Mexico's president Vincente Fox is visitng America right now, and spending a lot of time with George. A lot of time. And, apparently, Fox keeps surprising and embarassing George by saying weird stuff at inappropriate times. I almost feel sorry for George. It's like having to spend time with a dorky cousin who just won't go the fuck home already.

Far be it from me to make an actual political statement. I just like to reduce world politics to terms that I can understand and enjoy. You know what I'm saying: If the international arena were a highschool, the French would be a pissed off kid in a Marilyn Manson t-shirt who would automatically do everything opposite of Mr. Honors Student/School Athlete America. England would be a friendly chum or sidekick. And Mexico would be the kid that lived in the house next door to America, and although they were never really friends, now that it's highschool, Mexico has decided to make himself very loud and annoying.

Canada is all like "Whatev."

I know better than to write when I'm not 100%. But I wanted to anyway. For some reason, my fucking right arm is fucking killing fucking me. Yeah, it hurts.

So, I was in the ultra-swank J. Walter Thompson-Chicago offices yesterday. Sat in a room. My voice was recorded, my movements watched from behind a two way mirror. I told them that I thought adding a dusting of cheese to a product was a pretty cycnical way to make a new product. I did say I liked the plain mini Ritz, though, because I did. And, thus, I contributed to peace on earth and goodwill towards men.

Then, they gave me $120, thirty of which I promptly spent. I bought a new video game to become obsessed with because that's a move that makes oh-so-much sense when you're about to start your last semester of college with six classes and a part time job. I needed a new pair of nighttime chill/sleeping shorts because my beloved and comfy and sentimental old DePaul pair had lost it's elastic and kept exposing my ass by slipping down around my ankles when I walked around.

It had become ridiculous enough.

Ooh, here's some good news: a certain production assistant from a certain network sitcom that is being produced in a certain suburb of a certain midwest city will be calling me soon regarding my return to their fold as an intern. He says it's pretty much a lock that I can come back. The only snag will be telling work that my previously wide open Fridays will no longer be wide open. I have a simple viewpoint on that, though: Sorry and goodbye. It will behoove my by far more to find myself on a television set when I graduate in January as opposed to making sure the 88 year old Ms. Iwanycyk is comfortable in the waiting area and gets her Pravacol.

The world is a beautiful place, except that it's humid, my arm hurts, and my coffee was weak because I was down to the very last of the grounds. Otherwise, the world is a beautiful place.