Tea and Fug and Bush. Not Dubya.

My roomie is busy brewing my nightly cuppa, and I am waiting for its soothing warmth. Speaking of tea, I went to the supermarket in search of more loose-leaf tea, only to discover that no such product exists on American shelves. Oh, they had tea by the ying-yang, but it was all in teabags. Even the Earl Grey and British Breakfast Tea. Blasphemy. Blasphemy, I say!

I don't get it. They sell coffee in bulk, in canisters and bags and stay-fresh pouches, so why not tea? Are Americans so brain-dead that they can't cope without the teabag? They do well enough with the coffee, it seems. Even the wealthy, snooty wrinkle bags with too many jewels and too few brains can manage the daunting task of scooping their ferret-bum coffee into the percolator. Why is tea so hard? Gah. It's amazing how quickly I've become a tea snob. I tried to drink sweet tea today and spit it out after a sip. I guess I'll just have to get my tea from my crack dealer fine purveyor of proper tea, aculeatus.

I did, however, buy a five-pound bag of sugar.

On a totally unrelated note, while perusing the hilarious Go Fug Yourself , I came across this site, Ugly Dresses, which featured this dress: The Gimpess Bride.

I'm not sure I understand the logic there. Why try and cover the chair? Were you going to rip off the dress at the end of the night and scream, "Surprise!" Odds are, if you've made it down the aisle, your love knows about the chair. He should, anyway. What, did he think it was the latest fashion craze? Wheels, the new black. The dress is hideous. It looks like she swathed herself in butcher block paper or is attempting to smuggle midgets into the country.

Were I to marry, I'd want a gown tapered to my body so as to minimize the risk of catching it in the wheels and tearing away halfway to the altar to expose the wedding night party favor to the world. Good Lord.

Especially mine. You could lose an entire anthropological expedition in that bushland, mate.