That's so random

We’ve experienced a couple of slow days at work this week, and by slow I mean the watch the paint curl on the wall, stare at the blades of the ceiling fan, hope for a gas leak on the block so we can all go home kind of slow. To entertain myself, I emailed Shank a philosophical question about whether or not it's more stressful to be too busy or not busy enough and got a rather unsympathetic rant about “the Kafka-esque prison of ennui that the Cataloging Department has become” and how he was just a little bit too busy at the moment to debate the issue.

All these random thoughts and emails are flitting through my brain, and I’m flinging them into the blogosphere.

Is it true, as Sport says, that there is too much potato in French fries?

Was Roy Keane, as LegoGuy insists, the best soccer player in Ireland?

SO asks, Does being a good son require that he dog-sit a yappy Schnauzer for an entire month in October?

EarthMama wants to know, Which relative would you resurrect and what would you ask them?

BlueCat wonders, If our lunch hours overlapped, would it cause a time warp that would rip the very fabric of the space-time continuum and suck all of us into a parallel dimension where the books and CDs cataloged us?

Snickers says, Do all B&Bs require their guests to socialize and have breakfast with the proprietor, (like the old lady in Flirting with Disaster)? And if so, why?

Cher asks, Does anyone have the guts to sneak into our mother’s closet and throw away the pink Pimp Daddy beret lurking there? Anyone? (Bueller … Bueller …)

Shank agonizes, Why did Zidane throw a headbutt, and what are the moral implications that come with defending the flawed, but god-like futboler?

I’m wondering about the term, Lucky Pierre, which I heard at lunch today, and if there’s such a thing as a Lucky Pierrette. Is the thought of it more enticing than actually participating?

Aaahhh, so many questions. So much time to wonder.