Dear Diary,

Sorry for neglecting my diary, but I have been busy flying all over the country to promote my most excellent book. It talks about how amazing I am, and the people seem to love it.

I also have been more than a little bit pre-occupied with the shithead, thug republicans in the House, in which I am the SPEAKER. I’ve been SPEAKING fine my ass off, and those snotty bastards (and that maroon in the White House) aren’t listening to me. I’m SMART, Goddammit! What’s wrong with these mouth-breathing republican assholes?

Drill, drill, drill, DRILL! That’s all they want to talk about. They’re driving me freakin’ nuts. Hell, I turned off the lights and microphones in the place and that didn’t stop them. I’d like to go into every one of their offices and piss on their papers.

So, being a reasonable woman (and extremely bright and powerful SPEAKER in the House), I offered a compromise. I said that we would consider an itty-bitty bit of drilling off the coast, and to sweeten the pot, I offered to let each one of them touch my tits. No takers! Rat bastards – all of them.

And for all you pricks who think I have no solution to this energy thing, you can just piss off. As it happens, just yesterday, I telephoned my spiritual advisor, Maharishi Mahesh Mutugaipan and he gave me the answer. He said, “Butterfly, the answer is in the wind and the sun and the sea. You must spend more time with your crystals.”

The man is a genius. Hey, wait! I’m not sure if he said “crystals” or “Cristal.” Screw it. I’ll do both, and when congress resumes, I’ll lay out one ass-kicking plan, let me tell you.

Now, if I could just figure out a way to get that faccia d’ weasel Chuck Schumer to stop trying to get into my dainties, I’d have a bit more crystal (and Cristal LOL) time. In his latest email, he invited me to his Washington “bachelor pad” for a night of “Manischewitz and hot, sloppy sex,” after which we could “cuddle” and “groove to” recordings of his press conferences.

You think it’s easy being the SPEAKER in the House? Hell, if it were easy, any asshole could do it.

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Premier Jersey Blogger, Princeton alum, Princeton Resident and exceedingly nice guy, TigerHawk, is a distinct minority in his neighborhood. Good thing his neighbors are so tolerant of his minority status.

On any given day, getting a whiff of fresh air escaping from the New Jersey Political Swamp is about as likely as getting hit in the cruller by a piece of space junk.

Yesterday was Space Junk Day.

Republican Assemblyman Michael J. Doherty issued a press release urging Governor Corzine to put a hold on the promulgation of regulations called for by the Global Warming Response Act, which was executed and heralded by the Governor last year.

The Global Warming Response Act mandates a reduction greenhouse gas emissions of 20 percent by 2020 and 80 percent by 2050 and it would unleashes the regulators at the Department of Environmental Protection to get together with regulators at the Board of Public Utilities, the regulators at the Department of Transportation, the regulators at the Department of Community Affairs and “other stakeholders to evaluate methods to meet and exceed the 2020 target reductions,” which, as sure as the sun comes up, will result in an orgy of regulation writing.

Assemblyman Doherty, bless his heart, stated in his press release:

There are many credible members of the scientific community who have questioned the theory of global warming, and now we have some scientists actually suggesting the earth’s temperatures may be entering a period of dramatic cooling…With this growing level of scientific uncertainty, it makes no sense to enact a new set of economically damaging regulations prompted by the global warming hysteria of recent years.

…

New Jersey’s tax and regulatory climate is already chasing jobs from this state left and right and these new regulations will make matters worse … Rather than conforming our policies to questionable scientific theories, we should be looking at the concrete economic indicators that show our state’s economy is in trouble. And we should be taking steps to help people who are losing jobs and being forced out of their homes by this state’s anti-economic growth agenda – not making matters worse. [emphasis in original]

I suspect that Assemblyman Doherty will be shouted down or ignored by the Governor and the creeps in Trenton, but DAMN, I’d like to buy him a beer!

Thanks to Mark, a welcome reader and a former Jersey resident.

Did I mention that on Tuesday I (along with Mrs. Parkway and four of the Usual Suspects) saw Neil Diamond in concert at Madison Square Garden?

I figure there are two kinds of peeps in the world – those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.

No, wait! I figure there are three kinds of peeps in the world – those who like Neil Diamond, those who don’t and those who know who he is, but who have no opinion about him.

No, wait! I figure there are four kinds of peeps in the world – those who like Neil Diamond, those who don’t, those who know who he is, but who have no opinion of him and those who never heard of him.

I cast my lot with those who like Neil Diamond – have for years. (Obviously, so does my Wiseass Jooette pal.) This is the second time I’ve seen him in concert at the Garden. He was great both times. The guy is older than I am, and, whether you like him or not, there is no denying that he still sings his ass off.

Here are some good things about Neil Diamond in concert:

1. His band (some members of which have been with him for three decades) kicks some serious ass. They are all players. Special kudos to the brass section.

2. He sings the songs people want him to sing. He sang one or two from his new album, but the rest are songs that everyone in the place knows the lyrics to.

3. Whatever his politics are (I believe he is a liberal weenie), he leaves them in the dressing room.

4. The audience is comprised overwhelmingly of grownups, although there were a surprising number of younger peeps there. Maybe they were dragged there by their parents, but the ones near us seemed to like it and knew all the tunes.

5. The audience does not stand up for the entire concert. Yes!

6. No long lines at the beer sellers.

7. No puke in the men’s room.

8. No danger of being tossed into a mosh pit.

Alas, there are a few things that are not so great about attending a Neil Diamond Concert:

1. Spend too much time convincing yourself that the other people in the audience are way older than you. No way I look as old as them!

2. Busy men’s room, even during the show. I know, because I was there during one of the songs from his album. I couldn’t help but think that Neil could have called this the “Enlarged Prostate Tour.”

3. The audience gets cranky when the show doesn’t start promptly at 8:00. Probably has to do with pee planning.

4. Neil gets a lot of mileage in the Garden out of the “born and raised in Brooklyn” thing, causing me to wonder when was the last time he hung out there.

5. At the end of the show, the Garden turns off the escalators, requiring everyone to walk down the shut-down escalators or stairwells. We were seated high enough up so we had to do lots of stairs to get to the street level. I realized that if the Garden didn’t do this, the escalators would be dumping people into landings clogged with peeps and causing havoc on the still-moving escalators. Bad design.

Neil — Coming soon to a city near you.

Bottom Line: Next time he’s in New York, I’ll be there.

Yes, this post is coming to you from a borrowed computer (with the nipply and slidey thing, both of which drive me to distraction).

My friend Mike, the Computer Maven — bless his heart, spent the week while I was away doing absolutely all the necessary H-P troubleshooting and concluded that the problem is one of hardware, not software. Most likely, he figured, the problem is a smoked video card or two. The next step was to contact H-P.

Mike hopped online (as me) and initiated a chat with an H-P Support Person. Thank Christ I didn’t do it, because Mike described the problem with the precision beyond my ability. Then, the disembodied H-P Guy on the other end of the chat, suggested, “First, reset your computer to its factory settings.”

Full stop.

If that had really been me (and not Mike)on the other end of the chat, I would have said, “Excellent, and just how would I go about doing that?” This, of course, would have had the disembodiedH-P guy slamming his head against his keyboard, knowing that the chat could go on for days.

Fortunately, Mike responded that he already tried that, and then he went on to list the gazillion other things he tried and shared his conclusion with the disembodied H-P Guy.

After a very long pause, the disembodied H-P Guy pointed out that my warranty ran out about a month and a half ago.

“OK, thanks for that, but now what?”

Another long pause…….

The disembodied H-P Guy returned to the keyboard to advise me [Mike] that the problem appears to be with the video widget-gimcrack ginkus, and it can all be made well for $300.00 (The price includes shipping – Shipping included? Be still my farookin’heart!).

Sooooooper, I thought. Damned near brand new computer, and I’m looking at a Three-Benjamin repair bill.

The disembodied H-P Guy explained that I would be receiving a box to be used to return the computer to H-P and that they will fix it and return it to me in tip-top shape. He said that he would write up a “repair order,” and send it to someone who would call me in approximately 5 minutes for my credit card information.

The call came as promised, and based on the accent of the person on the line, I could only conclude that the disembodied H-P Guy sent the repair order to Bombay. After a rather comical and painful exchange, punctuated on my part by lots of “Excuse me’s?” I managed to give him my credit card number.

I was placed on hold while he verified my credit card and did God knows what else. When he finally returned to the phone, I was treated to some rapid fire Hindi-English, from which I gathered that he was trying to sell me an extended warranty.

I figured, “Ain’t this just a swift kick in the stindeens? I just arranged to pay three hundred bucks for a repair, and this guy is as much as telling me the damned thing is likely to break again some time within the next 365 days.” I stopped him in the middle of the “accident warranty” pitch and told him I just wanted this computer fixed – nothing more. Only at that point was I provided with the coveted “Order Number,” which he had to repeat several times for me to understand it.

So, now I shall wait for the H-P box to arrive at the House by the Parkway in order for me to proceed to the next chapter in this frustrating saga.

It’s pretty clear that my next computer won’t be an H-P.

Next computer? Yeef! Did I say that? The thought of buying another computer gives me a serious case of the hot squirts.

All eleven of the Cruisin’ Usuals arrived back in New York City yesterday after a week of overeating, overdrinking, overspending, overpartying and undersleeping. Everyone started/resumed their diets, effective today.

Last Sunday, we assembled in the morning at the home of Ken, the Bodyguard and the Deckmistress to await the arrival of the chartered bus that would take us to the pier in New York. Of course, there were cocktails. We started out being veddy, veddy civilized by drinking Mimosas.

After five bottles of champagne were gone, we learned that the bus would be arriving a half hour later than had been anticipated.

Whatever shall we do? Simple. Break out the orange-flavored vodka with appropriate mixers (white and red cranberry juices mixed approximately two to one – our new summer drink) and a bottle of chocolate vodka. The bus driver was greeted by eleven very happy peeps, primed to experience “Freestyle” cruising (I’m sure you’ve seen the very clever TV ads).

Boarding the ship was a bit of a pain in the ass, given the long line of people waiting to board, too many of whom looked like this may have been their first vacation to anyplace other than Coney Island or the Jersey Shore (considerably more than a few sported pants hung just slightly north of their sharonas and sideways flat-brimmed baseball caps – and, yes, there was lots of “big hair”). The presence of this category of passengers prompted one of the Usuals to note that cruising may have become “too affordable.”

Freestyle, baby!

Our prior five or six cruises to Bermuda had always been with Celebrity Cruise Lines, and it became immediately apparent that the “Freestyle” thing was something we would have to adjust to. Yes, as promised, in addition to the two regular dining rooms and a huge buffet room (which was more like a cafeteria than a dining room and which attracted the serious multi-helping grazers), there were several specialty restaurants on the ship.

The specialty restaurants (e.g. Italian, French, Cagney’s Steak House, Mexican and Asian) all require an advance reservation, which depending on the timing was sometimes a bit of a hassle. (Special shout out to daughter, who managed the reservation morass for all of us). In addition, all of the specialty restaurants required an additional per-person cover charge which ran as much as $25.00 per person, which tended to keep out the sideways baseball hat crowd. Even though “freestyle” dining was perhaps more of a pain in the ass than it was worth, no matter where one ate, the food was always good.

Because everything (and I mean everything) was subject to a 15% “auto-gratuity,” the service was not at the same level that we experienced on previous cruises. We regularly added to the “auto-gratuity” for particularly good service, but I suspect that most people do not, and the service showed it. We did manage to attract the attention of an enterprising young waiter at the pool bar who broke his ass to see that our glasses were never empty. Needless to say, he had a good week.

Of course, none of the foregoing stopped us from having a helluva time. We saw some exceptionally talented entertainers, and I believe we did all the bars. In addition, most of us spent a fair amount of time getting dusted in the casino: I know I did (Oy! Don’t ask!), and I know that Mrs. Parkway did as well (Oy! I didn’t ask!).

All in all, it was a great week, even though “Freestyle” cruising is not something we’re likely to do again.

NOTE: A special thanks to Teresa for her excellent posts while I was away. Of course, Thanks (I think) to the Wiseass Jooette who couldn’t resist the opportunity to place my Great Farookin’ Hair atop the cruller of a fatass cat from Jersey. OK, I admit it. It was funny as hell.

Ya know, with all your steaming rivers of raw sewage, babbling brooks of bleccch, and choking pollution that makes breathing in Beijing’s atmosphere feel like inhaling the cool, clear air from the peak of a Swiss Alps mountaintop, I was not one bit surprised to learn that New Jersey had spawned a 44-pound cat. You peeps in Jersey constantly outdo yourselves. Rock on with your bad selves. Really, I mean that.

In fact, as if most don’t already know this by now, “Princess Chunk,” in all her corpulent glory, was apparently such a big girl that it wasn’t until days later that they were able to locate the congenital nub which forced Camden County Animal Shelter peeps to rename the beast “Prince Chunk.”

Well, be that as it may, Prince Chunk is a mighty fine lookin’ feline and, as a free service resultant from the Wiseass Jooette being so exceedingly awed by this Jersey phenom, she has volunteered to perform a complimentary hair transplant because, when one is suddenly thrust in the spotlight of the national media, one should absolutely look their farookin’ finest.

Well, am I right or am I right?

Well, you have now. Peeps, I’m not even trying to be my usual little instigator self…there really was an alligator left on the side of the road…in one Burlington County, New Jersey.

Except…as if the entire world knows that our hirsute friend, Mr. Wussboy by the PAH-kway practically turtleheads at the mere thought of the prehistoric spiky beasts with the purdy smiles…this particular alligator was left in a cage on the side of the road.

Now I ask you: Where, oh where, is the fun in that?

When was the last time All US Adults did the same thing? 

*crickets chirping*

Well, there’s a doctor working for the government who is stating for the record:

All U.S. adults could be overweight in 40 years

One must admire the chutzpah.  It’s beautifully done. Including a picture with a fat woman was a nice touch too. But you may wonder… what is the motivation?

It’s the government silly! They want what’s best for you. Just browse to the end of the article to find out what “they” think is best.

The findings highlight a need for widespread efforts to improve Americans’ lifestyles and keep their weight in check, according to the researchers. Simply telling people to eat less and exercise more is not enough, Liang noted.

Broader social changes are needed as well, she said — such as making communities more pedestrian-friendly so that people can walk regularly, or getting the food industry to offer healthier, calorie-conscious choices.

“It really needs to be more than an individual effort,” Liang said. “It needs to be a societal effort.”

A “societal effort” and “more than an individual effort” along with the word “make” means… the government will tell you what to do. What to eat, how much, when to exercise and how, everything. It’s all in the interest of making YOU a better person. Simple.

Now, don’t you feel so much better! Your government wants to take care of you. Gosh they’re just such terrific peeps. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

And then, after we’ve had our five mile run to the grocery store through the lovely engineered neighborhood, bought our healthful food, run back home, cooked up our tofu and veggie stir fry, (no harmful animal products), we can form a circle, hold hands, and sing Kum-bi-ya.

Oh yeah, I can see it now.