$100 from gramma, $75 from mom and dad,and the best of all a bottle of Capt. Morgan's Parrot Bay and a cake from Girl. Hells yeah.

Alright, soapbox time:

You gotta love it when the news media states in a very damning tone the fact that very few people even knew a space shuttle was landing until it blew up. Like they're pointing fingers at the US public, NASA, and/or the government. But, hello, you're the fucking press. We only know whatever the hell you people make a big deal out of. Gee, wonder where the blame lays for that one, eh?

National tragedies seem to always follow the same story arc (allowing for slight overlap):

Day 1-2: Facts and speculation...mostly speculation

Day 2-4: Cryings relatives.

Day 4-infinity: What agency or organization is to blame, and how many people can we get fired.

That's what it's all about, ya know? Ever since Woodward and Bernstein brought down a president, every reporter's dream has been to do the same. And if they can't get a president, well, by god they're gonna get someone.

Where the hell am I going with this? I don't know, I give up.

I saw a sign somewhere about some charity funding organ transplants, and they had a liver recipient and a heart recipient...but then they had this hot blonde woman and underneath her picture was, "Bone Recipient." Gotta love that subliminal advertising. Along the same lines, the liver recipient was a girl of twelve or so, thus signaling that her liver was in no way destroyed by alcohol.

Anyway, gotta work tomorrow, but then I'm off the next day. Perhaps I can break into that Capt. Morgans. if all goes well.

Wooderson

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