This is the third in a series of rapid posts which I've heaped upon you this weekend, I do apologize for the burden. I know that sometimes I ignore you for weeks, leaving you with no choice but to scour the internet for discarded word scraps for sustenance. And then of course there are days like today where my 'Blathering' switch is stuck in the 'ON' position. I know that you will, as always, ride the wave that is my sporadic literary outpouring with style, grace, and poise. You're a fucking champ.
On to business... Space!
Yes, I'm going. I started saving up today. For $200,000 Sir Richard Branson will strap you into his SpaceShipTwo (creative!) and shoot you to the edge of space for 10 minutes. He's obviously in cahoots with Obama. To all my public health colleagues, while you spend a quarter million on med school, I'm going to be in space! For 10 minutes! I'm hoping that perhaps I can subsidize the cost of this expedition by gaining some employment as a space-steward(ess?). At the moment the Virgin Galactic website is sorely lacking that 'Employment' link at the bottom of their website that you so often see elsewhere. I'm going to have to write Richard a letter...
In other news, I went to the horse race track in Berkeley today. It was as silly as I'd expected it to be, but they had $1 beers and hot dogs. The vendor asked me, "you don't mind horse meat, right?". Well whatever was in those hot dogs, it was delicious. The whole experience really made me want to go to the Kentucky Derby to witness the full-blown absurdity of the mash-up of gentrified southern culture and the chain-smoking, drunken, dregs of society (to which, by that description, I suppose I belong). Hunter S. Thompson was right.
Lastly, as always, the Pro Bowl failed to resemble any semblance of a meaningful football game. Please take it out back and shoot it.
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