Medium-length story short: "Damn, Paris Hilton's got breasts!"

Medium-length story, slightly expanded: The Ford's walking to The Official Bar, when he passes a billboard in the parking lot advertising the next season of The Simple Life, which is apparently on E! (a network that should be more popular with The Ford, considering its inherent grasp of the joy of punctuation, but still makes him feel vaguely dirty every time he watches it.)
On the billboard, airbrushed as all-get-out, Nicole Ritchie's lost a TON of weight. And "Damn, Paris Hilton's got breasts".
Which is a little scary to see, since, by The Ford's reckoning, she's already maximizing her Hotness Quotient by acting/living/being a skank. But big breasts, they tend to throw off the time-tested Hotness Quotient formula. Add big breasts to a skanky persona, and well, it's utter -- not udder -- madness.
And then The Ford catches this blog posting, and all his worrying is done. Paris Hilton has nipples, but an average-sized bosom.
And if there was ever a sentence that would send me to hell, it's that one.

No wait, it's this one: Despite some distrubing gender-specific choices, The Ford took the quiz to see whether he is Paris Hilton or Nicole Ritchie. He, apparently, is Paris. He's really not sure how to feel about this.

Don't you wish, dear reader, that The Ford had stopped with the short version of the story.

In other news, The Ford's still gonna turn 27 on Sunday. In case you were worried. Also, The Ford is still pretty shameless. So that's good news, as well.

In other continuing sagas, The Ford's bad haircut phase might be about over. While The Ford is now getting secondary signs that he needs a trim (i.e. hair popping over the collar and rolling over the ears, necessitating the hair tuck move from "Wayne's World," the top of the head is finally the right length. It's holding a combing all day, and is even adjustable, should a strong wind disrupt said combing. Really, that's all The Ford wants. A haircut where, for at least 3 weeks, he can comb it in the morning, and never again have to worry about how it's sitting.

Finally, The Official Late-May Cold Of The Official Blog of The Ford has hit Stage 3: Hack-a-Ford.
Yes, it's coughing galore wherever The Ford ventures. He'd feel worse about that, but simply drawing a breath seems like a moral victory at this point. Plus, years of poor athletic play have inured him to shortness of breath and great, raspy gasps as other folks look on in horror at the person about to die in their vicinity.

The. Ford. Does. Not. Die.

He just multiplies. (Usually in his head.)

Thus hacketh The Ford.