16 Candles*

*Give or take a candle or two

Soooooo, I'm 35....and I have no words of wisdom. So please click on link below to see random racing pics of my life.

Me and My Pals

www.flickr.com More of FloydsTailgate's photos

Random for Random's Sake*

*Otherwise known as "No real cohesive topic here"

Some random thoughts submitted for your consideration, gentle readers.

1. From some reader emails regarding my last post about my client meeting in my home, I have come to realize something. A lot of y'all don't know that I'm not a complete moron. Seriously, I'm not...despite all appearances to the contrary. I really have done nothing, however, to dissuade you from the impression that my posts give to you, Internet Total Strangers. My posts are a reflection of my life but also really my reflections of my internal dialogue, i.e. the constantly running commentary that the little man in my head provides me. His commentary can get distracting but often I manage to function. But I've never really told you that I'm not crazy. So really you have no way of knowing that I'm not quite as incompetent as I may lead to you believe....well, hold on...maybe I am....okay, correction...I can fake normalcy pretty well.

2. So my birthday is tomorrow. I will be 35. 35 and single. 35 and childless. 35 and overweight. 35, single, childless, overweight, raising my semi-psychotic little sister. Yep. I'm putting alllll that into a personal ad. Come and get me! (the poor need not apply)

3. Speaking of the semi-psychotic, the POD has returned. Apparently, a "D" in World History is not sufficient for the ultra-snotty private school the POD is attending, so she is back for a two week run at summer school. Yep. She's realllly happy about it. Not as happy as me, of course, who enjoyed what? A one week vacation from parental duties? Yep. NIIIIIIICCEEE. (Please note: POD will be returning to Chicago at the end of the 2 weeks to harass our parental units for the rest of the summer)

4. So the POD and I went to see the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Mindless summer entertainment that was quite enjoyable. However, it has led me to a surprising conclusion. Now, I love Brad Pitt - he is just easy on the eyes. Not so surprsing. However, I think if I was to start playing for the other team I would go for Angelina Jolie. I mean - holy crap. It's just not natural to be that good-looking AND good with weapons.

5. So tomorrow is my birthday. Cowboy Dan always gets me nice gifts. And always gifts that are totally unexpected. Therefore, around my birthday time, I usually get random conversations with Cowboy Dan. Therefore, I submit the following:

Cowboy Dan: "Where did you go to elementary school?"

Me: "Our Lady of Assumption"

Cowboy Dan: "Was that Catholic?"

Me: "Is the Pope catholic? Of course, it was Catholic. What public school would have a name like that?"

Cowboy Dan: "Who was your fifth grade teacher?"

Me: "I think Mrs. Fischer."

Cowboy Dan: "Was she a nun?"

Me: "No. Thus the 'Mrs' part."

Cowboy Dan: "Were there nuns?"

Me: "A few."

Cowboy Dan: "Okay. Bye."

Me: "Bye"

The first person to guess what relevance this conversation has to anything will win some sort of prize.

6. Please observe that in the last comments "Anonymous" submitted some commentary on the smell of my house and Bob's piss room. "Anonymous", my ass. That is Kitty. Kitty has a cat named Bob. Bob had a piss room. A piss room that she asked us to sleep in. That was not possible. I have smelled some bad things - and I mean BAD "NOT FOUND IN NATURE" things but none as bad as Bob's piss room. Kitty spent oodles of cash correcting said piss room to become a more hospitable part of her home. And so, while she makes fun of me, I have nothing, I repeat, NOTHING that could rival the smell of Bob's piss room.

7. Cowboy Dan has complained that she and Kitty are never mentioned anymore. Well, now there you go - got you both in one post. How ya' like them apples?

8. I ventured to Costco's yesterday. And you may be asking yourself what would drive a semi-sane person to venture forth into that den of suburban families all hepped up on free samples and 75 cent hot dogs on a freaking Sunday? Well, I'll tell you what - Jimmy Spencer. That thundering dunderhead that the powers-that-be feel is a quality commentator on NASCAR This Morning. I've seen people with drool running down their chins conduct more coherent conversations than this alcoholic blow-hard. Seriously, the man looks like someone pulled the gin and juice out of his hands about 20 seconds prior to air time and told him to form a sentence or two. Jimmy was more fun when he was beating the crap out of Kurt Busch. Let him return to the jungle and roam free with the other gorillas.

Well, that's all I have for today, gentle readers. Stayed tuned to see what whackiness ensues tomorrow. (I just wanted to say "whackiness ensues" - forgive me).

P.S. A small side note, our friend Macek's mom is apparently pretty ill so I know you join me in sending good thoughts, vibes and prayers their way.

Riddle Me This

Gentle readers, what is the proper decorum and etiquette of the home office? I'm meeting a client in my home for the first time and this has raised some puzzling issues.

Are candles unprofessional? Even when used to cover the smell of wet dog?

How 'bout capris pants? Wrong in the home office setting? Old Nave tshirts are appropriate anywhere, right?

Surely, if not capris pants, then sandals? Toes are polished so it's okay, right?

I mean who really wants to see me sitting in my own house in heels and dress slacks? Clearly, not the dog who keeps rubbing his molting skin all over me!

And what about background noise? Is it wrong that they can hear the dog licking his empty nut sack through the bedroom door?

Is it wrong to have the Foo Fighters quitely playing in the background?

So I have injection needles laying about the kitchen, need I explain that the dog is diabetic or just let them come to their own conclusions?

If there is a bad smell, is it appropriate to mention the dog's flatulence issues?

Will they notice that the hand towels in the guest bath arenn't exactly clean?

Can I charge them for parking in the driveway?

You know - they really don't tackle these issues in law school.

Things Contemplated

Well, let’s talk a little more about my trip minus the POD discussion. The full title of this post is Things Contemplated Whilst Traveling Through the Black Hole Commonly Referred to as the State of Indiana (And Other Adjoining Locales). It’s a 12 hour trip folks, and I think none of us are surprised that long solo car trips make me a little slap happy. You should also note that I read all billboards (often out loud which annoys Kitty to no end – thus why I do it of course) and I often simply scan the radio stations to get a feel for what is on without stopping on any particular one. You should also know that I’m not so much an “aggressive” driver as I am a “competitive” one – just keep that in mind.

1. Hey, asswipe on the motorcycle, you have 2 wheels… I have 4, I win, get the fuck out my way before I make you regret not wearing a helmet.
2. Dear Backstreet Boys, I know it’s an old song but let me remind you of this little lyrical poetry – “Loneliness is tragical”…..guess what, you dick licks? TRAGICAL IS NOT A WORD! I’m all for creative language but this just don’t fly. (wow…just looked it up….”tragical” is a word…I now have to face the realization that someone in the Backstreet Boys is more literary than I am….I need a drink).
3. I laugh at you, o guy that hits his brakes when I fly up behind him. Sure, I’m flicking you off at the same time but I’m laughing nonetheless.
4. God help me but I like that Kelly Clarkson….she’s got spunk.
5. Hmmmmm….sign for Spencer County, Indiana reads “Home of the Famous” and they show a picture of good old Abe Lincoln…..and Santa Claus. Do they know that Santa isn’t a real guy? And even if he was, Santa sooooo lives in the North Pole and NOT Indiana!
6. Take me down to Paradise City, Axel, you plastic-faced motherfucker! ( Please read while picturing me flashing the devil horns sign and rocking head back and forth in appropriate rocking out manner)
7. Billboard reads: “Dino World. You missed us!”….ummmm, yeah, by a couple of million years.
8. I wonder if I trademarked the phrase “Fuckity McFuck Fuck” if McDonald’s would sue me? (Please note: you cannot trademark profanity but it’s an interesting legal query anyway, don’t you think?)
9. Okay, hey, country dudes that sing that Mr. Mom song…. your lyric “sweet potatoes in my lazy chair” bugs me. It’s either a Lazy Boy or an Easy Chair, no such thing as a “lazy chair”, you backwoods jackasses.
10. There’s a rattle in my right speaker…. what are the odds I blew a speaker? What are the odds I’m the only one to bring in a Lexus into the soccer mom land dealer with a blown bass thingy?
11. Passing a truck that reads “Purnell’s Old Folks Sausage”…. so clearly their product is made from the decrepit bodies of old people. Truly recycling run amuck.
12. Excuse me, nice Mr. Black Man, I’m going 80 and you’re flying past me, which means you taking a nice clip through Kentucky and frankly that might not be a good idea. Oh! You’re from Georgia…you clearly know what you’re doing – carry on. (Please read: with smart ass girl raising her black power fist who deserves to have the white elitist sassiness smacked right out of her by said Nice Black MAn)
13. Interesting…if you drive fast enough the raindrops don’t come in through the open sunroof.
14. Hmmm….it’s 5:00 and I’m in Chattanooga…time for cocktail hour with the Fat Baby clan.

Needless to say, I didn’t make it home until Thursday.

Well, that's all for now....the good news is that POD will be back as of Thursday for a 2 week stint in summer school. God help me.

Tickle Me Sappho

* Advance apologies to the following - bisexuals, lesbians, Mexicans, goats, strippers and gangbangers - I kid cause I love!


Well, gentle readers, I survived. Physically intact? Certainly. Mentally sound? Hard to say, hard to say.

In my 12-hour drive home yesterday, I pondered several topics, which I would like to discuss with you but I will first begin with a story illustrative of my week. However, this story requires a little background so please bear with me.

Not sure if I have previously mentioned it but the POD fancies herself a bisexual at this stage in her life. Now, personally, I don’t care if she fancies girl, boy or goat but I of course am concerned that POD feels the need to declare herself at the ripe old age of 15. I mean - I think it’s kinda not fair to play for both teams – I mean – pick a freaking side and stay on it – it’s only fair to all concerned. Confusion need not be added to the dating scene - thank you very much. But whatever floats her boat is fine by me.

While playing for both teams, the POD has found herself a gal pal. Her name is Krystal – with a “K” you will notice. Apparently, Krystal’s parents wanted to prepare her for a life on the pole and gave her a proper stage name right of the gate. Now, I have a few issues with Krystal – not because she is a follower of the teachings of Sappho but because she’s a gang member. Oh, yes, you read that correctly – a member of the Latin Kings (though I have been corrected to say Latin Queens since she is a chick - apparently I'm not as up on my gang lingo as I assumed). Krystal with a “K” has several tattoos at her ripe old age of 17 and is fond of telling all of the POD’s friends that “they better not touch her fucking girlfriend or I will fucking kill you” – she’s such a little love!

Anyhooooo, you can only imagine how well this is all going over with Capt Nutty and the Consort who revel in their suburban upper-middle class life (i.e. these people are so Wonderbread white they glow in the dark). Up until this point, the main fear in the Consort’s life has been that the POD will wear denim to the country club - soyou can see that a violent gal pal is really expanding his horizons - I can only imagine how he broaches this topic on the old links with his pals.

So this being said, I get to the point of my story and why my family will probably start proceedings to disown me at any minute now.

I’m sitting around with Capt Nutty and her little dog. Her little dog starts licking the carpeting on the floor. So what do I do? Waaaaaiiiiit for it… I say “Hey look, Mom! The dog’s a lesbian too!”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…..GET IT “LICKING THE CARPET”? RUG MUNCHING?……..OH SHIT…..CRACK’S ME UP – I’M STILL LAUGHING SO HARD THAT I’M CRYING!

Needless to say, Capt Nutty starting crying and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the afternoon. Of course, I was laughing so hard all day I doubt I could have heard her anyway.

Gooood times, good times.

In the Name of Ra

As I have mentioned/obsessed over, I will be journeying to Chicago tomorrow to return POD to her roots (and in no coincidence, get my own roots done by the best of the best hair colorist this side of the Mississippi). This of course means a lovely (i.e. looooong) visit with my mother, Capt Nutty. This also means that I will be spending this evening with some sunless tanner products.

As I’m sure many of you southern gals understand, to Capt Nutty pale skin equals unhealthy deathlike pallor. My mother is a devotee of the sun god, Ra. Her altar is a Florida beach where she can set her carcass to baking for a minimum of 6 hours per day. However, in her simultaneous worship of Oprah, Capt Nutty has learned that turning one’s skin to the color of espresso is not good for you. It may even make you wrinkly – the horror! To equal out her worship of her two idols, she compromises and puts sunscreen on her face – to hell with the rest of her body, what has it done for her lately?

Now, since Capt Nutty has been forced into exile in Chicago some 15 years ago (straight from 8 years in Palm Beach, Florida for which she still yearns), her voyages to her beach altar have been limited. All was dark and gloomy for Capt Nutty until the skies broke wide open and her god revealed to her the glories of tanning creams, sprays, gels and other goops. You should have seen the celebration she threw when one of those spray-on tanning booths opened around the corner from her – people still talk about the debauchery and reckless drinking of that little fete.

How does this affect me one might ask? Well, when not worshipping the sun gods, Capt Nutty is holding court as the Queen of Passive Aggressiveness. So if I should offer my sunless skin to her majesty, I will be met with such comments like “oh, white is a very ‘in’ color this year” or “did you know the spray tanning booth is offering a two for one special right now? Isn’t that fun? Want to go right now? Oh, come on! Let’s go! It’ll be fun” (I hear – “please, please ghost child, let them spray your naked fatness with some chemical that will turn your nail beds orange and fill your crevices with god knows what chemical”).

Now, I can handle a couple of these comments but when she starts appearing at my bedroom door with a bottle of Neutrogena Fun in the Sun tanning goop and a pair of rubber of gloves, I draw the line. This inevitably ends up with me snapping at Capt Nutty with a “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, I DON’T WANT ANY DAMN SELF-TANNER!” This of course of makes Capt Nutty break into tears and moan about how she just doesn’t understand why I’m soooooo mean to her. Which is always but always followed by “I would NEVER have said something like that to MY mother…..but then again I loved MY mother.” I obligingly spend the next two hours exclaiming her virtues and my true love of Capt Nutty.

So you see, it’s simply good planning to go ahead and make myself look like an orange piece of beef jerky and forestall any such breakdowns – cause frankly there will be plenty of breakdowns without me having to bring the sun into it. This also explains why I will be bringing my own case of Bud Light in the car for the voyage…damn, I wish I would have gotten POD her learner’s license - what the hell, she's got a good head on her shoulders, I'm letting her drive. I advise all who value their lives to avoid I65 tomorrow.

Well, gentle readers, don’t forget me while I’m gone - I will be returning on Wednesday, if I can last that long. Try to muddle through without me and please keep me in your idol prayers to Ra.

Why You Want to Be Me, You Really, Really Do - Part 2

1. What’s worse then stepping out the door on your way to an important business lunch and discovering that your “I’m a successful business attorney with lots o'money” shoes cause immense pain to your feet?

Discovering that once your feet get the teeny, tiniest bit sweaty, said same shoes make little farting noises with every step you take.

Yeeeaaahhhh, I‘m a keeper. A real gem. A prize to the legal community.

2. Get home from important business lunch and get lovely message from Capt Nutty. In preparation for the POD’s return to the great white north, Capt Nutty has scheduled a three way phone call this evening with me, Capt Nutty and the Consort and with the POD’s psychologist. Yippee. I really, really can’t think of a more fun and relaxing way to spend my Tuesday night. FOR FUCK’S SAKE, DO THESE PEOPLE NOT KNOW THAT THE FINALS OF AMERICAN IDOL ARE ON TONIGHT?

3. So last night the POD and I have a lovely little discussion – quite nice chat actually. I proceed to tell POD how I will miss her over the summer. The following is the verbatim conversation:

Me: “I’m really going to miss you over the summer. I’m going to be so lonely.”

POD: “Yeah, right.”

Me: “No, I mean it, I’ll miss you.”

POD: (in mocking tone) “Yeah, right – once I’m gone you can have all those guys over and fuck them at home.”

Me: (with properly indigant tone and facial shock) “POD! That is so not true! I have respect for my body!”

She looked at me. I looked at her........and we both knew I was lying.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, people. Couldn't...make...it...up.

An Ode to POD

It has been brought to my attention that a portion of my reading public would like some more information on the Princess of Darkness (aka POD). A few readers have expressed an interest on knowing a tad more about the lovely POD – specifically the hows, the whats and the “for the love of all that’s holy, please tell me you’re making that up” information. I tend to forget that you are not all my family and bosom companions so you don’t get the endless amounts of spewing I put forth on the subject of POD (shoutout to Fat Baby’s Mama, Kitty and Cowboy Dan for their endless patience on this topic). That being said, a lot of this will probably be old/boring news to you so please bear with me.

POD is my 15-year-old sister. And no, we don’t have any other siblings. After many years of exciting and fruitless infertility treatments, Capt Nutty and her Consort (also known as my stepfather) decided to adopt. POD arrived when I was home during my spring break from college at the ripe old age of 20 (you read correctly – she is 20 years younger than me). I spent every college vacation from that point on heading home to spend time with POD (who happened to be the cutest baby ever born). After college and law school, I moved up to Chicago to be closer to the family and specifically POD. I have lived within a few blocks of POD since she was 5 (up until the time I uprooted and moved back to Atlanta last year). POD was always an interesting child – very stubborn and highly imaginative. She also happens to look a lot (and I mean, A LOT) like me (see above the “cutest baby ever” comment).

Anyhoooo, time went by and Capt Nutty came into the period we like to call “The Nuttiness that Shall Never End” and POD entered the “I Am a Crazy Teenager” stage. Throw in a couple of gothic tendencies and general lack of common sense and you’ve got yourself a fine mess. Well, being the only sane member of my family, it was decided that POD would do better living with me for a bit. Sooooooo, much to the POD’s dismay, she was shipped down here last December to go to school. It’s been good for POD and I like having her here (most of the time – I mean, hell, I haven’t killed her so we have to consider this a “win”).

So, I submit the following so that you, gentle reader, can get the full POD experience:

• When she was about 5, Capt Nutty would drop POD off at the old country club for swim team practice. Capt Nutty shows up at the first meet and everyone is cheering on POD, yelling “Go Gadget! Go Gadget!”. Capt Nutty asks, “Excuse me, who is Gadget?”. Other parent says, “Why, your daughter of course!”. POD had told everyone her name was Gadget (named after a Rescue Ranger) and she would only answer to Gadget. (Don’t even get me started on how stupid these other parents were)
• When she was 3, she insisted on wearing dresses but refused to wear underwear. It was an interesting year on the playground.
• POD went through a period where she thought she was a cat. Now, I’m not saying she occasionally meowed and such, I’m saying she went through a three month period where she did nothing BUT meow and walk around on all fours.
• Every card sent to me from Mandy for about 3 years was signed as “Sabrina, the teenage witch”.
• After seeing the Hunchback from Notre Dame (the Disney version), she stood in the driveway offering to dance for strangers that were passing by (just like the ‘ho in the movie). But by far the best part was the fact that she had drawn a large wheelchair on the driveway with sidewalk chalk and wrote “Handicapped Welcome”. (I’m sorry but this one still cracks me up)
• In second grade, she told her teacher she didn’t need to learn fractions because she wasn’t planning to come back next year. She said she knew how to read and that was all she needed from school.

As a teen:

• She is completely obsessed with the Rocky Horror Picture Show and all things Lord of the Rings.
• She smoked pot in the driveway of our house – never once did it occur to her that our parents might actually look out the window and catch her.
• I won’t even go into her fascination with the Insane Clown Posse.
• She has no idea that I read all of her instant messages - even when I flat out ask her about something I learned from sneaking behind her back.
  
• She thinks she has been hired by an under 18 club in Chicago to work this summer. Riiiiggghhhttt….cause clubs routinely hire 15 year old girls to work security.

I will be leaving on Thursday to take POD home for the summer. I will be gone about a week and will return POD-less but probably worlds more insane for having spent a week with my mother. May God have mercy on my soul.

Sign of the Apocalypse #1

I’m sitting in my office (i.e. guest bedroom) and I’m listening to the local “pop” station. Local pop station is giving away U2 tickets and I will just about do anything including whoring out my musical tastes to get me some U2 tickets.

However, I’m developing a facial tic from the “music”. If I hear one more Jessica Simpson or Ryan “Freakboy” Cabrera song, I will be forced to kill the cat. I think he’ll understand because he’s looking rather suicidal himself. His look is actually one of “Look, bitch, first you make me live with those overgrown throw rugs you call “dogs”, then you invite some kid who fancies herself to be an evil voodoo priestess to live with us and now, NOW, you invade my sanctuary to play some mind-numbing bubble gum crap songs. This irritates me so much I will now go take a crap during office hours. You can thank me later.”

While adjusting my radio dial to said pop station, I happened to swing by the easy listening station. They were playing the B-52’s. Can someone please, please explain to me how my “I loved you in college” band is now on the easy listening station? They used to be alternative! They used to be whacked out crazies with beehive hairdos! And now they’ve been commandeered by some middle-aged, “listen while in the office” bullshit station.

And notice I cannot even bear to discuss Ashlee "Trying to Revive the Fe-Mullet" Simpson cause some shit just aint' funny.

Holy crap, I’m singing along to Kelly Clarkson…I have to go now… I have an appointment to put my head in the gas oven.

P.S. I'm tired from all the air quotes I put in the post...please forgive me...I am addicted to the use of air quotes. I'm seeking therapy.

Where Were We?

After checking back, I realized that we left off on number 45 of the Top 100 Things You Don't Really Care to Know About Me list. So withouth further ado...

46. You know those cans of Pillsbury crescent rolls that when you open them they decompress with some freaky new age technology and pop open? Yeah, they scare me - the popping scares me. I make POD open them.

47. While I do want a baby some day, not so sure about the husband part. (Am excepting applications for love slave, however)

48. I went to catholic school most of my life. Not only am I not catholic, my great-grandfather had a deep fear of all catholics. What can I say - he was old and baptist - not always a good combination.

49. Current pet peeve - Carnival cruise lines is using Iggy Pop's Lust for Life song in all of their television commercials. I dig that song however I don't think the folks at Carnival have really listened to the lyrics. Let's review some, shall we? "Well, he comes Johnny Yen again, with liquor and drugs, and a flesh machine, I know he's gonna do another strip tease" and of course my favorite line "that's like hypnotizing chickens". Oh yeah - Iggy Pop equals family fun time on Carnival. Someone should be fired - idiots.

50. The nickname "Vladimir Poopshoot" was born out of a New Year's Day pajama-wearing, marathon session of Trivial Pursuit. I share said nickname with Kitty, Fat Baby's Mamma and Fat Baby's Daddy. It was the attempted answer to the question "Who was the first U.S. chess champion?" and frankly, Bobby Fisher was too boring of an answer.

51. Brittney Spears annoys the ever-living crap out of me yet I find Christina Aguillera refreshingly skanky.

52. I don't eat vegetables. I find them to be God's idea of laugh - the "eat this filling farting stuff and stay away from my animals" laugh - but I'm on to Him.

53. When I was a kid, I did a wicked impression of Jimmy Carter....but it just isn't timely anymore. Sigh.

54. I find most people who think they are funny are truly NOT funny and should just sit there quitely - and try not to smell too bad - unfunny people have a certain scent about them.

55. For shits and giggles, I "googled" my name - apparently, besides being my neurotic self, I am also a black, male child molester in Conneticut....and I weigh a lot less in Conneticut.

56. I will totally judge a man by his shoes - in the unacceptable shoe columns are Capezzio jazz shoes, black tennis shoes worn with white socks and any shoe that makes me think "Ahhh! Miami Vice - now THAT was a show!".

57. If he ever decided to stay awake for more than 5 minutes, my cat could probably kick your dog's ass.

58. A large percentage of family friends and acquaintances believe the POD is actually my illegitimate child birthed when I was 20. For the record, she is not my illegitimate love child even though she has my oily hair and basic body shape (god help her)......I'm sure her living with me doesn't really help those rumors.

59. Since Buffy and Angel went off the air, I find myself watching more and more American Idol....someone please stop the madness.

60. I am vertically challenged and horizontally cursed (for the metaphorically impaired, short and wide).

Well, that's all I have for now. Been trying to post this for two days but Blogger kept telling me they "couldn't find my blog"....HEY BLOGGER! IT'S RIGHT HERE, YOU JACKASSES! Blogger sucks donkey balls.

Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot

Things Learned on a Monday

1. Just because the big purple bottle of laundry detergent is for sale does not mean that I should buy it. I smell like a Mexican whorehouse (with all sincere apologies to Mexicans ....and to whores, for that matter).

2. Just because POD slept in until 4:00 in the afternoon doesn't mean she is really sick - just that she's a really good faker.

3. Just because it's Monday doesn't mean you will learn more than 2 things in a given day.

Another Weekend Shot to Hell

Well I survived and thus far the Princess of Darkness (lovingly known as "POD") is still breathing and representing for the dark side. Inconsiderate Moron and pal left this morning for their 12 hour treck back to the great white north (though for some reason it apparently takes this woman 15 hours - hello....pedal on the right is the gas I suggest you use it if you plan to make Chicago before the 4th of July).

Inconsiderate Moron was actually quite nice - very laid back and easy to talk to. But no matter how you slice it - it all just ends up being about 36 hours of small talk. I hate small talk. I'm good at it but that doesn't mean I want to do it all the time (kinda like blowjobs but that's probably more of a topic for Lola).

Anyhoooo, POD had a nice time with her pal up until last night when her pal handed over POD's pack of Newports in the interest of perserving POD's health. Last time I caught POD with cigarettes they were unfiltered Camels - she likes her raw smoke that POD of mine. I of course was properly stern and foreboding but all that kept going through my head was "Fucking Newports??? What the hell is she - a Guatemalan hooker? A crack whore from Tijauna? An 84 year-old truck driver named Clyde? NEWPORTS? Christ, can't she smoke Marlboro Lights like normal people?".

This is why I should probably go ahead and have the tubes tied. Should not be trusted with the youth of America. Youth of Guatemala - fine - but NOT youth of America.

A Planned Death in the Family

I regret to inform you that I will be killing the Princess of Darkness after this weekend. The fair Princess of Darkness (henceforth POD) has committed a grave transgession for which the punishment can only be death.

Some background - POD is in a school play this weekend. She has worked long and hard, blah, blah, blah. POD has a very good friend back home in Chicago whom she wanted to see her in the play. Well, since Capt Nutty was coming down to check out the play I said "sure, your pal can come down" thinking said pal would get a plane ticket and hang for the weekend. No problem. I am a cool sister and can handle these things.

But oh no, the situation has not gone down like that. I was informed earlier this week that said pal's mother will be driving them down this weekend. That's right - this woman who I DO NOT KNOW will be driving 12 hours to stay AT MY HOUSE all freaking weekend. Please keep in mind that Capt Nutty will be returning to Chicago today as she has a pressing antique show that CAN'T be missed so I will be all alone with the company this weekend.

Now, I thought surely this woman (henceforth "Inconsiderate Moron") would give me a jingle to confirm these plans at which time I would politely say that this weekend was not good for me and POD would be back in Chicago in about 3 weeks time so just hold on 'till she got home to visit. However, as par for the course that is my life, Inconsiderate Moron never called me.

In a fit of desperation, I had Capt Nutty call Inconsiderate Moron last week. Inconsiderate Moron said she doubted she would come as she was having "dog care issues" (apparently no issue with staying with someone she doesn't know but dog care issues). Whatever. Felt a nice little relief that this hairbrained 15 year-old brainstorm would not come to fruition.

I reveled in that relief - until last night. Picked POD up after inaugural performance of play (called Assasins - a lovely little musical about presidential assasins with lots of guns and capital punishment - and yes, that's right - I said "musical" - ever seen John Wilkes Booth perform a sassy little song and dance? I thought not.) and POD informs me that pal and Inconsiderate Moron have started the treck downand are currently cruising through Indiana. That's right - never a phone call to me but apparently Inconsiderate Moron will be here for me to entertain this weekend. Oh joy.

Therefore, please send all condolences on the untimely death of my sister to floyd@justifiablehomicide.com.

I Am Not Dead

I'm still here but Captain Nutty is visiting.....enough said. Will play more come Saturday. Until then, please keep me in mind during your chicken bone throwing voodoo rituals. Thank you.

Things Learned on a Saturday

1. Nothing screams "SINGLE, NO MAN IN HER LIFE WOMAN" more than a chick mowing her own lawn in the south.

2. My sweat smells like cat urine. Explains quite a bit but is still extremely disturbing.

3. You're supposed to water your lawn PRIOR to fertilizing....doesn't this seem counter-intuitive?

4. The Princess sees nothing wrong in calling me on the home phone from her cell phone while she reclines in bed to simply check and see if I'll take her to Waffle House.

5. Good god but does every kid in the free universe play soccer on Saturday mornings? Sheesh, there has been a constant flow of mini-vans with screaming youngsters in the back rolling down my street (all pitying the poor, single manless, cat pee smelling woman mowing her yard).

6. If you go too long without dumping the mower bag, the grass will clog the motor and cause it stall. Seriously, isn't the mower's purpose in life to cut grass? And it just decides to stop if it has TOO much grass? Seems counter-intuitive as well.

7. The word for the day is "counter-intuitive".

8. Life is much more busy on a Saturday when not hungover.

9. Telemarketers have no problem calling on a Saturday morning and interupting your dream of having lunch with Tony Stewart.

10. All work on Saturday means a drunken brew ha-ha planned for Saturday night.

I Am SOOOOO Smart

Yesterday, I was scheduled to attend a seminar in Columbus - about a 2 hour trip away from home base. This of course means I had to leave the house at dark:thirty in the morning to arrive by the 8:30 starting time. All "motivated" and "working responsibly for myself now" I made all sorts of arrangements - like I had my cousin take the Princess of Darkness to school and let some boy (!) bring the Princess home from school.

Got in the car and started off. Very, very proud of myself considering I had partaken of a few cocktails the previous night yet still managed to rouse myself from slumber and proceed to west Georgia, i.e. the armpit of the south. I stopped 3 times to purchase more caffeine as I was having a wee bit of trouble staying awake but still impressed with my moxie, I proceeded along the way without killing myself or any fellow travelers (that bird had it coming - it was clearly committing suicide and I cannot be held responsible).

I arrived in Columbus and made my way to the hotel where the seminar was to occur. Turned off the motor and gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back for arriving on time. I then proceeded to gather my materials and head in.

I looked down at my registration and......waaaiiiit for it.....the seminar is scheduled for May 6 not May 5. Yep, I burned 4 hours on a round trip to shit hole Georgia for absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.

Don't you want to entrust your legal issues with me? *chirp* * chirp* Anyone? Hello?

This Thing We Call Work

So I'm all set up and sitting in my new office....previously known as the guest room. The prior owners painted this room a lovely (read: mind-numblingly bright) shade of yellow and painted the ceiling to resemble the sky - clouds and all. So really it's like I'm working outdoors - or in a nursery which is probably a lot more accurate. Oh, how the might have fallen - I've gone from a lovely 14th floor window office to a room where I share with the cat's litter box.

I've been sitting at my desk since 8:30 this morning in my suit, heels and hose....okay, my jeans, boots and shirt I slept in....but the phone hasn't rung once. Instead I've been listening to the sound of my coworkers going busily about their business....okay, listening to the dog fart in her sleep (Stella says: "Up yours, bitch! You try eating kibble all the live long day and not farting in your sleep.").

The good news is that I have managed to avoid purchasing anything over the internet for a whole 16 minutes so far and I've only looked at porn once this morning.....okay, twice. Wasn't really interested in surfing porn at 9 in the morning but did it just so I can say I perused some porn "at work".

Right about now in my old life, I would be walking on down and seeing how Anal Coworker was doing but perhaps I'll go have to see how the ladies on The View are doing instead (totally kidding, those chicks annoy the crap out of me and just barely beat out Regis and Kelly for people I most want to shoot).

I suppose if this thing is going to work out I'm going to have to go get some clients. Which of course means I'm going to have to leave the house and be nice to people.

Anyone know where the closest offshore oil rig is?

Have No Fear

I'm back! I'm sorry I've been gone quite so long but took a little trip out of town. I have not died from the previously mentioned funk but thank you all for the concern.

Well, I am now unemployed....ummm.....I mean "self employed". I now have much more dependable home internet access so I plan on posting quite regularly. However, not going to post right now as have much business to conduct....okay, well I have to go buy school supplies....ummm...I mean "office supplies".

More later, gentle readers.

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.

Killing Me Softly

Lots of folks seem intent on teasing the tiger today (not that I’m a tiger or can’t take a fair bit of teasing but it’s a saying). Either that or there is some sign hanging over my head that says “It’s Annoy the Ever-loving Shit Out of Floyd Day – Step Right Up, It’s Your Turn To Take A Poke!”

So, gentle reader, I submit for your consideration the following folks:

1. The “I’m Going to Tell You a Story that Has No Point or Redeeming Value Whatsoever” Person. You know the one – the one who wants to tell you that her daughter had peas last night for dinner. And so I sit here with a feigned look of interest on my face and wait for the point of this titillating legume drama to have a point and then it slowly dawns on me that whatever she last uttered was the conclusion of the story. Apparently, I, being a dumbass, missed that the whole point was that “precious [INSERT QUEER ASS NEW-AGEY NAME HERE] ate her whole plate of peas!”. I digest this information and not wanting the humorless twit to feel awkward (cause that would just be wrong even though by boring me to tears she is committing same said awkward atrocity against me), I then add some little pearl of wisdom like, “Peas are good for you.”

However, what goes through my mind is a little something more like this - Hey, dumbass, catch a clue. Story is not funny and has no point. It does not make your kid cute nor does it make your kid particularly clever. And the fact that you tell this story while chuckling makes me concerned for your mental health and overall well-being. Give me a call when you serve the kid peas and she says, “Suck it, Mom, I’m gonna use my peas as ben-wa balls on my Suzy Pees A Lot Doll”. Now, that’s a story I want to hear.

2. Mr. “Yeah, You Let Me Over In Bumper to Bumper Traffic But I’m Not Going to Give You the Thank You Wave”. Where has civility gone, people? When you are the recipient of a driving courtesy, you need to render the obligatory little thank you wave in your rearview mirror. That’s all I ask. Is it too much? Too much to throw up your little limp wristed, pussy whipped hand? Too tired from running errands for you wife? Well, if it is too much, fair enough but I don’t want to hear you complain when I yell “FUCK OFF” to you even when you seem to have a load full of little girl scouts with you in your minivan – they were late delivering my cookies anyway and their little green uniforms are creepy.

3. The “I Somehow Got Your Cell Phone Number” Bill Collector Guy. You know what, guy? Causing my cell phone to play Jay Z’s Brush That Dirt Off Your Shoulder ring tone in the middle of my quiet-as-a-crypt office does not make me want to pay you any faster. In fact, since you are too chicken shit to leave a message, I don’t even know which one of you jackoffs I’m supposed to pay. I realize in your little harassment manual it says to simply “don’t leave a message, keep calling - the deadbeat has to answer her phone sometime” but I am here to tell you that is simply not true. I managed to avoid the student loans folks for years and let me tell you – YOU ARE NO STUDENT LOAN PEOPLE. While I am a pushover in real life, I play the phone games like no other – I am the master and I have a little secret weapon I like to refer to as “caller ID”. This means suck it, Bill Collector Guy. You’ll get your money when someone dies and leaves me some.

And,oh yeah, family returns from spring break tomorrow....might have something to do with my crankiness today.

Smooth Talker

You ever have one of those conversations that starts to get a little uncomfortable or you just don’t know what to say next but then your brain, that really didn’t check in with you first, blurts out something completely obscure.

Let me give you an example, gentle reader.

Boss pops in to follow up on some work. Pleasant conversation (for once, thank god). He, being the nice person that he is and remembering that Princess of Darkness is in Florida this week, says “So how are things at home? Enjoying some time by yourself?”

Now, attempting to complete the circle of small talk, I say “Things are good. It’s been nice to be alone.”

But then in my “must analyze every single little statement death” freak out mode I start to worry cause I don’t want folks to think I don’t love the Princess, so I then say “But I miss her.”

We’re all okay up to this point. Things are smooth. Appropriate pleasantries have been exchanged and if I just keep my mouth shut for 2.7 seconds, I can get out of this conversation and return to contemplating the snot that is dripping down the back of my throat.

But then in my usual “can’t leave any spec of dead air unfilled” obsession, my brain feels compelled to add one more little gem…..and WAAAAIIIIT FOR IT…..

“You know I miss her….kinda like a dog”.

Yeeeaahhhh. Boss just tilts head to the side, kinda looks at me oddly and walks out of office. I’m expecting a call from Child Services any minute now.

Elvis and I at Talladega '04
P.S. No breastuses were shown in the acquirement of these beads. However, I think Elvis got a few in honor of his gut.
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So Enough About Me...How 'Bout We Talk About Me?

Okay, so in blogworld, everyone has done this "100 Things About Me" sort of project so I thought I would give it a whirl.

I will not be posting 100 outright as I do intend to keep my day job but I'll throw a few out there and then add on as we go along. I also intend to not count the basic facts so rest assured that you're only getting the more obscure issues of my personality.

So without further ado....100 Things About Me That You Probably Didn't Know (Or Don't Want to Know)

1. My fear of clowns is only surpassed by my fear of balloons (this despite the fact that I worked in a balloon store for three years in college for a guy that dressed up as a clown for deliveries).

2. I cry at each and every Extreme Makeover: Home Edition...and not just at the end...I weep through the whole damn thing.

3. I follow the rules. Hate breaking the rules. Never break the rules.

4. I think people who allow hairs to grow out of their facial moles should die a slow and painful death. (Seriously...how do you miss a 4 inch whisker sticking out of your growth?)

5. I like peanut butter AND syrup on my pancakes. Don't knock it 'till you try it.

6. Despite the fact that I am a lawyer, I have little or no opinion on the following items and anything I'm telling you on these subjects, I'm probably pulling it out of my ass and saying them just to piss you off :
a. the Terry Schiavo case
b. O.J. Simpson case
c. prayer in schools
d. buring the flag
e. the lady who won a quadrillion dolllars for spilling McDonald's hot coffee in her lap

7. I used to have a serious addiction to Afrin nosespray....seriously....a serious addiction. Love that stuff.

8. I think the Beatles are overrated....yeah, I said it...sometimes enjoyable but OVERRATED.

9. I drink Bud Light. And no, I will not enjoy your Guatemalen Fruit Bat Beer nor will enjoy something you whipped up in the basement from some micro-brewery kit you mother-in-law gave you for Christmas. It tastes like donkey dung.

10. While I drink Bud Light, I occasionally visit my friends Jim Beam and Jose Cuervo. And if you're lucky, I won't visit them on the same night.

11. My mother, Captain Nutty, used to refer to Oprah (whom she worships with a cult-like reverence) as the "Big O" until I informed her that particular phrase has another meaning.

12. I dress like the bastard love child of JCPenny and Old Navy....with perhaps a little post-coital rubdown by Lane Bryant.

13. I think the only places you should be barefoot are in your own house or at the beach....never in the office....NEVER, EVER IN THE OFFICE.

14. I can recite all of the the lyrics to Beastie Boys' License to Ill album.

15. I know mountains upon mountains of useless trivia and if we are playing trivial pursuit, you want me on your team. (Please note: this in no way is any indication of my intelligence as all this information is completely unnecessary in the real world)

16. I'm good with babies and always a little shocked that my friends find this so shocking.

17. I have the handwriting of a serial killer.

18. I was kinda hit by lightning once so I am now petrified of it (and if you're following along, you know now my worst nightmare would be to be chased by a clown in an electrical storm with my only weapon being a bunch of overinflated balloons).

19. If you listen carefully and pay close attention, I will contradict myself on numerous occassions.

20. Deep, deep down, I am convinced that I will marry Dale Earnhardt, Jr. (or at least, Elliott Sadler).

21. I'm always checking my nostrils to make sure I don't have bats in my cave.

22. There is a distinct possibility that I am the laziest person you know.

23. I used to read a lot of books - then only magazines could keep my attention and now I'm down to catalogs with pretty pictures.

24. I am a Nascar fan and while I realize that you may not be, I do not have the time nor inclination to explain to you "what is so exciting about watching cars go around and around?". Guess what? You're not the first person to say that, it wasn't funny when they said it and it's still not funny coming from you.

25. I let my little sister, the Princess of Darkness, paint her room black and I actually kinda like it.

26. I really thought I would be famous by now....I don't know for what, but definitely thought I would be famous.

27. I cuss like a sailor, drink like a mick and my only words of wisdom are to suck my .....a little shout out to Kid Rock.

28. My favorites sayings are many but two top ones are "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't out to get me" and "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, baby".

29. I have found myself listening to the easy rock radio station more and more lately and this frightens me on a deep and fundamental level.

30. When I was 8, I attempted to smell the bottom of the pool because my cousin came up out of the water and told me it smelled like strawberries. I almost drown.

31. Just because in your words, I'm "sooooo outgoing" does not mean I want to date your [INSERT - brother, brother-in-law, cousin, husband's old roomate, guy you work with, lawn man, kid's little league coach, guy you pass at the bus station every day who keeps asking you for change] "who is sooooo nice but just a little shy". NEWSFLASH - outgoing people don't like shy people. Shy people are beedy-eyed and creepy. You can't know what's going on in their heads since they don't talk so they're probably thinking about ways to slap a piece of duct tape over my mouth. Set the shy guys up with the ugly girls - they don't mind as much.

Well, on that note, I'll shuffle off to hell where after this little exercise, I'm sure I'm destined. I think I've scared myself a bit. If I haven't chased you off with my own pathology, please share a tidbit or two about yourself in the comments section. The more obscure, the better.

For Those Following Along At Home...

So I went and added a little counter/statistics thingy to my little blog project and well, smack my ass and call me Sally but I had 74 hits today! Now, excluding the 58 times I checked in to see if anyone actually posted a comment (yes, loser friends, that is directed at you - post a comment, please!) and the like 8 of my pals that know about this blog, that still leaves at least a few folks that are new and complete strangers!

So a big shoutout to all my new internet pals! I thought I would help you out and give you a bit of a run down on this shitbag I am currently referring to as my life. You know - just to help you understand the bitterness and rampant cyncism. For those of you who already know me, well, just settle down, Skippy, we'll get back to new stuff soon.

I'm single. I'm 34. I'm bitter.

Okay, all done.

No, just kidding. Let's see - I find my profession a wee bit stifling (read: mind numblingly boring) but as yet I can see no way to make money whilst sitting on my ass on my couch all day yelling at the various talk shows- yet. So for now, I work. Okay, I go to work....actual output of quality product? Minimal.

You'll often see me refer to the Princess of Darkness or POD. POD is my 14 year old little sister that is currently living with me. She has a few little quirks and issues which are we dealing with as they pop up (you know - a little mental illness plus a little love of the goth life - what kid doesn't have the same thing going on?). Our parents live in the North away from our madness as they are focused on their own particular chess match with insanity otherwise known as my mother, Captain Nutty.

Cowboy Dan, Kitty and Fat Baby's Mamma are all my best friends even though they live in different cities. And no, those name aren't aliases - it's really what I call them. I'm a firm believer in nicknames since when drinking, I'm apt to forget your god-given name but will remember to call you something inappropriate and occassionally witty.

Hobbies....let's see....drinking, cussing and going to Nascar races. Aren't I a peach? I'm really not as redneck as that sounds but hey, you stick to your knitting and I'll stick to my drinking. Your hobby probably sucks since it doesn't make you puke on a regular basis.

Okay, so there's your update! I'll eventually copy this into my profile once I figure out how to do shit on this shit (see that? random, pointless cussing - I'm all about random, pointless cussing).

I don't know how to list my favorite blogs on the side in a neat little category yet but these are the folks that make me laugh every day. (And no comparing how funny they are compared to me - bat rastards)

Dooce
Deborah (my new friend, Deborah, who might not know she's my new friend)
Bad News Hughes (funny as all hell)
Pixie (my other new pal)

So guess who learned to put a link in her blog today? You're damn skippy, ME! (see? more random, more pointless)

Forgive My Absence As I Was Celebrating A.S.S.

Hello, gentle readers. I have missed you. Sorry for my absence but rest assured I have spent the past few days wallowing in the beer filled paradise that is my life – in other words, I’ve been bogged down with the details of functioning and couldn’t find time for you, gentle reader, but have no fear, I’m back and semi-sober to boot.

Spent the weekend at the Atlanta Race with Cowboy Dan, Kitty and my father. That’s right – my father accompanies us to all Atlanta Races to ensure I do not besmirch the fine family name….but he’s rarely that successful at it.

We managed to worm our way into the Victory Lane celebration after the truck race and generally made large, loud redneck asses out of ourselves by telling Ron Hornaday (winner of said truck race) to move his little victory party over so we could get a picture of ourselves with a cell phone camera. Please note – carting around all your beer goodness in a little cooler on wheels does not garner the respect and admiration you may initially think in Victory Lane.

On Saturday, we celebrated A.S.S., the new holiday known as Anal Sex Saturday. Now, let me be perfectly clear, by celebrating I mean I used the phrases “he clearly took it up the poop shoot last night” or “her’s is soooo NOT an exit only orifice” or “he’s got an ass for loving and a face for the pillows” on several occasions. I find if you really want to get a party rocking and get the folks a movin’ – mention a little ass play and watch the mayhem ensue. Please note - I in no way support or condemn folks’ interests in the anal arts – your backdoor, your choice – I however do not practice such tomfoolery as I am not married and am therefore still a virgin (that one’s for you Daddy!).

I tried to kill myself with a new drink concoction made be a track friend of ours – it’s called a Whopatoolie or the Whatoosie or the Whopapoolooza…depending on stage of drunkenness and general feelings of wittiness the drinker enjoys. This elixir is made of tequila and sugar….and frankly, that’s about it. Like Lucky Charms, it is magically delicious and may cause you to see elves. Please note – the amount of Whoppaponoosies I consumed may explain my invention of A.S.S. and the fact that I felt the need to carry Anal Sex Saturday over into Anal Sex Sunday.

As usual a fun time was had by all. There was some racing – hats off for Carl Edwards, Mr. Horse Teeth himself for pulling both a Busch win and a Cup win out of his hat – and there was a lot of drinking and appropriately, even more laughs.

So, let me just say a big “thanks for the memories or drunken lack thereof” to Cowboy Dan and Kitty….and next time, the dinette set is all mine.

Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot

P.S. I have returned home where Captain Nutty is visiting for the week and is thus driving myself and the Princess of Darkness into general “in need of a straight jacket” land. Next week, Captain will be taking the Princess to Florida for spring break and I will be enjoying a return to single, childless land. To celebrate, I may just have to break out a Whapparoozie.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

Seriously, it’s all just too much pressure. Feel the need to post something and say something amusing but I’m concerned that all my thoughts are not humorous but really quite alarming in that “she’s gonna get a pistol and take out her neighbors” sort of way. But then I think, “hey, gentle readers can’t REALLY know me unless I share”….so I think I’m going to share.

Here are some thoughts that literally, all joking aside, have gone through my head today. I think I may be in need of some medication:

Is it just me or does “pistol whip” sound dirtier than it actually is?

Why don’t we say “bat whipped” or “lead pipe whipped”?

How does a guy shoot 3 people on the 8th floor of the freaking courthouse and yet still manage to avoid capture and continue to run rampant through the city?

Did he ride the elevator down?

Did he not encounter several other deputies with guns?

Did they not know he was in the elevator? Someone should have told them that he was either in the elevator or in the stairwell. Would have made for an easy capture.

God, I need a beer.

What are the odds that I will spot said crazed courthouse gunman on the expressway and have to drive my car into his thus resulting in a horrifying car accident which would wreck my classic good looks but would surely save humanity from further death?

Wonder if there would be a reward for such a selfless yet disfiguring act?

Perhaps a marble bust put up in some town square in my honor?

Would the bust be of me pre- or post- disfiguring accident?

Wonder if my plastic surgeon would fall in love with me…

If I went crazy, who would I shoot? (No need to actually warn the FBI or anything, I’m just curious as to who would bear the brunt of my frustrations...several candidates pop to mind)

I would shoot this ass munch in front of me who thinks 46 miles per hours is an appropriate speed in the fast lane.

God, I need a beer.

I really, really hate riding in elevators with strangers.

I really, really hate riding in the elevator with the woman who regularly stinks up the bathroom on our floor.

I bet people living in Rhodesian mud huts don’t have to deal with people who have poor public bathroom etiquette.

God, I need a beer.

I’m still unclear as to exactly all the word “sodomy” encompasses (and no, this is not a request for you to fill me in on this topic).

This time next week, I’ll be drunk at the Atlanta race.

Wonder what size Michael Jackson’s weiner is.

Wonder if it’s white.

Wonder if he’s had plastic surgery on it.

God, I need a beer.

Hmmm…I wonder if the receptionist has noticed how many times I’ve hit the candy dish.

Has the boss left yet?

Hope there’s not traffic between me and the bar.

Hope there’s not a crazed courthouse gunman between me and the bar.

Hope I don’t have to skip drinking because I’m in a disfiguring accident with a crazed courthouse gunman.

God, I need a beer.

Why You Want To Be Me - You Really, Really Do

Alas, I realize that it has been quite some time since I last posted which does not really bode well for the readers participating in Reader Participation Day 2005. But to know me is to know my chronic procrastination and general empathy of all things pressing.

Without further ado, I have to give a shout-out to Cowboy Dan who correctly pegged the “Despite all my bitching and moaning, I’m still a corporate attorney” as the most annoying factor of my life on that particular day. So, a big whoop-whoop to Cowboy Dan. Despite her relative youth, she is oddly in touch with the bitterness that is the inner me.

Honorable mentions must go to Kitty and Fat Baby’s Mamma who spotted the close runner-ups of dog dying and kid I babysat getting married. Note to all concerned – dog is not dying, he is merely diabetic meaning no more twinkies for him and a lifetime revolving around giving him insulin shots for me.

I apologize for the delay in posting but it has been busy this past week or so. I have spent my time attending to the following:

1. Keeping Princess of Darkness away from the darkness…..go to the light, Princess, go to the light!

2. Trying to convince Captain Nutty that the best way to help was NOT by moving down here to live with me and thus driving me insane as well. My family has a need to make everyone around them mentally unstable. If you dare to stop smiling, my mother will calmly suggest that you need an anti-depressant….and then she’ll throw in a “it will help with your weight as well” which is really just the same as saying “hey, fattie, some pills might help that obsessive love affair with French fries that you’ve got going on so why don’t you fake a little mental illness and belly up to the pill bar with the rest of the family”.

3. Been keeping my job. Have become somewhat paranoid considering all the articles that seem to be popping up everywhere about people losing their jobs because of their blogs. Thus no references to job will be made and the threats on the health and welfare of Anal Coworker’s family will herein be restated – I know where you live and I know how to take a hamster and rig an Easy-Bake Oven to make it all look like an accident.

So now I would like to interrupt this recap of last week to share with you, gentle reader, the phone conversation that I just had with the Princess of Darkness ("POD"):

POD (in general funeral dirge mode) : “hello”

Me (in admittedly annoying peppy mode): “Hi!”

POD: “oh hi”

Me: “How was school?”

POD: “why?”

Me: “because I want to know how your day went”

POD: “why?”

Me: “because I love and care about you”

POD: “why?”

Me: “IT’S CALLED SMALL TALK – GET OVER IT. now, how was your day?”

POD: (heavy sigh) “fine”

Me: (and here you can just see me begging for punishment) “what are you doing?”

POD: “why?”

Me: “because I love and care about you”

POD: (heavy sigh) “watching tv”

Me: “do you have any homework?”

POD: (heavy sigh) “why?”

Me: “screw this. I know monkeys with better conversational skills – clean the kitchen”

POD: “fine” click

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, envy me….envy me.

Reader Participation Day 2005

Well, gentle reader; it’s time to determine how well you know me. That’s right! For shits and giggles, it’s reader participation day. I’m going to list a few things that are currently bugging the crap out of me. Your job is to see if you can rank the top five, in order, and then you will win a nifty prize (to be determined later but don’t be expecting more than a shoutout cause I’m thinking it’s gonna be a shoutout).

So without further ado, welcome the Reader Participation Day 2005.

Please rank the following in order of overall "buggin the crap out of me":

- Hey, ABC, it don’t take no 3 freaking hours to tell me Jen dumped both Bachelors, you rat bastards! Jen deserves to be in a disfiguring automobile accident and I think old weak-lipped John Paul may be just the guy to do it.

- The Princess of Darkness is still….well….dealing in the darkness.

- If it’s true that money can’t buy happiness, then why do I have savings accounts? DAMMIT!

- People who have to use exclamation points in order to get their point across. We get the goddamn point! Stop being so fucking excited!

- Captain Nutty is still….well….dealing in the nutty.

- I think my dog is dying or else he’s just faking it so I’ll leave his old ass alone - which would mean I’ve now been officially rejected by the only male in my life that hasn’t run screaming from me. *This excludes Daddy as he don’t run much…or scream much.

- Hey, Tracy Chapman, I got a fast car and it’s fast enough so we can drive away….. but I still ain’t got no better life, you lyin’ bitch!

- I hate people who aren’t creative enough so they use song lyrics from the late ‘80s to make their point.

- Hey, Fox, it don’t take no 3 freaking days to eliminate a couple of lounge lizard singers, you rat bastards! You can take your text message voting and shove it up your crack pipe.

- Despite all my bitching and moaning, I’m still an attorney….or as Billy Corrigan likes to say “despite all my rage, I’m still just a rat in a cage.” True words, Billy, true words.

- So I’m driving by this pasture the other day and this Holstein cow sees me and goes, “hey fattie, lay off the cheese products”.

- I’m not recycling so I’m surely contributing to the downfall of the environment….oh wait…I don’t have kids so why do I give a fuck?!? Go hump a tree, you patchouli smelling grapenut.

- A girl I used to babysit when I was a teenager is getting married in the Hamptons this fall…and unless some sort of nuclear blast that disfigures the whole world except for me occurs and I am the only remaining female with viable eggs (which let’s be frank – we’re not all too sure of that NOW)… I will most likely not beat her to the altar…..hell, odds of me finding a date prior to September? Nill.


Please submit all answers to my email. Have fun gentle reader as I must stop now before the temples in my head explode leaving an unsavory mess on the office walls.

Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot

P.P.S. Anal Coworker has informed me that it is not Billy "Corrigan" so much as it is "Corgan"...clearly Anal Coworker is focusing too much on the literal meaning and not so much the overall picture conjured. His youth must have been spent banging his head along with various other malcontents at Smashing Pumpkins concerts. Name change, duly noted