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five second rule
Sunday, September 1 2002
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Why is the First Lady always seen in a pantsuit? A God-given pussy wouldn't survive ten minutes in those outfits.
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I think one of my problems with pantsuits is the name. It's such a horrible fingernails-on-blackboards thing to say that it calls into question the appropriateness of the pantsuit as a form of attire for any occasion, even workdays when a determined assault on the glass ceiling is to be attempted. On a somewhat related note, I've decided that if I ever write a novel and need to describe a place where white people wallow in their blandness, I'll be sure to use a sentence something like, "The influential women of the town would be sure to wear their finest skorts to important dinner engagements."
It rained a lot this evening, making it an ideal one for teevee watching. More rain has fallen in the last 36 hours than fell during the rest of the summer. This has had many long-overdue effects. Vegetation has gone from yellow to green overnight, and the accumulated urea deposits have been rinsed away from walls and sidewalks citywide.
Prospect Park is now as close as it ever gets to sanitized. The rain has kept out both the weekend picnickers (many of whom leave chicken bone-studded, aluminum-foil-upholstered devastation in their wake) while discouraging the less-desperate of the gay cruisers in the Vale of Cashmere. This has meant much less accumulation of human debris in the parts of the park I frequent. Meanwhile, the debris that had been there, particularly toilet paper and mounds of feces, has mostly dissolved away. The forest trails are now nearly clean enough to eat off of. Should you accidentally drop an open-faced peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the ground face down, the five second rule applies. Just scoop it up, pick off the sticks and condoms, and give it a good strong blow. Good as new.
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