Okay, the typing probably wouldn’t disturb her, and Freud might conclude that I’m stuck in the anal phase, but in case you were wondering, yes, yes I do write atop a miracle of modern plumbing. Take out the shit and it’s just another room. (Someone tell Andrews McCeel to publish that last bit in their next womanly calendar.)
Just now, before making my way to the toilet, I commuted home from work. There are all these advertisements up in the subway for Tyler Perry’s new flick, Madea Goes to Jail. Some smart aleck decided to draw a moustache on Madea’s face.
Thing is, Madea is ALREADY a man. It’s one thing to facial hair the New In Town poster’s Renee Zellweger or the Canon ad’s Maria Sharapova, but Tyler Perry can grow his own. Way to waste your time with ironic graffiti. Time to take the magic marker back to the fourth grade, amateur.
Finally, I never thought I’d find myself writing an obituary, but an important man in my life recently died. His name was Mr. Coffee and he performed beautifully up until two days ago. I loved the odors he emitted. I loved the flirtateous little noises he made that let me know he was working. Mostly, I loved the jittery feeling I got whenever I was around him.