An anonymous responce from an anonymous reader to the anonymous -- no, wait, attributed -- Brit comment:

British people...whatever. I'm going to go dump some tea in my bathtub because I'm too lazy to walk to Lake Michigan.

That'll show 'em!

Also, notes on "pissed," from Newton:

Just caught your blog, very funny, although 'piss artist' translates better as 'loser'.

Of course taking the piss is also taking advantage, but you've got to realise that just by noticing you enough to take advantage of you, a British person is thereby paying you a compliment. Honestly.

Ah, yes, so if a Brit deigns to notice me, I should take it as the glorious, miraculous event that it is, me being a poor colonial and all.

It's a wonder the British aren't more popular.

I just got the following anonymous plea: Can you blog something so I'm not bored and can check your blog in between doing other things at the computer?

Well, sure, Anonymous Pleader! Happy to oblige.

I have decided that whoever came up with the brilliant idea of putting cat medicine in little chewy tuna-flavored nuggets deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. Really. Mongo is hyperthyroid, and that means he needs to get drugs twice a day. Even with hyperthyroid-induced weight loss, he is not an insubstantial cat. And he was a street cat for god knows how long -- he fights dirty. So I was, shall we say, apprehensive at the thought of giving him medicine. (I believe my exact words were "Oh dear god now! But I want to live, do you hear me! And keep the use of my hands!" There was some sobbing too.) But it's been easy. Amazing. He actually comes and bugs me about it when I'm late giving him a tuna-chewy drug bomb. And I still have full use of all my limbs. It's a miracle, I tell you!

Now the only thing is keeping Bug from pouncing on the tuna treats and eating them herself. It sort of reminds me when I was a kid, and mom used to give us pills by putting them in a spoonful of peanut butter or ice cream. Did she have to bribe the other two kids with ice cream too so no one was left out? I can't remember, but I wouldn't be surprised.

Andy was confused (and maybe a little indignant) about "taking the piss." Look, I lived with British people -- I can't help it sometimes.

Anyway, I asked an actual Brit her definition of taking the piss. Her take: [M]aking a joke at someone else's expense with the added element of taking advantage of them. I would add that I always thought that this was sort of with affection, as in, you're not being mean, you're just joking around. Either that, or every British person I know was actually treating me with contempt the entire time I lived in Hong Kong. Which is distinctly possible, of course -- the brits are sneaky that way.

Thanks for the authentic definition, Susan. Now when are you starting your blog?

Andy was also pretty peeved (I was about to say pissed) about he "Poor wee" comment. It does not, in any way, impugn upon your manhood. Really. It's a phrase I picked up from newton, who used to imitate our friend Melanie from Kansas. And Melanie pick it up from Mork and Mindy. The complete phrase is "Poor little Pooter." But Newton, apparently, is culturally incapable of saying "little," and has a Northern Irish accent to boot, so the phrase came out sounding like "Pur wee pooter."

Well, I thought it was funny.

The British and their Irish brethren seem to have a deep affection for the word "piss." Don't believe me? Here's an excerpt from a guide to British idiom:

piss-up: drinking session (as, "couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery")
pissed: drunk
piss off: to go away (or as imperative, "piss off!"), (-ed off, -ing off) or to annoy/anger
take the piss: to make fun of
piss-take: parody or joke
pissing down: raining hard
piss-head: drunk (n.), alcoholic
piss artist: ditto
pissing oneself (laughing): laughing very hard
pissing in the wind: useless
piss easy: very easy
piece of piss: ditto
piss around: crap around, mess around, waste time

And that's from an American take on British idiom. A British take on it is even more extensive. (God bless the web.)

Someone should do some sort of ethnographic study on it.

When I was in Hong Kong, I used to indulge in he dreaded Drinking and Dialing: I'd go out on the piss, get pissed, come home and call my ex in Virginia and leave a semi-coherent message saying "I'm pissed, so I thought I'd call." Four days later he'd call back and say "Why were you angry?" and I'd have no idea what he was talking about. It took me months to figure out what was going on.

I don't know precisely what happened this morning. The alarm went off. I hit sleep. The alarm went off. I hit sleep. The alarm went off. Before I could hit sleep, the voice on the radio said "It's 8:28..." Yipe! I try to be at work at 8:30. Sigh.

When I finally got to work (at about 9:15), I got the following message from Andy, cut and pasted from another IM conversation:

andydehnart: is sarah going to be in late today, do you know?
theboss: yeah
theboss: sorry
theboss: forgot to mention
andydehnart: no prob. just worried about her since she's usually so prompt
theboss: you being a smartass?
andydehnart: no! not at all! seriously.
andydehnart: I actually had a moment of genuine concern
andydehnart: although i'm over it now that sarah just arrived. (okay, that's being a smart-ass)

Andy was quite indignant that we all thought he was taking the piss. "I was genuinely concerned! Why doesn't anyone believe that I was actually worried! I have a soft gooey center!" Poor wee Andy.

Alas and alack. I came home from work semi-toasted -- still too damn tired from San Francisco, I guess -- and looked forward to a night pleasures TV. Gilmore Girls and Smallville went fine, but I was really gearing up for two weeks' worth of Angel. I missed last week's episode while I was in San Francisco. And by all accounts, it was a good one -- Angel goes a little nutso-dark and tries to kill Wesley, who, let's face it, is rather annoying. That's something I wanted to see.

After a frantic search, I discovered that my friend Brian had a tape of the episode. Go Brian! I got the tape over lunch, queued it up, and got Good Will Hunting. Huh. I'll just rewind. Last week's Smallville. I started to get a sinking feeling. Fast forward: Good Will Hunting for the rest of the tape. Rewind again, in case I somehow hadn't rewound entirely the first time. Nope, Smallville.

I called Brian.

"Oops," he said.

So alas and alack, my Wesley bloodlust is destined to go unslaked until summer reruns. I'll read the recap on the estimable Television Without Pity, but it's not the same. Sigh.

Other than that, life is good. And when your only complaint is a missed TV show, you're doing pretty damn well indeed.

Home again, home again, jiggety jog.

United is the official sponsor of my crappy mood of this morning -- they made me (and Jane, poor thing) get up at 5:15 a.m. so we could leave by 5:30 and get to the airport by 6, cancelled my 8 a.m. flight, put me on a later flight, stuck me in an aisle where the seat does not fully recline, and put me in the cabin where the big movie screen didn't work. Also, they wouldn't let me into the Red Carpet Club when I got bumped, even though I'm a premiere member. Hi, remember me? I chose to fly to Australia with you. Bastards

On the upside, they passed out a customer service survey on the plane. Bwah hah hah hah.

My current kick-ass mood is sponsored by Lotti and John and Angie and Jordan and Liz and Pat and Cousin Jimmy, who participated in a bad-movie groove-a-thon chez Lotti and John. The double bill: Reform School Girls and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, with a special appearance by Salt, the festival-entry short film by John Knowles and the other guy whose name I don't remember. (Sorry, other guy. But you were really funny!) It'll be shown at various Chicago comedy fests and such -- and they may be going international, with a possible spot in a Toronto comedy fest. Go, John and Other Guys!

But back to the double feature: I had never seen Reform School Girls, the Wendy O. Williams masterpiece. I had no idea that so much lingerie was involved in the rehabilitation of our juvenile offenders. And high-heeled boots. And kitten stomping. And selective quotes from the seamier passages of the bible via loudspeaker. And food fights. And branding. And lipstick. And hair-care products. And skeezoid truck drivers (Jim Staskel, we can only assume that you were related to and/or blackmailing one of the producers.) And Tennessee Williams moments. And shorty pajamas. And thongs. And bleach. And chain gangas. And... well, you get the idea.

As for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls...Oy. Where to start.

Well, let me just lay out the facts, and then indulge in a little opinion:

It was written by Roger Ebert. Yes, that Roger Ebert. It makes less than no sense.

Highlights include:

• A Shakespeare-quoting music mogul with a dark secret
  
• A wide-eyed innocent girl-group rock band
  
• Their lusty (male) manager
  
• An inheritance
  
• Porn stars and gigolos
  
• A bartender who dresses up as a Nazi on special occasions
  
• A poor but honest law student fighting the heavyweight champion of the world for the affections of a comely young lass.
  
• Massive drug and alcohol abuse
  
• Even more massive music abuse
  
• Tragic accidents and suicide attempts
  
• Paralysis
  
• Seductions, both abortive and successful
  
• Lesbian affairs
  
• Lots and lots of sex and nakedness
  
• A good bit of poorly executed blood and gore
  
• Absolutely nothing that approaches any kind of coherency.

And it's all wrapped up with a moralistic voice-over.

My contention is that everyone in America should at least try to watch this movie. Then decide: Should you take movie advice from the man who wrote this travesty. My answer: No. Hell, no.

Even Lotti was traumatized. And that takes some doing.

Also, welcome to Lotti's Cousin Jimmy, who put up with our insanity with remarkable restraint. I think he might have actually enjoyed it all. Wheeee! We have another one!