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Your Horoscope
Week of July 21
(Ramp Accessible)
Born this week you might be a Cancer, you might be a Leo, or you might experience a disconcerting growth spurt in one of your vestigial organs. No matter, your chances for a normal life are better than Rory Culkin's, 24, or Conor Kennedy's, 18, both of whom have birthdays this week.
Mr. Culkin will eventually take his own life after he can no longer stand being mistaken for his brothers Kieran, Macauley, and Nostrodomus. Mr. Kennedy, aside from being saddled with a tragically cliched first name, must also fight the ravages of the industrial-strength STD he caught from Taylor Swift.


Cancer (June 22–July 22) Your financial prospects are so wretched you can only afford the new Vin Disel Fast & Furious grill on a time-sharing arrangement with a family that's overly fond of road-kill. Later in the month a fifteen-pound newborn canary named Junior will escape from his cage and imprint on you.

Leo (July 23–Aug. 22) Your sex life is a shareware program about to expire. One-size-fits-all gloves don't come in your size. If dreams took human form, yours would be wearing toe tags.

Virgo (Aug. 23–Sept. 22) Car A leaves Hollywood at 9:00 a.m. on Monday. Car B leaves Bangor, Maine, at the same moment. Car A, which has a 15-gallon gas tank and averages 19.6 miles per gallon, is driving east. Car B, which has a 17.5-gallon tank and averages 18.9 miles per gallon, is driving west. After three days, what color is car B?

Libra (Sept. 23–Oct.23) Like most Librans you are a sniveling complainer, unable to get your mind around the fact that we are all responsible for our own karma. Perhaps the mess that is your present life is but your last request from a previous existence. Try to discover why you were executed in that existence and what your first requests were.

Scorpio (Oct. 24–Npv. 21) According to the George Zimmerman Random Actuarial Profiler, where "10" equals "dead-bolt cinch" and "0" equals "dead in the street," your critical numbers for this week are: communicable disease, 8; grace under fire, 3; plays well with others, 1; inappropriate response 9; cannot recommend for advancement, 8.

Sagittarius (Nov. 22–Dec. 21) Sagittarians are ruled by the buttocks, the seat of all power. Their gemstone is porcelain, their favorite time of day is right after meals, and they prize regularity above all other virtues.

Capricorn (Dec. 22–Jan. 19) Capricorns suffer from automonosis—the tendency to become bored with one's own company. If you hanker to get away from yourself, here's a tip: you don't have to die in order to be reincarnated. If you don't like who you are, become somebody else. There are companies that advertise in the backs of magazines that will help you.

Aquarius (Jan. 20–Feb. 18) Your life is a run-on sentence that is out of control and greatly in need of editing. Learn to appreciate the nuances of subordinate clauses and the hierarchical conjunctions that exist among colons, semicolons, commas, and em dashes.

Pisces (Feb. 19–March 20) Ever the cynic you have no trouble believing it isn't butter; that some minds would not be a terrible thing to waste; and that maybe you don't deserve a break today. You also have a highly developed sense of irony, which leads you to walk around muttering "I see living people" in a tiny, traumatized voice.

Aries (March 21–April 19) If the enemy of your enemy is your friend, does that mean your friend's friend is your enemy? Or are you simply being paranoid? Don't make any decisions unless you begin getting calls from a foreign-sounding man who breathes heavily into the phone and identifies himself as a friend of a friend.

Taurus (April 20–May 20) Your sun is in Leo, which could mean trouble because it's supposed to be in Albuquerque. Leo's son, meanwhile, has just confessed his love for his stepmother, who is being blackmailed by a mysterious man named Kurt.Pictures at 11:00.

Gemini (May 21–June 21) After a twelve-course Chinese dinner, you switch fortune cookies with the person next to you when she isn't looking. When she opens "her" cookie, she grins happily. Several weeks later you learn that she has won several $8 million in the lottery. Meanwhile, the cookie that you opened said, "That wasn't really pork."


The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a powdery, old-hag English teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive.
Visit The Grammar Prick
Postcards the Book
The book that inspired a website is available from Cedar Tree Books. Written by someone who was actually raised by pugs, Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.
Sample chapters . . . 1 2

Beloved Fashion Icon Muammar el-Qaddafi Slain
Oct 21, 2011 - 12:48:00 PM
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He was more than just another pretty face.
MISURATA, Libya - From Milan to Miami, from Moscow to Macao, Hermes scarves are flying at half mast in memory of trend-setting fashion icon Muammar el-Qaddafi. The beloved haute couture trailblazer was slain yesterday in his hometown of Surt. He was sixty-nine, but in his heart he was still the twenty-seven-year-old stud muffin who took over the reins of fashion in Libya in 1969.

As the regenade designers who killed Colonel Qaddafi nearly came to blows over his Nokia cellphone-gun, his Swarovski-encrusted iPad2, his silk scarf, and one black Manolo Blahnik boot, true fashionistas around the world struggled to process the news of his death. BFF (Best Fashion Friend) North Korean dictator Kim Jong-il, issued the following statement.

"That mutha-fucka was crazy. At the surprise sweet-sixteen party my loyal subjects gave me in 2006 to express their gratitude for my sixteen years as the ruler of North Korea, that crazy Quaddafi tried to drink all the Veuve Clicquot from the Wave machine. What a hoot."

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The Muammar el-Qaddafi memorial scarf from Hermes.
Hotel, furniture, and clothes designer Todd Oldham expressed his awe at Colonel Qaddafi's ability to "wear anything and make it his; I mean literally make it his. Mo-Mo—we always called him Mo-Mo—was unique. You can't teach that sort of trademark indignation. It's got to come from within."

Daddy Q, as Colonel Qaddafi liked to be called, was not one of those fey, winsome boy-men who flaunt their androgyny like a gaily colored Michael Kors cape. His was a man's man handsomeness, rugged and impenetrable, a face that looked as if it had been ridden hard and put away wet.

It was also a face that was no stranger to a scalpel. In 1995 Brazilian cosmetic artist Dr. Liacyr Ribeiro was tasked with shaving years off Colonel Qaddafi's appearance by removing fat from his belly and injecting it into his face. The Libyan fashion leader also got hair plugs from a second physician at the same time. Dr. Ribeiro treated Colonel Qaddafi in his bunker, which "had two fully equipped and very modern operating rooms, a gym, and a swimming pool," said Dr. Ribeiro.

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"We're Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."
True to Colonel Qaddafi's macho code, the procedures were done, at his insistence, with local anesthesia because he wanted to remain alert. Midway through he stopped to have a hamburger.

"Colonel Qaddafi told me that he had been in power for twenty-five years at that time, and he did not want the young people of his nation to see him as an old man," said Dr. Ribeiro.

"Mo-Mo wasn't about to let the chins fall where they may," laughed Gastronella Fellini-Rossi, long rumored to Colonel Qaddafi's favorite amuse bouche. "He was determined to rock that curly black mop until the end."

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Colonel Qaddafi's custom-made cellphone gun.
The impact that Colonel Qaddafi had on fashionistas—not only in Libya but also around the world—would be impossible to overstate. Whatever his fashion mood—retro psychedelic, desert chic, military splendor, metrosexual cutting edge—it was copied from Khartoum to Kmart. The next time you see a proud man in desert regalia flowing down Main Street you can thank Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi.

The man they called Muammar, Moammar, or Mu'ammar, Qaddafi, Gaddafi, Gathafi, or Kadafi carried his country's fashion banner fearlessly for forty-two years. Through his many moods and mysteries, he never strayed from his core beliefs in flare and authenticity.

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An avowed feminist, Colonel Qaddafi was one of the first dictators to employ an all-female bodyguard staff.
In the end, however, he was struck down and his garments rent—the fashion world's greatest sign of disrespect—by wannabe trend setters who weren't fit to lick the hems of his garments. These brigands tried to rationalize their dreadful actions by accusing Colonel Qaddafi of holding the youth of his country down with his eternal boyishness and his constantly evolving sense of style.

That, Dear Readers, is poppycock. Colonel Qaddafi had far more frenemies than true enemies. He gave and gave to his people—actually gave them the clothes off his back in the end—until he had nothing left to give. The Arab spring is in for a long, cold winter.


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