Ditto.

Well, there's probably no need for me to ever bother writing again, since the boys at The Beast have said nearly everything I ever wanted to.

While I wallow in my inferiority and mourn the fact that I'll never be both as witty and concise, have a look at their 50 Most Loathsome People in America, 2005.

Oh, and for those of you dying for an update: I still have yet to hear from the movers, who I hope (pray, wish, beg) will be here on Friday or everything turns to shit.

While the "Uproot Your Life in 10 Days" adventure is going relatively ok, Mr. Bitch and I are rattled and only marginally in touch with the mechanics of sane conversation.

Here's an exchange we had about ice cream (referred to as "Phish") just the other night:

Q: Do you want your ice cream now or later?

A: Yeah.

Q: That was an "or" question.

A: Phish.

Meanwhile, Baby Bitch says "bye bye" every 4 minutes or so.

We should be on a plane Saturday. If not, you can find me in a little room, rocking back & forth and wearing a little canvas number with really long arms.