This ought to be some funeral:

Charles Rolland Douglass, who invented the TV laugh-track technology, has died at 93.

An excellent exchange during a White House press briefing Wednesday, proving (as if we needed more proof) what a fuckwit Ari Fleischer is:

Q You're saying they've turned the corner, they just haven't gone quite far enough?

MR. FLEISCHER: I'll leave it as I put it.

Q Why won't you answer the question about --

MR. FLEISCHER: Greg.

Q Hold on. We're entitled to follow up, Ari -- this isn't homeroom.

MR. FLEISCHER: Greg.

Q Why won't you answer the question about whether or not -- he said there are going to be consequences --

MR. FLEISCHER: David, there are other qualified reporters in here, too, who can follow-up.

Q I didn't say they were not qualified, Ari. I'm saying you're running it like it's homeroom, like we can't follow-up when you're refusing to answer a question that's been posed twice to you, directly. The Secretary of State said that there would be consequences. Why won't you say what they might be?

MR. FLEISCHER: Greg.

I have a make-shift list at work of words or concepts that would be good for headlines. Here's the list so far:

Crude awakening
razzle, frazzle, sizzle, fizzle
brain freeze
plod, trudge
culture vulture
weary, wary
bungle

I wish I could watch "Mr. Personality" on Fox tonight. There's something inexplicably alluring about watching Monica Lewinsky do stuff -- and not in a sexual way, despite what I'm going to say. I just think it's neat to watch a television show hosted by someone who has given a president head without being a first lady. (That, and I like reality shows. I'm not (so) embarrassed to admit it.)

But back to the president's penis: I wonder how often Monica thinks about her relations with that man, Bill Clinton. How do you get the guts to keep yourself in the public eye when people have talked about your cum-stained dress on national television? How do you host a television show when the only reason you were given that opportunity is that you prompted a national scandal? How can you get past these things? Had I been her, I'd probably have stuck to making purses. Then again, she's not afraid to take chances.

:::

Ronald Reagan Jr. in a jean jacket is hot. He's on CNN criticizing the Bush administration, saying that Bush's rule is not like Reagan's. I'm not sure if that's a compliment or if he's criticizing the administration. In any case, I never knew he was hot.

What I'd like to buy to help out American consumerism: this mouse pad.

And my favorite Onion headline this week: Girl Gone Wild Actually Just Regular Girl, Only More Insecure And Drunk (with picture).

OK, we all love a little exhibitionism now and again, but what's up with the Penis Blog? If I had any balls, I would start the Breast Blog. Then again, if I had any balls, I wouldn't need to start the Breast Blog.

I was hoping that once I put a comments section up that people could carry the conversation on from here. But, alas, there are no comments that I didn't ask for. I'll just have to keep blogging.

A beautiful day spent lazing about the house. I did my taxes. Yes, it's late, but it's not the *last* day. So it could be worse. Then again, it could always be worse. I could have filed an extension. Next year I'll be better. (I said that last year, too, I know.)

A few nuggets from stories I edited tonight:

* Somewhere in Saddam Hussein's family is a fan of Britney Spears. Or so it seems, based on the magazine clippings of the teen pop star taped to the wall in one of the Iraqi president's palaces.

* On looting in Baghdad: "When I came down here earlier, I said, `They're taking everything but the kitchen sink,"' said U.S. Marine Staff Sgt. John Kelley, 29, who then spied another looter. "Ah," Kelley noted, "he's got a sink."

* The WB is floating a reality show giving contestants a chance to win $1 billion. Just in case that doesn't grab enough viewers, they're planning on having a monkey put previously selected numbers in an order that must be matched for the prize.

Yesterday a Wyoming congresswoman, Barbara Cubin, likened all black people to drug addicts.

Here's an excerpt if you don't have time to read it all:

Yesterday's debate suddenly veered from guns to race when Cubin criticized a failed Democratic amendment that would have banned gun sales to drug addicts or people in drug treatment. After noting that her sons, ages 25 and 30, "are blond-haired and blue-eyed," she said: "One amendment today said we could not sell guns to anybody under drug treatment. So does that mean that if you go into a black community you can't sell any guns to any black person?

Now I should be satisfied with my comment section. You guys just need to use it.

Now I'm trying to make my comment section look better.

Now I'm trying to add a comments section to my blog.

I'd really like to add a comments section to my blog.

The most ignored AP style rule these days:

government, junta, regime
A government is an established system of political administration: the U.S. government.
A junta is a group or council that often rules after a coup: A military junta controls the nation. A junta becomes a government after it establishes a system of political administration.
The word regime is a synonym for political system: a democratic regime, an authoritarian regime. Do not use regime to mean government or junta. For example, use the Franco government in referring to the government of Spain under Francisco Franco, not Franco regime. But: The Franco government was an authoritarian regime.
An administration consists of officials who make up the executive branch of a government: the Reagan administration.

Right now, there are 7,460 references to "Saddam regime" at Google's news site. And that's a drop in the bucket.

I change "Saddam regime" every time I see it, but I think I'm alone in this battle.

Sometimes I'd like to spit on Ari Fleischer. This is what he had to say today about France, Germany and Russia:

"Rather than focus on that the U.N. alone should have a role, it would be nice if these nations talked about, instead of the U.N. alone, the Iraqi people first. This is about the Iraqi people first.”

Gag moi avec un spoon.

A few random thoughts:

* What in Iraqi culture makes hitting people with shoes so offensive? I assume it's similar to the belief that showing the soles of ones shoes is awful, but I don't know the origin of that, either. Can I expect a Slate explainer, please?

* What makes Al Bohl think that whining about his firing is going to help him?

* Few things are as delicious as chicken salad sandwiches.

* A new favorite Web site: Gawker.

* And in this week's American Brandstand: Mercedes retains the lead, with Burberry at No. 2, followed by Puma, Timberland and Lexus. Excellent. And Baby Gap is No. 9? Thank you, Missy Elliott.

* Bjork's music sounds like Iceland looks.

There's civil unrest at work. I don't know the cause of everyone's problems, but the evidence is everywhere.

For example, on my team of five people, everyone is looking for a new job. Although no one's talking about it as they did three years ago, morale is suffering.

Is it wrong to be addicted to reading random people's blogs?

The diversity here is just mind-boggling.

There's the agoraphobic lesbian who has recovered (from agoraphobia, not lesbianism) trying to come to terms with an increasing desire to stay home.

There's the Harvard grad who writes in Atlanta and loves "Pride and Prejudice."

The nitwit who thinks "sending women into combat is disgusting, decadent, and uncivilized." Yes-yes, women are meant to be protected.

I will leave to read some more.

Open letter to my waiter:

I've had a few problems lately with your getting my order wrong, and before I do something drastic (like withholding my patronage), I'm going to see if a letter will suffice.

The first thing I'd like to get clear is, why don't you ever write anything down? People are different, with varying tastes, and even your never-ending menu will not satisfy everyone as printed. I love the mushroom ravioli, but the chives on it seem wrong. And if I ask you to hold those chives, make sure the kitchen holds the chives. If you can't remember that, write it down.

I am not impressed by your trying — and failing — to remember my orders. Although I try to hide it on the outside, I cringe on the inside. I know you are about to screw something up. No one has ever remembered to make my pizza both extra crispy and light on the cheese. Even if they did, it would be at the detriment of my salad with dressing on the side with no pico.

And why do you have to crouch down so that your greasy chin practically touches my Dr Pepper? It's gross, and it makes me feel even less like your best friend. When you leave, I deride your frat-boy smarminess.

Always assume I want a refill unless I've told you otherwise. There's no need to ask. Offer the option of appetizers and dessert, but don't force-feed me the white cholocate raspberry cheesecake until I say "yes" or "leave or I'll call your manager."

I used to be a waitress, so I know that waitpeople have to throw in some flair. You do what you can to get a better tip. But please, God, please, let that flair be getting my fucking order right this time.

Thanks in advance,
Nicole

The best opening of a novel:

Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Why haven't I read more Nabokov?

Being around family makes you a kid again, I've discovered. But for when I'm with my sis, I forget how silly I used to be.

Case in point, this song I composed to give her a message (and make a point) some years ago, that we sang again two nights ago:

Matt Last Name called
He wanted to talk to you
Have a conversation
But you weren't home
He cried, Oh-oh, he cried.

I told him he could
Just call back later
But that wasn't good enough
'Cause he's bipolar
He laughed! He laughed!

That's a funny song.

And the song my sister would wail to wake me up some mornings, to the tune of "Pop Goes the Weasel":
Get up, get up, whoever you are
Get up, get up, get up
Get up, get up, whoever you are
Get up whoever you are.

There are no inside jokes like the ones you share with siblings. It's good that way.

This is not an appopriate war headline: Bombs over Baghdad. I mean, it has this lyric: "Cause we get krunk, stay drunk, at the club/ Should have bought an ounce, but you caught the dub."

But there are plenty of newspaper's using it, including:
New York Post
BBC
Slate

Consider this an update, Craig.

And while you're here, read this: "What makes one gay in Texas?"