Rumble to Ready

I recently read a blog post by my friend Jonathan who eloquently, though with a self-proclaimed long-windedness that would be hard to match in the blogosphere, professed that electronic means of communication enable a person to be virtually anyone he/she wants to be. Profound I know. Some of you readers probably didn't know that I was involved with smart people. Ultimately this got me thinking...I have been pulling my punches. Guarding peoples uber-sensitive electronic feelings and it is just not fair. So here goes, Jonathan, any hate mail will most definitely be forwarded to you.

The first post of the newly restructured Room for Rant is in memoriam of my professor's late testicles. Enjoying a bowl of the finest Omaha pipe tobacco before class this week, I happened across a most disheartening occurrence. Chef Q (names have been changed to protect his un-emasculated children) pulled up driving a silver PT Cruiser. In male circles around the globe, the consensus seems to be that only aging, blue-haired women (with or without facial hair, on the lip or otherwise) should be allowed to drive a PT Cruiser.

So imagine my surprise when Chef Q, a man I have gotten to know and respect, came pulling up in a Cruiser, bobbing and shaking his head to what I can now only assume was a pirated recording of the recent Hannah Montana concert in Omaha. Quickly recovering from shock, I sprang into action. Most of you probably don't know that I recently earned my M.D. in homoerotic and female induced emasculation diseases. (In the interest of full disclosure, I have contracted a number of these diseases myself.) After groping about my coat pocket for a Rx pad, I hastily scribbled out a prescription for backboneacillin, to be taken orally three times a day WITH the strongest beer available; and a spare set of testes, for those days when his wife insists on carrying his God-given pair along in her purse while picking out new sheets. (Egyptian cotton of course, somewhere between 600 and 600000000000000000 thread count.)

He thanked me, of course, and I promised to abide by all doctor/patient confidentiality. ( notice the cliche' insertion of Q in his name please) Hopefully we can move past this phase in his life and focus on his incessant need to sing those annoying bubble-gum pop songs the Beatles felt necessary to produce in order to indulge American women.

Note: should any of my close friends own a PT Cruiser, I sincerely apologize for this blog, though not really. Contact me for your Rx dosage.

P.S. Did I use the word blogosphere above? "Honey, can you pass me that bottle of GAYBEGONE, no no, not that one, the orangecranappletini flavored one!