they’re trying to pick a new one. I wouldn’t be in such a hurry if I were them, seeing as how St. Malachi prophesied back in the day that there would only be two more popes before the end of the world. Seems to me they’d want to stretch it out a little bit.

Plus, all the candidates that are in the running seem to be on their last legs. Correlate this with the Mayan prophecy that the world will end December 21, 2012, by which time we could have easily gone through two more papal geezers, and it seems they’d maybe want to consider finding a precocious child pope or two. Like they do with the Dalai Lama.

High-school-dropout-turned-prophet John Hogue has his own cheery ideas about the future of the papacy and the coming global conflagration. Enjoy!

Not that I mean to sound flip. Mother Rubble made sure we grew up with a healthy respect for our Catholic neighbors and their Holy See, and although we were not Catholic ourselves, we DID have a souvenir mug collection with pictures of Pope Pius, or John, or somebody. Or maybe it was Santa Claus, I was never sure.

Oh, and if you’re still interested, click here to read about some of the nastier Popes in history.

And if you’re still interested after that, click here to get your very own Jesus doll. With Kung-Fu grip!

Not only that, but a little research revealed that one can acquire a doll of almost ANY hitorical or popular personage, including Twiggy, Snoop Doggy Dog, Andy Warhol, and….um, well, I guess it’s Christopher Walken.

Jet and I are so tired we can hardly see straight. On top of doing an opera down at the college, we spent a harried three weeks preparing a cabaret show of French pop music, which we then performed with our musical director, Patrick Fitzjames, down at the Atlas Theater in Northeast DC, at the corner of Slash Avenue and Grab Street. Of course it ended up being the smash sensation of the age – at least for the twenty-five people that attended – and instantly launched us into the upper echelons of the local cabaret scene. The only one who didn’t like it was the uppity “producer”, who was, apparently, in charge although he had been out of town until the actual day of the performance. He informed Jet that we had “the basis for a good show”. Well, he’s just jealous. Hmmph.

So the week before the French show, I was having nosebleeds every day, and in fact had one the very DAY of the show, and bled all over my new lavender shirt bought especially for said show, and had to change to my gold shirt, also bought especially for said show, because I couldn’t decide between them. So the next day I went to my doctor, Dr. Prissy Hindu, who likes to offer his opinion without actually examining you, who poo-pooed my idea of the nosebleeds being caused by Rinocort spray, and insisted it was my blood pressure, and gave me blood pressure medicine which makes me tired and my stomach hurt. Even though my blood pressure is ALWAYS 130 over 70, except for that ONE day when I was at the doctor, nervous because my nose was bleeding all over my new shirts. And that’s what leads me to now, sitting here exhausted and with a sore stomach.

At least, I THINK it’s the blood pressure medicine making me tired, even though I sleep and sleep. Being a hypochondriac, it could also be mono, bird flu, or lyme disease. Or, perhaps I’ve inherited Mother Rubble’s genetic disease of being “born tired”.

Along with new shirts-especially-for-shows, Jet and I bought new tuxedos for our active performing careers, and shoes and things. Well, actually Jet bought shoes. I took a pair of shoes up to the counter, as they were the most comfortable shoes EVER, as if magic elves had come in my sleep and made them JUST for me, and the shopgirl informed me that they were actually NOT the shoes that belonged in the box, but in fact that it appeared someone had come in, put on the pair of new shoes, and left their old, used shoes behind in the box. I almost bought them anyway, but they wouldn’t let me. Sigh. Which convinces me that there are no shoes in the whole world for me that don’t look like they should be worn by old arthritic lesbians.

So, that’s all for now. Oh, except for this. Ta ta!