"P.J."

My friend Mason was kind enough to send me this new powerfist. He found it on Drudge today:

Longtime readers if any will remember that the Drunkablog is something of an expert collector and evaluator of powerfists. Let me assay this one: Though overly staged, the well-clenched left fist initially looks impressive. On examination, however, the bent wrist is weak. Much more seriously, the fist's revolutionary power is fatally compromised by the provocatory right-deviationist presence of a Swatch watch.

See? Expert. The picture's still up at Drudge, but here's the article it accompanied, on the most recent rioting in Fwance.

A digression

There's a frequent blog commenter, I forget where, who always calls the place Fwance, and every time I see it I laugh. It's just so childishly mean: Fwance. It reminds me of the horrible nickname a friend came up with for a housemate when I lived near Third and Grant.

This housemate, "P.J.," was a little snooty, but she was cute and training to be something serious like an architect. We, on the other hand, were slobbering drunks. Fairly polite as slobbering drunks go, but still, she was right to act snooty. Unfortunately this just made the truly childish nickname my friend gave her in (mostly) mock retaliation even funnier; at least, to my eternal shame I always laughed at it. His nickname for the attractive, articulate P.J.?

Piss Jerk.

Now I am grown wise and large-spirited, and would never find such immaturity amusing. Now I only wish to preserve as best I can the fading, fond memories of that house and that time.

And of good ol' Piss Jerk.