I snapped this photo in the men’s room at the office where I work. The name/color/description of the hand soap is “Prestige Pink.”

While it sounds vaguely pornographic, the words prestige and pink have probably never been so close together before in the history of words.

Here’s to marketing departments run by accountants and relatives of the company’s owner.

EDIT: I’ve always been bothered by the soap pumps on our office sinks. The protrusive pink tip on the silvery arm is like a miniature poodle’s slowly awakening tubesteak, preparing to attack a nearby pantleg and leave it blotted with the nutless juice of the pathetically castrated.

Regarding my post from a few days ago, the Pusslippers were, in fact, a gift for a friend of my wife. Here are the Pusslippers on the feet of the recipient. Not surprisingly, they still appear provocative while engaged.

My wife picked these up at Marshall’s last weekend. I assume they are for ones feet.

I’m in my guest house right now, clacking away at my book. I’ve got the portable heaters going, trying to keep the small house warm enough for my fingers to type without hurting. Since there’s no central heat or air back here, and since it’s been very cold, I’m finding it difficult to really heat the place up. Maybe I’ll bring the gas grill in next weekend and fire it up while I work.

Here’s a photo of the guest house, outside and an inside view of my writing station.

I believe it used to be a simple storehouse on my property that a previous owner converted into a more livable space. It’s about 250 square feet in size, and I recently finished painting it inside and out. I also put a new floor inside and added some curtains and furnishings. It’s fairly cozy, and a perfect place to write.

Speaking of writing, I’m still plugging away at it, but I’m finding the way is getting tougher. The sections of the story I’m in and approaching call for more research, which slows down the process. I’ve never had writer’s block in my life, but when I have to make time for research, my focus sometimes gets derailed (and I end up blogging instead of working on the book).

Stephan Britt, legendary artist and southern wit, sent me this link last week. It is VERY, VERY adult, so don’t open it at work or on your iPhone at church. It is a fleshpet, in a raw sense. I had nothing to do with its creation, nor do I know the filmmakers who created it. However, I may contact them to find out more about how and why they came up with such a disturbing idea.

I get a sense that the filmmakers made this just for shock value, which I can appreciate from a punk rock point of view. My fleshpets are part of a cautionary tale, rather than a joke in of themselves. And, in my created world, they are not given to grandmas for Christmas. They are bought in back alleys and traded in foreign countries. There’s more to my vision of these creatures, so you’ll have to read my book whenever it’s done (I’m hoping the first draft of the book will be done by summer).

I purchased this huge cheese bucket for an upcoming holiday party I plan to attend. Although it was the only massive can of queso available in Costco, the lid of the can advertised it as the #1 name in cheese sauce.

I wonder what the board meeting was like when they realized they could use this bit of branding. I can imagine that getting to be the #1 name in cheese sauce required mucho sacrifice and a tenacity some might consider a tiny bit tonto. There must have been a serious amount of chest bumping and high fives going on at B & G Foods, the corporate chiefs of Ortega (who are the sauce-making brand).

I used to eat a lot of this type of sauce, and I imagine that others still do. What I can’t believe is that one sauce rose to the top of el mundo and reigns supreme. Can there be only one?