The Guv'ner is Cross

There's nothing screams "I'M A BRIT!" quite like standing in the supermarket line clenching a jar of Roses' Lime Marmalade in your sweaty fists. Well, except maybe standing in a supermarket line wearing a Union Jack t-shirt while sporting a skinhead and featuring a tattoo of the Queen.

Naturally I was doing that as well. Look. Apparently I was also a zombie, but no law says you can't multi-task.

Scary isn't it? Maybe I should do it for real and freak my coworkers out? Anyway, lime marmalade is the cat's bollocks. (Not literally, that would be gross!)

This damn writer's strike will be the death of me. There's only so much Vagina Vision one can take, you know. Lifetime, LMN, O. Hallmark. Movies where fancy dressed soccer mom types solve murders. Where widowed housewives rent their guest house to some suave but overly creepy dude, with poufy hair and amazingly he turns out to be a pyscho mad stalker type who video tapes her in the shower and then tries to kill her with her own panty hose. Whoa dude, no one saw that coming!

I'd actually like to see the national, female suicide rate for the period of the strike. There must be thousands of TV addicted women throwing themselves out of windows and slicing into their wrists, while muttering, "Not fucking Valerie Bertinelli again!" and "What does Richard Grieco DO these days anyway?" and "You'll always be LAURA INGALLS, bitch!" I blame Canada for making movie making affordable. Damn you Canadia.

End the damn strike already!