State of Dysfunction

I was extremely proud of myself for sitting through Bush's press conference last week. Mom couldn't believe I did it and seemed disturbed by my positive tone, which she probably took to mean I'd gone off the deep end. (Yeah, I know what you're thinkin' but I mean the the really deep end.)

"It was like being an alcoholic, going in a bar and not touching a drop," I told her. "No aneurysm. No headache. I didn't throw anything at the TV."

It was a milestone in my ongoing recovery.

Given this Herculean feat, there was little motivation to risk backsliding in an apoplectic fit by watching the Fratboy-In-Chief's State Of The Union address. Instead, I did some file maintenance on the old hard drive. Shortly thereafter, I set out for Washington Monthly when I saw the RSS feed that said "live SOTU blogging." It was less than stellar, but the snarky comments were well worth perusal. Hey, it was either that or watch The WB or UPN because I sure as hell couldn't handle the irony of PBS's special on Auschwitz while a Hitler wannabe was busting a nut on live television. And I still have this wretched headache, so my choices were limited.

But tomorrow's a new day, and I'm hoping like hell The Rude Pundit was masochistic enough to tune in to whatever it was that transpired On The National Stage tonight. The reviews should be chock full o'hilarity.

I did see one mildly amusing and somewhat disturbing thing while avoiding Mr. Bush:

The NYT is apparently disappointed by the absence of a body count. Watch out for those Freudian slips, boys.

What a bunch of ghouls.