BETAMAXNOMATES

Today's Grievance: You just can't get a decent Appletini in this town.

That's right folks, Appletini's, the tipple beloved by J.D. from Scrubs and, uh, Har Mar Superstar. Vodka, Apple Tiechenne and Midori all shook up in a shakey-uppy thing and served in a poncey triangulated receptacle (see above), and garnished with a slice of apple. Pure class in a glass.

In other news, Anonymous dies! His hair. (Also Johnny Carson dyes! Of emphysema.)
Yes, this morning I coloured my hair a positively Reznorian shade of black. 'Reznorian' really is a word I should use more often. That viscose mesh top you're wearing is very Reznorian. Oh, and the elevator boots too. The man could probably launch his own fashion empire: he certainly has the time, considering he hasn't released any, you know, music in the past six years. Why not cash in completely with the obligatory signature fragrance, 'Scent of Trent', a vaguely grimy musk with a not-too-subtle hint of Deep Mental Anguish.
Sigh. I used to worship Trent Reznor. Now I only worship Jesus, and the sweet, sweet Methadone she brings me of a Sunday morning.

This entry fulfils my contractual obligation to post something here every week.