Happy St. George’s Day to anyone who cares about it! I have to admit that I didn’t because I didn’t even know it existed. But I learned, friend, I learned.

So apparently, this guy is the patron saint of England. Also, he’s big on slaying dragons. The story goes the he came to Libya and there learned that a ferocious dragon was terrorizing the country and the only way to pacify the beast was to fulfill his unending appetite for beautiful maidens. Which apparently are much more delicious than ugly maidens or hot married chicks. Regardless, the dragon had been at this particular buffet for quite a while and the people were running out of sacrificial victims like you wouldn’t believe. The only other person that qualified for becoming dragon bait was the king’s daughter. As she was being walked to her doom, St. George came in out of nowhere and sent her home, promising that he would do battle with the dragon and slay it. Luckily, when St. George got to the dragon arena, there was a magical orange tree that protected anyone under it  from venomous poison, otherwise, St. Patrick might have had to have done some double duty. Anyway, St. George fought gallantly and was triumphant, and was rewarded with all the hot ladies that were left. In the end, he probably wished he’d gotten there sooner. (more…)

So I know this post has nothing to do with anything, but I have to say I DO like Sarah Haskins. I’m not sure why. Once I forced my sister to watch one of her spots about yogurt and at the end, not even mildly amused, she asked, “So . . . is she making fun of this stuff or what?”
Me: “Uh, yeah, maybe. Well . . . I don’t know.”
Her: “Because a lot of women love yogurt.”
Me: “I guess.”
Her: “Seriously, they do. I don’t know any men who eat yogurt at all.”
Me: “Well, I don’t love yogurt.”
Her: “Yes you do. You practically forced Ron and me to eat your yogurt.”
Me: “Oh yeah.”
Her: “You probably have yogurt in your fridge right now.”
Me: “Shut up! It’s expired! It doesn’t count!”
Anyway, yogurt fetishes aside, here’s another gem.

And to those for whom this holiday is not the drunken, kiss-me-I’m-fake-Irish, liver and mouth disease extravaganza that it is for most? Don’t worry, Ubermarianne’s got something for you too.

That’s right. Forget green beer and the goggles that go with it. Forget blazen symbols stretched tightly across the chest of leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold. Forget the lazy drooling that your speech will no doubt be forced into at, say, two a.m. No, loves, it’s time to be wise. Time to sit down, sign on, and man up. Warhammah styyyyle! :)

ENJOY!

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Alright then. Now SAY something (a la HighExecutive, if you please).

So another long night has ended. A night spent manning four phone lines and staving off the ravages of violence from my little corner of womankind. Dawn rises as worry releases the crumpled face of this fair city. The morning breathes a sleepy sigh, knowing that there has been no cruelty this night. I’ll be honest:  I should probably be wearing a cape.

So, in the spirit of a Spirit-like self important monologue about the glorious effervescent emersion of a place, please be so kind as to allow me go on and on.
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Do you ever get that feeling like you just want to fall out the window of a nine story building onto your face?

. . .

Yeah, I guess I don’t either.