Warning: This Post Is About Poo. No, Not Mine.

I've been on a halfhearted excercise kick lately, mostly involving not getting up at 6 AM to do a Pilates DVD. I like the Pilates, it's fun, and my tummy already feels a bit tighter, but I am just not a morning person.

I think I like Pilates because, every once in a while, the lady up on the screen tells me to roll back and forth on my back for a while, which is fun, and actually seems to be good exercise. I'm totally enjoying it.

The problem with it, though, is that it really offers nothing in the way of aerobic exercise, something I'm totally lacking in my day-to-day routine of sitting on my ass staring at a compuer screen and then sitting on my ass staring at the television. And eating; I forgot to mention eating.

So, the Husbear (yeah, that's his new name. As Sars would say, I suppose, learn it, live it, love it) and I have started taking walks together around our apartment complex several times a week. It's been really hot, so we've been trying to walk late, but we still return all slicked with sweat.

So, I'm finally getting to the point here:

WHY DON'T YOU FUCKERS PICK UP AFTER YOUR DOGS?

Seriously, there's shit EVERYWHERE. We have to look out for it every time we step off the sidewalk, which is fairly often, as the sidewalk doesn't run around the perimeter of the complex.

Seriously, you people are GROSS.

Thank you for your patience.

Oh, you know, like, stuff. Gawd.

So, excuse me while I clamber up on my soapbox.
(climbs up, ever-so-gracefully wrenches hip, bangs elbow on safety railing installed after last unfortunate soapbox incident)
(clears throat)
Fuck Karl Rove. (and seriously, what the shit is that Raw Story shit? Shit.)
(trips backwards off soapbox, spraining ankle and stubbing adorably teeny baby toe)

Anyway, now that I'm done with that, how are you doing today? Good? Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. Yes, I know I haven't been here in a while, but I have it on good authority that I should stop talking about how I haven't been here in a while, so wha-ever.

It's been hawt here lately. You know, heat of the hundred degree variety, two-hundred-thirty dollar energy bills (yes, we're getting it looked into, what are you, the energy bill police?), walking around flapping your arms in little baby bird flaps to aerate the ol' armpits, et cetera. Last Saturday, it felt really nice outside, almost cool, even, so we decided to go try out the Kitchen Door. They don't have indoor seating, but they do make a Laura Bush cowboy cookie (last thing on the page), so I guess that's good. Mr. Pants asked if it included fresh Laura Bush, and the sandwich artistes rolled their 15-year-old eyes, like, real fucking original, old man.

We took our sandwiches (chicken and egg salad) outside to enjoy the nice cool weather al fresco, and ended up ingesting a good gallon and a half of gasoline fumes along with our sandwiches. Seriously, minivan taxi guy, red range rover guy, and chevy silverado guy, would it fucking KILL you to turn your giant gaschugging cars off and get the hell out of the car? (These will be the first people with their backs up against the wall when the $5 gas revolution comes.)
Somewhat refreshed, we headed back home, passing a thermometer along the way. Time and temperature? Oh, try 1:15 and 96 F. Yeah, we had a refreshingly cool outside picnic when it was ninety-six degrees outside, the whole time remarking how nice and refreshing the lovely summertime weather was.

Does this mean we're finally Texan?

Oh, London...

London, our thoughts are with you today. I felt sick when I heard about what happened this morning.

Wikipedia already has a great site up, whch is being constantly updated.

(don't let the bastards grind you down)