Let's do a Joke!

It struck me this morning, over breakfast, just how different the diaries I read are. No, not different. Individual. Obviously they all have something in common because they all have that something that makes me want to read them. Anyway, this morning I read three different diary entries, and for whatever reason today more than other times, it struck me how distinct they each were, from each other at least. And I think that's what makes me like a diary. Distinctiveness. Or something like that. It's a good enough explanation for now.

The media are pissing me off again. Leave Frank Bruno alone, you evil vultures. If someone's been sectioned it's insensitive enough to plaster that all over the news, let alone anything that happens in hospital afterwards. Evil evil evil.

Although I'm told I could probably make a good journalist. Just not that kind of journalist. Maybe I couldn't touch journalism at all. I think it could possibly be anathema to me. I'd just associate it with them. Ah, it would seem I'm a journalism bigot. Or something. I just can't help but see the word "press" or "media" as being synonymous with "tabloid". I know there's way more to it than that, but hey, I never claimed to be perfect.

In a flair of hypocrisy I'd also like to despair at people who won't let other people be who they are. Not fair, etc.

Hey, in order to lift the mood I'll include my Star Wars re-telling of an old and not altogether funny more than once joke. Dunk will want to scroll on ahead a bit because he's already heard it.

So after the victory celebrations on Endor, Chewbacca and Wicket the Ewok are both feeling the effects of overindulgence in the food department. Namely, they both really need a shit. For no reason other than to serve the purpose for this joke, they both squat behind the same tree to do the business.

As Chewie's finishing up, he turns to Wicket and says "Rooorrrr Oooowr Aarrr Orrr Roooawww Rarrr Rooo Aaaawwwr" which roughly translates as "Do you get problems with shit sticking to your fur?"

Wicket, failing to realise the joke he's trapped in, says "Yib-yup. Oochanooga." which translates as "No, no problem."

So Chewie picks the little Ewok up and uses him as toilet paper.

It's the way I tell them.

Saw Star Trek: Nemesis tonight. Pretty good film. But pretty good is all it is. It's an even numbered film, it's meant to be excellent. I'm sure even the non-scifis who read this diary know the even-number rule for Star Trek films.

And Ros, I need to talk to you about KOTOR. I won't say more for risk of spoiling others, but we need to discuss it. I think you'll know why.

Tomorrow the patio arrives. And we go to a wedding reception. And I intend to go to deaf club.

Moods have taken a definite downturn this week. I hope that's not setting a trend for the whole winter. No, I won't let it, dammit. Things... will... look... up.

For starters, at the rate I'm going, by the end of the weekend Alison will no longer be a KOTORwidow. Well, until I do it all over again as a bad guy, or something.

Is it wrong to end an entry on a question?