Hey! OMS! What were you for the Halloweens?

Excellent question!

We were a former fat kid hellbent on rediscovering his 28-year-old figure without a beer gut but we still got lapped going up the big hill by a li'l skinny f*ck in a climacontrol shirt even with the Ludacris bumpin'!

Here's the thing

According to the Star-Ledger: Democratic legislative candidates are outspending Republicans by nearly a 3-to-1 margin with the election just a week off, the latest campaign finance reports showed yesterday. With Democrats trying to preserve majorities in both houses, they already have raised $28 million and spent $20 million on the general election. Republicans, who remain hopeful they will win back control of the Senate, have collected $11.4 million and sunk $6.8 million into their campaigns.

Would someone please explain to us, clearly and briefly, why one must raise money to run for office? We just don't get it. Asking for money means favors. Favors mean beholden. Beholden means corruption. Corruption means New Jersey.

Seriously.

Why not drop the whole thing? Wait. What do you say? They need the money so they can mail the fun glossy fliers with lots of smiles and promises and hope to the OLD MAN SNAP FAMILY? Um. Our family consists of a plant, two guitars and much hilarity. We see the fun glossy mailers and we discard the fun glossy mailers.

Politicians are so not the new pink. There's a *whole* generation out there that has no use for any of this and we cannot wait until they figure out how to bring the chaos and havoc. We may even try to lead them.

"... Musical guests, The Bathroom Tappers!"

From the AP and reported in the Daily Record of Morris County, N.J.: Twenty men have been arrested in a sex sting at a Westchester County highway rest stop, including a Catholic priest, a registered sex offender and a local Rotary Club president.

The state police says the monthlong sting was prompted by a complaint from a man who stopped at a rest area off Interstate 684 with his 10-year-old son. Police say men cruise the area looking for sex.

Most of the men have been charged with either loitering or trespass violations or both. One was charged with forcible touching, a misdemeanor. Four were charged with exposing themselves and two with public lewdness.

Um. Blah blah blah room blah blah blah stay at home blah blah embrace it blah blah blah be honest with yourselves blah blah blah isn't that better than ruining your wife or your congregation or your, um, rotary?

And now back to telling our favorite joke.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

Who's there?

NOBODY.

Nobody who?

Speaking of the Fleetwood Mac

We had this whole introspective "If she don't love me now" thing we were about to write, but then we searched for the song and found this Lindsayless travesty and Holy Sh*t what's wrong with both Stevie and Mick's eyes? Wow, kids. Try some water.

Yay for diary entries!

So Old Man Snap is all we're tired and doing laundry on a Friday night and oh with the Friday Night Lights and wow, it really isn't written as tightly as it was last year and the man we should go to bed at 11 on a Friday night and we should read the book of Matthew instead of catching up on the Brazzers so we can sleep well and then oh with the sleeping fantastically and waking up at 7:30 with gentle rainfall and then with the writing songs and the eating soggy Honey Nut Cheerios and the grading papers listening to Dido and the Fleetwood Mac and oh with the wow we drank too much coffee and yay for the city later!

Oh the Hilarity, Part We Don't Even Know

So we know crazy Gas Mask Man.

Yay for newspapers clinging to young audiences!

Statements

So we decided recently maybe not so much with the "FUTURE EX-HUSBAND" tee and more with the "BIG BOSS" coffee cup. Subtle reminders help, y'all. They're so the new pink.

You know, we don't get the whole Halley Be--hold up. Christ f*ck wow. OK. We so totally get the whole Halle Berry thing now.

We're not ashamed. Not in the least. Nope.

So what if we started dancing when it came on the ol' iTunes?

Oh dear. Oh dear.

From radio-online.com: Syndicated Opie & Anthony are out at CBS Radio's WYSP-FM/Philadelphia. The duo had handled mornings on the Rock outlet since replacing David Lee Roth in April, 2006. WYSP dropped "Free FM" and flipped to fulltime Rock in September, and it now plans to play music in AM drive until further notice.

OK. We know when to acknowledge certain things. The boys, for quite some time now, have been neutered by stupid FM radio and its need to censor *everything*. So their content-controlled show just doesn't work anymore on public airwaves.

Problem is, we ended our relationship with XM last April because they suspended our heroes for no good reason. At all.

We've been listening to the ol' (new) iPod all week anyway, because really? Who's anyone to tell us what we can or can't listen to in our car for close to two-and-a-half hours a day?

(Except the shuffle play fairy, who sometimes nails it, other times, not so much with the lost Van Halen gems).

So we're sad for the boys, but more sad for the public. Do folks really realize just how much we are controlled by forces outside our power? This is a problem.

Control. We've been thinking about that word a lot lately.

It wasn't us.

From nj.com this morning:

Police arrested more than two dozen people Saturday -- most for public urination -- when 50,000 attended the annual Far Hills Race Meeting, according to a report in the Courier News.

This was a record year for public-urination arrests at the race, Sgt. Thomas Kozak told the newspaper. He noted that dozens of portable toilets were available at the event.

Ryan Cunningham, 26, of New York, was arrested for urinating on a portable toilet, and charged with public urination, Kozak said.

More than 200 police officers -- including some on horseback -- patrolled the equestrian event at Moorland Farms, which is on Route 202, the report said.

There were a *lot* of portapotties there. A lot. Like, many, many places to relieve one's self. Oy.

(We have to admit, though, urinating *on* one of them is kind of a hoot, no?).

Which makes the Eagles picture below all the more funnylike because it's true, no?

HAH!

Stupid ugs city near home! Wait. What? We know people who live there? And they're pretty, these people? Oh. Our bad.

Marie Osmond makes us uncomfortable

Seriously.

Who faints after bouncing up and down like a cougar on the Red Bull?

Douche chills. We have the douche chills.

But we still couldn't dunk

So in our dream, we're wandering around formerly bucolic Newtown, Pa. and somehow end up at our Gram's house for a party we weren't invited to. And then there we were, doing miraculous things at this party.

We threw a bull's eye from 40 feet away when Uncle Kevin said we couldn't.

We took on the entire family full of grandkids, new and old, on the basketball court in a game of 21. But aha! The rub? We had to play lefthanded and for free throws, we had to stand back by the road -- which makes them not exactly free nor not exactly a throw.

Troublesome launches? We don't know.

Point is we won that game, too, mainly because we really really wanted to.

Our pops always says that. So let the lessons keep coming y'all.

We win because we want to.

Why we don't get our hopes up, reason 875

So the Eagles lost, again, yesterday to the Bears. We refuse to let this news destroy us internally on the inside. Nope. We know that happiness is not a football team. Especially, um, that one.

(Photo of dashed hopes and dreams from the Philadelphia Inquirer).

We got jacked up by a fiesty li'l lass

All we said was, "Nice job commandeering the bathroom" and she was on us like Chuck Liddell.

"WHAT DID YOU F*CKING SAY TO ME?!" she screamed, grabbing us by the collar and pushing us back into the seats on the last train bound for soberupsville.

"Whoa," we replied. "Hold up, girl. We said good job butting in line in the bathroom before. Christ. Calm down."

Good thing we didn't instinctively go all Spike on her Buffy ass. Thankfully, we finished the Season 7 marathon today, while in deep thought about much of the missing parts of yesterday, and wondering why a chick the size of our 4'10" cousin Devon would try to step to us. No need to slay on the train home and what not.

Seriously?

We know, we posted about this already. But are her songs deep and meaningful? This is what we've been thinking this morning. Think she tokes up on some of that real sticky icky and writes about the clouds and sh*t?

And now back to people always ask us, but not really, what band influenced us the most when we were a li'l lad with still-attainable dreams

Ever actually listen to the words? Yeah. We were 7.

Where'd this come from?

OK. We so don't have Duff in the dead pool. Oh our goodness, this Duff.

Quote of the Day

"Why do you always say people hate you?" she said. "It's definitely not true. You should stop saying that."

Let's play "Write the Caption"

"HEY! We have you in the dead pool!"

What. Nothin'?

Career & Finance!

PISCES: Your boss may have been aggravating you for days, but when this person is otherwise occupied or out on a glamorous business trip, you'll feel the vacuum. Look for another leader to keep the machine oiled.

We so can't wait to find a new park spot. Really. Can't. Wait.

WOW. Hold up. Christ. Jesus. WOW.

So now we're happy we work.

Mainly, because at this moment, we're so live blogging a screaming match by the downstairs neighbors. Awesome.

"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" he yelled, teeth-gritted, we assume at his wife. "You took all my fucking money and look at ya, you're DOING IT AGAIN! I FUCKING HATE YOU."

So when is it proper to call the cops?

Oh Snap 2, the Thoughtful Sequel

Oh with the five hours of sleep.

So at the viewing last night, we heard a lot about the word, "grateful."

The person who died was a 43-year-old mother of an 13-month-old boy. She was a pretty amazing woman who meant the world to some pretty amazing people. We maybe had a crush on her back in the day, but this isn't about that.

As we drove our windowless car home last night, we kept thinking about her husband's eulogy, read at the end of the viewing. He'd found some of her journals. The last one was all about being grateful for everything, right on down to bunnies hopping around the yard.

Now. We spend most of our waking days thinking about shooting those bunnies, or making cynically jaded jokes about punting them.

We're not saying we're going to get all born again up in this bitch, but we are saying maybe we shouldn't, for instance, get so mad for no reason when we hear, say, cars beeping at one another 500 feet from our bedroom window at 7:30 in the morning.

And we shouldn't get so mad when a construction truck eases down the road in front of us when we're trying so desperately to get to the job we *love* so much.

And we shouldn't spend so much time focused on how "bad" our lot in life is right now, even when it really isn't.

Last week, we wrote a bunch of random questions about our own place right now. The theme was asking whether our life really is as bad as a laugh track to a God-awful 90s Fox sitcom. Obviously, it's not.

So we have to get a car window repaired today because some asshole stole our iPod. Hey. If that asshole wants to put it on "Shuffle Songs" and listen to Cash into 2Pac into Kathleen Edwards into Yonder into Counting Crows into Otis, then let him.

If someone wants to cut us off on the road, yeah well. What are we gonna do?

If it rains while we run, run faster.

If we're sitting at dinner, post-viewing, and the waiter says they forgot to put in our order, why get violently mad? Why not patiently wait and then make a passive-aggressive joke about making sure they cooked the now-harshly thrown together chicken wrap?

When there are deer on the side of the dark country road on the way home, why not slow down and think about how lucky you are one of them didn't try to play Frogger?

As we wrap up this here blog of 1,000 post goodness over the next few weeks, we'll look back at the last two years of keeping it, and hopefully we'll look more at the anger-diminishing entries rather than focus on a "0" next to comments. Hopefully we'll see growth, or maybe even tighter jokes.

We don't know. Maybe we're just grateful we see something.

Oh, snap

We're so not happy.

So we left work tonight, well, yesterday at this point (look at us all awake and blogging at 1:30 *a.m.*). We left work and, well, SURPRISE!

We got to our car and put our bag in the backseat on the driver's side. We saw shards of glass. We were confused. Then we looked in the front seats.

Glass. Everywhere.

Then we looked on the passenger's side seat.

Look! A rock!

And more glass.

So we walked around to the door and realized some poor soul ducking aunt licking aunt rag piece of shiv* took a cinder block, smashed our passenger side window and took our iPod with 4,141 songs of musical goodness.

Bastard.

So we walked back into work, thought the security guard might actually bat an eye, move or help in someway. "You have to call the local police," he said, not moving, not helping and barely blinking an eye.

So back out to the garage we went. The police dispatcher took our information and promised someone probably wouldn't be able to make it out to file a police report. We decided to clean up (something about going to a viewing and not wanting to be late). Half-hour later, once the car was clean, um, yeah, po-po came-came.

"Why'd you touch everything?" he asked.

"Because your dispatcher said you probably weren't coming," we replied.

He suggested moving the car back into position, complete with putting the cinder block back on the seat. He suggested *recreating* a crime scene.

"So I can take pictures," he said.

"Can't you just do a report?" we asked.

I was on my freezing, merry way in 25 minutes.

We drove for the rest of the night in a windowless paid-off piece of shiv, and some ducking aunt rag aunt licking motherducker is listening to the Buffy soundtrack. Ducking awesome.

*Ever try texting cuss words?

Momma's Boy

Moms, on life: "All you have to do is make yourself be happy. Make yourself delirious and be happy."

Oy.

So ask us. Go 'head and ask us what time we went to bed last night. What's that? Oh. What time did we go to bed last night?

Yeah. 9.

So what time did we wake up? 6:30. So darned if we didn't almost hit 10 hours. AND we didn't even have nightmares about vampires and zombies and what not (something about watching Buffy on the DVDs right before, um, bed).

We so totally have a new fave show

Thank you, the Netflix.

Because of you, we've found mature love. Nevermind the Scarletts and the Clarksons and the Hathaways and even the Izzies.

We love the Weeds, and boy do we love us some Mary Louise Parker.

And then it started really raining.

The fun part is we drove home in the rain, and it seriously looked like it was letting up. We stretched inside just in case, but we really needed to run.

Something about a Burger King Stacker on the road, but we digress.

So we layered up and hit the road, um, running. We made it about 100 feet in when the drops, heavy and moist, started jabbing us. But we pressed on. About a mile in, we were running a monsoon.

This is now the second time since Operation Keep It Off began that we've found ourselves outside, alone, and sprinting through the rain.

It kind of beats staying inside, alone, thinking on the rain, no?

One of the better random punchlines we've heard in quite some time, really.

So we left work in a very pissy mood.

We pulled up to the first light, which is almost always red. We expect this. But this time it was green. We came around the corner and thought about flooring it because it quickly turned yellow, not even remotely orange, and then red.

On the corner was a rather large fella with a bucket. Our windows were down, and we were listening to Kathleen Edwards, but that's beside the point.

"'Cuse me, sir, but does you have any money you can spare for us?" the man asked. "It's for our Christ church."

We looked at each of the four corners where others has gathered with buckets. So we gave him $2 while asking questions.

"Where is the church?" we asked.

"Newark," he said.

"Newark? Kind of far from here, right? What are y'all doin' down here?"

"Are you a teacher?" he asked.

"Sort of," we replied, puzzled as to why he didn't answer our questions.

"Can I haves yo tie?" he asked.

"Sorry, man. This is (our) favorite tie. And whoa, (we) just gave you money for the church."

"You right," he said. "You has a blessed day."

And then we looked in the mirror.

Really? You let the bastards get you down?

Who are you?

Do you know not know the lyrics to the Biggie songs?

Do you know not kick sweet dance moves in the middle of the parking lot, even when the guy in the Jetta is looking?

Do you not run more? Exercise more? Eat better?

Do you not realize just because the people in the office get away with it and cause hell for you, you'll win in the end?

Does it take getting really, really angry for no reason and screaming "WHAT THE FUCK?" out your window and poor innocent saps in front of you to realize you need to chill the eff out?

Do you not sing?

Do you not laugh inside your head all freaking day long?

Do you not love?

Will you not get the girl in the end?

Oh. Wait. You're not lovable? Really?

(OK. Don't let it go to your head).

Do you not deserve happiness?

To smile and mean it?

To tolerate and learn?

Are you not alive?

Who were you when you were 4 years old?

Who are you now?

Have you not danced the Macarena?

Don't you know the real names of all four Spice Girls?

Are you not better than that?

Do you not wish to make a difference?

What are you afraid of?

You've f*cked up, right?

So?

Does the job define you? What about the one you didn't get?

Do you not believe everything happens for a reason?

Look. What are you using to type?

Is life not trials and tribulations and war-torn cliches?

Life is all a bunch of nothing, is it? Really? Is it?

Will you not survive?

Don't you always?

Don't we all?

We are *not* a piece of meat

From a senseless MySpace bulletin. Oh with the freaking MySpace.

P • I • S • C • E • S: The Piece of ass
Caring and kind. Smart. Center of attention. Too Sexy, DAMN IT. Very high SEX appeal. Has the last word. Not someone you want to mess with or double cross. The best to find, hardest to keep. Fun to be around. Freak in the sheets. Extremely weird but in a good way. Super good in bed. Good Sense of Humor!!! Thoughtful. A partner for life. Always gets what he or she wants. Loves to joke. Very popular. Silly, fun and sweet.

We do like to get a li'l freaky-deeky, if you know what we're sayin'. OK. We don't, but whatever.

We have the best freaking friends ever.

Text received, Sunday night: "Eve Lawrence over acts like mad, but I actually see the lure. Uh. No I don't."

Brilliant, this text.

Blah blah blah Winnie Cooper blah blah blah

People often ask us, but not really, what programs we enjoy on the television. First off, anything with Winnie Cooper playing a sex-crazed sorority girl with Joey Potter's roommate is a good answer.

Besides the How I Met Your Mother, though?

We're so trying to cut back. Seriously. Buffy and Six Feet are long gone, but aside from them, we're quite happy with The Wire, Everyday Italian, Friday Night Lights and, well, The Office. We used to be all snobby with the whole "British version kick's American's ass," but, well, Jim and Pam are just too cute.

And yeah, Winnie effing Cooper, y'all.

We're sad for Joe Torre

So as a manager of the New York baseball Yankees, Mr. Torre never didn't make the playoffs.

Yet even though he skippered one of the best season-long fights a baseball club can have, his asshole boss -- who probably shows up late every morning and delegates all day and often says, "I don't know" or "That's not my problem, is it?" -- said he won't be back if the Yankees lost to the Indians.

Well, the Yankees lost to the Indians.

We'd be lying if we said we wished our boss wouldn't give us an ultimatum like this. "Win this series or you can't come to work tomorrow."

"Um, OK boss," we'd say. "We kind of don't manage the Yankees. When you come in three to six hours late tomorrow, we'll be sitting at home, watching the Tru Calling marathon and maybe napping. See ya later."

HAH! Foiled, this boss.

Not so much with the bright

OMS, not flirting, to Express Guy: Man. (We) thought it'd be more crowded today.

Express Guy: Yeah. I thought so, too, because of Columbus Day. Maybe everyone thought the mall would be closed.

Where the f*ck is Pacey?

This is f*cking bullsh*t. No Dawson's Creek on the TBS at 9 a.m.? Seriously? F*CK. It's bad enough we watched the TBS all freaking weekend because of the baseball playoffs (Frank TV? Ew), but now this? No Joey? No Jen? No shenanigans?

DAMNIT.

Real TV vs. Reality TV vs. "Scripted" TV

It should probably be called "Trainwreck TV," but you knew this already.

So this morning, intrigued, we caught the last five minutes of The Hills and of with the drama. We'd talked about this The Hills just last night. A friend mentioned the Glamore Girls, and we were all, "Is it real fake or reality fake?" and he was all, "It's totally fake. You'd love it."

We think we'll ease into this Glamore Girls and start with the wackiness that is The Hills, we said, not knowing, lo and behold, it'd be on this morning.

And oh with the Spencer being mad at Heidi for going to work instead of eating an anniversary feast and oh this LC character and her smooching up on Brody.

And oh with the MTV promo'ing a new show during commercials and making sure viewers understood it was "Scripted TV." Oh how our head is spinning. But that Brody is dreamy.

Oh with the fortune cookies

"A couple of extra bucks will be floating in your direction," it read.

Huh. We can't believe we're about to write this, but not so much with the "extra bucks" and more with the life guidance, oh fortune cookie. We sure would love to read, "Your new job and direction is mere hours away and will bring you great fortune, oh pretty one, and you will meet you some Scarlett some day, promise."

We know. No more Phillies and we're already filling the void with our girl S-Jo and crazy talk of new jobs and direction.

At least we didn't mention the time we wanted cereal for dinner, thus triggering the great fat kid debate of 1991.

So about that happiness...

The bumper stickers, subtle yet not really.

"Jesus Loves."

"Jesus died for you. Will you live for him?"

"Jesus blah blah blah love blah blah heaven."

The light turned green. Apparently Jesus doesn't hit the gas pedal.

"LET'S F*CKING GO JESUS FREAK!" we yelled.

Yeah. We're not proud.

Well, that lasted long, part 2

So we went to bed last night before the bottom of the eighth inning, before the Rockies came back and scored a run (one of two total) to beat the Phillies. We sighed, knowing we'd wake up this morning and read that the Rockies and Diamondbacks are advancing in the playoffs, the Eagles have a bye week, the Phillies are done, and we still have our, um, job.

But then we looked at our arms and legs again, and thought, "Well, look, they move and stuff."

When one finds happiness in only his favorite team, it's time to find more happiness, no?

So less with the Phillies coverage and more with the way the f*ck are we awake at 6:30 on a dark and dreary Sunday morning after we promised ourselves we'd stay in bed and at least *try* to sleep in. Less than 50 posts left, y'all!

Here's to finding true happiness by then!

Well, that lasted long.

We still think the Phillies will go five games.

But they play tomorrow and Sunday in Denver, and, well, the Rockies haven't lost since like 2005.

Yes. These are the first thoughts we have when we wake up too early on a Friday morning and procrastinate with the showering and the shaving and all of these things.

Whoa, hoss. Whoa.

So we rarely have nightmares. Very rarely, as in pretty much never. Not so much with the nightmares, us.

But we woke up at 5 a.m. this morning somewhat panicked and stabbed in the chest. Our precious lungs did the whole fill up with blood thing and we were dying and we were writing notes to loved ones before we would surely black out. Then we were in the basement we don't have, naked, looking for a way to live, this, after spilling vegetables next to the motorcycle we don't have.

Huh. Nightmare.

So we figure this: Marshall and Lilly had an argument Monday night on the How I Met Your Mother about leaving notes to one another in their wills. And then last night, we watched the Smokin' Aces. We also ate more ice cream than we had in *months* and oh with the lactose intolerance.

The combination of that, plus perpetual thoughts of whether we are wasting our life, pretty much daily, had left us hellabefuddled in our dreams.

So now we're all about the living and not spilling veggies next to our sweet hog. We've decided not so much with the How I Met Your Mother and as much as we love Piven, let's not watch movies with bloodshed all over the damn place.

But we're OK, which is what really matters. Lesson learned, nightmare. Lesson learned.

Jinx? What jinx?

Couldn't the fine folks at Sports Illustrated, we don't know, put the *Rockies* on the cover?

Game starts at 3ish, once all the random pomp and circumstance ends. We know. Less with the Phillies and more with the stories about *not* picking up lasses at the bar.

"NONE OF THIS MATTERS!"

PISCES: Take a chance and express what you truly feel today -- especially if you think the people in the room will be surprised by what you have to say. You are in for one heck of a surprise when everyone pretty much agrees with you. The trouble with large groups of people is that it is too easy to fade into the background and not take ownership of your involvement. Once you step out and state what you are working for, everyone will be inspired to do the same.

"This coffee is weak!"

"We can't decide if we have a bigger crush on Katie Heigl or Scarlett!"

"If we hear that daggum Shania Twain ring one more time, we're taking the phone and telling the window to run a curl pattern!"

Huh. Maybe it'll come to us later, this expressing that we truly feel. We'll let you know when we figure it out.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a nanny," she replied.

And suddenly, Katie was that much hotter.

So we went to a local watering hole tonight after senseless job two for a beer and a burger. Yes. Diet. So half-a-burger. Chicken burger, really, so it's healthier. And we had maybe six fries altogether. And the good Ale. Just two. And we only ate half the burger so back off. Christ.

But we digress.

Katie sat immediately to our right. We're so fed up with the sleeping alone thing that we don't even look at Katie, nor do we look at drunk friend, who is swigging wine and vociferously texting.

Eight minutes later, Katie's friend's friend walks in. Dirty blonde hair, HGH biceps, tight t-shirt, tighter jeans, wedding ring. He screams North Jersey married divorcee. She, ringless with Molly Ringwald hair, leaves with him.

Katie is alone.

To her right is a cute guy in glasses. He'd be us, but for the whole OMG he has the smallest hands ever thing. Like, Matt Roloff hands, only not as, well, there's no nice way to put it, so we'll just say he has the smallest skinny hands we've ever seen.

But he's working his game with Katie, who is cuter than we thought. (Note to self: look at the ladies next to you in the bar. See what they look like. At least try to play the game a little).

Katie is a nanny. You knew this. She's also somewhat cute with pretty blue eyes and the ability to swig a half-glass of Pinot quickly when no one is looking -- except us.

So Katie talks to Handy Smurf and his friend, who also has the HGH biceps and the tats everywhere and the weird facial hair but hey! Everyone is from East or West or North Orange so it's all good.

Then everyone started talking about Sirius Satellite Radio and we rolled our eyes and left, iPod snobs that we are.

The End.

Not in a bad enough mood?

BEEP. Yeah, but we're dreaming and sleep- BEEP. Wait. Why is ther- BEEP a BEEPing sound wha- BEEP. Oh. The smoke al- BEEP. But there's no fire nor- BEEP. Oh mother- BEEP. Christ. Do we ha- BEEP the carbon mon- BEEP poisoning? Sh*t. BEEP.

So oh with the climbing a chair half-asleep to "inspect" the situation and to get ourselves killed should the carbon monoxide come creepin' up on us in the next half-hour before we leave for work. And oh with the taking the battery out because it's old, but not so much with the having the new battery.

So if we don't make it, know we love y'all, all three of you who still read. So close to 1,000 posts, too. Damnit. If we do make it, rest assured we've got 50 good posts left before we take our ball and go home to a broken smoke and carbon monoxide detector.

Awesome.

We could watch this all day.

Meanwhile, back in the inner innerness of our inner core, inside our inner head of innernity.

Making up words is cool.

Someone tell us why, oh, why, we woke up with the freaking Dancing Queens in our head?

The only -- ONLY -- correlation we see is yesterday, after watching the Phillies win the NL East (Again with the Phillies? Yes. Check yourself, son, we've been not believing since the Carter home run and we listened to some idiot in pigtails with *huge* glasses and face paint say, "We're goh-in' back next year!" while we sat, slumped in the hallway of our dorm, Meister Brau hidden in our pocket, 14 years ago, knowing that Gregg freaking Jeffries wouldn't be the answer).

RUN ON STREAM OF CONSCIENCE SENTENCE ALERT.

So the only correlation is when we left the supermarket, as we like to call it, we somehow ended up with 101.5 on our FM dial and we kind of cranked Frankie Valli's Theme from Grease" (which we just typed as Greece, but thankfully, we caught it).

But the Dancing Queens?