Shame Motivates

Indeed it does. Just took a late-night look at my most recent entries. Oy, mea culpa, readers, mea culpa. While the lack of updates and dull ass 'recent' entries reflect the kind of couple years it's been, my lack of updates belie how things are going lately. So it is with that acknowledgement that I promise to do better. Starting now. Sure, it may take be a few posts to get back into the swing of the blogosphere, to honor a page visit (or accidental click--sorry 'the shat speaks' fans!) with some worthwhile material. But I'm willing to get a little exposed. It's been too long.

Another promise that I will make public: this little midget will get back on stage in the close of '09 and dawn of '10. But seriously, I gotta ask you bitches to hold me to it. Don't let me wiggle on this one. Not only do I miss the feeling of a live mic in my hand, but I've got all this deodorant and no reason to over-apply it. Sweaters! Not the cashmere kind. I mean, where my fellow schvitzers at? Who danced when they saw prescription antiperspirant on the shelf? Can I get an "Amen!"? If Whitney's back, than so am I.

And if my therapist reads this, my real reason for doing stand up again is to a. maybe get laid, b. um, something something 'art' blah blah, 'gift' blah blah, 'joy' yadda yadda, c. just hopin' it'll cut down on the inappropriate shit I say at work.

Don't call it a comeback. I've been here for years.

DSQUARED: Boots & Shoes I Want

I've got a birthday in a couple weeks. Don't hurt yourself trying to come up with clever gift ideas. Either of these will do.  Please note that I'd prefer the boots in cordovan. Also, don't feel the need to spring for these on your own. I'm accepting contributions to Shannon's Well-Heeled Thirtysomething Fund starting...NOW.

7 Dirty Words

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cock-sucker, mother-fucker and tits. Because I miss Carlin. Because I'm not a 'lady.' And because there's no such thing as a dirty word.

Much The View About Nothing

Ten bucks says that Rosie and Barbara are IMing each other non-stop and LOLing their asses off. If I had a variety show premiering the day before Thanksgiving, the biggest bar holiday next to St. Paddy's Drunken Fest, I'd punch my own mother in the face for some publicity. Everyone and their brother will be at the local watering hole, catching up with friends, griping about relatives and ingesting car bombs. No one's scouting the TV guide or channel surfing. So my money's on The View matriarch's latest sound bite feud with her former colleague being a hoax, a stunt, a way to get Billy Bush and Mario Lopez's overpaid lips a-buzzing. One question remains: Will Rosie's well-timed PR skirmish translate into viewers? You tell me Joe Six Pack. Does that loudmouthed fat dyke (a typical description, one O'Donnell herself mocks openly) getting into another fight make you want to watch her new show?

Truthfully, I don't think it's a stunt at all. Two enormously accomplished women are sniping at each other on the talk show airwaves and it's ruining my appetite for turkey. Ladies, how about a little restraint? Rise above this kind of display. 

Twitter and Widget

Twitter and widget are my new favorite words. Well, they're terms really. Any word that translates into 'more people listing to me' turns me on. Big time.

Goodnight Sweet Feline

The Ennis family bid farewell to its beloved, four-legged member, Dixie, today. Methinks she deserves a proper obit. Anyone who's ever said goodbye to a pet will understand the sentiment. Sure, it's sappy, but I'm Irish Catholic and single, so humor me. For anyone who hasn't experienced the pleasure and joys of being a pet owner, or the PETA-friendly term "pet parent," please consider rescuing or adopting an animal. You'll be the better for it.

DIXIE ENNIS, 17 years-old, a 'ghetto kitty' adopted from the ASPCA, named after Bette Middler's character in For The Boys, was put to sleep today. She was a diva to the very end: entitled and sassy. Few knew of her hidden charms, but were well-acquainted with her foul mood in the company of relative strangers. Thus, only to know her was to love her. The rest, frankly, missed out.

Dixie is survived by her primary care-giver and companion, my Mom, Joan Ennis, a fortunate snow bird, off to Florida for the chilly months. Though Joan will escape the miserable Chicago winter, her sun-filled days may well be brushed by sadness for a while. Perhaps she'll continue to speak out loud to Dix, sharing details of the daily grind as though her furry white and grey ass was still there. And that's more than okay. Dixie's de-facto Daddy, my brother M.J., apt to mourn in solace, should take comfort in his fond memories, especially the way he'd step into a smattering of kitty litter upon exiting the shower. 

As for myself, I've got to admit that I'm crushed. I was a teenager when I picked Dixie out of a cage. She was all ears and tail, and I sat her on my forearm and watched as she stretched out and fell immediately asleep. It felt like a familiar routine, one that we'd already practiced, perfect and easy. Dixie, like me, could be a real bitch at times. Yet if I was at home sick or feeling droopy, she'd be the first one to crawl up next to me and chill out. She was warm and silent, just what I needed. 

There's something about the unconditional love of an animal. It's reciprocal and pure. All you need to do is put a roof over their head and feed 'em, then they give you everything they've got in return. Do well for them and they will do infinitely well for you. 

Miss you, Dixie. 

Tonight, Tonight

It's less than 2 hours until the first televised execution, er, um, I mean the Vice Presidential debate. Get your popcorn ready!