The worst part for the Stevester...

...about manipulating the country into another unwanted election, no matter how badly he wanted it, no matter how much he thought that maybe he could pull off a majority this time, was having to retool his usual, grim, authoritarian public persona.

He had to overcome deep personal distaste. To pretend to be warm and fuzzy, to con (heh...) the all-important female vote.

As Ottawa's chattering gaggles twittered themselves into a pre-electoral tizzy, Stevie-baby knew that the old quick fixes - like the much-lampooned blue sweater vest - were stale toast.

It'd have to be something bold enough to change minds without forcing him to change any of his deeply held, yet deeply unpopular, political stands. Yet something that spoke to his inner rockstar. So he hired rafts full of image consultants. Wrangled. Bit the bullet. Called in the fiberglas supplier that had done his hair for years. All the while, he feared that the gargantuan cost of retooling the factory dies completely would show him up as a hypocrite - or worse, a laughingstock - when the inevitable Access To Information Act requests uncovered it.

(Steverino's note to self: Kill that lousy act! Deader!)

Then, miraculously, the sales rep slyly suggested another fiberglas hair model already on the assembly line! It fit the bill perfectly...

Original photo: Remy Steinegger, Wikimedia Commons. You know where the hair came from...

Dreaming in Style

Credit: Joan of Arc / KGWA http://kgwa.deviantart.com

I dreamed that I had my hair cut short and dyed black (in real life I would go for red). It was too straight and it spiked in all directions, and I was unhappy about it.

The hairdresser insisted that that was not a problem. All I had to do was wander the streets looking for the cutest young man that I could spot, and he would know exactly how to style my hair.

I walked down Elgin street, and before long I came to a dandy young fellow. I walked up to him, and he looked at my hair, pulled out gel, a comb, and a mirror and styled my hair perfectly. All was accomplished in absolute silence.

I looked boyishly handsome as I walked off humming a gay tune.

(Interpretations of my dream are encouraged)

Proposed temporary interim position on waxing, until we can call an Emergency Meeting and ratify the minutes . . .

Ooh. Ouch.

The Dangers of Slacking Off

Have you read Zoom's latest posting? She says Ottawa bloggers are "remarkably uninspired lately" (including herself for the past two days) and has handed out assignments. For us, she says:

I had lunch with one of the Elgin Street Irregulars today and I had a brilliant idea for a series of posts for them. I don’t want to give it all away, but it would start with an official ESI policy statement on chocha shaving.

Let's make one thing clear. I did not have lunch with Zoom today (and I have an alibi witness if I need one.)

More importantly, now we have to call an Emergency meeting to decide if we should have a policy statement on bare chochas; then if we decide we should, we'll have to come up with the policy statement. But it won't end there. If we're going to take a stand on that topic, people will expect us to take a stand on other important topics. For instance, who do we endorse for President between Paris Hilton and Britney Spears?

I hope this is a wakeup call to you ESIs who have been taking it easy. When we don't metablog, we leave a vacuum that is filled by the less qualified.

Let's talk HAIR!

I just got my hair cut. I told the hair stylist, "I want something more MODERN". My hair stylist is about 18 years old, so I figured he is plugged into what is modern. In my mind, I was thinking Megan and foxification. I was hoping for the smokin' hot results that she achieved. I was delighted when my stylist began hacking off my hair and thinning it out. He even got the razor out at one point, which is always fun. He then applied some very expensive hair straightening product to my hair. Then, he carefully dried my hair and used a FLAT IRON (again, I was feeling excited at the similarity with the process involved in Megan's foxification project). I walked out of the salon $50 poorer, and with my hair clinging to my head like a wee helmet. When Dischevelled Man saw me, he tried to be supportive, but I could tell he wasn't feeling it. It didn't go over well when he said, "You've got a tiny little head, don't you, sweetie?". The next day, I washed and dried my new hair MYSELF, and teased it out, making it BIG. This is when I realized -- who am I kidding? I am an 80s chick. I need big hair. I am a big hair chick.