Crotchety: still with own personalized logic!

I, in my media starved cocoon of oblivion, have just become aware of a very confusing phenomenon.
To date, four patient, kind hearted persons have tried to explain said phenomenon to me, with the result that I know have a very garbled, tenuous grasp on the odd little baseline threads of it…but I do not understand.
This phenomenon, which flooded every parking spot ever anywhere in the vaguely possible area of the Rose Garden last night, thereby forcing me to park in South Fuck Egypt and walk far in the cold, is called Hannah Montanna.

First of all, I consider this a very stupid name. Even before the parking outrage.
Second of all, what I have gleaned from my sputteringly bitter questions is, this Hannah Montanna is a rockstar who does not exist.
Hannah Montanna is a TV show about a rockstar; and last night, the TV rockstar came and had a CONCERT at the Rose Garden, for which, I was informed, tickets cost a bazillion dollars and were as rare and gorgeous as Wonka’s golden ones.

People, I have just got to say something here:
The coolest thing ever ever is suddenly a pretend rockstar throwing a pretend concert and fuckiting up the sad little lives of those of us who only want to crawl out of their cars as close to home as possible and eat something before their fingers enter the ‘danger: contain protein’ zone?

I think we as a planet owe Milli Vanilli an apology.

holy sweet lust on a stick, batman

I have been aware of a growing void in my soul lately, and have just this moment put my finger on its cause.
I am a wide and gaping, black and empty space of sadness and longing – long s short, it is tomorrow Halloween, and I have consumed not one caramel apple.

I NEED A CARAMEL APPLE.
Popsicle stick optional, but…no, actually, not very.
Popsicle stick not optional.

Where can I get a caramel apple for the love of all things good and holy like sunsets and Monday crossword puzzles.
Furthermore, you could hang out with me tomorrow, we could hang out in our little costumes, and you could bring caramel apples.
I would kiss you stickily and compose a joke to write on the ends of the ravaged popsicle sticks.

Eh?

in which someone eats too much sugar

I have decided that I am not cool enough.
Drastic measures to improve this, such as doing my laundry more than once a month, learning to tango, or donating money I don't have to charities I harbor Gibsonesque pyramid scheme suspicions about are not appealing to me currently; it is time for a blog.

I have nothing to say right now, but I assume that will change eventually.
Meantime, I reccomend a seasonal dip into the sweet dream known as The Pumpkin Fritter.
Not that I can supply you with these, I can't; but my neighbor makes them by the soft and sugary quadozen, and neighbors can't be that difficult to come by.