Ice Ice baby.

Yes, well.
This is the thing.
Nightshift wipes out my internet based existence for some four days or so. Which means that I'll be a goner the whole of next week, but hey. Come by with a cookie, why don't you. A partridge in a pear tree wouldn't hurt either, even though you'd get no points for oringinality. Meanwhile, if gingerbread cookies and this vile thing the Swedes call glögg, (tastes as bad as it sounds - bah humbug) will not be the death of me, snow and ice will. Oh snow and ice, how lovely you look, how mercilessly you slaughter the innocents, the not-so-innocents, and me.

Me & the Danarazzi, me having almost fallen on my patootie, the Dannarazzi giggling:

"But what if I had slipped and died, my skull a cracked watermelon, on the pavement?"
(trinidadians - melodrama - watermelons)

"I would have probably gotten very very shocked, then very very sad, then very very angry at not having bought my camera to put out snuff pictures of you on the net."

"You would exploit me after my untimely death?"

"Yes."

"I have taught you well, young Jedi."

"I would have called my collection "Dead Girl On Ice". They might even named a new drink after you."

"My very own Drink?"

"Yupp. lots of Baileys. Cause you're brown."

"You're exploiting me after death and insulting me racially?"

"Or maybe Baileys with Banana liquer. You're yellow brown, you know."

"I think we're enjoying my death a little too much."

"And a glass of ice to go with it, of course."

"And you call me a Creep?"

"I thought you liked Baileys?"


And well, you just can't argue with that.