Wrapped Up Like A Douche

Oh, the Places I'll Go
Today is a red-letter—or at least a pale salmon-colored-letter—day here at WULAD; I have officially transcended the ever-popular Brushes with Brushes with Greatness category and can report an actual Brush with Greatness (only once removed). C. Monks, proprietor and chief hoo-hah artiste of one of the more esteemed blogs in this webnorhood, has accepted my attention-grubbing application and inducted me into the Utter Wonder Hall of Fame.

(Readers may note that Mr. Monks refers to WULAD as "popular"; and while I admit it might be considered popular in the sense that Cantonese translations of the early poetry of The Love Boat's Gavin MacLeod would be considered popular, I think he's just trying to be nice.)

So head over, view my incriminating picture, comment sardonically on it, laugh and cry at my expense; it's all for charity, so nobody gets hurt.

Dinette Vignettes, Part mcxvii
Scene: N.Y.-style deli on Polk Street, Sunday afternoon. Belle shrugs in the direction of two large older ladies sitting a few tables away. "Check out those two," she says.

"What are they doing?" I ask.

"Existing."