Just one year baby book. High chair covers for baby. Baby talk magazine.
Saturday Night Live - The Best of Will Ferrell - Volume 2
In all of Saturday Night Live history one of the greatest of the greats is Will Ferrell and this is the ultimate collection for the Ferrell fan. You'll get Janet Reno's Dance Party The Lovers James Lipton's "Inside the Actor's Studio" the classic Wake Up and Smile the legendary Bill Brasky and many more. Extras include his hilarious appearances on "Late Night with Conan O'Brien" and SNL sketches that were cut after Dress Rehearsal and never seen until now.System Requirements:Running Time: 75-80 Min.Format: DVD MOVIE Genre: COMEDY UPC: 031398163046 Manufacturer No: 1630481% (9)
There is no drop-off in laughs from the first to second volume of Will Ferrell's work on Saturday Night Live. Giggle along with his recurring characters, including James Lipton (interviewing Kate Hudson as a wonderfully ditzy Drew Barrymore), a wickedly clever George W. Bush, and one-half of the smarmy Lovers couple. This volume spotlights Ferrell's ability to go successfully over-the-top whether as an overbearing boss (check out how long he keeps stabbing a doomed coworker), a strict airplane pilot, an absent-minded doctor, or the world's oldest baby. There's plenty of unabashed (near) nudity and risky violence, which keeps the SNL tradition of "Not Ready for Prime Time"; check out what longtime hosts of the morning talk show resort to when the much-needed teleprompter fails. All that plus "Janet Reno's Dance Party" (with guest Rudy Giuliani) makes this the perfect pick-up for those who could not get enough of Ferrell with volume 1. --Doug Thomas
mom and baby
Tonight, I finished my book. I wrote what I think is the most important part early this evening—odd because I'm a morning writer. But whatever. Just a few minutes ago, I added eight quotes to the eight parts, and I sealed it up and sent it to myself. Here's the letter to the reader. I hope you like it. It's truly a taste of the rest of the book's tone and flavor, though the book is much funnier. - - - - - - book excerpt “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?” —Steven Wright, Comedian A Note to the Reader: Lots of writers I know tend to keep their projects a secret, as if someone will steal the idea right out from under them. But it takes a long time to write a book. This one is three years in the making, and something noteworthy about cake—a funny quote, a standup routine, a new snack cake—seems to unfold daily, like a serial flasher. You know it’s freaky, but you just can’t look away. News finds me because I’ve told everyone about it. Sometimes the responses go the way they did on a trip to New York. I duck into Desmond’s, a seedy pub on Park Avenue near 29th Street, to hide from the rain. Brian, the bartender, is celebrating his 42nd birthday without beer, cigarettes, or cake. Poor guy. If I had met him before this late afternoon, I’d swear he had aged from the stress of it. I order a proper Smithwicks (Smiddicks) and take out my notebook. A few guys want to buy Brian a drink, but that would weaken his resolve to quit smoking for good. Brian moves from one customer to the next, switching places with an empty, used pint glass, setting it on the bar ledge in front of me while he talks with the guy next to me, putting it in front of that guy while he talks to me. He does this several times before I ask. “It’s an idiosyncrasy,” he tells me, blaming it on the nicotine withdrawal. He looks like a movie star. He’s smart. He has a good vocabulary. He knows more facts about politics and history than any of the twenty-something business people he sets straight about them at the bar. I don’t know why this surprises me. Bartenders often know more. At least two guys near me are British, and the one beside me is on a Christmas-shopping holiday. He is in his forties, too, it seems, and wears a knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows; I have no idea if he has hair. He’s just finished describing how his forklift flipped over while he was driving it, how he got back into the seat, how he was subsequently ejected, how the forklift kept going, and how it ran over three of his toes, which had to be amputated. He's having trouble getting around. Because I asked him, he wants to know what I’m doing in New York, and I tell him I’m working on a book. In order to hear this properly in your head, imagine the bloke is folk singer Billy Bragg or some Bob Hoskins character—or whatever you think is Cockney. "About what?" he asks. "Cake," I say. "Cake?" he asks. "Cake," I say again. "C-A-K-E cake?" He almost cocks his head like a puppy. "Yes, cake!" "About making it?" "No, about eating it!" "Well, all right then!" And with that, he offers to buy me a beer. Both he and a gentleman at the end of the bar start laughing about someone they and the bartender know as "Mr. Kipling." By way of explanation, they say, in unison, "Exceedingly good cakes!" "Are they?" I ask. It's the company's tag line (and, I discover, the name of a now-defunct band). They agree that the cakes are pretty good, but the pie! I'm a sucker for those mincemeat pies, the little ones that look like cookies, but I’d still choose cake. My seven-toed English friend and I move on to other subjects, amputation among them. I show him where I chopped off my thumb tip a few years ago with an X-acto knife, and he shows me a similarly damaged finger. Back at home in Baltimore, I visited their site on the web and learned that Mr. Kipling’s cakes are the “benchmark of quality and innovation in the ambient cake market place.” It is ambient, isn’t it? Oh, how I long for some cake ambience right now! My e-mails to the forty-year-old Kipling, a man who’s as fake as Betty Crocker, yielded little more than a lovely chat with a woman named Elinor about their pretty Battenberg cakes. I never even learned whether Rank Hovis McDougall, Mr. Kipling’s parent company, has a crying room, like General Mills does for all the ladies who are reduced to crumbs when they learn their beloved Betty was a marketing tool. So you won’t find a visit to Mr. Kipling’s in this book about eating cake. There’s no appendix of every cake ever made. I don’t even speak much of carrot cake, our household favorite. I hardly utter one of the biggest names in cake: Martha Stewart. I neglect to mention a late 2007 bobblehead cake topper recall (it contained lead), and when to use baking soda instead of powder. (Since you aResults of the book festival
Today and Tomorrow - WV Book Festival 2009 These are my new additions. I have a serious problem parting with books and a habit of always purchasing more. I feel like they're home because no other place really feels like home. I'm cool with it. One day, I'll have a house and one room will have a wall of built in shelves (I assume I'll have to do these myself.) and I will not feel like such a pack rat for keeping all of my books because the collection will be organized and beautiful. I'm not a pack rat with anything else but books. I'm so excited that I don't know where to start. The only other thing purchased was a book my dad picked out for himself. I was very surprised. I hope he gets what he wants from it. He picked The Art of Giving and Receiving Criticism. It had a picture of Jesus on it. I don't think he saw the word Criticism. I could be wrong. As soon as he entered the room with the giant used book sale, he sauntered over to the Paranormal section. He then browsed Religion, picked the Jesus book and gave it to my brother and me to purchase while he waited. He's always so thoughtful. I've been doing a lot of thinking about my dad lately. I really didn't intend for this to be an update on stuff, but what happens does. I love West Virginia so much. Last weekend was the Mt. Hope Jubilee. This weekend, the book festival. Next weekend is Bridge Day to celebrate the New River (I just typed Rover) Gorge Bridge. I took Amelia last year. I don't know what my draw to these type of things are, but I just love them. I never really do much. I just watch and listen and fall more in love with the place I'm visiting. Cusp.
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