PSA – How much inside?

listening to
“…sad because you thought it was cool to be sad… “


obsessed with
gaudy costume jewelry
you may call me Princess

I went wine-tasting over the weekend. One wine promised “essences of old leather and cigar, with an earthy finish”.

I surmised the wine could only have come from one of two sources (perhaps both, even).

I pictured a generations-old heirloom–a well-kept brass-studded red leather box full of expensive Cuban cigars that just exudes nobility –being dragged out of the lavish gilt-trimmed and study of a fine English manor by a very determined, periodically growling, foofy Bichon-Frise who triumphantly buries it in an enormous compost pile. Centuries later, archaeologists excavate the compost pile and discover the semi-rotted box with mildewy cigars. They drop the box and cigars into a vat of formaldehyde, simmer it for 40 days and nights, decant it, and sell it to the world as a bourgeois brew. Every one who drinks it wears a monocle (even the ladies) like Mr. Peanut and has a little pointy upturned nose. They’re not snobby, they just can’t stand the smell of the “bordeaux”.

If that’s not the wine’s pedigree, then it most likely came from a landfill.

Ever wanted to know how much caffeine it would take to kill you? I found out recently on Energy Fiend, a nifty little website that packs a wallop. Read on, my enemies, for any of the following will kill me:

6,825 Hershey’s kisses

1706.25 Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups

1,137.50 Kit Kat bars

487.50 cups of hot cocoa

200.74 cans of Coca-Cola

58.84 Tall servings of Starbucks Caffe Americano

34.13 Vivarin tablets

Click on over and see how fast you’re ingesting death!

From, a cutesy little article about wuv.

A collection of witty and eccentric lonely hearts ads from the London Review of Books have been brought together for a new book.

David Rose, the review’s advertising director who launched the personal ads in 1998, is behind They Call Me Naughty Lola.

It features some of the most brilliant and often absurd ads from what’s been billed as the world’s funniest – and most erudite – lonely-hearts column.

Here’s a selection of the funniest, beginning with the one which inspired the book’s title:

‘They call me naughty Lola. Run-of-the-mill beardy physicist (M, 46).’

‘I’ve divorced better men than you. And worn more expensive shoes than these. So don’t think placing this ad is the biggest comedown I’ve ever had to make. Sensitive F, 34.’

‘List your ten favourite albums… I just want to know if there’s anything worth keeping when we finally break up. Practical, forward thinking man, 35.’

‘Employed in publishing? Me too. Stay the hell away. Man on the inside seeks woman on the outside who likes milling around hospitals guessing the illnesses of out-patients. 30-35. Leeds .’

‘I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out and covered in too much tahini. Before long I’ll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you’re the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32, rarely produces winning metaphors.’

‘My ideal woman is a man. Sorry, mother.’

‘Your buying me dinner doesn’t mean I’ll have sex with you. I probably will have sex with you, though. Honesty not an issue with opportunistic male, 38.’

‘Not everyone appearing in this column is a deranged cross-dressing sociopath. Let me know if you find one and I’ll strangle him with my bra. Man, 56.’

‘Are you Kate Bush? Write to obsessive man, 36. Note, people who aren’t Kate Bush need not respond.’

‘Stroganoff. Boysenberry. Frangipani. Words with their origins in people’s names. If your name has produced its own entry in the OED then I’ll make love to you. If it hasn’t, I probably will anyway, but I’ll only want you for your body. Man of too few distractions, 32.’

‘Ploughing the loneliest furrow. Nineteen personal ads and counting. Only one reply. It was my mother telling me not to forget the bread on my way home from B&Q. Man, 51.’

‘Mature gentleman, 62, aged well, noble grey looks, fit and active, sound mind and unfazed by the fickle demands of modern society seeks…damn it, I have to pee again.’

‘Slut in the kitchen, chef in the bedroom. Woman with mixed priorities, 37, seeks man who can toss a good salad.’

‘Bald, short, fat and ugly male, 53, seeks short-sighted woman with tremendous sexual appetite.’

‘Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth.’

Finally, I think I may have linked to one of their articles/projects before, but I really, really love in all its interesting and sometimes geeky glory. Here is a link to their “How much inside?” projects, where they seek to find out how much is inside a variety of items, including, but not limited to, Goldschlager, Sharpie markers, and toothpaste. It’s a whole lotta fun to peruse on a slow work day, so you may want to bookmark the site. Have fun! – How much is inside…