I dunno. To me, it just looks like they're swapping gum is all.

Jessica Simpson is retarded: "Is this chicken what I have, or is this fish? I know it's tuna, but it says 'chicken by the sea.'" (From the "reality" TV show "Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica," as reported in Entertainment Weekly.)

Would you like your toast to resemble Edward James Olmos or Elvis, sir?

CNN: "MTV awards: Style over substance"

They say this like that's a shocking revelation or something...

I am assured that everyone has them: irregular heartbeats. A few years ago, accompanied by elevated levels of stress at my job, I started having panic attacks, which at first seemed to be heart-related episodes. It was the only time I can recall having paid any attention to my heart, other than those quiet moments in bed when I was trying to sleep.

The panic attacks have long since subsided, but the paranoia about my heartbeat continues to this day. One of my initial responses to the problem was to begin running regularly, in the hope that it would force my heart to undertake a regular heart rhythm. Not a bad hypothesis, I suppose, and it didn't hurt that I began to enjoy my regular jogs. But the palpatations continued to come. Continue to come. In one worrying incident, I was at a coffee shop with my friend James recently (not drinking coffee, I assure you) when I had an extended series of palpatations. One of them, I don't worry. Two, still no worries. (Okay, maybe a little worried, but it soon passes.) But if it continues for a minute or so, I start to freak out, which really doesn't help matters.

As soon as I had managed to calm down, I treaded out to my car to call my brother on my cell phone. He assured me that, in the absence of any pain or light-headedness, I shouldn't worry about these, but I should keep track of my pulse, if at all possible.

So, laying in bed tonight, waiting for sleep, I began to notice repeated palpatations. I started to worry, which, again, probably doesn't help things. But the problem seemed to fade, so I ignored it and tried to sleep. Then they started up again. And then, bizarrely, I jolted awake with a sensation I cannot satisfactorily describe. It was like an unexplained sense of panic mixed with a palpatation that came on without warning. Simply put, it scared the living shit out of me.

Haven't had a palpatation since, but I am, needless to say, freaked the fuck out. It's probably nothing, but that really doesn't help my state of mind much. And since I live alone, I feel even more freaked out in a way, because if something did go wrong, I'd be on my own. (I'm starting to understand why people generally tend toward binary relationships...) All of which is rational, I suppose, in a way, but also seriously lacking in a sense of proportion, because this is all probably nothing.

The real irony of it all, in the Alanis-sense of that word, is that I went to bed early tonight so that I could get a decent night's rest and maybe get some work done tomorrow, but now I doubt I'll get either.

Why do credit card companies insist upon both sending me mail and calling me with the same offers? Okay, I know why, but it still ticks me off. One or the other should do.

I suppose I just need to shut up and wait for the Federal Do Not Call List to go into effect...

Another mental image for you: giant gerbils on the rampage through rural China.

You can now officially consider yourself lucky that this will never come to pass.

Amazon is currently schilling a sports bra on their front page. The text seems humorous to me: This Shock Absorber sports bra was designed especially for Anna Kournikova, because only the ball should bounce.

No good deed goes unpunished, the saying goes.

About a week ago, I headed out for a late night snack at one of the local fast food places, and on the way back, I was stopped by a guy who had a hard luck story. He said his car and his wallet had been stolen while he was working on a construction job nearby. He said the police wouldn't come out to take a report, their procedure was just to send out a packet of materials for him to fill out later. Basically, he wanted cab fare home, which he said would be about $25 bucks. This seemed unnecessarily high for me, but I'd been in the same position (been robbed, I mean) and I took pity on him. He took my name and address and swore he would pay me back, but it's been a week, and I haven't seen that money. I made sure to mention to him that I was pretty much broke, so I had really hoped this wasn't a scam. He swore up and down, naturally, that it wasn't.

But it's been a week, plenty of time for a letter to get mailed back but I haven't seen my money, nor have I been able to locate the name of the business that he gave me. Apparently, I just have "sucker" written on my forehead. And that money really would be nice to have back right about now.

You know, right about now, I really could use some sort of reaffirmation that the human race isn't just a bunch of jackasses. Unfortunately, I doubt I'm going to get any such thing.

I want you to ponder something you probably haven't before: whale farts. And while that image is in your head, how about another: Disney documentarians chucking rodents off a cliff.

Somebody please tell me that there's a law against blasting Journey at 9 AM on a Sunday morning...

Well, there oughta be.

You know, there should really be a terror alert level indicator kind of thing for when people say they're not doing so good: "I'm not doing so well. You know, yellow-bad." That way you can gauge how worried and/or horrified you should prepare to be.

I mean, having a bad day because your computer ate your e-mail isn't like you lost an arm.

It took me nearly a week of banging my head (and okay, yes, my fingers) against the keyboard, but I finally got that column done. It's the all-important Statement of Principles-slash-column introduction thingy. (I do so love that word. "Thingy." If nothing else, the English language should be proud of that.) So I have four samples done now, the number I said I was shooting for, but I think I'm going to do a fifth because that intro column might get rejected if the material is only accepted on a case-by-case basis instead of as an ongoing feature.

It was so hard, I think, first because I'm out of practice. It also took me forever to figure out a way into the subject without seeming blatant and obvious. And, you know, funny. I really feel like I've lost a bit of my mojo there. I got lazy. When I was doing two or three columns a week, I had to be sharp and inventive, but I've lost that, and now I feel like I'm stepping back into the ring after getting fat and old. (You know, like George Foreman, before the grill.)

Nothing like pressure to perform to make you miserable.

I've finally come close to completing a long-simmering project, only to choke in the final stretch, as they say. There are a multitude of reasons this could be happening. For example, unlike previous pieces of this project, this is just the general introductory piece, which has less focus than the rest. Less focus means more trouble coming up with an approach, and, as I always say, approach is everything. (Actually, I usually say "structure is everything," but no point in being pedantic.)

I am also, unfortunately, woefully out of practice in this particular form of writing, of which I used to be a real master. (How's that for grammar? Whee...) The pressure of living up to standards achieved when I was at my height have become something of a cloud following me around whenever I try to dive in. (See? I can't even manage a decent metaphor. Hell.)

I am, of course, being an idiot about all this. The other pieces came relatively easily. I don't see why this one should be any more difficult. And yet it is. Naturally, it would help if I looked at the thing more often than I do, but sometimes I just don't want to face it.

Usually when I'm in this situation, it's a good idea to just trash everything and start again, either with a new approach (because, remember, approach is everything... forget what I said about structure; I was on crack), or just ditch the subject matter altogether and write about something else. This last idea is tempting. As I said, this is supposed to be an introductory piece, which means it needs to be humorous and entice the reader into wanting to read more, but maybe I should just dive in and let the work speak for itself. But, see, that would remove the thing that makes my approach unique. Otherwise, I feel like I'm coming closer to my influences than I feel comfortable with.

Ironically, it's exactly this sort of overthinking that's screwing with my head in the first place.

So my solution thus far? Work on something else. Simple enough... Only procrastination just makes that cloud loom larger and more ominously.

Such are the perils of a writer, I suppose.

Just when I thought I was safe, the downstairs neighbor's bad music taste parade has returned! I think he's listening to the Eagles' Hell Freezes Over, but I can't be certain. He is listening to it loud enough that I can feel the bass of "Hotel California" through my feet.

Speaking of the Eagles, that new song of theirs is the worst thing ever. They should be beaten for even recording it, much less unleashing it on the world.

With any luck, this latest "farewell tour" will indeed be just that...

I find it ironic that my non-stick cooking spray canister is so sticky.

Sweet zombie Jesus, that poor, poor man. Those bastards!

How you know the DVD phenomenon has gone too far:

On September 2nd, Lions Gate Home Entertainment will release one of the worst shows ever to be aired on national television, Saved by the Bell: Volume 1 - Seasons 1 & 2. This five-disc tsunami will feature 750 minutes of hilarious antics, all in 4:3 full screen and Dolby Digital 2.0 stereo. Extras will include audio commentaries, but participants have yet to be announced. Retail is $49.95.

You know, I would've thought that a "flash mob" would be something else than what it turned out to be.

Once again, real life is nowhere near as interesting as my imagination. I want my money back.

I love America.

Today, I saw someone suggest that, because of her heavy smoking habit, Ann Coulter's breath must "smell like Rush Limbaugh's nether regions."

That has to be the worst insult I have ever seen. It's so ugly that I can't even bear to ponder it. I was, needless to say, quite impressed.

I also saw someone use the term "serving you a hot cup of Shut The Fuck Up," and I was considerably amused.

But perhaps most amusingly, a new issue of "Lenore" came out, and made me laugh until I choked. If that comic doesn't amuse you, there's something wrong with your brain.

Mommy, can I have one, please?

Say it isn't so: Dude, Where's My General Lee?