Merrick:  “I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!”* me:  “Beg your pardon?” Merrick:  “I AM NOT AN ANIMAL.  I AM A HUMAN BEING!” me:  “I hear you.” Merrick:  me:  “Say.  What’s all that shit on your head, man?”

steamed dumpling: “In a New York Times op-ed this morning, Stanley Fish makes the intentionalist argument that the ‘textualist’ approach to interpretation favored by justices like Antonin Scalia is incoherent, noting that ‘textualists insist that what an interpreter seeks to establish is the meaning of the text as it exists apart from anyone’s intention’—that, from Scalia’s perspective, what’s important is ‘what is “said,” not what is “meant,”’—an empty gesture, in

me: “So.  That Joe Wilson sure is giving you a heap of trouble, isn’t he?” Karl Rove’s breakfast burrito: “I’m not at liberty to discuss that at this time.” me: “Yes or no, then:  Karl Rove outed Joe Wilson’s covert CIA operative wife, Valerie Plame, in retaliation for the Ambassador’s high-profile criticism of the Iraq war.”* Karl Rove’s breakfast burrito: “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that either.” me: “You

me: “So, why did the apple cross the road…?” apple: me: “Give up?  Because it’d been eaten by the chicken.” apple: me: “…who, y’know, then himself crossed the road, presumably…” apple: me: “…the chicken, that is.” apple: me: “Heh.” apple: me: “..You don’t get it, do you?” apple: “Oh, I get it.  It’s figuring out how a dork like you managed to nab a mate and procreate that’s got me

Wait a second, man.  If you’re gonna make your own cutoffs, you really have to commit.  Now.  Let’s see a little less denim and a little more Daisy Duke, brother.  And don’t worry—you’ve definitely got the ass to pull it off.  Trust me.

me: “You ever get really lonely, apple?” apple: “Lonely?” me: “Yeah. I mean, d’you ever just look around you and think, ‘there’s got to be more to life than this…?’” apple: “Not really, no –” me: “– more to it than just sitting around all day, watching tv, eating snack foods, waiting to grow old and die…” apple: me: apple: “Out of Funyons again, are you –?” me: “– I

steamed dumpling:  “But what you’re positing sounds to me an awful lot like intentionalism.  Which, that’s been out of academic fashion since, what?—the New Critics?* me: “Sure.  But just because something goes out of fashion doesn’t make it useless.” steamed dumpling:  me: steamed dumpling: “Parachute pants?” me: “Sewed mine together and made a really nifty tent.  With lots of little compartments for storage.”

steamed dumpling:  “Okay, tell me this, then.  What if your message is predicated on, say, a healthy dose of intratextuality—and some of those hoping to interpret your text don’t have the requisite information to properly resignify the graphemes?” me:  “What about it?” steamed dumpling:  “Well, who is, you know, responsible for the breakdown in communication in that particular interpretive situation?” me:  “Good question. If you pick up a hooker only

Me: “Don’t get me wrong: Klugman was excellent.  I’m just saying he’s no Matthau, is all.” The Ghost of Tony Randall:  “Fair enough, fair enough… Say, you want to grab a length of salami and spook the shit out Penny Marshall with me?  The woman is absolutely terrified of aged meat…”

Before you start trimming that scraggly-ass beard of yours, I should make it clear to you that I am very pro-Terri.  So, y’know—you might want to factor that into the grooming equation, death merchant…