If Wishes Were Shoes III

--Sorry this is so short guys, but I figure it's better than nothing.--

"Ah," she said, "I take it that your Jedi mind trick thing didn’t work like it was supposed to."

"Nope, about five percent of the population is immune to Wishbringer suggestion. Just the breaks, I guess." I shifted from foot to foot, waiting for her to ask the question every human asks after they figure out the whole Wishbringer thing. But that wasn’t what she asked at all. She circled around to my back and ran her hands up and down my shirt; that actually felt kind of disturbingly good, so I stepped out of reach of her arms before I disgraced the Wishpair badge.

She grinned, "No wings, and aren’t you kind of...well...manly looking to be a fairy?" I tried, oh, how I tried not to let that get under my skin, but having a cute woman call me a fairy pushed every button I owned as a man and a Wishbringer. I wish I could say that I suavely smiled and shook my head, but the truth is I went off on a rant about Wishbringers, their history, sexual orientation, and culture that probably lasted twenty minutes not counting the three breaths I took. When I finally wound down, I realized that wish one comment, she’d managed to get me to give her a fully guided tour of everything she was not supposed to know.

Damn, she was good.

So Mr. Blackwell has named Britney Spears as the number one worst-dressed woman of 2005. To me, this has the faint whiff of "shooting ducks in a barrel." If Mrs. Federline (and yeesh, doesn't that make me shudder as I write it) were actually attempting to be in the media (as opposed to her freeloadin', spotlight-lovin' hubby) then yeah, I could see where a shame could be upon her, but come on, she was pregnant last year. I know that I personally would not want to be judged on what I wore whilst turning into the Blob. Plus, kudos to Brit for managing to give her child a sensible name, one that bears no relation to fruit or hallucinogens. But still, you just have to know that she can't afford the pregnancy stylist (or possibly any stylist) now that she has a family to support. Come one, Lohan's been giving magazine interviews left and right (although apparently, she can't remember what she says in them); the Olsen twins have paraded their potato sack couture (albeit with cute shoes) to ever flippin award show there is; and Hillary Duff is turning into a stick figure with a smile that shark's would envy. It looks to me as though Mr. Blackwell just got too close to deadline and fell back on Britney (known in the world of fashion snarking as "Old Reliable".) Shame, shame upon you Mr. Blackwell.

Call me a prude but...














It's not so much that Nick Lachey has spent time walking in Jessica Simpson's shoes (are his feet that small, or are hers that big?) as it is the fact that he merrily divulged this to Elle magazine. Revealing the strange bedroom pecadillos of your crumbled marriage to the world at large: tacky, very tacky.

Ha, behold how I lied. Sadly, allergies and a stomach virus have stricken me this holiday season. If you're looking, check back on Monday for a new update. I'm off to sleep for an hour or twelve...

This blog is on Holiday Hiatus until Monday the 26th. Happy Holidays!!!

Food for thought:



A friend of mine told me today that there was a roast for Pam Anderson and Courtney Love. All I was left to do was wonder, "How hard can in be to hold up pictures for one hour?"

Ah, Part II of "If Wishes Were Shoes" Sorry about the lack of update Wednesday, but I've been a busy little demon this week. If you haven't read the first part of this story, go back to last Friday's post.

Yeah, I know that’s how they all begin, boy meets girl, sparks fly, etc. Only that’s not how it began. See I was just finishing up my day with the gravity goon, world restored to normal in two point eight minutes, a personal best might I add, when I realized I had a witness. Man, this just sucked, witnesses always meant more paperwork, even if they were memory-wiped, and somehow, looking at this woman, I didn’t think she was going to be the forgetting type. She was standing about four feet away from where the gravity goon was shaking his head. She looked a little bemused as she stared up at the sky, then down at her feet. Lifting up a strand of her curly blonde hair, she pulled it to its highest extension and let it drop then took a small hop off the pavement. Crap. By this time, most people had managed to convince themselves that they’d hallucinated: heat, fatigue, whatever. Just my luck I got stuck with an empiricist. Oh well, it was time to do my work; I stomped over to her and held my hand in front of her face.

"I’m sorry you had to see that," I said, "You will forget this ever happened." She didn’t say anything, just blinked these sleepy looking grey eyes at me and chewed on her bottom lip a bit, which seemed kinda cute to me now that I realized, to my great relief, that she wasn’t going to be a problem. I smiled at her and turned around, ready to fade into the distance.

"Excuse me," said a girlish voice behind me. Those two words made me flinch. It was entirely possible, I tried to tell myself, that she was just hoping that I might help her cross the street or something. Yeah, weak try, I know, but in my head I could see the stack of paperwork getting higher. I executed a reluctant about face.

"Yes, ma’am, may I help you?"

"I just wanted to know something," she said, "If you were going to wipe my memory, why bother giving an apology I wouldn’t remember?" There went my evening off. Just once I’d like to get off my shift on time. Just once... But the lady was still standing there, patiently waiting for my answer.

"My mother didn’t raise me to be impolite, and even if you didn’t remember, I would. Besides, it’s company policy." She smiled at me, but knowing I had to grant her a wish which as a matter of personal pride I wouldn’t allow to be a screw-up wish, it just didn’t look that cute anymore.