I saw Senator Max Cleland (one of GA's U.S. Senators) rolling (his legs got blown off in Viet Nam) out of our building this morning. How cool is that? He's a politician I actually like.

I wasn't positive it was him until I saw one of his aide's briefcase had a big "MAX!!" sticker on it, and by then it was too late to say anything to him unless I ran after him like a big goober.

I don't think the entourage likes it when people run up behind the senator. But maybe I'll see him here again sometime and be able to shake his hand.

From the "Incredibly Stupid Crap for Sale" file:

Remember when Uncle Bob talked about all the NASCAR merchandise being price jacked after Dale Earnhardt's death? I couldn't find the particular entry, or I would've linked it.

I found this in the newspaper Sunday.

Yes, those are plates. Commemorative plates. Commemorative Dale Earnhardt plates that stack into a cheap-ass wooden display rack 25 inches tall. That just blows. They want 39.95 EACH for those suckers.

Just what would we do without the people who make a big fat buck off tacky crap that supposedly "honors" dead people.

No, don't send that 120 bucks to the NASCAR widows and orphans fund, or to the American Cancer Society, or to aid Leukemia and Lymphoma research, or to earthquake victims. Give it to US and we'll send you these nifty plates that can gather dust at incredible NASCAR speed right on your mantle.

A few pages past this ad was another for Scarlett O'Hara figurines atop "Limoges-like" porcelain boxes.

Bastard crap-peddling buttsticks.

Deb's having a major pre-period hormone-induced depression slump today. We think that may be why she was feeling so sick Saturday, too. I wish there was something I could do for her, but there's not. We just wait it out. Perimenopause sucks.

Still, like the callous horndog that I am, I am really looking forward to my date with Sara tonight. Deb will be at work, so it's not like I could cancel the date just to sit next to her and comfort her anyway. And I want my date.

I'm feeling all studly, and I loooove having dates when I feel all studly. Confidence is a huge aphrodesiac. As regular readers will recall, when I'm suffering from a lack of confidence, I'm just pathetic.

Note to self: If you play as Julian tonight, be more careful not to make marks.

Okay. The gods are sending me messages, via loads of coworkers asking me shit, telling me to get back to work.