CHARLIE'S BACKKKKKK!!!!
Oh, thank fuck for that! The absence of Charlie (also Ben, and a few other of my beloved people inside the internet) is probably at least as big a factor in my foul mood over the last 2-3 weeks as the shittiness of the holiday period + deadline hell. There are only so many times one can hit "refresh" below his pudgy sarcastic face* without starting to take that expression personally. It's felt very much as if I've been dragging myself, panting and gasping, across the seasonal wasteland with barely as much as an amusing animal macro to stave off despair and hallucination (too late on that last one).
My reaction, of course, has verged on the hysterical. It's a funny piece, clearly not of his very best but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyable. However, I don't normally shriek at volumes that terrify neighbours over gleefully adolescent jokes about politicians' genitals. Even rather good ones. This is clearly a sign that my impatience has made me just a leetle bit jittery. Oh, the relief! The sheer, toe-tingling relief!
He is, however, wrong on at least one point:
No one wants to see David Miliband rising to his feet in a silver bodysuit so tight you can make out every facet of his groin in topographic detail.
As anyone who reads the crap I spout will have noticed, this has recently been demonstrated to be false.
And yeah, I know, he did a Screenburn columnon Saturday, and yes it's a cheerful distraction, but it's not *quite* the same.
IMPORTANT QUESTION TIME!!!
Should Charlie get his own tag on my journals? Yay, nay or Tudor-style executions?
I admit, I'm obsessed. So: how far should my obsession be enabled?
*This is not any sort of a criticism. I too have a pudgy, sarcastic face, and I like it.
My reaction, of course, has verged on the hysterical. It's a funny piece, clearly not of his very best but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyable. However, I don't normally shriek at volumes that terrify neighbours over gleefully adolescent jokes about politicians' genitals. Even rather good ones. This is clearly a sign that my impatience has made me just a leetle bit jittery. Oh, the relief! The sheer, toe-tingling relief!
He is, however, wrong on at least one point:
No one wants to see David Miliband rising to his feet in a silver bodysuit so tight you can make out every facet of his groin in topographic detail.
As anyone who reads the crap I spout will have noticed, this has recently been demonstrated to be false.
And yeah, I know, he did a Screenburn columnon Saturday, and yes it's a cheerful distraction, but it's not *quite* the same.
IMPORTANT QUESTION TIME!!!
Should Charlie get his own tag on my journals? Yay, nay or Tudor-style executions?
I admit, I'm obsessed. So: how far should my obsession be enabled?
*This is not any sort of a criticism. I too have a pudgy, sarcastic face, and I like it.