Random Celebrity Name-Dropping And A Journey Into The Dark Underworld Of My Mind

This morning as I was coming in to work I noticed a “wet floor” sign in the lobby and I thought, cruelly, that they should replace the little stick figure pictogram of a person slipping and falling with a picture of Sasha Cohen.
Yes, cute though she may be, Sash Cohen, to the intense satisfaction of the press, did, in fact, blow it.
Once I got in to work I saw Sasha on the TV being interviewed by Bob Costas. Though I couldn’t hear what was being said, in my head the interview went something like this:

Bob Costas: So, Sasha, after taking the lead in the short program, you fell twice in the opening minute of your long performance, destroying your chances of taking the gold. How does it feel to know that you’ve totally blown it, not only letting down yourself, but also the American people whose hopes and aspirations you’ve destroyed?

Sasha Cohen (sweetly and demurely): Screw you, Costas! How many silver medals have you won, in anything? That’s what I thought, bitch.

Seriously, winning a silver medal in the Olympics is a monumental accomplishment, for anyone, and especially for someone so young.
Besides, how many of the people finding fault with her performance could look that good in a cute little skating outfit?
(Well, Costas might. He is pretty dreamy.)
At the very least, she didn’t get beaten by a chick who has “slut” in her name.
I could say something about my willingness to help console Sasha over missing another chance at the gold, but honestly, for her that would probably feel like losing all over again…
I see in the news that Sheryl Crow had some sort of cancer scare, though I haven’t read up on any of the details.
How much would that suck? I mean, besides the having a terminal disease part, you know she’d get zero sympathy from boyfriend Lance Armstrong.
“Oh, so you’ve got cancer? Boo hoo hoo. I lost a frickin’ ball to cancer and still managed to win the Tour de France seven times.”
Still, while I’m not a fan, I hope she recovers.
Our little “Threshold Celebrity Cavalcade” continues as we venture into the frightening world of my sub-conscious and examine a weird-ass dream I had last night.
As I’ve said many times, my brain isn’t even a nice place to visit and I have to live there.
So make sure your safety belts are securely fastened and keep your hands in the cart at all times as the doors swing open and we are swallowed up by darkness on all sides and prepare to be shocked by the things that go bump in my brain.
The dream started in what was, apparently, my bedroom, though it was no bedroom I’ve ever had, but in the dream it made perfect sense for me to be there, and a quick memory check indicated that this was an apartment that I’d only recently moved into.
I questioned this a little, because didn’t I just buy a condo? However, all questions of reality were put aside as this big, fat bald guy came bursting into the room and demanding that I cease making such a racket.
My first response was, “Who the fuck are you?” My second was “How the fuck did you get in here?”
(I tend to work “blue” in my dreams)
He explained that he was my neighbor and that he had a key, and went on to explain that he kept his home office in the bedroom with which my bedroom shared a wall and that I was interfering with his work.
In colorful language I told him that it wasn’t making that much noise, and it wasn’t my problem if he couldn’t concentrate on what he was doing, and that he had no business having a key to my apartment and just bursting in.
I believe he also had his son with him.
In any case, after that was over I went to talk to my landlord, who appeared to be a combination of a landlord I had in Minnesota and Ben Afleck.
He apologized for my neighbor’s behavior and said that he would pay to have my locks changed.
Once I was back inside with my new locks I deliberately made a racket in the bedroom, then I called the cops while my neighbor pounded on my door threatening me and trying to break in.
I woke up shortly thereafter.
It was very odd and utterly random dream. The one benefit to the whole thing, though, is that before the neighbor burst in on me I was in the middle of banging Adrianne Curry, though that was ruined by having a fat bald guy burst in with his kid while I’m mid-thrust with my bare ass in the air.
(I warned you that it would be disturbing, but I guess nothing can really prepare you for something like that)
What does it all mean? No clue. My best guess is this: I want to bang Adrianne Curry, but I’m worried that a bald fat man will interrupt, so I need to get a new lock from Ben Afleck.
I’d like to see Freud interpret it any better.
This article about the kid who downloaded the one-billionth iTunes song is pretty cool. It almost makes up for Apple including Apple logo stickers with my Nano.
Almost.
Once again it’s a long, slow day here at work.
We recently (as of yesterday) got a new guy who’s sort of on our shift. He actually works the new Thursday-Saturday shift that we’re trying to gradually phase in, so he only works with us for two days.
So far he seems okay, and at least Scott and I have somebody else we can talk about Aqua Teen Hunger Force and The Venture Bros. with.
In any case, I suppose I should get back to doing whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing...