It’s prom night at the high school, and the streets are crawling with limos. Just think, a large number of our local youth are under the care of anonymous drivers for the minimum limo rental of 8 hours!

Didi’s daughter—just a squeaky little five-year-old when I first laid eyes on her—looks like a goddess in her glamorous prom gown, what with the front of her skirt slit up to here, and her back plunging down to there, and lots of ventilation hither and thus…

As I complimented her on how pretty she looked, I remembered my own inadequate self at 17, and wondered how exactly 17 got so quickly replaced with forty-something. I also wondered how Didi’s daughter was actually going to SIT in that limo, considering the tricky engineering of her prom dress.

But there’s no time for chit chat! On to today’s Super Late Super Sabado!

Tonight’s Super Late Super Sabado is a bit of a mish mash, since I’ve been working at it in bits and pieces all day. I got behind in my reading this week. I had a nice time catching up, though.

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I keep finding myself wondering whether there’s a little footnote in the report somewhere explaining that New York did once have a National Landmark, but some people flew a couple of planes into it.

Neil Gaiman on the surprising news there are zero national monuments and icons in New York City, according to a Department of Homeland Security report, which is why it’s okay to slash anti-terror funds there by 40 percent.

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Ok, fine, so maybe I was overreacting a bit. The hair is dark, but it’s not that dark. The freshly dyed hair, still wet from the shower, combined with the late hour and the long black nightgown sort of made me feel like I should wear lots of eyeliner and draw pentagrams everywhere. But today, after a good night’s sleep and some berry lipgloss, things don’t seem quite so bad.

The Glitterati of Brain Spam, after a run-in with Clairol #20 Hazelnut Medium Brown. Really, this just goes to remind everyone that there’s absolutely nothing a little berry lipgloss can’t fix.

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Personally, I prefer the rich comedy of King Lear, where the characters get to recite lines like ‘Out, vile jelly!’ at one another with relish and aplomb before popping one another’s eyes out. Amputation does much more for a play than procrastination, it seems to me.

TimT of Will Type for Food, on the healthy benefits of vile jellies and amputations in the theater. He doesn’t say anything, though, about berry lip gloss.

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Before we start this, the second day of Reboot 8.0, it is important that you learn the following: I am typing this in my undies. True story.

Michael Heilemann of Binary Bonsai, reporting from the Reboot 8.0, a convention which appears to have been a little more stimulating than the promoters originally led us to believe it would be.

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So as you can see, killing your spouse is not a good option. Don’t do it. The End.

Mel of the Smooshie Diaries, sounding like a woman you don’t want to mess with.

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Oh, I am sure they think they have a reason but just because your brother is sitting beside you does not strike me as enough motivation to punch him in the stomach… maybe it’s just me.

Dennie of Dennie’s Thoughts on male siblings’ tendencies to mess with each other.

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In most cases I used double sided Hollywood tape in strategic spots to keep “the girls” from getting away! That’s part of the service of being a seamstress! And as one of my girlfriends put it. “It also keeps the boys from getting fresh!”

Bonnie of Bonnie Writes, who just clued us in as to how Didi’s daughter was able to enter and exit that limo without some major revelations.

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I dunno, tatts may look ok whilst we’re young, but people we age, gravity takes over. I don’t want tatts on my tits when i’m 80….ewwwww!!

Michelle of Justitia and some cautionary word pictures that made us grab blindly for our eyewash.

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Statistics are misleading and often lack necessary context. But does it really amount to much in the scheme of things if someone from Ulan Bataar looking for “aunty sagging tits” flashes on your blog?

Bernita Harris of An Innocent A-Blog, and we see we’re not through with that eyewash yet.

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He’s still. Then his deep rumble of a voice erupts. He’s talking to his tail. The butt swings the same time his head snaps to the side. He’ll get it, if only he talks loud and mean enough.

Kait‘s dog, Two-Toes. We’re not too sure, Kait, but it sounds like the little guy may need some time on the therapist’s couch in the near future.

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I am giving up writing to join the circus. Then I’ll retire to Paris and have Lala Scrivano write my memoirs while I swill gin and beer and mutter Gunga Din at discrete intervals. Or should that be discreet intervals?

M.G. Tarquini of Genre Neutral, who scoffs at the therapist’s couch, especially if there’s gin available, but who will never leave behind a good dictionary.

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Maybe this stuff was new when the book was published in the 90s, but now, the tired, lonely, seeking a lifemate vampire is too trite for me. Without much preamble, he scents his lifemate and goes into vampy heat: “He must have her; he would have her; he would possess her; he burned for her.” Dude. There’s medicine for that burning sensation.

Pat Kirby of Ramblings from the Desert, who has a thing or two to tell Lestat, if she ever runs into him.

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And for those of you who’ve stayed through the very end, let’s go have some more chips and salsa at the Spock Casa. But don’t make fun of his artwork, okay? Just tell him it’s “dope.”