Here’s the deal.

I have a little problem, and I’m unsure of the proper course of action. I figured I’d poll the audience.

So, my neighbors… are bunnies. Rabidly humping bunnies. This would not necessarily be a problem for me, were she not a screamer. And by screamer I mean that she emits the kind of cry you were sure was reserved for life and death situations or hard-core porn.

[Example]

Woman: Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. OH GOD!
Headboard: Thud. Thud. Thud.
Man: Ohhh…
Headboard: Thud. Thud. Thud, thud, thud, thud…
Woman: Harder! Harder! [A/N: No, I’m not kidding.]
Headboard: Thud, thud, thud, thud…
Woman: Oh god. Oh god. Oh god oh god! YES!
Headboard: Thud. Thud. Thud. THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD…
Woman: OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD!!!

[/end Example]

This is no exaggeration. In the past three days I have experienced this four times, plus the one time that they did it in the shower. Which was the same, minus the thuds.

The man is a little on the quiet side. In fact, the first time, I was a little concerned that the woman was… well… you know. It wasn’t until quite late in the game that I actually heard a guttural moan that was a little too husky to be Señora-Screams-A-Lot.

Now, as I see it, my options are thus:

1) Go to the manager and have him request that they move the headboard a little further from the wall.
2) Slip a note under the door that reads, “Please just cover her mouth next time.”
3) Next time they’re going at it, pound my fists against the wall and shout, “This is God, now shut the f*** up!”

None of these options would make friends.

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It’s raining.

And I’m not talking Oregon rain. None of the good stuff… the light sprinkles and random downpours that make you feel like Gene Kelly. Oh no. This is LA rain.

This is the kind of rain that happens when the sky opens up and hawks up the biggest loogie you could ever conceive, and continues to do so for days on end. The drops are the size of golf balls. You can’t stand outside for two seconds without drenching your clothing to the point that it takes them all night to air dry.

Plus, with the city’s poorly constructed drainage system – the streets are deeper than the LA river (I know, I know – no large feat… but with all this rain you should see it… it actually resembles a body of water!) I’ve seen countless residents who, either through negligence or lack of options, parked their cars on the side of the street at night and returned the next day to find them up to their running boards in liquid filth.

Get out your galoshes. This is not pleasant.

I blame LA for it. I reason that if this city were not so asthetically repulsive, there would be no need for heaven to attempt this drastic deep cleaning.

Perhaps we’ll get some greenery out of it?

Ah. Cue the thunder and lighting. Now that’s more like it.

Luckily, Clio has her raincoat.

.

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Recipe for Disaster:

1 Brand-spankin’ new laptop
1 cup chilled apple cider
A dash of stupidity
A pinch of clumsiness

Make sure cup of cider is filled to the brim in order to produce maximum damage. Place cup on desk between mouse and laptop. Add stupidity. Add clumsiness.

If successful, your disaster should include:

Immediate loss of power, complete with satisfying hiss
The grip of fear with a chokehold on your heart
Nervous sweating
Hysterical crying
Phone calls that begin, "I [sob] had [sob] an accident [sob]"

Once complete you will need to replace:

System Board
Video Card
CD/DVD Drive
Keyboard
Palmrest
Base Cover
Center Cover
Your Mind

Possible side effect:

Loss of taste for apple cider

Guaranteed result:

Loss of computer for two weeks
Unceasing guilt and self-castigation

A/N: Sylvester is now back up and running. Thank you to the beautiful people and the massive size of Dell. Without the labryinth that is the support line, I would be lost forever.

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So I just tried to eat my own finger. Not on purpose, mind you – so perhaps ‘tried’ is the wrong word. I came close to eating my finger. I was chowing down on fast food (because the only way to consume fast food is to ‘chow’), furiously stuffing fries into my gaping maw when I felt a sharp pain and my teeth bounced back. I wonder, in retrospect, why I felt the need to jam my index finger a good two inches into my mouth just to deposit a French fry. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

So remember Amazon Angie vs. Slamazon Suzie? Well, it aired tonight, and let me just tell you – I was pleasantly surprised with my screen time. I guess sixteen hours of staring at soft-core live-action porn has its rewards. There were four Big Bud scenes, and in the final one I can be found directly stage right of Big Bud’s head the whole time. Woot woot for the little people.

I didn’t see Terri, Danny or Renatta so I won’t be able to point any of them out to you all. Though I doubt you taped it, since I didn’t warn you and, well, (Lauren don’t kill me) since it’s JAG.

*WARNING* LAUREN STOP READING

So, during my hour of straining and squinting to try and find my face between the bobbing vus, I found that I was extremely disappointed with the show itself. I have watched JAG before and, while it is no Alias, I didn’t dislike it. I didn’t seek it out, or watch it again – but I didn’t dislike it. The problem I had with it was that it was too slow. But, as I know it is geared toward an older audience, I accepted it. (LAUREN, I SAID STOP READING.) After ten years of being on the air, the series has acquired a regular fan-base which is invested in the characters and doesn’t need anything more than UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension… you would know that if you read fanfiction) to keep them intrigued. This time, however, it was a struggle to sit though it. Apparently, since last I watched, they hired the Director of Photography from the Blair Witch Project. What in the heck is with the freakishly-shaky-pseudo-documentary-almost-stills with random camera flashes? It reminds me of some movie, which I can't recall, where we see things from the perspective of a person-turned-wolf. I had to close my eyes to keep from getting nauseous.

Note to the producers: accept that your viewers are older. They don’t like the weird camera crap. And frankly, I don’t think the younger viewers like it either. You’re not gaining anyone, and you certainly won’t be keeping the housewives and their mothers-in-law for long.

Note to the producers (part two): I recently found out that you produced Quantum Leap. I also recently found out that when the series ended, you didn't have him leap home! What is up with that? Have you no souls?? I rarely watched the show, but the one thing I do remember is that the poor man only wanted to get home. Wasn't that in the narration during the credits? "Always hoping the next leap will be his leap home" or something like that? You're breaking my heart here people, breaking it.

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It is Wednesday and I am sad.

You might wonder how it is possible for these two words to be in the same sentence. Wednesday? Sad? NO!

Yes.

Alias does not air today. I waited four extra months for this season to air, and in return I, Allison Jane Saucy (the first), was PROMISED an episode EVERY WEEK. Wuzzup wit dis?

Here, I will sum up Bush's State of the Union without even seeing it.

"Mah fella amercanz. Mah nayme iz Georguh Dublya tree. Ah meyan Bush. Dayum. Tricky fole-ee-age. *Clears throat* I aym thuh prezdent. Now put Alias back awn. That Jack fella is hawt... ah meyan... down with homosexuahls."

Now let's watch Nocturne. I think Vaughn is going to admit that he LURVES her! Woot. (Okay, maybe not, but a girl can dream - can't she?)

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