This is the first time ever that Mr. F and I have lived more than a short drive away from one another; now it’s a whole two hours or so, which might not seem like much, but it makes for seeing each other less than when we lived a 10-minute walk apart, or, you know, in the same apartment. (Mr. Shakes and I also lived with them for awhile after returning from Scotland. Our “wedding reception,” after getting hitched at City Hall, had two guests—Mssrs F & C.)
They were in town because yesterday was Mr. F’s mom’s birthday, and, after the festivities, they swung by our place to indulge in our typical gabfest—politics, family, American Idol trashing, and elaborate hypotheticals like starting a phone sex operation which we will run from our rented keep on Fair Isle while giving the locals plenty about which to gossip. You know—the usual.
Discussing our plans to become eccentric hermits.
Mr. Curious shows off the latest issue of Hustler, which features an article about Scooter Libby’s dirty novel and the perverted proclivities of so many prominent conservatives, penned by none other than Shakespeare’s Sister. (The article is essentially a reprint of this post, and they got a great illustrator, Dan Collins, to illustrate some of the novel's excerpts, breathing sardonic life into their utter ghastliness.) As you may remember, I’m not much of porn objector, though I hadn’t ever bought Hustler. I knew Larry Flynt was a liberal, but I had no idea that every issue of Hustler was a blazing jeremiad against Bush and the GOP. Pretty cool.
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