Sometimes it's the most randome things that just crack me right the hell up. Allyson in Firefly ...

I balk. This is me balking. I am a Balkan.

Nicole in Bitches, ornamenting Tuesday as a crap day:

My ex and Bush are both in town today. This has to be a sign of the Apocalypse, right?

Lee: My alarm clock confused me this morning.

Ginger: First thing in the morning, air confuses me. I consider it a victory to be able to find the floor with my feet.

deb: I have to constantly remind people to spell my name the biblical way. Because, "Debra"? I am not an emerging daughter of the sun god, yo.

Matt: My mom goes through the same thing with people who insist on spelling her name "Sara." Some people are actually happy to have old-fashioned names, Kymburli!

In honor of the day, a blast from our WX past:

Victor: We are evidently a nomadic web community...

Jacqueline Zahas: I'm imagining the Buffistas wending our way from site to site in colorful wagons pulled by shaggy ponies. Dangling from the wagons is a wild, noisy assortment of bells, pots, pans, and bootleg OMWF CDs. A sea of dogs and cats dances around the wagons, nipping at the ponies' heels -- DXM's stupidest dog in the universe, Victor's ferret, Beth's nutty cats and Isabella and Amber B's kitty in the sink. And, though no longer permitted out in the non-virtual world, Malik and Smokey are running wild around our carts here. Resplendent in our corsets, ballgowns, and Bruins and Mariners gear, we wander the web, always in search of the Phoenix Board, our Mecca, our Jerusalem, for which we all long and in which we all believe, though few among us have ever actually seen it. We eke out a meagre existence crafting screencaps and porn; at night we dance wildly with platinum-haired photophobes, and conjure up magnificent feasts of everything from challa French toast to digestive biscuits to white chocolate bread pudding to Velveeta fudge, all out of thin air. We descend in a horde on an unsuspecting site and decamp just as quickly. Restless, wandering, porning away in our incomprehensible dialect.

I like the idea. I just hate the actual nomadism. Where is our board of milk and honey? Where?

Descriptions of some of the individual Travelers: Daniel the screencapper, squatting in a corner of an especially cramped and equipment-filled wagon, hunched over a dusty screen, poring over tapes, waiting for exactly the right moment; Googling Betsy, the seer, she who sees all, finds all, and knows all; Gigolo Hec; FayJay and Trudy, the pornmongers, hard at work crafting their wares in the Porn Wagon (always shaking and strangely lit, with odd indescribable noises emanating from it at all hours, rattling down the road with a trail of slash in its wake); the shimmering, hyperreal presence of the Canadians, who live one day ahead of the rest of us; and the Spoiler Whores, taunting us with their coy remarks and shamelessly flaunting their whitefonts in front of everyone.

Nilly, the Historian, keeper of the scrolls, she who has become a verb. And Miracleman, the Unholy Fool. And Mejia, who so closely studies the entrails of shows just past and scrutinizes the portents of what is to come.

DXMachina: JZ, are you referring to the penguin, or someone else's dog? Because my real dog is off playing with Malik and Smokey.

JZ: Ah, no, then, it's Miracleman with the stupid dog. But yes, your dog is there too. All of 'em are. All Buffista animals past and present, with the exception of Clovis the Devilbunny, who sits in a little wire birdcage in Jilli's lap, where he can't do more than growl at the rest of us.

scrappy: Hec is not only the Gigolo for our nomadic tribe, he's the stylist as well. John H. can be He Who Communes With The Mighty Chip. ita for protection. And Jon B can serenade us to sleep around the campfire with Theremin music.

Miracleman: If'n ya listen real close, late at night, you can hear the coyotes (*pronounced "kai-yoat") a-howlin' at the moon. The moon that is *always full*. And, if'n ya know *how* to listen, ya kin hear 'em talkin'. They're sayin' "Don't those damnfool drunk carvaners know how ta read a *map*?"

The phantom Buffista caravan has been travellin' these parts fer nigh unta a hundred years. Even though they only left last Saturday. They all blame Gudanov fer that.

But in the cold night of the high desert, ya kin see their ghostly forms windin' through the scrub. And ya kin hear them singin' their eerie song...

"Porn, porn, porn, porn. Porn, porn, porn, porn..."

"SHUT UP! Bloody Buffistas..."

connie neil in Bitches teaches us the theology of grammar:

Can someone explain to me why there needs to be two spaces between sentences? I keep getting dinged for that when I'm writing memos, etc.

t Scene: Mount Ararat

t Time: Back in the misty reaches

t rumble "Know that the Lord Thy God is a stern God! Thou shalt have two spaces after the period at the end of every sentence! Two spaces shalt there always be after the end punctuation!"

Moses: t shaking his hand because of writer's cramp "Lord, all shalt be done to Thy wishes! But--Thou doest know that--well--gosh, Boss, we're up to 23 Commandments already. Those guys have a hard enough time with the biggies like 'No god before me' and 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.' I don't think we're going to get a lot of play out of 'Two spaces after every sentence' and 'Thou shalt eat thy hot dogs without buns on Friday.' What's with that last one, anyway?"

t smaller rumble "It's an inside joke. The right folks will get it. I know we're not going to get all this stuff, Mose. It's called bargaining room. We hand them all these, they bitch, we negotiate them down. Those first twelve are the biggies."

Moses: "Very clever, Lord."

t smug rumble "Well, I'm not the Creator for nothing."

And that's why we have two spaces after periods.

Gosh darn it, Kristin, you beat me to it!
I'll just have to settle for adding this to my Buffista Humor collection.

connie, in Bitches:

Hope is a nasty, vicious, lying bitch who should never have been allowed to slink out of that box Pandora opened.

She sometimes does come through, though, which is the only thing that keeps us from pinning her to a bulletin board by her crumpled little wings.

Anne W. in Natter:

I'm in Missouri now!

Um, perhaps I should clarify that this is not thanks to the tornadoes referenced just above.

In Firefly:

Betsy: Joss scheduled the opening April 22 as a birthday present to me, me, me. Please, nobody pop my iridescent spaceship-shaped bubble.

Allyson: You know, Betsy, as a "big name fan" with "insider connections", I can totally confirm that your birthday story is true. It's all about you, bay-bee.

Joss told me so over dinner the other day when I was giving him career advice. Hand to god.