Hello, My name is cathy..and I thought it might be fun to join not so big brother.I see there are already a few of you in the house,hopefully we can all get along,without me having to repremand you.I am rather strict on hygene and dont expect to be on my hands and knees all day cleaning up Mr sedgewicks urine splashes from the shower tray....I look forward to talking with you all in more depth.....see you soon.... Hugs.......Cathy

Okay, Sedgers, that's very clever...putting my head into the Coffee Spill cartoon. Well done. We've all had a good laugh. But, you know, being cooped up in this smelly house, stuck in this contest, unable to leave...it makes me think of the life I've left behind in the outside world. I think of all the mornings I've awaken to look into Angelina's eyes, and to hear her tell me that "Mr. Slingblade-What's-His-Name" never made her feel so good. I'm also reminded of that weekend in San Francisco last March, and a chance encounter that led to a threesome with Gillian Anderson and Heather Locklear. Heather wanted to invite Charlie Sheen, but Gillian guessed, very rightly so, that I would be all the man they would need that night...there was no reason to invite "Charlie the John" and all the diseases he's picked up over the years from his prostitute addiction. And when I look at your little cartoon stunt down there, and think of that night with Gillian and Heather, the immense pleasure they received...well, it makes your little joke seem more than a bit off. Like a million miles or so.

And a million miles...that's how far away the real-life world seems right now. Don't worry, Ms. Jolie, Your big cup of coffee will be back as soon as this contest is over. And thinking of that time makes me realize...if anyone was really against me in this game...if they really wanted to see me suffer...how would they best go about it? It dawns on me now that the best way to punish me in this game is to keep me from the outside world, from Angelina and so many other starlets, by voting off all of the other contestants week by week.

O.K. M'Organ, the gloves are off (and I thuoght yo were my friggin' frend!)... "narcissistic" !!? ... think you might take a look in the mirror yourself! Always willing to step up to the looking glass to put myself under rigorous scrutiny, I have done so ... and I LIKE WHAT I SEE!
The chances of voting me off are just so much wishful thinking. I have my hero ♥ George W. Bush's election scrutineers from Florida ready to provide me with whatever result I demand. Eat my jokckes!!

I have just finished reading the poem posted by Terry Sedgwick. Doing so has filled my head with questions. Although there are many, not surprisingly, each and every question is identical .... When in God's name can I vote Sedgwick off this blog? It's Sunday already for Christ's sake -- surely the time has come to rid this space of Sedger's incoherent, pretentious, narcissistic rambling. Mr. Hughes - How much longer do I have to wait?

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The photo posted by "Not So Big Brother" has much touched my heart. When so touched I am moved to take up the quill to pen my wistful and deepest thoughts in poetry. In the full knowledge that this uplifting pearl is cast unappreciated before the swine within this house, I publish and will not be damned.

"TO THE DARK WOMBAT"
(After the Bard's Sonnets)

Cry for the stiffness of the earlobe.
The turtles are fallen and the rain stands still.
May you be always able to find
admirers to throw tiny pickles at you.

Oh, how your melodic chewing of cotton balls stills my heart.
Your arms lengthen daily like the edges of a festering table.
Your face is like a perfectly shaven tennis ball.
The glow of your teeth exudes the courage of raw liver.
Your love is like 1000 caucasian carnivores
playing mumblety peg with an eggplant.
The spark of intelligence in your blinking eyes
glows like an electrocuted axe-murderess.

Wallets of fur would bombard a triassic keychain
rather than face dialysis in your equable fishtank.
The goats you buy shed a perfume
that makes Marxism so terribly clear to me.
I must demand your pleasing chin!
How it passes there and back again
like a leopard searching for its misplaced frontal lobes.

You have not yet reached the height of your depravity.
You are a banana moon subverting the sun.
I love your eyes, but only with ketchup.
Your dashingly colored toupee twists my right boot
into a state of ennui with the speed and dexterity
of many lemon meringue-coated conquistadors.
Redux. Redux. Redux.

Your face does bend even
the most anorexic mirror into
a sensuous playground of muscular spasms.
You are truly a goddess of disturbed tranquility!

Optical delusions still themselves
when you pass by in convexing pomp and sacral trance.
Your eyelids reflect and refract the turgid limnations
of virgin eels trapped in the flickering paralysis
of time not well spent.
Sound barricades itself into
rolling clouds of reminiscence when you speak.

LATEST Not-So-Big-Brother PHOTOGRAPHS!

Terry Sedgwick knuckles down for the long haul and says a tearful farewell to his loved ones.

Following the departure, Sedgwick spent several hours under his duvet making grunting noises, only to emerge with a wan complexion and a large grey stain on the tip of his beard.