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Google Me This..... Cheese Omelet

Issue Date: Friday, Feb. 27, 2004

I am number 3 on Google’s list for “Hamster with a broken pinky toe”. How frikkin cool is that!?

I tell ya, I have been Googled for stranger things than that. Bathing cats, dog panties, breast butter, white beaded clutch, picture of irony, mega excavators, Dwayne Doopsie, nude Fran Drescher, words to Oh Happy Day and UTF – HOR (which I have no clue what at UTF – HOR is). The list is endless.

But oh, how I love me some Google.

Example, I am currently searching for something out of the ordinary, the name of the group that re-made Eazy E’s Boyz In Da Hood. The groups’ name is Superfast. How did I know?

Why, Google of course!

In the past few weeks I have run across the term bukkake* in several different journals that I read. I, being a curious sort, like to know what interesting words mean. Yes, I am’s bitch. I don’t read any type of soft or hardcore porn diarys. I can mainly be found perusing the likes of dooce, mimi smartypants, weetabix and pork tornado, as well as others, but yet, I have run across this word several times.

*[No, I am not going to link to the search. I do not wish to get fired, as I am updating whilst (I love the word whilst) on a break.]

So, what do I do? At WORK no less? I Googled that darn word bukkake and recoiled in terror at the promise of ‘taking it on the chin’ and whatnot. I still don’t know what it is. But with all the promised of erotica and BIG COCKS! I have yet to click on the links.

Don’t Google that term at work. Really. And it doesn’t show up on that prudish either. I looked.

Speaking of Dusty over at pork tornado, please click on this link. It will take you straight to the best belly laugh entry ever, even if you have a sinus headache and feel like your eyes might just explode.

I bet Dusty would be great fun to go people watching with. It’s a great sport, I usually do my best people watching at the airport. It really doesn’t matter which airport as I travel a bunch with my job.

Mister is a master at this craft; my sister is as well, although she tends to lean towards making everyone a raging slut.

My favorite make believe life I constructed was for this man who looked like his name should be Forrest Bushland. Forrest was in possession of the largest and most elaborate unibrow on the planet. His eyebrows practically sang (in D minor) that Viking song by Led Zepplin. Aaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiaah!… Aaaaaaeeeiiiiiiiaah!…

Mr. Bushland was on his way to the south of France to pick up his girlfriend, who sadly was without any eyebrows at all. They intended to have children, hoping against hope that their eyebrow evils would work themselves out in their children’s DNA. Mr. Bushland had an urge to meet his beloved’s family when he got to the south of France. He wanted to tell them in their native tongue that he would treat their little bald browed princess like a queen.

All week he had been listening to an English to French in 72 Hours tape. He had the idea [the night before leaving to collect his beloved] to listen to the tape throughout the night to imbed the French lessons deep into his subconscious.

The tape skipped after Forrest was deep into R.E.M. [the sleep, not the band]. The tape got stuck during a lively discussion on French meals, what to order for breakfast. It skipped and repeated the same word over and over all night long into his subconscious, the French word for cheese omelet... Omelet du fromage’, Omelet du fromage’, Omelet du fromage’, Omelet du fromage’. The next day a cabbie picked him up to take him to the airport. The only thing Forrest Bushland could say to the cabbie was “Omelet du fromage’”. At the curbside check in “Omelet du fromage’”. In line to purchase his Starbuck’s “Omelet du fromage’”.

Forrest was stricken with grief.

As I was wishing for Forrest to break out of his rut and really speak..... [dramatic pause] he horked a lugie into the trash and got onto the plane… going to Amarillo.

Apparently I had been watching an episode of Dexter’s Laboratory that morning before I went to the airport.

No, none of this makes sense. Blame it on the sinus medication.

And, Tim, my feelings are getting hurt because you haven't signed the guestbook.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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