Lord Deliver Me

I'm watching the movie Atonement. It sucks. Completely sucks. Bored out of my skull.

Ick.

Twitter Twiddle

For those of you who are as unconnected to the blogging world as I, I must draw your attention to the top little thingie at the top of the right hand column. It's Twitter! It means I can shoot one liners from my cell phone and the blog is instantly updated! I can totally bring you along with me on my day!

Wait.

Please don't run screaming.

I'll try to utilize some manner of self editing. (Please ignore today's post about spending time in the courthouse bathroom).

Speaking of which....I could totally Twitter you from a bathroom stall!

This could be so, so bad.

But so, so good.

So....Where Was I?

Boy. Time sure flies when you're doing nothing. I guess I'm not really good at telling time or something as it seems it's been....well....a few eons since my last post. What can I say...I suck.

Anyhooooo....if anybody is still there, I'll guess I'll give you an update.

The POD is still alive and turned 18 yesterday. We are rapidly moving toward high school graduation this year and what I like to call the "Emancipation of Floyd" (not to be confused with the Emancipation of Mimi because Mariah Carey is way skankier than me). She will be returning to the Windy City to harass my parents until such time as she no longer has interest in the Disney Channel (she may have a slight maturity issue).

Speaking of the rents, Captain Nutty is as nutty as ever. To celebrate the POD's big day, both she and the Consort (isn't that what I used to call my stepfather?) are here to ensure big time birthday celebrations. They foolishly agreed to take about 10 hepped up on Moutain Dew teenagers to Six Flags and then back to my house for a cookout and sleepover. I will have no part of it. I'm in hiding.

Here's a fun little tidbit for you. So the Captain comes down to visit and keeps going on and on about wanting to get the POD the new HPV vaccine (you know that annoying "one less! one less! I want to be one less!" commercial). And when I say "going on and on", I mean the damn Captain wouldn't shut her pie hole about it.

So I finally say "What the hell? We'll ask her doctor about it when we get a chance!"

Captain Nutty immediately starts crying as I have now raised my voice in an angry-like fashion which is unacceptable.

She cries out to me, "BUT I DON'T WANT HER GETTING AIDS!"

That's right.

The Captain thought it was a vaccine against HIV. Yep. The world had discovered a vaccine against the most horrifying disease of modern times but we were simply going to let the world know through a commercial with jump roping girls.

Yep. Can't make this shit up.

Wait? You want more? You say I owe you more due to my long absence? Well, if my public demands it! (and by my public, I surely mean the voices in my head as no one is left to read my pathetic drivel)

Last trip, Captain Nutty and I went out to a nice dinner to "discuss" the POD situation. I order a lovely pasta dish. Now, this restaurant apparently makes their own sausage which they served as a side dish to my pasta. I'm generally not a sausage fan as you never really know what they put in it and it tends to disagree with my delicate sensibilities. But what the hell. It's a nice restaurant.

I take a bite and it's quite good. So, I offer the Captain a bite.

She takes a bite. Her response?

"Wow! You can really taste the anus in it!"

Yep.

"Mom, do you possibly mean "anise"?"

"Oh."

Needless to say, my sausage munching was done for the evening.

Well, folks, I will leave you now but hopefully I'm back. Hopefully, I'll be better this time. Hopefully, there will be wine.

Welcome to the Captain Nutty Show

So as I mentioned, my Captain is here (again, my mother for you new folks - ha!). As usual, chaos and turmoil has followed her here. Though I cannot scientifically prove a link, one day prior to her arrival the POD fell off a horse and broke the ever loving crap out of her right hand (specifically - the joint connecting her thumb to her wrist). Not one to do things in a half-assed manner, the POD broke it in a T type fashion which will involve big time hand surgery on Thursday.

Oh yeah. I'm having fun. And no, the POD is freakishly not in any pain - AT ALL. She's a little off. Even the doctor was slightly unnerved by her lack of pain.

Anyhoooooo.....this has evolved into my mother insisting that she is staying for the surgery as opposed to playing in the scheduled golf tournament in North Carolina this weekend. Luckily, I calmly (read: hysterically) suggested (read: demanded in petulant manner) that she go on said golf weekend for her own good (read: I threatened to kill her if she stayed). Probably not my finest moment as a daughter but definitely the thing that needed to be done in order to preserve what little sanity the POD and I have left.

In attempt to get in a little mothering while she's here, she has engaged in some sort of 20 Questions game assuming that 20 Questions game was played by people on crack.

In the last hour, I have answered the following:

I see you're working - Should I pack a lunch for POD?

Does she want strawberries or pineapple in her lunch? (Perhaps one should ask the POD!)

Where are your ziploc bags?

Is it cold in here?

Did you here the dryer go off?

Did you know vinegar has a lot of uses around the house? I read that in Real Simple.

Did I tell you that my friends took me out early for my birthday? (yes, at least 8 times but please tell me again!)

Did I tell you Susan's daughter is going to have a baby? (yes, at least 17 times but please tell me again! It doesn't make my ovaries hurt at all that a kid I used to babysit is married and pregnant and I all have to show for it is a dog that pees all over the dining room floor)

Do you want some ice cream?

Did you want some ice cream?

Are you sure you don't want some ice cream?

Do you want some ice cream - I'll make it for you?

Come on - you want some ice cream?

See? Why didn't you say you wanted some ice cream?

Has the POD done her homework?

Has the POD had her shower?

Do you want me to take POD to school tomorrow?

Does the POD love me?

Do you love me?

Do you think your father hates me?

Is the dog allowed to chew that?

Oh. Are you still working? (YES! YES, I AM STILL WORKING...I AM STILL TRYING TO WORK SO THAT I DO NOT LOSE ALL SEMBLANCE OF MONETARY INCOME.)




Yep. I hereby honestly swear or affirm that all above is a true and correct representation of the past 30 minutes of my life.

She's a keeper.

Invasion

So Captain Nutty is here (that's my mother for the uninitiated).

I will try to keep you updated as to the various lunacy that ensues.

Oh...and important note...the POD has broken her hand by falling off a horse. And by broke, I mean BROKE. Surgery with plates, pins and screws (Oh my!) to follow on Thursday.

Am going shopping with the Captain today as the POD needs school clothes (i.e. 6 plain black t-shirts from Target and two new pairs of jeans).

Poop.

P.S. This entry brought to you by the fine makers of Yellowtail Shiraz-Cabernet mix red wine. Such a fine product helped me endure the Captain on not one, but TWO vodka tonics (not to count the endless supply of DEA controlled narcotics that course through her body at any given time). Gox loves you, you lovely Yellowtail bastards.

Header? Who Needs a Stinking Header?

Clearly I have not figured out what happened to my header but if you're here, you know this is Floyd's Tailgate. Poop.

Anyhooooo, things are chumming along swimmingly. Same shit, different year.

Let's see....what haven't I told you....

Oh! The POD gave our house key away to some runaway kid that needed a place to stay. I shit you not. She knew the kid for about 24 hours and decided that he was fine to come stay at our house. She's an excellent judge of character - witness Krystal with K, the latin lesbian gang banger the POD loved or the pot smoking juvenile enemy number 1 that she allowed into the rents' house who stole my mother's wedding ring. Yeah. Her judgment is top notch.

Captain Nutty is coming to visit. Contain your excitement, everyone! Just settle the hell down!

Frankly, the only things that really make these visits tolerable is her purchasing power. I know - super shallow - but the truth's a bitch. POD needs school clothes and I need every product currently sold by Sephora. Course Captain Nutty called crying and saying she has no money. So I'm thinking a well-timed return phone call saying "no money, no visity" is in order.

If you hear a high pitch wailing, you'll know that's my mother doing her best dying cat impression.

Other than that...same old, same old. Anybody still there? Anything going on with you? Do you know how I recover my masthead thingie?

So Where Was I?

Hi. My name is Floyd. And I'm a slack ass blogger.

Hi Floyd!

It's been 2 1/2 months or so since my last blog. And I'm a blogaholic.

Bah.

Anyhooooo......

All's right with the world. Well. Except for the following.


1. The POD is going to visit Martha's Vineyard. with her buddy. She asked me exactly where that was and I responded "New England".

Her response? "I DON'T HAVE A PASSPORT!"

American education at its best.

2. At Target this morning, I purchased some underwear (yes, I bought some underwear at Target....suck it). And they were normal underwear....nice....not up-thE-butt, wild print, screw me panties.

So checkout lady goes, "YOU KNOW! I don't usually say this....buuuuut.....(inner warning bells now going off in Floyd's head).....I really like to wear thongs! You should try them! They are soooo comfortable!"

Now, Ms. SharesTooMuchForTargetCheckoutLady is a big boned gal. I'm no small potato but she's got at least 100 lbs on me. I smile and nod politely - cause really what the fuck else do you do?

And just when I thought it couldn't get more awkward...

Ms. CrossEyedSoICan'tSeeHowUncomforableMyCustomerIs says, "You know how it is! Us BIG gals gotta stick together! We like to feel sexy too, right?"

Um. Yeah.

Discuss my underwear and then call me fat. Great marketing. And seriously, lady? I realize I got a few extra pounds on me but I've also lost a few recently and was feeling pretty good this Sunday morning but thanks for bringing me into your fat folds. And by the way? All fat people are not created equal. I'm still hotter than you - thong or no thong.

You missing link whore.

3. I'm taking the POD to Universal Studios this week. Captain Nutty and the Consort are paying for our trip in honor of my birthday (which was last week - bah.). To commemorate the occasion, Captain Nutty sent me a little gift to go along with it. She sent me a bottle of Beautiful perfume lotion....which is nice. BUT I haven't worn that perfume in about 20 years. One wonders why she just didn't break out the Love's Baby Soft while she was at it.

OH! And she also included a card. But not a birthday card. A thank you card. Yeah. I don't get it either.


Anyhooooo.....glad to be back will try to be better but bah. You know how I am.

P.S. What the hell happened to my title/masthead thingie? Dammit.

Another Point of Order

Are you freaking kidding me? Pony boy goes on to torment another week?

Someone's gots some 'splaining to do.

And for that matter, why the hell is Gwen Stefani performing in a body suit and tie?

Good gox. Time to hit the tequilla in the middle of the week.

I guess we all knew it would come to this.

Point of Order

If any of you vote for that pony tressed freak Sanjaya, you are dead to me.

Do you hear me?

Dead.

To.

Me.

Consider yourself forewarned.

Goodnight, Sweet Girl

Well, I think I've been here before. Today, I had to put my dog Stella down. For those of you who were around last year (like there's anyone still reading - bah), you may remember that I had to put my Ben to sleep last year. Well, good old Stella managed to hang around and keep me company for an entire year longer.

Stella and I didn’t have as long together as Ben and I did. When I lived in Chicago, I got involved with a lab rescue group and began fostering labs. I went through about 35 labs (give or take) – some of them were fantastic dogs…..and some of them made me want to make little lab fur slippers out of them.

And then, there was Stella. Stella came into rescue at about 12 years of age. She had been running around south Illinois as a stray for at least a year before the local vet’s office could corral her. I picked her up and pretty quickly thereafter decided that she was the only foster that I just HAD to adopt. She had scars all over her. We don’t really know from what but it was clear she’d had a rough road and I decided she needed me.

When she came into my house, she was known to be a “breast cancer survivor” and probably only had a little while longer to live. So I figured I would provide a nice, safe home for her passing. I was all warm and fuzzy from my magnanimous gesture as I saved yet another “poor” dog.

Well, bah. Stella was from the hood and she wasn’t down with that. She came into the house and immediately scared the ever-loving shit out of Ben. She took no crap from nobody. She taught the cat that he was a lower life form and let Ben know that his penis didn’t impress her (and considering the whole neuter issue, she wasn’t far wrong). She’d seen tough times and living in suburbia wasn’t it. She was top canine and the house better come to accept it.

She insisted on sleeping on the bed with me and Ben. So, of course, I had to get a king size. She and Ben would sleep on either side of me and end up stretching the covers so tight that I couldn’t move. God forbid, they ever tough each other and sleep on the same side. I was uncomfortable but the two of them provided a lovely snoring, chainsaw chorus.

A few weeks after I adopted Stella, I was at a Pet Fair with Stella and the lab rescue’s booth was right next to a pet psychic. (Yes, I know – pet psychic – but it was cool and it was free – so bah on you). Ms. Pet Psychic did a little reading on Stella and asked if there was anything I wanted to know. I asked her to Stella to stop chasing the cat. Stella responded that she “thought she was doing pretty good since she hadn’t eaten him yet”.

That cracked me up. Still does frankly.

She loved tennis balls but was too good to chase them for you. You threw it once; she caught it and then proceeded to shred the crap out of it in 5 minutes flat. The only ball that could stand her destructive tendencies was a soccer ball. She would carry soccer balls around with her everywhere – each of them in various states of decomposition. Ben hated the fact that she would dare destroy a perfectly good ball but if she could have formed the one finger salute with her paw and flicked him off, she would have.

Eventually, she and Ben became friends. She mourned quite a bit when he died. Somehow, that made me feel better to know she missed him too. The POD and I focused all our attention on her, hoping to make her a just a bit happier. In turn, she kept us jumping as well. Over the past few months, she trained me to get up and get her treat anytime she wanted it. I kid you not. She would whine and paw at me until I got up to let her out. Well, she wouldn’t need to go out and since I was “standing by the treats anyway”, I might as well give her one. It took me a while to figure out that her entire intention was simply to manipulate me to the treat jar. Well played, biyatch, well played.

My little “going to peacefully die in my do-gooder home within a few months” baby lasted for an entire 4 years with me. She developed a body that closely resembled an ottoman and banged her food dish if I was ever a little too late with breakfast. She developed a cough which quickly became accompanied with a trumpet that blew out of her ass each and every time she hacked. It was both deadly and deadly funny.
She was probably around 16 years old which is freaking ancient for a lab. When Ben died, I asked her to not to leave me for a while. I told her I couldn’t lose them both in one year. Well, my sweet girl kept her promise and lasted one more year and one month.

And for that, I will always be grateful. Good night, baby girl.

Peace Be With You

So guess what I did on New Years Eve? Go on, guess!

Did you say "marry two of your best friends"? Then you're right!

I am pleased to announce that Cowboy Dan and Dutch were joined in holy matrimony by your's truly.

That's right, you heathens, I am now an official minister of the Universal Life Church & Monastery (both a church AND a monastery!). It was free to be indoctrinated but I paid the extra $30 for the parking pass and plastic badge.

This of course means that THIS:



Was married to THAT:



By THIS:




I'm also avialable for funerals, baptisms and "love unions". Fees include a case of a beer and a ride home. I'm just saying.

Sunday Smells

A couple of issues I'm pondering this gray Sunday morning:

1. What is the absolute time limit for when you have to get out of your pajamas on a Sunday? Does it change your opinion if it's a rainy, overcast Sunday? Does it change your opinion if you know I don't wear underwear with my pajamas?

2. If you end up working all day Saturday and Sunday, does that make working on Monday optional? If you are own boss and you give yourself Monday off, does that make you a slack-ass? Does being a slack-ass shock absolutely anyone that knows you?

3. If you POD is going on a 4 day ski trip, is it wrong to simulataneously look forward to it and dread it cause you know you're going to sleep with the lights and tv on? (Note to readers: found out my house is haunted over the holidays...I shit you not....really....HAUNTED....more later)

4. If your best friend, Fat Baby's Mamma, has a new baby and scares the shit out of you by having a difficult labor and birth, do you still have to send her a baby gift? Cause really, is it fair that just because she has managed to reproduce, she has the right to make your heart stop and begin to worry about what you say at funerals? (And yes, I know I'm overreacting but that's the way my brain works)

All in all, the most important part of this Sunday is to say "Welcome to world, Baby Girl!". And yes, I know your name is Saylor but I will be calling you Fat Betty. And just wait to you hear the stories I have to tell you about your mamma. Your Aunt Kitty and I are already planning on getting you drunk on your 18th birthday. Rock on, DaLisa! You are much loved ( but if you ever scare your Aunt Floyd like that again, she will beat your ass....I'm just saying).

Mistletoe, MistleHO

It appears that there have been some sort of holidays since I last blogged. Well, bah. I owe you some updating.

Shall we begin?

The POD and I survived Christmas. We drove to Tennessee where I was upgraded to a twin bed in bedroom shared with my mother, Captain Nutty, and the POD. THAT i s an upgrade, you ask? Well, yes, gentle reader, it is an upgrade because for the last 15 years, I have been on a fold-out cot in a bedroom with Captain Nutty and the Consort. And for the record, fatty don't do deal without a firm set of boxspring underneath her girth. I'm just saying.

The day after Christmas, we all journeyed to the mountains of North Carolina where my aunt lives. My aunt is the sister of Captain Nutty and is just barely a macadamia nut short of a nutty title herself. There we celebrated 25 wonderful years of marriage for Captain Nutty and the Consort.

Now here's where it gets to be a "Floyd Family Moment". Let's harken back a few months to when the Captain and her Consort were last in town. During that trip, they dragged me to see Harvey, the family jeweler. (Yes, we have a family jeweler and no, I have no idea why). I was forced to sit there (incredibly hung over, I might add) and listen to a conversation about designing a new ring for my mother. The Consort wanted one large diamond with 24 diamonds set around it (you know, for the 25 years of "marital bliss"). Of course, at this point, I'm trying not to upchuck the gallon of Jaigermeister I had partaken of at the race the night before. But even so, I was in awe of the irony of me being unable to provide hot water for their visit since I didn't pay the gas bill and them designing some "equal to the gross national product of Malaysia" ring while in the same breath telling me they have no money to support the POD right now.

Oh wait. It gets better.

So I sit through this farce without hacking up on the jeweler's little glass cases. Time goes by. On the night of the anniversary, the Consort makes a GRAND show of giving the ring to my mother. He presents her a big box, which holds smaller and smaller boxes until she gets down to a ring size box. (Sidenote: does this little bigger box ruse really fool anyone anymore? Have it really open up to nothing but air! Now THAT would be a surprise.)

Still not to the good part. Bear with me. Trying to get there.

So Captain opens up her ring box and acts.......surprised! And I quote, "Oh Consort, I can't believe you did this! What a surprise!"

That's right. She pretended she didn't know a thing about it . She acted like we all didn't know she was in on it. She acted like her "two steps above food stamps" daughter wasn't sitting right the hell there as she told Family Jeweler that the 24 diamonds should not be merely chips.

AND THEN! With all sincerity and incredulity, she goes to the Consort, "Did Harvey do this?"

At that point, I had a coronary and passed out in the spaghetti. I'm still removing pieces of parmessan from my nostrils.

Bah.

Well, many more exciting holiday memories to share with you. Stay tuned cause I got me some surprises regarding New Years! I'll give you a hint....it involves a wedding.....and NO, not mine.

Conversational Worry

So driving down the street with POD when this little gem of an exchange occurs:

POD: "OOOO! Look a Hooters with a drive-thru!"

Me: "Ummmm....POD.....that's not a Hooters. That's a Hardee's."

POD: "oh."

I don't know which is more disturbing. The fact that she gets excited at the idea of Hooters or that fact that she can't identify the fast food paragon that is Hardees.

Probably a toss up.

Equally disturbing but on another level entirely. I'm in a gas station in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere but somewhere in SOUUUUTH Georgia (don't ask). This particular convenience store doesn't really rank up there with the nicer, newer stations but it's well lit thus I'm there.

I go in for a Diet Mountain Dew (you get your caffeine your way, I'll get mine my way) and overhear this little tidbit:

Granny looking nicely dressed lady wandering in store: "Do you have eggnog?"

Meth addicted store clerk: "No....not this time year."

Again, not sure what bothers me more. What this grandma is doing looking for eggnog at a shit hole at 1:00 am or the fact that the store clerk seems to think eggnog is the appropriate drink for Easter.

I'm just saying.

Fa La La La, La La La La

I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas music, as I'm sure most everyone with eardrums does. As a public service announcement, I thought it best to inform you of what holiday tunage is absolutely cringe-worthy in the Floyd world.

1. Feliz Navidad. I'm all for blind guys singing (except for Stevie….really don’t like Stevie….but I’m all about Ray Charles). I got nothing against Jose Feliciano. But this latin fiesta makes me want to claw my eyes out with a taco chip.

2. Anything sung by Karen Carpenter. Her voice makes me think of harvest gold kitchen appliances and bad macramé. Every time I hear one of her songs, I eat a cookie out of sympathy for her whole "I didn't eat so I died" thing. Thus, technically, I can blame any and all holiday weight gain on Karen Carpenter. Poor taste? Sure. Plausible deniability of my own responsibility for my ass size? Absolutely.

3. Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer. For the love of all that's holy, it's a novelty song. Let it go, people, let it go.

4. Any classic sung by a skank. I don't need "hell to the no" Whitney Crack Whore Houston singing to me about the Christ child. I don't need Madonna purring her version of Santa Baby. Hey, you Angelina-Wanna-Be, we got it when you sang "Material Girl"! You like money! You like shiny things (not unlike raccoon)! Color me clued in! Now, shut the hell up.

5. George Michael's crappy Last Christmas ditty. This one in particular makes me vomit. If you recall, "last Christmas he gave you his heart"...this Christmas he gave you his bizness in a men's loo in some London public park. And seriously, all the more power to him. I mean if that's your idea of a rocking good time, knock yourself out but I really can't associate you much with the whole "celebration of the birth of the messiah" thing anymore. Wham that, George.

Now. All of that being said, I feel compelled to include Floyd's most treasured holiday tunes so that you can be in awe of my highbrowed musical taste. And for the record, I'm only going to include the funs and not the ones like Holy Night which makes me cry each and every time I hear it (Shut up. I have a soft side. And I’m going to Heaven. While y’all burn in hell.)

1. You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch. Stink, stank, stunk. Nuff sed.

2. Those Peanuts kids singing "Christmas Time is Here". Makes me throw my head back and sing like Snoopy howls.

3. Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt - I just like to hear her say "plat-ti-num mine". (kiss my ass, Madonna)

4. All I Want for Christmas is You by Mariah Carey (okay - so there is ONE exception to the skank rule).

5. I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas. Cracks my inner child up, each and every time.

6. The Chipmunks Christmas Song. Now, this is how a novelty song is done, you damn Grandma killers.

7. The Wrap Song by the Waitresses. My inner 80s child rocks out to this one.

8. U2's version of Baby Please Come Home. U2 could sing the ABC's and I'd probably by a version of it.

9. Heat Miser/Snow Miser song. If you don't love this, then you're dead to me. DEAD.

10. Elvis' Blue Christmas. I just like to sing along to the "wooooowooooo's".

And in the words of Burle Ives, "Merry Damn Christmas".

We Could So Hang Out

I'm a Good Morning America girl. You can stick your Today show. Katie Couric made my teeth hurt and frankly, even though she's gone, the after taste is too sacharine for me. I like to have my morning Diet Coke with Diane Sawyer and Robin Roberts.It's how I roll.

This brings me to this fine morning (which isn't really fine at all as it is raining and the lights on my Christmas tree mysteriously shorted out).

Robin Roberts was at the White House for a lovely tour of the Christmas decorations (bet their freaking lights didn't short out - my taxes at work and all).

Robin was joined live by the lovely first lady, Laura Bush. Now, I don't delve into politics here too much (and yes, I hear you all going "hell, you don't delve into anything lately!" - bite me)but I love the first lady. She's Texan. She's nice. She's got a backbone of steel. She's got a kickin accent and rocks a pantsuit like no other. She calls her husband "Bushy" and that right there is hysterical.

And now I love her even more.

She's giving Robin (and ME!) the grand tour of the first crib and brings us to the red room. She explains it's one of her favorite rooms because it's so festive during the holidays.

She then does her best Vanna White impression and points to the lovely portrait over the fireplace.

And goes as follows, "This is the lovely portrait of Angelica Huston over the mantel.".

Ummmm.....Angelica Huston? Daugher of acclaimed director John Huston? Oscar winner for Prizzi's Honor, Huston?

Wow. Didn't know she was so popular with the political set.

Mrs. Bush later rolls into saying it was Angelica Van Buren but frankly, I find Angelica Huston much more interesting.

Rock the vote, sister friend!

Firmly Committed to Non-committance

Still here. Still love you. Promise I will try to write more tomorrow.

But for now. For the love of all that's holy. Please go watch the new game show with Willaim Shatner.

There is dancing. There is a red vest. There is a contestant that is so fabulously flaming that Liberace is rolling his eyes in disgust.

My kind of show.

Help Me Out, Allanis

Is it ironic to be sitting on the tiolet doing your "business" and reading a cookbook at the same time?

Just wonderin.

Talla-SUCK-dega

In 2004, I went to the race at Talladega and was all happy with Cowboy Dan like this.





In 2004, I went to Talladega and met Elvis.




In 2005, I added a jaunty chapeau.






In 2005, I asked that Elvis keep his shirt on.




In 2006, I'm sitting my fat ass at home while Elvis pines for me.

Dammit.

Any Takers?

So I've been a little stressed. Nothing new about that really. And not "overwhelming, pull the covers over my head and pray for the Apocalypse" stress but more the "would it be wrong to have wine at 9 am?" stress.

You need an example, you say?

Well, okay.

I was brushing my teeth this morning because despite my predilection for Nascar, I have a full mouth of teeth.

Well, so I'm brushing away. And all is good.

Something happens. I don't really know what. It wasn't traumatic, it was just an impulse or something.

Result? I bit down on my toothbrush.

I bit down on my toothbrush HARD.

And well, I broke my toothbrush.

That's right, I lockjawed on that fine Oral B apparatus and broke it. Broke it into a couple of pieces. With my teeth.

So, that begs the question.....

Who wants a blowjob?