From the Department of Redundancy Department

I got this link from Justine's (formerly inaccurately cited as 'Justin'—I'll have to fix that deplorable lost 'e'). It's one of those things that, when I stumble on it, I feel compelled to share it with the world. Well, okay, I'm not sharing it with the world here, I'm only making it available in a very theoretical way to the world. I'm increasing it's visibility, but not by a measurable amount. Unless StatCounter.com has been lying to me, most of you are a few friends and online acquaintances. Possibly a relative or two. Not sure, because Lincoln, NE could be Frau Lobster's childhood friend, the friend's husband, and if parental guidance is slack, their son. Or Lincoln, NE could be one of the bloggers I've encountered who either cop to living in Lincoln or who could live in Lincoln but are rightfully cautious about their anonymity. Especially if they blog about how they can't stop touching themselves and post profile shots that arouse even the unaccountable.

But I won't blow anyone's cover. Despite the pretty un-anonymous way I blog, I'm not a twenty-something who has reason to factor stalkers into the equation. If I had a stalker, and by that I mean one that I didn't owe money to, the stalker would not be a cause for fear as much as an object of pity.

But I digress. Again. Redundant fucking Lobster, ain't I? I only started this post so you could read about this guy's leather pants. Pity they're not still for sale, I might bid on them. Well, I mean, I would if they were about ten inches bigger at the waist, inexpensive, and I was planning a Halloween costume more drag-queen than last year's.

As you can see, a Lobster in a dress is about as drag as it gets. I crack up when Dorian Green tells Ignatius Reilly that he looks like Charles Laughton in drag, and refers to him as 'Gypsy Queen.'

I've talked about trying to find a grass skirt and coconut halter for this year, Thing One objects, thinking that her Daddy has not fully debased himself and doesn't want to see it come to pass. My hair is still long, my beard is still long. Okay, they're both longer, but pardon the beard, it's the price you pay for a kid to get a decent wig after dealing with cancer treatments that make them go temporarily bald. If I'm growing my hair to a donatable length (I'm sweating, so please, God, if you're there, make it happen by the time it gets warm out next year. Warm to me is 65ºF).

Thing One always wants me to be some character from Kim Possible, but since I find that show ImPossible to watch, I can't do it.

Meantime, I hope you enjoy the dude's unfortunate choices. His mistake, no doubt, made DKNY think they'd done something right, right enough to justify a sum comparable to a good entry-level preamp or a speaker-wire upgrade. You know, shit with actual value (as opposed to pants that make you look like an ass, make your ass sweaty, and mainly attract guys who are not just homosexual, but who chose their partners by rear-view only). In my case a 44” waist, which was probably not even made by DKNY. Unless there’s a ‘DKNY Big and Tall’ (euphemism for normal height and fat).