Yesterday for lunch I had a grilled soy-burger and some sour cream -n- chives pierogies. For my money you can't beat that for a refreshing mid day repast. I used to boil pierogies, cause it's the healthy way to do em up, but lately I've been giving in to the buttery yummness that gets cooked into them when you fry them up in a buttery-coated skillet. Saturated fats be damned, I'm all about the flavour, I'm a flavour man damnit!

I had lunch with my old friend Lagged to Death earlier this week, maintaining my quest to do lunch with everyone I know whilst I'm on the dole. We're at this bistro in his neck of the woods and I'm looking at the menu and he tells me to be wary of the sandwiches cause they're huge. Like really really huge. So I'm thinking, HA, even though I'm a relatively thin bloke I'm a real manly man when it comes to cramming excessive amounts of food down the ol pie hole, plus I'm thinking Lagged smoked a bit too much crack for breakfast and is blowing this out of proportion, so I order up a sandwich and some fries and a bowl of tomatoe basil bisque. A three course meal, as it were. Well, about 10 minutes later the little waitress chippy comes rolling this cart the size of a 747 over to our table, and this is no joke, with enough food on it to feed the entire population of fucking Tibet. Really, every one of those smelly bastards. So the moral of the story here is when LtD tells you about about food you'd be wise to heed his advise.

I got kicked out of the flop-house where I was living (we had a little mis-understanding about the policy on discharging firearms on the premise) so I had to move into the basement of Jack Wagner's house. I know, I should be grateful he's willing to put me up, given that we had a falling out a couple years ago, but he's one, uh, odd bloke. He claims to work for Apple's Cleveland division, but he comes and goes at such odd hours that it's almost like he doesn't know what time it is, or maybe he works some kind of flex schedule that's based on the early Mesopotamian calender. Either way it's quite odd. Plus all the walls in his house have these giant lead shields built into them, for God knows what reason, and I'd swear his property is in a flight lane to one of the local airports because there's always these really cool looking black helicopters flying by the house every time I go out to walk to the bus depot. Be that is it may he's letting me live rent-free until I get back on my feet, so I shouldn't complain about his little quirks, we all have em you know.

It turns out Mr. and Mrs. Clock are in town (perfect timing - it's like 75 below zero with 800 feet of snow on the ground!! Ha! Take that you confederate whimps) and they want to get together, you know, to talk about old times and whatnot. While I'm about as interesting as a gnat in real life I'm okay with meeting up and all that, figuring, you know, maybe I can trick them into loaning me some money. Well, I get this PM from clock:

Bob, Stacky and I are in town and would like to do a Cleveland Husi meet up. Also, do you know where we can purchase a small quantity of Pulonium-210?

Now - I'm probably over-reacting here, I'm sure there are lots of reasons to want to purchase a small amount of a deadly substance that's tasteless and odourless and impossible to detect in food, but, well, I can't help but be a little concerned about their intentions.

Only 8.5 hours until Oprah!!