Come on Shake Your Body Baby do that Conga!!

You know you can't control yourself any longer.

You can feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger.

So, why don't you just come on and shake your body baby, do that conga.

I actually think I may have included some excerpts from that spicy late-80s early-90s latin pop scene in earlier moments of writing. Gloria Estefan rocks and everybody else is average ( (C) Paul Allen). I really have very little else to say on the subject of Gloria Estefan. When I got my digital cable out here in Assfalo one of the pay-per-view preview stations had a Prince concert on it, so I rocked out on that obviously, and Gloria Estefan and Sheila E both showed up to jam out on the bongos. To clarify, they were jamming out on bongo drums, not the breasts of well-endowed women. Bongos is a great word for breasts. "Check out the bongos on that honey." I tried to denote a wolf's noise after that, the howly thing that people do to imitate a wolf that is supposed to indicate that a person (usually one of the vaginal persuasion, but I suppose its been done about the masculinos, los senores qui tienen los peniserojos) is hot, foxy, sexy, ravishing, or even, dare I say, bootylicious. I am not sure how to indicate that however, so instead of shooting randomly in the dark I will let those sentences denote this noise.

So I didn't get done as much as I intended to today, but luckily its still early in the semsester and I am ahead on beaucoup de mon shit. We're reading Schmitt's Concept of the Political with Gasche, who originally thought he would be going through these texts much faster. He failed, on that front at least, since last Tuesday I believe we covered 4 pages. That is actually a bit slower than he usually goes, but you certainly can't critique his presentation of those pages. Its a really interesting book and a philosophy (if you wish to call it that) that for some reason I simply haven't heard anything about, despite the repeated assurances from everyone who has discussed it that he is coming into vogue. Its hard to come too far into vogue when about 2 of your books have been translated and one of them is 60 fucking bucks, but maybe he is on the rise.

So when I tried to type bucks in that previous sentence I accidentally included an "i" so it appeared to cost 60 Buicks. This made me imagine some sort of aboriginal society in which Buicks are the local currency, but its not like there are parts of a Buick, one Buick is the lowest denomination of currency. You wouldn't be able to drive the Buicks of course since to do so would risk devaluing the currency, but you would have to lug a couple Buicks around with you in case you needed a soda. The Buick accepters on soda machines sound like they would rock too. You would like pull an old crumpled up Buick out of the Buick container (I guess you would probably have to drive like one of those trucks that brings cars to dealerships, maybe chicks who carry big purses (or the Dobs, who used to have a bodacious man purse) would have like even bigger trucks, like aircraft carriers with trucks on them, since that is the equivalent of like having a bag with a wallet inside it, my bad, that analogy munched) and try to insert it into the Buick accepter, but it would be too folded and it would spit it back out and you would try to flatten the fender and send it back in, etc. This is a fantastic idea, I am going to find some aboriginal people and pitch this to Buick. They donate like 5-6000 Buicks to some people for the purpose of establishing a currency and then they can come back in like 5 years and make a SuperBowl commercial out of it. Its a fantasgreat idea.

Alright, Katie is demanding that we, for some brilliant reason, leave our comfy warm apartment and confront the treacherousity of the Assfalo elements so we can get ice cream with truffles in it. We do, notably, have two different varieties of iceified cream in the freezer, but whatev. I may continue later tonight or do some pre-SuperBowl bloggining manana.

Peace,

MB-K