fuck the title

Go read this. Smart dude, and hot, too.

However, most people are narcissistic idiots. They're no smarter than that spider weaving a web over your head (made you look up, eh?) and before you think I'm on some high horse, I'm including myself in that immense sector of humanity. What the hell makes me so special? Or you, for that matter? I got the same thing eating my gut that you got eating yours.

Don't believe me? Make a point of looking around today. You're watching for the blank, content stare of someone who's got their shit together, specifically. They're hard to find because most of us aren't entirely content--there's a worry that the stiff wind between our ears can't quite loosen from the tacky glue of neurons in our brains. Will they figure out how dumb I am? Worse, will they point it out to my face?

Every single being on this planet is at heart a narcissist and the worst thing you can do to a narcissist is point out their flaws. It's a tricky dance. Flaws are so abundant that we have idioms like "learn from our mistakes" and "nobody's perfect." Perfect? Hah! We wouldn't know what perfection is if it slapped us on our backside, and I've got a feeling it has.

So, now that I've completely alientated all but one of you, I'll move on to other things. On my plate lately is a non-epic crisis which nonetheless still keeps me up at night. No need for gorey details, but rest assured that some friends and I are getting fucked by a cock of corporate proportions, and now we have to decide if it's sex or rape. Like the real thing, we don't have to like it. We just have to lay there, knife to our throat (or cock down our throat, as it were) and take it.

And now some idiot at Tetleys has decided that strings on tea bags are sooo last century. Likely they're saving $.48576 per bag which will no doubt pay for fulfilling the new polution regulations caused by the airline fuel used to carry the tea away from the desecrated nation and starving slave labor which sweeps the leavings (get it--leavings?) off the factory floor and packs it into bags. (If you're wondering, the real leaves go into tins shaped like British phone booths, round post boxes, or, for 8 quid, one shaped like Big Ben.)

Or, maybe the chemicals in the tea turned the string puce, notifying the drinker that said chemicals exist. I dunno. But bad things come in threes.

Wait for it. Wait for it.

Lately I've been reading about despots in the ex-Russian countries. They are utterly fascinating characters, MarthaStewartian in their simplicity and wealth, Orwellian in their irony, Machiavellian in their cruelty, and European in their taste of cars. They remind me of a certain despot we keep on the staff here at home. There's a story in this drivel somewhere, and yeah I see the connection. It's mine, all mine, so hands off.

Hell, what do you know? I might just have Something To Say after all.