Appliance Tip of the Day
If you can’t even find your model number, you have no business trying to fix it yourself.

Live Help Schedule for Saturday, July 6, 2002
I’ll be online this evening after about 1700 hrs (New Hampster time) and I should be steadily available for live up ’till about 2300 hrs. Later.

My dog bit my penis. Really. It wasn’t anything vicious or perverted; nothing as interesting as that. When we were playing tug yesterday, Ouzo, my German Shepherd, re-positioned his canine death-grip and, in doing so, accidentally included the business end of my manhood in his bite. I screamed. Really loud. Partly out of pain but mostly out of pure, blind panic, fearing that I may no longer perform my husbandly duties. Bent-over and clutching myself, moaning and whimpering in my most manly way, I hobbled back into the house and presented my injured member to my wife for comfort and first aid. Closer examination revealed a shallow puncture wound and two bulging, black blood blisters. Susan made me an ice pack which I kept applied to the injured area for about an hour. As the pain began to disperse, I started feeling the natural endorphins that the body produces in response to intense pain. Slowly, the pain gave way to a fuzzy narcotic haze–the one bright spot in this whole surreal episode. I’m fairly desperate to prevent an infection in order to avoid explaining to the physician how I sustained such an injury…and then reading about my own injury months later in a joke email circulating the internet. Fortunately, basic function doesn’t seem to be affected. Well, off to change my bandaid.

Heifer Hearsay
Here’s the real power of the internet: gubmints can’t keep their cows from grazing at other fields. The current wars and rumors of wars, for example, are reported in a whole different light in the UK press than they are here. This article from the UK’s Mirror neatly ties together many of the nagging suspicions I’ve been having about about how our Ameedican gubmint is playing in the “War on Terrorism.” And it’s been playing like a rogue…according to them. Even if you don’t believe it all, the article gives you a lot of cud to chew on. That’s the power of electronic print. Lots o’ cud from other fields. Ok, that’s enough bovine banter.

Can someone explain to me how a whacked-out, New Age beeotch, with a major case o’ da red-ass, can use aroma therapy to diagnose her refrigerator compressor? Ok, another one for the freak gallery.