I think he missed the memo about Bill O'Reilly.

I think he missed the memo about Bill O'Reilly.

Matt! You are not getting The Memos! Go get some memos immediately.

Teppy, making a short list in Bitches:

::ahem::

Atkins! Seat belts! Gerunds! Prescriptivism! Descriptivism! Cilantro!

::ahem::

Sorry. I just felt a sudden need to invoke some of the many things that get Buffistas all riled up.

In Great Write Way:

Holli: Between high school litmag and bad fanfic, I figure I'm pretty well inured to the worst of what the publishing industry can throw at me. Which is good, because I fully expect to spend a lot of time with the slush pile if I intern for a publishing company.

Victor: Heh, heh, heh.

You think you know. What you are. What's to come. You haven't even begun.

Oh my, thank dog for COMM, because I don't read the Write Way thread and Victor's quote just made me laugh harder than anything I've read all day.

It's funny cause it's true!

Daniel C. Jensen:

Why is it a commercial with a dog attacking a man's genitals gathers nary a blink at the FCC, but a bare tit sends their world into a tizzy?

Fay, in Bitches:

Right then - are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

So, one morning a couple of weeks ago I'm sitting in bed marking maths books. It's around 5am, and I've got up early enough to shower and wash my hair and let it dry sans hair dryer whilst I mark some work and nibble on some strawberries and on some digestive biscuits coated with Philadelphia cream cheese by way of makeshift breakfast. This is all jolly nice, as generally I don't do breakfast. Anyway, I'm sitting there marking away cheerfully, and Daniel has been scampering around jingling (he has a neon-bright pink'n'yellow collar with a bell) in the background for half an hour or so, since being fed. As usual he all-but got into the shower with me - he's most distressed by showers, because on the one hand he wants to be right there with you, but on the other hand his fascination with water doesn't quite extend to standing under the shower head. Nearly , but not quite. Anyway, he's scampering around and I'm marking, and then I'm peripherally aware of jingle-free movement and I glance up to see a complete stranger cat padding cheerfully past the threshold of my bedroom door. Clearly it has visited Daniel's room, found the food dish empty, and is off back to the living room. I pick my jaw up off the floor, yell "Did I tell you you could invite friends over?!!!" in a thoroughly indignant voice, and bound out of bed. The cat, once I've reached the living room, is not to be found - clearly he has ducked out of the window, which was left slightly ajar in order to facilitate Daniel's freedom of movement. (The windows all have picturesque wrought iron bars curling across them like some Art Nouveau doodles, to keep out any optimistic burglars.) Grumpily I return to my room, get back into bed, and resume marking. Daniel continues to jingle around the house, occasionally pouncing upon Spank, his much-mauled little monkey toy.

Some ten minutes later, I glance up again to find No-Name-Slob-Cat (who may, henceforth, come to be called Matthew, just possibly) in the process of returning to Daniel's room for another look at the food situation. I make an indignant noise. No-Name-Slob-Cat-Who-May-Soon-Be-Known-As-Matthew freezes, stares at me, and turns tail. I fling myself wrathfully out of bed (unsure at this juncture whether this cat is friend or foe to my own cat, but perfectly certain that I have not invited him into my home) and pursue him. I skid into the living room in time to see him ducking out through the curtains. I chase him to the window, open the curtains, yell "And stay out!" and pull the window shut indignantly. The cat and I stare at one another.

It is at this point that it occurs to me that I am butt nekkid, and that I am flashing my neighbours. Which, in this country, is rather more shocking than at home.

I hastily close the curtains.

The sequel to this little anecdote is that some twelve hours later, when I was returning from a hard day's work, I discovered a security guard standing outside my window in the dark, wearing an expression of supreme hopefullness.

Ooops.

Nutty in Movies on short actors:

I sort of think Johnny Depp is the kind of guy who, being short, makes regular-sized people feel like giraffes. Like, he gives off this vibe of "This is how tall people are supposed to be! What's wrong with you, Dr. J?"

Not all shortish people give off this vibe. Tom Cruise, for example. In a room of midgets, he would still come across as striving to be taller.

From Natter, so who cares about context?

Steph: Atkins! Seatbelts! Cilantro! Preferential voting! Pee-can vs. P'cahn!!!!

billytea: Lordy, I think Steph's been replaced by a chicken. With a death wish.

In Natter:

Emily: . . . on the whole I think we'd be better off with a smaller population, but I wouldn't kill off any individuals.

ita: I have a list, if you need it.