Sgt. Julu! Bootcamps! Yay!

Sally is back with an internet-broadcast talk show. Too bad I gave up that do-nothing deskjob I had: this would have easily filled the tricky 2-3 PM gap between Big Brother 5 Housecalls (yes, I will go kill myself right now) and Fresh Air.

"Spectacled bears eat both vegetables and meat but children tend not to be on their menu"

Somewhere between the nihilism of Feili the smoking monkey and the foibles of Air France lies the absurdist literalism of Juan the bear, who only wanted to go to the Love Parade. Or not. Whatever.

All About Timing.

Beijing officially gets its hands on the signature media and marketing juggernaut of our time (er, the Olympics [and the last time I'll natter on about it for a long while, I promise]), and we're off to the races.

Meanwhile, up in the (212), it seems like you can jazz it up all you want (elephant dung and past-prime popstars aside), and the kids still won't tune in.

But to get back to China for a moment, here's a story about a depressed, chain-smoking chimpanzee. It's okay, Feili: you could be working at Reader's Digest.

"...and fightin' 'round the world!"

Heh. Too bad Tugger wasn't there.

"It's Another Saturday Night..."

Okay, maybe Sunday Morning, but whatever: I still "ain't got nobody." And I still "ain't got no money" because I'm still yet to be paid, so here are my three favorite national anthems I've heard over the past two weeks (when NBC have decided to broadcast non-"O Say Can You See" medal ceremonies):

1. Argentina
2. Morocco
3. Greece

Honorable Mention: Australia. Because, realistically, when ol' paternal great-granddad got kicked out of County Cavan, Ireland, it was either to the U.S. or Australia. So I've got to hedge my bets. And it never hurts to pretend that I grew up in a beachside town in New South Wales.

Rockstar of the Week!

It's Australian track cyclist Ryan Bayley: the guy eats nothing but garbage morning, noon, and night, and he still spanked everybody in the velodrome. That is some digestive moxie.

Jeez.

You'd think your mom could fenagle you a proper job by now, yeah?

“He can find another way to advertise himself.”

Word.

“It is a little naughty,” he [Iraqi Olympic Committee consultant Mark Clark] said. “The players are not very sophisticated politically; they are a little naive. Whoever posed these questions knew that the reaction would be negative. “It is possible something was lost in translation. It’s a free, new Iraq, and the players are entitled to their opinions but we are disappointed.”

"A little naughty"? Seems like the English managed to translate well from the original Douchebag.

"those summer niiiii-ghts!"

Awwww, Carly Patterson has a crush on Michael Phelps.

Oh, Carly: don't you know that the gymnastics all-around title is the squarest position in the high school that is the Olympics? You're now totally the valedictorian to Paul Hamm's class president. And the swimmers totally rule the cool-kids table in the lunchroom.

So how are you going to win out against Jenna Bush? I would suggest the following equation:

Carly + shopping sprees at Claire's and Wet Seal = semi-jailbait tween star JoJo.

Then you'll totally be allowed to toke up with Kenicki behind the dumpsters before your big dance-off in the cafeteria for ol' Mikey's lurrrve.

I'll Also Consider:

3. Butters + Cartman = U.S. shotputter Adam Nelson?

Extra Credit:

3. Butters + Soviet-stylee sports school = U.S. gymnast Brett McClure?

It's Back-to-School Time:

1. Chloe Sevigny + Soviet-stylee sports school = U.S. gymnast Terin Humphrey?

2. Mary Lou Retton + boozy crack binge = Jerri Blank?

"a head, one bottom and a torso cannot possibly fly on its own."

I say, isn't French deconstructionism fun?

Rockstar of the Week

This week it is Jane Birkin. 'Nuff said.

Good Times!

If I had won Powerball last Saturday, I'd have gone to Dulles Airport Sunday morning and been all like, "One please," and would be hanging out at the beach volleyball venue right this moment. Why, you might ask? Well, it embodies the spirit of the first place I wasn't carded for booze at age sixteen back in the day-- when they somehow turned the shitty Atlanta Beach (read: pool with a slide and some sand around the edges, and at least one drowning a summer) into the most surprisingly happening place of the XXVI Olympiad. Drinking daquiris, listening to cheesy-ass music (this year there sounds to be a lot of DJ Otzi and O-Zone coming out of those speakers-- '96 was a lot of Real McCoy, Gina G, and the Macarena), and getting sunburned before going to work at the park in the evening? And then being buzzed just enough to not to give a shit when people moaned about everything being too expensive or demanding a refund while calling you a bitch (3.1 degree of assface difficulty; and oddly enough, almost solely attempted by the Americans)? Awesome.

Well-Well-Well:

Looks like someone couldn't afford the upkeep for her vanity site.

Let us now gather round and point and laugh and wait until the moment she undoubtedly claims to have invented Movable Type.

Ooooo, This Must Totally Be My Dishy Day for Heat-Lamped Leftovers:

I quite like the Delta Shuttle. The rack of free newspapers and magazines and coffee off to the side of Gate 18 absolutely pisses all over the draconian decorum of Gate 15 and the hourly shame-mobile to Atlanta (one morning I saw Newt Gingrich, and the week I went to Iceland the kids were telling me they saw Bob Barr and the-now-certifiably-crazy-ass Zell Miller). Plus you get a nearly-proper breakfast (some semblance of grains and fruit) on the plane in the mornings and occasionally free beer in the afternoons, and an even bigger opportunity to binge on periodicals at LaGuardia. Anyway, the longest we ever had to sit on the ground was four hours, and that plane had on it both Judy Woodruff and Stone Cold Steve Austin. Take that, bitches.

Ooooo, and Now a Bit of Stale 2nd-Hand Gosso:

Funnily enough, an immediate relative told me a while back that Andy Dick also stuck his tongue in said-relative's ear and asked for some coke at some soiree held by some lads-mag in some city called "The Meadows," or something.

Ergo, if it mentions 1) Andy Dick, 2) sticking his tongue somewhere, and 3) begging for coke, it must be true. It's like a three-part Supreme Court judicial test-thingee, or something.

Also, he's heard to have wanted his E! True Hollywood Story to have been subtitled "The Little Angel Baby Clown Who... That Cried."