It’s V-Day, mfs! This holiday is not to be confused with the less-known and even less-celebrated VE-Day, which is sometime around cinqo de mayo weekend and involves the World War II victory in Europe. No, instead our greeting card & vaguely Christian-inspired Valentine’s Day dominates the “holidays that begin with V” category.
I am spending the day in true romantic form: wearing a pin with a frog&hearts on it that my assistant left on my desk and searching through my photo roll for that photo of a heart-shaped dumpling that I found in my soup that one time and foresightedly captured on [digital] film:
Speaking of romantical ideas, word on the street is that the disabled Carnival Cruise disaster that has turned into fear, loathing & feces off the coast of Alabama (instead of fun in the sun & endless buffets on the Yucitan Peninsula) has been yet again delayed. What’s even more insane is that cruise-goers have a 6-hour busride or something to look forward to from Mobile, Alabama to Houston, Texas when and if they ever make landfall. A cruise ship with no plumbing; Mobile, Alabama; and a bus-ride to Houston, Texas. If any less than 80% of these people don’t have severe PTSD when & if they ever make it home, it will be a miracle. I hear attorneys are awaiting the ships arrival on the dock, armed with business cards and draft complaints. A welcome party of smarmy lawyers seems the appropriate Cerberus for this decidedly hellish scenario.
This story piqued my interest when I misunderstood the headline involving a “Disabled Cruise” to mean a cruise for disabled people, like me who have in their possession an authentic handicapped parking pass. Turns out, not so much. They meant the ship was disabled, not he passengers, though from my understanding of cruises and their clientele, I’m not so sure my first impression misconstruing the headline was that far off the mark.
This story validates my lifelong disinclination towards cruising. Though, I will also note that you never hear about shit like this happening on an Alaskan cruise with the old people.
Speaking of old people, the old pontifex maximus whose German last name I get confused with the Steeler’s quarterback (but whose physical condition despite having the best cell-service to God belies an unsuitability for professional football) recently announced his retirement from the cush job that no one ever retires from. This smells of a conspiracy, especially with all of the investigations and unearthed scandals being publicized from the papacy. However, considering most of what I know about this institution comes from HBO’s The Borgias, the Pope’s recently launched Twitter feed, and the 3-minutes of Headline News I imbibe every day in the elevator lobby, I have very little to back-up this suspicion. That being said, if you find me dead in a canal with a stab wound from a Centurion, you’ll know I was onto something.