Cacktacular!

It's quarter till five in the A.M., and I'm currently drinking all my roommate's beer (which I will replace tomorrow- I'm not one of those kinds of pricks), working on Unheimlich, reading the correspondence between Dave Sim and Alan Moore, listening to Gwar, and generally enjoying life.

Linda lent me a book called Stiff, which is about the things cadavers have done/had done to them over the course (or corse- heh, I love me some anachronistic wordplay, which in this case I did not get from the aforementioned book) of written history. I started it last night/tonight- "tonight" extends until I go to bed or dawn comes- and I will probably have it done by this time tomorrow. It's fuckin' awesome, and easily one of the funniest things I've read outside of Dave Wallace in a while. If any of you fuckers are boring CSI/pathologist-wannabe nerds, pick it up; if you're not, you should definitely pick it up. I'd rather people who didn't want to make so-called career decisions based on TV shows read the book and appreciate its approach to life and death. (If TV influenced me that much, I'd swallow my anarchist beliefs and become an FBI agent in the vein of Dale Cooper or Fox Mulder, but, alas for the Feds, I'd rather be a broke-ass motherfucker with a fairly intact sense of dignity.)

I could go on a rant about the popularity of forensics, or at least the televised-whore version thereof, but I won't, because writing a novel about an unhappy, little-late-but-hey-what-the-hell-pseudo-lesbian "escapist" is way more important.

HAIL SADDAM-A-GO-GO!