This Google Poem is killing me

* Life is killing me.

* The suspense is killing me

* shermans house is killing me.

* New York Is Killing Me.

* Rasheeda's Hair is KILLING ME!

* Facebook Is Killing Me.

* That doll is killing me.

* Princy is killing me again, she says if i dont pin up my bangs from now on she'll just butcher them her self. God, i hate that woman.

* I must confess, that my loneliness is killing me now;

* My bra is killing me.

* P90X is KILLING ME! (And I Like It).

* ouch, my back is killing me!!!

* Jealousy Is Killing Me.

* The suspense is killing ME TOO

* So...as you can imagine, this wait is killing me!

* your icon is killing me.

* I am having major spring fever, this rain is killing me!

* The anticipation is killing me!

* Ah man, he is killing me.

* MY HEAD IS KILLING ME!

* your traits is killing me!

* THE MUSIC IN THIS MOVIE IS KILLING ME

* this snow is killing me.

* this genetics class is KILLING me right now

* And Owen is killing me, I could just eat him up!!

* My guilt is killing me slowly.

* My current computer is killing me.

* this blizzard is killing me though,

* My headache is killing me, but in Japan this is the reality of the health care system.

[Source]

Other Mayors in the News: Preesall, Lancashire

From the Lancashire Telegraph in merry old England:

The mayor of a Lancashire village who got his “sexual kicks” by sneaking into bedrooms to steal and violate women’s underwear has been jailed for two years after he was caught out by a secret camera.

Church-going Ian Stafford, 59, was a highly respected member of the community and Mayor of Preesall, near Fleetwood, before his “bluntly revolting” behaviour was uncovered, Preston Crown Court heard.

Aphrodisiacly, Coyote*

If you knit a male friend a pair of tube socks and only have time to finish one before the gift exchange moment, don't wrap up the one sock on its own. Or, you will likely get asked, How did you know my size?, and be reminded about your naive faux pas for years to come.

Also, don't give a male friend a personal massager. Honestly, no matter how you explain that you innocently bought it for his sore muscles (being that he is a labourer), he will tell all his friends that you gave him a vibrator.

And, if wanting to make Coyote happy you give him a bag of granola with dark chocolate in it, be certain to look at the label carefully. Or, he will laugh out loud and say something like, So why exactly are you giving me this granola?



*And, that will be his salutation next time he sends you an email.

Ottawa's new coyote strategy

Dawg. Here we go again. Now, city councillor Diane Deans has jumped in with her ideas about this.

A close reading of the press, though, shows that she has overlooked the obvious: I suggest it should involve giving me lotsa chocolate. Preferably high quality, and dark.

That is all.

R.I.P., J.D.

Life as the Elgin Street Irregulars' designated literary coyote is not all free wine and cheese book launches, lemme tell ya.

Cards and letters began pouring in last week, politely pointing out that after the royal sendoff one gave to Erich Segal, it would be utterly churlish of one not to do the same for the late J.D. Salinger.

A more recent rash of polite missives has begun to pose the question: "Speaking of late, why the hell has one not stirred one's fuzzy butt and done so, already?

My bad.

But JD poses a unique quandary. His record. About mid-last century, he writes a clutch of short stories and novellas, and a vanishingly small number of novels, one brilliant, and one pretty damn good.

After which he bugs out to New Hampshire and turns recluse, not publishing another word for half a century, amid whispers that he's still writing reams of brilliant stuff for his own amusement only.

You can see the problem for pioneering metabloggers such as ourselves, even ones that have moved on from their original purpose. We have lived (and occasionally died) by the daily outpouring of committed bloggery. People who post more than regularly and who veer into the breathtakingly confessional at the mere drop of an innuendo. An innuendo often as not picked up, dusted off, undressed and punted center stage to swing around the pole, a bare sentence or two later.

JD? All that copy for 50 years, and we get nuthin'... The ESIs' unofficial position on his passing is that we think he would have made a lousy blogger. Make of this what you will.