VD(J) Doesn't Love SGF Boogers ...

I didn't realize Ms VD(J) was feeling poorly, living single in the Northern Yukon will probably get her over it.

This is a pic of VD(J) on his way to the formal installation ceremony of the President of the Guardian Angels. That's a zit protector he is wearing around his neck. But what the hell -- you don't get the army you want, you get the army you have.

This morning VD refered to your innocent, loving, ever mild-mannered, Curbstone Critic (and the CHATTERismist-guy) as "idiot moon-bat bloggers".

I take humprage at that. For VD, who has an IQ on the upslope of the IQ bell curve to call me an "idiot" is just a sign of forgotten sang froid. Plus, if my greek is still right, "idiot" is derived from the greek "idios", meaning unique. If I had no friends, no talent, no independent thoughts, no life and no future, I would not be idios, I would be a talk radio mouth.

VD was whining -- you're shocked I sure -- that the city doesn't listen to his advice, and now no one wants to come on his program and talk except that great talent Walter and the landleach from Nixa. If only the city would have gotten behind the Guardian Angels, bought them some berets (isn't that some sort of Frenchie accessory?) and clean underwear, VD would have his Army bigger than a squad of teens who can't find dates, to keep the peace in Springfield.

And I am a moon-bat?

Actually I have always prefered something more esoteric than the moon anyway. I imagine myself as a black hole. I suck up all the radio over-inflated, underpaid, wish-I-were-better-looking-so-I-could-be-on-TV radio types who are arrogant enough to think that anyone gives a shit what they think.

Personally, I think the reason that TV won't have them is their teeth. They need more than one.

I should curse at him in Arabic: A curse on your mother's uvula.

Or maybe in Swedish: A curse on your mother's Volvo.