And For My Next Trick

Well, I apologize for not posting yesterday, gentle reader, but I was recuperating. It seems I had a bit of the funk - i.e. food posioning - over the weekend. I called Kitty and asked her to come and shoot me but she was at home getting drunk all by herself (Please note - she was getting drunk with our racing friends on the phone and she somehow classifies this as NOT drinking alone....I can get behind that).

Anyhooooo, since I'm sure you don't want to hear about how I had both ends active at the same time all weekend (note to Capt. Nutty - remember that antique trashcan you gave me? you probably don't want it back), I will proceed to my next piece of big news. I won't even go into the lessons learned this weekend - like don't eat from the omelet bar at the office cafeteria and go ahead and invest in the more expensive toilet paper cause a little extra softness goes a long way with the old chocolate star (okay, I grossed myself out with that one but it does make me chortle).

So for the big news -

I have quit my job and I'm starting my own firm. Yep. Yep, I've gone mental. What can I say? Workin for da'man was keeping me down. Interfering with my blogging and such. Interfering with my ability to instant message my compatriots all the live long day. Well, and since I really don't want to go do the same shit for another firm, might as well as do it for myself (this approach seems to be working in my sex life so why not my professional life.....hmmm...perhaps a bad comparison).

So as of next Monday, kids, I'm on my own. That means cash donations will be accepted from all. No amount to small but 10's and 20's spend nicely and tend to stay under the IRS' radar(from whom I'm still awaiting my refund, the rat bastards - apparently the public apology was not enough).

So let's see, if I have the necessary signs that it's time to venture out on your own:

Sweaty palms - check
Nausea - check
Flat broke - check
Large mortgage - check
Need to attend more Nascar races - check

Might as well open my own law firm.

So if you've been injured on an offshore oil rig, call Floyd's Tailgate Law Firm - we'll recover for you!

I Have Arrived

Good news! I'm now getting random "grow up" comments. Wooohooo!

For reference purposes, my open letter to the bathroom stalker solicited this comment:

At 12:03 PM, Chief Wannahockaloogy said...
Yo, bitches are whacked. We all shit.What, only one female shitter allowed in there at a time? Is it un-ladylike to take a crap? Bah.Any female over the age of five knows to give their perfumed pompus egos a break and drop a load just like the rest of humanity when necessary.Let me guess...you're under (twenty) 5. Grow up.

Cool! I'm a whack shitting bitch! Hot damn! AND he thinks I'm under 25! Could this day get any better? I think not!

At this point I will refrain from pointing out the irony in basically being called immature by a guy who refers to himself by his Indian booger name.

And yes, Chief - we bitches are whack. We don't shit in front of each other too much. We will however fart as loudly as possible at random moments because like you male jackasses, we too find that funny as hell. And yes, we all shit - but that doesn't mean I have to force my noxious fumes on others in a public restroom. So really it's not my pompous perfumed ego that needs tending, it's rather my kind heart towards others that keeps me from randomly crapping in the presence of others.

However you, Chief BallSackNeedsaWashin, feel free to keep spreading your shit wherever you feel necessary.

Open Letter to Lady in Office Bathroom

Dear Lady in Office Bathroom,

I am fully aware that every single work day at around 1:00 you like to go through your little personal grooming routine in the office bathroom. However, today, I find your lack of manners disturbing and feel compelled to address the situation.

Let me explain - you saunter in and some innocent person (no names mentioned here - protecting the innocent and so forth) is already hidden away in a stall. This said innocent person is not making one single, solitary noise - no toe tapping, no whistling and no tinkling sounds. Any female over the age of 5 knows that this silence indicates said innocent person is in the stall engaged in some serious business. Business said innocent person would probably like to engage in at home but due to unforeseen circumstances and poor lunch choices, said innocent person is forced to engage in such business in the office bathroom.

Now - when any female over the age of 5 confronts such a situation in a public facility, that female knows to hurriedly conduct her own business and leave the public facilities in a most expeditious manner. This prevents embarassment of all parties and it is the kind, polite thing to do.

This being said, I will need some explanation of your obtuse behavior today. Why did you feel it necessary to use the toilet and instead of simplying washing your hands and calling it done, you felt the need to dive into your purse? While whistling a jaunty little tune, you proceeded to brush your nappy hair (though Lord knows why, honey, ugly is ugly, no brushing could help) and then begin your oral hygeine routine. On most days, your obsessive need to brush your teeth for no less than 5 minutes does not bother said innocent person. After all, tooth decay is the enemy. However, when you damn well know said innocent person is in the last stall with cold beads of sweat running down her face from clenching her butt cheeks together, one would think you could give those plaque collectors a quick runover and call it clean. But no, you insist on doing your full routine in apparent oblivion to the crisis in the last stall.

Shame on you, bathroom stalker, shame indeed.

Next time, there will be no clenching. You reap what you sow.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Office Bathroom Dweller

Consider Them Warned

Apparently someone should talk to the Mesa Police Department about getting too close to monkeys. It seems they want to put a monkey on their SWAT team.

Who in their right mind would put a monkey on a SWAT team?

Note to all concerned - if my ass is being held by some psycho, I don't want to depend on some "throws its own feces and eats testicles" animal to pick the lock just so some well trained (and according to the movies, very handsome) SWAT guy won't get his cute butt shot. Not that I want cute SWAT guy shot but my tax dollars go to being rescued by some ruggedly-handsome, gun toting type guy - not for freaking monkey food. In all my "being held by some madman and rescued by hot guy" fantasies, there is NEVER a monkey involved (well, except for that one time but I blame that on the 3 a.m. Indian food snack).

I mean they're not even talking about getting a scary monkey - like a ball ripping chimp or even a chest-smacking gorilla. They want a capuchin monkey. Well, that's scary! I bet terrorists will just throw down their AK-47 when they let that diaper-wearing bad boy out of his cage!
(Mr. Terrorist: "Oh no! Not the monkey! For the love of all that's holy, NOT THE MONKEY!")

A freaking capuchin monkey couldn't rip the gonads of a fly but he could probably put the hurting on a finger or nose. (Please note - bad guys can't shoot him because they will be supplying little monkey with his own tiny little kevlar vest). Course if I'm a bad guy in a big old adrenaline rush like a hostage situation, am I going to notice a missing nose or finger? Hard to say. But bite my nuts off and you have all my attention.

Moral of the story - they're gonna need some chimps and cake in Mesa, Arizona.

Beware of Monkey Lovers Bearing Gifts

I really don’t have much to say today so I thought I would talk about monkeys. Did you hear about the monkey attack? (and yes, I know they’re chimpanzees but monkey is more fun to say)

So this couple went to visit their monkey in an animal sanctuary for its birthday. They brought their monkey a cake. Well, whilst enjoying their monkey’s birthday cake (and no, they didn’t even give any cake to their own monkey, the selfish bastards), some other monkeys got out of their cages (crafty, crafty monkeys). Lo and behold, the escapee monkeys were mightily pissed that no one had brought them birthday cake and frankly, I would get a little cranky at that insult too. I mean this couple is sitting there throwing a birthday party for their monkey right in front of the other monkeys! How much more “in your monkey face” can you get? Everyone knows you invite all monkeys to your party; it's not fair to only party with your own monkey.

The slighted monkeys took to attacking the birthday people (now, I don’t condone random monkey violence but they were clearly provoked and when provoked, one can only expect monkey violence). After biting off the woman’s fingers, they decided to get all up on the man birthday person. They ate his foot…his nose and…wait for it…his testicles. That’s right – those pissed off monkeys ate the man’s nads. How mad do you have to be to go through a man’s pants and eat his meat and two vegetables? (well, they didn’t say anything about his meat –so just the vegetables. I suppose monkeys are vegetarian after all.) A fair trade for cake? Hard to say, hard to say.

Moral of the story – if you’re bringing a cake to your monkey, you best bring enough for everyone.

P.S. I realize I’m going to hell for making light of this but COME ON! MONKEYS ATE HIS NUTS!!! THAT IS SOME FUNNY SHIT!

P.S.S The whole reason I bring this up is that they're talking to the monkey lovers on Primetime Live on Thursday. I think we all know what I'll be doing.

Public Apology, Number 2

Dear IRS,

Perhaps...I spoke...with a smidge of haste. It seems your lovely efile system (and did I mention how smart you were to come up with this concept? you roguishly handsome IRS, you!) has determined that it is not I who owe you money but YOU who owes ME money.

If you could see it in your gracious heart to overlook my creative deductions and bold-faced lies, I would certainly appreciate you forwarding such funds to me in short order (have I mentioned your handsomeness? I mean, goodness, you're just getting better looking every year!).

In gratitude, I will stop publicly supporting a national sales tax and perhaps even send you over a box of donuts to help you through this busy day.

Hugs and kisses,
Floyd

Blow Me, IRS

Hey, IRS, I’m not afraid of you. It’s April 15th and I haven’t done my taxes yet. Further, I’m sitting here at work and don’t have the shit with me to do them right now. So what do you have to say about that, you fear-mongering whore dog? You can bite my ass cause I ain’t paying, you scum sucking troll.

You’ve already got a substantial chunk of change out of me – I know you do – I see it each and every two weeks on my paycheck. So you can take those stolen funds and shove it up your pie hole cause I ain’t paying you no more. That’s right – I declare myself autonomous. I am the country of Floyd where taxes are paid in beer and pizza (and an occasional doughnut wouldn’t hurt). I’m like the Vatican, baby, all solitary and independent sitting smackdab in the middle of another country. Just try to tax my ass and I’ll snatch your diplomatic immunity so fast it’ll make the pencils fall out of your shirt pocket. I got my own Floyd Mobile and some pretty kicking hats to wear so get to stepping – you’re aren’t welcome in the United States of Floyd.

AND, I have my own religion. That’s right – a little something the Princess of Darkness practices back in her bedroom. It involves candle wax and a lot of chickens but it’s religion. So don’t you dare try to tax me – I am expressing my deeply held beliefs and you can’t tax that shit, you blowholes.

Why don’t you just satisfy yourself with all those tax refunds you stole from me over the past few years cause I still owed the student loan people? You greedy fucking bastards. I figure you keep that money and I’ll keep mine and we’ll be loads better for it.

Fuck off, tax man.

Drinking Becomes Me

So, gentle readers, I owe you the story of this past weekend when all my pals came to visit. But we have a little problem. It seems Barbie spilt the beans. Barbie is the younger sister of Fat Baby’s Mama and Cowboy Dan. Apparently, Barbie told Captain Fruitloop about our little blog party. (*Remember – Captain Fruitloop is Cowboy Dan and Fat Baby’s Mama’s mother – got that all straight? Need a flowchart?)

So pray tell, gentle reader, how exactly am I supposed to tell a story of drinking and debauchery when I know Capt. Fruitloop may be reading? I love Capt. Fruitloop and all her fruity kin. I am considered one of her family and I’m not looking to get excommunicated – what with spring being nice on her farm and all. Plus, I really don’t need Cowboy Dan getting kicked out of the house and having to come share a room with the Princess of Darkness.

However, I think I may have stumbled upon a solution. I will list some of the “activities” of the past drunken weekend and it will be up to you, gentle reader, to attribute such actions to either myself, Fat Baby’s Mama, Kitty or Cowboy Dan.

1. SOMEONE kept wanting to go to a strip club until she was told that “no, not all strip clubs have naked men, just naked women”. Moron.
2. SOMEONE insisted we all get vodka and tonics with 2 limes since ordering the same drinks was much easier than simply me drinking beer.
3. SOMEONE ordered a round of shots made of Crown Royal and only one of us drank that shot like a man and not a pussy. (yeah, that one was me – I kick ass)
4. SOMEONE missed the exit to the airport to pick up Kitty – something this person has never ever done in her entire life. This person is always, always late to pick up Kitty from all airports. There is some sort of curse because this person is never ever late to pick up anyone else.
5. SOMEONE’S response to missing said exit was “well, we might as well stop and get more beer then.”
6. SOMEONE cruised into a gas station in certifiably the worst area in Atlanta and picked up 6 pack of Michelob Ultra-Carb claiming they were out of Bud Light (yeeeaahhhh, riiiiight. I would believe they were out of Schlitz Malt Liquor but not Bud Light)
7. SOMEONE insisted we go dancing even though it was already one in the morning and none of us are known for out rhythm.
8. SOMEONE agreed to drive us to the dancing spot when the rest of the group agreed we would take a cab home. Sucker.
9. SOMEONE danced like she was doing her best Russian moves by dropping to alternating knees and hitting each knee to the floor before bouncing back up to her feet. I saw the same move in Fiddler on the Roof.
10. SOMEONE else tried to mimic said Russian moves and couldn’t operate her own legs for the following two days.
11. SOMEONE danced around a pole like they were born to it. Scary.
12. SOMEONE picked up a guy in the parking lot after the bar closed and was making out in the back of my car within 2 minutes of introductions. We called him Skippy. He gave us his real name but we neither listened nor cared. Skippy suited him.
13. SOMEONE said “I think we should take a cab” to which the response was “Noooo, you’re fine to drive”. Idiots.
14. SOMEONE opened up 4 more beers when we got home and scarfed down a frozen pizza.
15. SOMEONE ate a Klondike bar in my bed on my $200 sheets.
16. ALL of the SOMEONES felt like ass the next morning.

And that was only Friday night….

A Public Apology

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to all cocker spaniels and their beloved owners. As Jodi pointed out in her comments to my last entry, her Ruby can snatch a bird out of the air and give a smackdown in mid-flight. That truly kicks ass. Frankly, that is quite an admirable feat in doggie-dom (hell, it's a pretty good trick in peopledom as well).

So, I hereby officially apologize to the cocker spaniels of the world. I had no idea of your ass kicking abilities and stand corrected. And on a personal level, Stella says, "Rock on, Ruby, you are one badass motherfucker." (I'm going to have to speak to that dog about her language). Ben unfortunately says nothing as he does not know what a cocker spaniel is.

P.S. Settle down, Cowboy Dan - this does not qualify as yet another post about my dogs. I will be posting the events of this past weekend in a later blog.

Obligatory Post About My Dogs

I have two dogs. Not whiny ass girlie dogs like a cocker spaniels or poodles but labs. Two big ass 100 pound labs – one yellow and one black. There called Ebony and Ivory – ha! Just kidding. The yellow lab is Ben, the black lab is Stella.

I’ve had Ben since he was a fatty, “cause $1100 worth of damage to an apartment” and “cause mommy to call animal poison control 3 times in the first year” puppy. And just so you know, it will cost you $30 to find out if the little packet of chemicals they give you with fresh cut flowers is poisonous to dogs…the answer? “Maybe…just keep an eye on him.” Thirty bucks well spent.

Anyway, Ben is now 9 years old and suffers from diabetes. In between insulin shots, he spends his days napping and trying to get POD to feed him snacks. Not a bad life.

Stella, on the other hand, is a little different. She is adopted - I used to be a volunteer with a lab rescue group and good old Stella was one of my foster dogs. We think Stella is around 10 years old (well, actually, we thought she was around 10 years old two years ago so I suppose I should say she’s around 12). Stella is a sweetheart and she loves me and she loves POD. The rest of you…she can do without. She’s much more of a “my mom better like you, asswipe, or my teeth are about to meet your groin” sort of gal and you just got admire that. She is constantly on patrol – she runs the perimeter of the fence in the backyard and then checks back in to give me an “all clear” each and every time. She is the self-designated protector of our realm.

But don’t get me wrong. Stella is a lover of friends. She will lick you to death. When she likes you, she’s licking to give you kisses…if she doesn’t like you; she’s licking you to tenderize the meat.

So I feel relatively safe with my two 100 pound dogs as protection. Even though Ben is a “Duh. I’m a happy dog” guy and Stella is “What are you looking at, motherfucker?” gal, I feel they balance each other out nicely.

Now that my pals are getting older, we’ve had to make some adjustments. I find middle of the night trips outside to be a little more frequent and Ben needs help getting up on the bed (yes, he sleeps with me, suck it). And this finally brings me to last night.

So Ben and I are sleeping soundly at about 3 am. Ben is snoring like a champ but I am awakened by the sound of Stella pacing throughout the house clearly wearing doggie tap shoes on the hardwood floors. Finally, after convincing me that she will not be sleeping any time soon unless I let her out to pee, I haul my fat ass out of bed. I open the back door and she takes off like I’d hit her with a cattle prod. She disappears into the bushes and I hear a loud high-pitch squeal. This squeal was surely heard throughout the entire metro Atlanta area though Ben managed to sleep right through it. Much rustling followed and then Stella came running back into the house and threw herself down on my bedroom floor. She grins up at me and says, “Yo, mom, I gave that biyatch a smackdown the likes of which the animal kingdom has never seen. We are safe. Peace out.”

Yep. That’s my girl. Stella the Possum Killer. She of course wanted a kiss good night for her efforts but we’re going to wait until she’s sucked down a few more bowls of water before we tackle that one.

We Don't Need No Education

Hello, gentle readers. I’m sorry I haven’t posted in the past few days but I was busy fighting the Ebola (I like calling it “THE” Ebola for some reason – like an old person would do). Anywho, THE Ebola seems to have settled itself into a small rash behind my left ear which when I scratch it results in dandruff-like flakes on my suit jacket (more than you wanted to know? Too bad.)

Kitty is coming to visit this weekend so that means Cowboy Dan and Fat Baby’s Mamma will be making an appearance at Casa Floyd. In preparation for such visit, I have lardered up the fridge with two cases of Bud Light and equal number of frozen pizzas. Fat Baby’s Mamma loves herself a snack after having a few cocktails (but since she never eats sober, I love to fatten her up when she’s drunk – makes me feel better about myself).

Princess of Darkness (POD) will be spending the weekend with her pal at a horse show so I can get my freak on. Like all teenage girls, POD loves herself some horses and for some unknown reason, they do not bolt in the presence of her evil.

For your listening pleasure, I relate the following discussion with POD:

Me: “Soooo, any tests coming up soon?” (Please read in my best faux parental voice)
POD: “No.” (Please read with sullen “death is my only release” type voice)
Me: “None at all?” (Please read in my scoffing “kids have it so easy nowadays” voice)
POD: “Well, I have a test in History tomorrow.”
Me: “History?”(A point here - don’t you hate people that repeat your answer back to you in the form of a question? Like some autistic Alex Trebek or something.)
POD: “Yeah.”
Me: “Cool. What topic?” (Lord forgive me but I was history major and I get all jazzed at the possibility of teaching POD my own completely warped version of historical events. She knows of this trait and after the “civil war fiasco of 6th grade”, she never talks history with me. I believe it has to do with the fact that on my advice, in her younger and more impressionable days, she stated on her test that the “Northern Yankees were constitutional- violating, horse stealing, land-burning, baby-killing thugs that should have left well enough alone and that only won the war by cheating.” Surprisingly enough, Yankee school teachers in Chicago don’t like our version of the War Between the States. And please don’t even bring up when I had her go tell her little classmates that voted for Nader in their mock election, that “you should just throw your vote away, you tree hugging liberal”. Principal called us on that one. Anyway, I digress.)
POD: “World War Two, but don’t worry about it.”
Me: “Ohhhh! World War Two? (says Alex) I can soooo help you with that.”
POD: “No need – I know everything about it….I watched Pink Floyd’s The Wall.”

Yeeeeahhhh. That’s right – POD feels she knows everything she needs to know about WWII by simply watching the drug-fueled fantasy of my rock n’roll namesake. Now, granted, I was possibly stoned out of my mind the one and only time I watched The Wall but when I was scarfing down that box of Entenmanns’ cookies, I don’t remember nothing ‘bout no WWII. But frankly considering my altered state, who was I to argue with kid.

Me: “Fair enough.”

She got a B on the test. I am the parent of the year.

Even the Penguin Mocks Me

Welcome to Monday, gentle readers. And oh what a Monday it is. The following are some random events from my day so far as I don’t seem to be able to put together a cohesive topic for today’s entry (thus my affinity for lists all the damn time).

1. First and foremost, I suggest, nay ....DEMAND, that you go visit my new pal at The Macek Collective. After that go, see Lola at Bitter With Baggage. My new friends are drunk and bitter which frankly makes them my kind of people.

2. So I go in to have a chat with my Boss this morning. And let me tell you a little bit about him – he’s a very nice guy. He’s also an extremely smart man – not in the “I can kick your ass at Jeopardy” way but in the “I don’t own a TV and spend my free time reading college textbooks” kind of way. Now, Boss Man has a great sense of humor but really isn’t Mr. Jokes at the workplace – he’s Mr. Work at the workplace as I suppose I would be if I was as smart as Boss Man. Boss Man also has a very nice office as befits a partner in a nice law firm; however, there is one small item that seems a tad out of place. It’s a small Opus doll (you know - the penguin from Bloom County comics?) that sits on his desk. Opus constantly looks at me from behind Boss Man as Boss Man talks to me. Opus mocks me, he sneers and with his little penguin eyes he says, “You’re a dumbass and Boss Man knows it.” I try to concentrate on what Boss Man is saying because I know at some point there will be a question but I can’t tear my eyes away from Opus and his all-knowing gaze. And then it happens, Boss Man asks me a question to which I verbally responded “yes” while at the same time physically shook my head “no”. Boss Man looked perplexed and agitated and asked me which it was - yes or no? Opus throws back his head and roars with laughter. Fucking penguin. I think I may need to up my medication.

3. I go and meet my cousin on my lunch hour. We are chatting it up with our friend the bartender….urrrr….waitress and said waitress informs me she’s pre-menopause. Now, she seems to be just around my age so I query, “Well, good and faithful barkeep….urrrr….waitress, how old are you?” She replies “39 but my gyno says that if I’m having night sweats that’s the early signs of menopause” at which I point I fall off my bar stool……urrrr….chair. I wake up most nights like I’ve been trekking through Amazon. So now, folks, the final nail in my coffin, 34, childless and pre-menopausal. Bitter? Noooooooo. (About this time, Kitty is screaming “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” as she reads this line as she is slightly more worried about these issues than I am)

4. I have a red spot in my eye. It is big and angry red. So since I’m not the over reactive type at all, I’ve decided it’s Ebola. I expect to start bleeding out of all of my orifices at any moment now. True, I feel fine but how does one really feel when one’s insides are liquefying? If I’m dying, I might as well call it a day and head back to …..urrrr… I mean “head for the first time today” to the bar.

See ya...I'm off to meet my inner Drunky McDrunk.

Taking Up Where We Left Off..

Well, gentle readers, since I’m getting pretty regular at this blogging thing (you can thank all that extra fiber), I didn’t want the week to pass without one last little shout out as I will not be updating over the weekend due to the high, high terror I feel at even the off-chance Captain Nutty would discover this little project. Though who am I am kidding….the woman can’t “check THE email” or “use THE ebay” without a 2 hour explanation from me first.

Soooooo, let’s see….what thoughts have floated through my cerebral jelly today…

How ‘bout some more things you didn’t know and were scared to ask your doctor about me:

32. I don’t smoke but I habitually have a voice reflecting a 6 pack-a-day habit.

33. I hang out at a fine little spot called the Paradise where I have known most of the folks there since I was little kid. (Shout out to you, Paradisio!)

34. I can touch my tongue to the tip of my nose, however, it’s not as attractive as one might think.

35. Remember how I don’t like the shy guys? See that rambunctious guy in the corner of the bar cracking his buddies up by making fart noises with his armpit? I like him.

36. Speaking of farting, anytime I’m in an elevator with people I don’t know I think about ripping a loud one just to see what would happen.

37. I often carry on arguments in my head with people I don’t like. Not so unusual. However, my face expressions frequently reflect these conversations so I often walk down the street looking like I have some sort of palsy issue. Slightly more unusual.

38. I can’t drink gin. At all. Not even a little bit. Trust me. It’s not pretty.

39. Once I said to Captain Nutty, “If I could change one thing about my looks, do you know what it would be?”…..she answered, “Your teeth?”……ummmmm, nooooooo…..what the fuck is wrong with my teeth????

40. Fat Baby’s Aunt said her friend in Spain is checking in on Floyd’s Tailgate, so we are sooooo international. (Shout out to you, Meredith!)

41. If I was ever in one of those Disney movies where you rescue a wounded animal and nurse it back to health before setting it free, I would NEVER EVER return it to the wild. I would make it live in a little cramped cage denying the call of the wild just so I wouldn’t have to go through the heartache of saying good bye to it. Wild animals are meant to be wild, my ass.

42. I don’t believe in global warming, I don’t recycle and I often drive with the windows down and the air conditioner on. I know – I’m killing the environment for your children but I don’t have any kids so suck it.

43. I think television is my best friend. The rest of you just aren’t “there” for me like he is.

44. I have difficulty pronouncing the word “secretary” so it sometimes comes out “sekatery” (and don’t even get me started on “libary”).

45. I plan on A.S.S. becoming an international holiday.

Have a great weekend.