Friday,
March 7, 2008

Man, I'm grumpy

Gentlemen, be grateful that you're not burdened with a reproductive system that merrily releases havoc-creating hormones at certain times of the lunar month, making you look wistfully at a rifle and a clock tower* when you aren't having a remarkably...how do I put this...Roissyesque dream about a perfectly innocent lad of Scandanavian descent. Um.

And it's nothing in particular raising the ire, either -- lots of general stupidity going around as per usual, but it's background noise rather than a loud screech in the hypersensitive ear. This is just one of those general "I hate everyone and everything, don't talk to me, GAH!" moments. I'll go lift some weights later on -- that usually helps somewhat -- and see if I can write a pleasantly bloody fight scene in which I can vicariously give someone the beatdown of their life. That might help.

And maybe a Thin Mint or two. Yeah, that sounds good. I have no idea what to do about the dreams, though...

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*And not that I think any of this LJ's regulars would think this way, but Deity help the first person who says, "Aha, you see! PMS proves that women are naturally weaker/less reliable/etc. than men!" The fact that I'm not reaching for a weapon and wreaking mass destruction is proof that I have king-hell self-control.

Although comments of this nature will prompt me to reach for the floggers. And you don't want me to do that. Trust me.

Meanwhile, on my stat counter

So I've been checking out my stats (and wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome to my international visitors from Canada, Brazil, Japan, France, Sweden, Ireland, Australia, Singapore, Holland and of course the UK -- yes, I'm looking at you, Dangerous and Tina), and I find myself somewhat bemused by the number of people searching for "nude French rugby players" on Google who wind up here.

Folks, you're looking for the Dieux de Stade -- they do the nude yearly calendar and video, you can order it directly from Amazon these days (and be grateful -- I had to use my rusty French to order my first calendar directly from Amazon.fr). And if you don't want to look at a calendar full of hunky nude French footballers for some reason that escapes me, you can always look at a calendar full of hunky nude Australian footballers. No, don't thank me -- noblesse oblige, don't you know.

And God bless the French for not suffering from silly Anglo-Saxon sexual hangups. Woof.

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