Thursday, April 21, 2005
All The Boys Think She's A Spy
I was originally planning on writing extensively about the events of Sprog 2's 4th birthday party at the local Chuck E. Cheese last night. The central thesis was going to have something to do with easy jokes at the expense of minimum-wagers in animal costumes getting beat half to death by wild packs of kids hopped up on Sprite and ritalin cocktails and the silent, shimmering, inherent evil of mylar balloons.
I was looking forward to a Thursday of lazy, cheap laughs. Except for that last part about mylar balloons. I take that very seriously.
But all that has been set aside. I usually read the paper in the morning before I start this just in case I come across something better than the crap I'm thinking of beforehand.
I was stopped cold by this picture:
The back-of-the-head in the foreground is obviously the elegant insouciant flip hairdo of International Dominatrix of Mystery Condoleeza Rice.
The death stare across the table--in perfect, terrible focus--belongs to Russian President Vladimir Putin.
I don't have anything particularly enlightening to say about the image, only that it appears to have been take a split second before the heat rays shot out of his eyes and left an ashen stump on her neck where her head used to be.
That or his right hand is juuuuust about to surreptitiously hit the button that drops her and her chair into the shark tank below.
His left hand I cannot account for at all, which possibly gives this picture an entirely different connotation.
Or possibly not.
Ick, there, I've grossed myself out.
Like I said, I have nothing material to add. But at least this post took me less than 20 minutes to write. I hope it shows.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 1.7