don't mess with condi

I have frightened a few friends with my, as Steve referred to it, "patriotic fervor," this week. There's nothing like a bad customer service served up European style to make you start thinking seriously about getting, "these colors don't run," tattooed across your titties.

Okay, maybe a normal person wouldn't have that response, but I am a) not normal and b) a stickler for good customer service.

It got so bad on Tuesday morning that, while riding the bus in Geneva I looked down and saw a snotty headline about Condoleeza Rice (in French, no less) and muttered, "f*ck off," to no one in particular.

Yes, folks, I have lost my mind.

Luckily I have George Bush to return me to my senses. He lied, people. I know y'all have been saying he's a stinkin' liar for a while now, but he's been caught red-handed and he's been put up on the chopping block by one of his own. Forget Dick Cheney, it was George W. that authorized little Scooter to leak the news about Valerie Plame. And he's not denying it!

Oh well, at least I still have hot dogs and cherry pie . . .