We think we have the mono.

OK. We so don't, but boy oh boy it's been hard to get motivated and moving this week. Are we the only ones? Sheesh. We were ridiculously motivated last night with the Journey listening and the dishwashing and the picking outfits and all of these things, but this morning? More with the coffee and less with the funny riffs, we know.

Carlin died. No blog. Imus in trouble and Al Sharpton (*Al* *Sharpton*) deciding whether he will "take action"? No blog. Hung out with a prostitute Saturday night? No blog.

Wait. What?

Yes. Cadence had to be an escort, what with *that* name, her lack of any ID and her boobs doing her talking for her. Nice girl, though. Just graduated college. From Michigan. No. We didn't go all the Spitzer on her. We just tried, valiantly, to get her to admit she sold her body for money while she sat there, alone in a bar in Center City, and avoided question after question from us.

Russert would've been proud.

What. Too soon?

"Michelle, you look good tonight, baby."

"KEVIN!" she screamed. "What does 'Top of the world' feel like?"

Oh no she didn't.

Meanwhile, how great is Kevin Garnett asking Bill Russell where he should go later to get his celebration on?

1. Kevin Garnett: MVP interviewee.
2. Michelle TaFoya: Not so much.
3. Bill Russell: Still a playa.

Holly's bat sh*t crizazy. No one cares.

So we remember the days of yesteryear, when the folks were working and Playboys were easy to come by, just as long as one would clean them for fingerprints and put them *exactly* back where they belonged.

One would sometimes have to make sure one's footprints were erased from the fun rug that one could spell his name in in the folks' bedroom.

But one digresses.

We realized this morning that ever since new job, we haven't been on the TMZ. At all. We've been more with the regular news cycle sites and, gasp, things like local newspaper online comment sections.

So this morning, we checked out the TMZ and learned all about this.

If the E! producers had any balls, they'd let that sh*t implode. On camera. Everyone loves a good plastic meltdown, and Holly is so going to lose her mind.

GO TEAM KENDRA/BRIDGET!

There. We feel better now, and we shall go back to reading the Poynter and caring about things that matter, like the world on its slow burn to destruction and Obama's presidential run and updating our match profile and all of these things.

Question

So we're old, right?

We get that.

We're also a li'l shy sometimes, and always with the thinking. Always.

So when one finishes a four-hour date of pretty awesome conversation and lots o' hearty laughter (her, not us -- we were killing), and one walks said date to her car, when just happens to be parked next to us (FATE! Interceding!), and one doesn't kiss date good night, this is OK, right?

"(We're) a hugger," we said. As we said it, we realized, too late, that she was in prime kiss position. And we caught her off-guard.

"You're a hugger?" she asked.

"Yes," we replied. "We like to hug. Plus, it takes the momentum out of ridiculously awkward moments like we could've just had. So I hug. I like hugging."

"Oh," she said. And again with the laughter.

Oh with the thought of the day

Gee. We sure wish our hairstylist was 5'3" with blonde hair and boobs while he runs his delicate fingers through our hair while washing it with perfect-temperature water.