As I was trying to post that last entry here (you know, the super-emo "OMG WOE-IS-I" one about leaving Georgia for New York, becoming unemployed, my relationship ending, etc etc the tiniest violin in the world, with my name etched on it, playing "Hearts and Flowers" or some Bright Eyes song) to my Facebook (that whole "maximum visability neu-media" thing that I hear so much about), feeling both super-accomplished and empowered having finally "written down the bones" or "chewed on the bones" or "boiled the bones to make a stock" or whatever it is one does when one writes a lengthy, personal blog post about the collapse of a way of life, I was given the following Facebook authentication code request:
Apparently Facebook thinks I'm a slut. Or that I should go into the phone sex trade.
Suffice to say, I get your point, Facebook. Thanks. Thanks a *lot*.
As long as I'm avoiding getting my Sunday started and not doing anything i should be doing, i.e.laundry, packing for my New York trip this coming weekend, continuing to pass wavering positive/negative judgment on the new Animal Collective album, uh...getting started on hitting the vodka+oj?...
Yesterday, I happened upon this fantastic signpost at the McDonalds here in Decatur:
Jesus God and Baby Jesus, if there's one thing I do *not* want to see happen, it's the current burgere couture fad altering the way McDonalds does business. I need to count on Mickey D's being cheap, gross and grease-pounding. So yeah, while this instance of "the $250 McMuttin" is just an awesome example of what do do when it's your shift to change the signboard because the Dora the Explorer happymeal toys have run out and you don't have any more "f"s, it seriously can't be too long before it's an actual menu item. Soon, the menu boards will be split between the "dollar" menu items (small fries, small sodas, vanilla ice cream cones, bag-o-grease) and the "big ballin' menu", complete with a logo of rapper T.I. happily consuming a "Millionaire McFlurry" (made with endangered goat's milk that had been collected by one individual monk living on a cliff in some remote part of wherever it is that there are cliffs and monks and goats), proclaiming "Whoa, Kimosabe, Big Ballin' is my hobby", and featuring the $250 McMuttin, the $300 Dodo Egg McMuttin and Cave-aged Gruyere served on a biscuit crafted from individually cracked wheat grains and drizzled with honey milked by hand from the glands of bees one-at-a-time, and the $800 Cristal-spiked milkshake, served in a diamond-encrusted pimp-cup.
Mark my words, it's only a matter of time.