At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

HONEY WEST IS A LOUSY BACKROUND FOR EMOTIONS

My apartment mate has broken up with her boyfriend. Again. This has been one stormy relationship for her. But I believe it will be for the best. She's sitting across the table from me at her own computer, and we have a cd with Honey West on the vcr. Sweet Jeebus, that's some crappy acting.
Geert Wilders evil twin skippy appears in one of the episodes. This is an insight that, while utterly brilliant on my part, I shall not be sharing.
It seems somewhat beside point.

Glad I didn't spend any time in the kitchen fixing myself eaties.
Under the circumstances, not doing so was the kinder option.

Dinner tonight is two tall glasses of strong milky ice coffee.
There's tons of nutrition in ice coffee, right?
High in fibre and vitamins!


From Wikipedia: "Honey West is an American crime drama television series that aired on ABC during the 1965–1966 television season. Based upon a series of novels that had launched in 1957, the series starred Anne Francis as female private detective Honey West and John Ericson as her partner, Sam Bolt."

"OH MY G*D THAT WAS DICK CLARK! 
G*DDAMN I'VE GOT A GOOD EYE!"

Savage Kitten (my apartment mate) screamed this while momentarily distracted from being miserable. No, I haven't a clue who the heck Dick Clark is. Or, for that matter, Anne Francis. I am pathetically ignorant of American culture.

The last show I watched -- The X Files -- was also the first show I saw in many years. I enjoyed Barney Miller a long time ago, though. I style myself on Sergeant Yamada. And also somewhat on Detective Dietrich.
Who, as I'm sure we all remember, was from Mars.
The lie detector test proved it.


Miss Honey West is currently wearing something zebra-striped.
Thank heavens it isn't yoga pants.


Well, she isn't crying. She was earlier. Being all Asperger-ish, it would have freaked her out if I gave her a hug, so I simply shoved a stuffed gorilla into her arms ('Mr. Arabello Oyster'), made some comforting mumbly sounds, and am presently relying on the therapeutic influence of a warm and fuzzy great ape (who is less than a foot tall).
He's VERY soothing!

Occasionally I ask Mr. Oyster questions. This distracts Savage Kitten. It is a useful technique; she voices for all the small roomies, and while clearly it's a way of expressing aspects of her own personality in their words, she interprets true to their character. She makes them vibrant.
Mr. Oyster, who is the control monkey I brought home two years ago, is a stable and gentle sort. Sympathetic, sensible, and considerate.
As indeed all monkeys are.

Sheezus but the folks in the sixties dressed badly. Who said that era had style? And those icky bouffantish haircuts! What is that, a fat girl flip?
Nineteen sixties women had very pointed brassieres.
They were based on ice cream cones.
Sadistic creamery.

Shan't mention why they broke up. But I think this time it's permanent.
The poor girl is all torn up about it, but she's strong.
I think that she will be alright.


There's a monkey.




UPDATE AT 10:40 PM
Random relevant quote from my apartment mate: "my friend, you're going to have so many a$$holes that you'll be leaking from everywhere!"
Though shy she's expressive.




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