Oh, I know where I was...CURSING BLOGGER AFTER I LOST AN ENTIRE POST!!!! ARRRGH.
In an effort to be more regular (without resorting to fiber therapy), I've decided I'm going to try to throw in some shorter posts to counteract my longer rants. That way maybe I can post a little more often.
Of course, after making this decision, I stored up about 4 shorter issues and didn't post them. Oh well. Best laid plans.
1. A call to all ladies. The spandex bicycle short should never be worn anytime your posterior is not actually on a bicycle seat. Never. Ever. And especially not in line at the post office. Especially not in line at the post office with your oversized baseball jersey (which calls for another post all its own) and white sandals. Especially not in line at the post office with your two squalling brats. I was really torn at first. I didn't know whether to give you a little hug and say, "hang in there, sister!" or give you a bitch slap upside the head. But then your darling little tot stuck her tongue out at me and when I made a face back at her, she started squalling. Loudly. And you did nothing to quell such squalling (notice - I take absolutely no responsibility for such episode). Therefore, consider yourself mentally bitch slapped upside the back of your head.
2. Dear teenage houseguest. You are here because I really would like the POD to make new friends at her new school. You appeared like a good candidate. However, when I tell you that we will be cooking out hamburgers and hot dogs and you respond "can we get Wendy's?", you tend to set my teeth on edge. When you then proceed to preheat the oven as you help yourself to a frozen pizza, you have woken the beast. Side note - you are 15, I shouldn't have to use the phrase, "we don't rough house inside" at all. Go home and whine to your parents that you've been bitch slapped.
3. Note to client. I do realize that you have not been privy to my previous rants on proper attire for the courtroom. However, that is no excuse. Let me make this as clear as possible. We are going into court to put forth a legal position that has no basis in the law AT ALL. We need the judge to either like you or pity you and frankly, I don't care which it is. When needing the favorable light of others, you do not wear your jorts (jeans + shorts = jorts) to court. I could go into how you probaly shouldn't wear jorts anywhere but that is probably for another rant. The mind reels when it realizes you have been waiting for this court date for an entire year so on your big morning you pulled out your nicest pressed shorts and best gold chain - brings whole new meaning to "dressed to impress". I'll be billing you extra - consider yourself bitch slapped. And I don't care if that knocks you out of your wheelchair or not.
Well, I feel like I have righted some wrongs. Carry on.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
And I Didn't Have To Go Through Labor
The POD is readjusting to civilian life. School has started and we are settling back into a routine. She is still the same child that I sent away to camp but there is a subtle improvement. She has matured some over the summer, which is welcome relief. However, she still wants to watch every episode of Hannah Montana on the Disney channel. What can I say? She’s a contradiction in terms.
However, this brings us to my role in her life. I offer the following for you perusal.
A sister feeds you mini-pizza for a nutritious well-balanced dinner.
A mother holds your hair while you puke up said pizza a few hours later.
A sister flees the area upon realizing the toilet is now clogged with vomit and a stench unlike any she has known before.
A mother rolls up her pajama pants and mops the smelliest mess ever produce from the bathroom floor while mentally cussing the plumbing in the shit hole house (ummm…. a mother might not use the phrase “shit hole” but it was warranted in this particular situation).
A sister packs a kid off to bed with a “Gee, I hope you feel better”.
A mother tucks said kid into her own bed and then sleeps on the 2 square inches of the king size bed that the child has not commandeered in the middle of the night.
A sister fetches Krispy Kremes for breakfast as requested by semi-recovered child this morning.
A mother makes dry toast and prays it stays down said kid’s gullet.
My point?
I WANT A FUCKING MOTHER’S DAY CARD, PEOPLE! A MOTHER’S DAY CARD! AND IT NEEDS TO BE HALLMARK! AND OVERSIZED! ONE OF THOSE $5.00 CARDS WITH FLOWERS ON THE FRONT AND MUSHY WORDS INSIDE!
A bunch of flowers wouldn’t kill you either.
I’m just saying.
However, this brings us to my role in her life. I offer the following for you perusal.
A sister feeds you mini-pizza for a nutritious well-balanced dinner.
A mother holds your hair while you puke up said pizza a few hours later.
A sister flees the area upon realizing the toilet is now clogged with vomit and a stench unlike any she has known before.
A mother rolls up her pajama pants and mops the smelliest mess ever produce from the bathroom floor while mentally cussing the plumbing in the shit hole house (ummm…. a mother might not use the phrase “shit hole” but it was warranted in this particular situation).
A sister packs a kid off to bed with a “Gee, I hope you feel better”.
A mother tucks said kid into her own bed and then sleeps on the 2 square inches of the king size bed that the child has not commandeered in the middle of the night.
A sister fetches Krispy Kremes for breakfast as requested by semi-recovered child this morning.
A mother makes dry toast and prays it stays down said kid’s gullet.
My point?
I WANT A FUCKING MOTHER’S DAY CARD, PEOPLE! A MOTHER’S DAY CARD! AND IT NEEDS TO BE HALLMARK! AND OVERSIZED! ONE OF THOSE $5.00 CARDS WITH FLOWERS ON THE FRONT AND MUSHY WORDS INSIDE!
A bunch of flowers wouldn’t kill you either.
I’m just saying.
Friday, August 18, 2006
I Went To The Woods And Thoreau Was A Whack Job
Hail to all! I have returned from the woods with nary a tick bite uponst my body! Yes, it's true - the POD has returned from her sojourn to the woods (otherwise known as her "no choice about it expulsion to 72 days in wilderness therapy camp").
Of course, in order to spring her from her Grizzly Adams hell the fam-damily had to join in for some outdoorsy fun. But perhaps I get ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning of my tour of the seven circles of hell (are there seven? or nine? I’m sooo not that literary).
As you may or may not recall, I took POD to camp just after Memorial Day. It was not good. It was not fun. It was similar to taking old Fido out a country road and dropping him off to die.
I then endured weekly conference calls with the POD’s therapist and my ‘rents. Therapist was okey-dokey. My ‘rents asked such pertinent questions like “Is her skin breaking out? Does she need acne medicine? Is she losing weight?”
Those might seem like normal concerns for a camp dweller but the POD wasn’t really in “camp”. Camp in this case is a euphemism for “living in the woods with one set of clothes, only showering 5 times in 72 days, carrying a 40 pound backpack on long hikes, sleeping under a piece of plastic every night, eating nothing but beans and rice and making your own fires with two rocks” camp. So one hopes that you can now appreciate the sheer idiocy of parental concern for the POD’s weight loss or the random zit.
Needless to say, summer was filled with much teeth gnashing on my part. But need for root canal aside, summer drew to a close. The ‘rents arrived a couple of Saturdays ago for us to prep for the trek to North Carolina to fetch my campfire girl home. And thus it began.
On Saturday, Captain Nutty (my mother) had more than her usual two grey goose and tonics and ventured into the land of the three-drink party.
On Sunday, Captain Nutty repeated word-for-word every single, solitary story she had told me under the three drink spell the night before.
On Sunday, Captain Nutty got mad at me when she asked “Did I tell you….?” And I responded, “yes, yes you did….you told me last night….you told me ten minutes ago….perhaps it’s time to adjust your meds.”
On Sunday night, we arrive at some Bed & Breakfast a mile away from the POD’s base camp. I spend my time avoiding the granola-crunching, “guess what mystery juice I made” owner hippy of the converted 1972 house he’s charging $120 night for my resting pleasure .
On Monday, we join about 20 other parents who kids are being sprung from wilderness hell for a “parenting seminar”.
On Monday, I spend my day shushing Captain Nutty for blithering on and on like Oprah on crack (and for the record, she really doesn’t like to be shushed).
On Monday, I try not to be embarrassed by the fact that everything the Consort (my stepfather) says sounds like it came right out of a motivational poster that hangs right next to the “Hang in there, Kitty!” print in some middle management dweeb’s office.
On Tuesday, I had to hike. Hike up a very big hill. And it was hot. Like Africa hot. And the hill was big. Like steep. And big. Did I mention the big?
On Tuesday, I spotted the POD! Gave her big, huge hug. And then kindly pulled away as the over powering smell of an unwashed communing-with-nature body swooned the senses. I mean WOW. Wish y’all had smell-o-vision wow. Like I’ve washed her clothes 3 times and they still smell wow.
On Tuesday, I watched the POD start a campfire with sticks and two stones.
On Tuesday, I made a mental note to purchase more fire extinguishers for home use.
On Tuesday, I slept on the ground. Under a piece of plastic. With bugs. With snakes. With things that wanted to crawl across my face in the middle of the night.
On Tuesday, I felt every single minute of my 36 years. I felt all those minutes in my lower back. In my midnight delirium, I sang praises to the gods of Holiday Inn and Marriott.
On Wednesday, I did not complain one single time about lower back pain as I feared the POD might turn on me with feral eyes and scream “72 DAYS!! 72 DAYS!!!”.
On Wednesday, I brought the POD home and we learned more of our ‘rents plans to enjoy “happy happy family fun time’.
On Wednesday, the POD and I began the countdown as to when the ‘rents would leave.
On Thursday, I longed for the sweet release of alcohol.
On Friday, I longed for the sweet release of drugs.
On Saturday, I longed for the sweet release of death.
On Sunday, the ‘rents left for parts northward.
On Sunday, the POD and I assumed our usual positions on the couch and played Pokeman on our Gameboys. ALL. DAY. LONG.
And all was right with the world once again.
Of course, in order to spring her from her Grizzly Adams hell the fam-damily had to join in for some outdoorsy fun. But perhaps I get ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning of my tour of the seven circles of hell (are there seven? or nine? I’m sooo not that literary).
As you may or may not recall, I took POD to camp just after Memorial Day. It was not good. It was not fun. It was similar to taking old Fido out a country road and dropping him off to die.
I then endured weekly conference calls with the POD’s therapist and my ‘rents. Therapist was okey-dokey. My ‘rents asked such pertinent questions like “Is her skin breaking out? Does she need acne medicine? Is she losing weight?”
Those might seem like normal concerns for a camp dweller but the POD wasn’t really in “camp”. Camp in this case is a euphemism for “living in the woods with one set of clothes, only showering 5 times in 72 days, carrying a 40 pound backpack on long hikes, sleeping under a piece of plastic every night, eating nothing but beans and rice and making your own fires with two rocks” camp. So one hopes that you can now appreciate the sheer idiocy of parental concern for the POD’s weight loss or the random zit.
Needless to say, summer was filled with much teeth gnashing on my part. But need for root canal aside, summer drew to a close. The ‘rents arrived a couple of Saturdays ago for us to prep for the trek to North Carolina to fetch my campfire girl home. And thus it began.
On Saturday, Captain Nutty (my mother) had more than her usual two grey goose and tonics and ventured into the land of the three-drink party.
On Sunday, Captain Nutty repeated word-for-word every single, solitary story she had told me under the three drink spell the night before.
On Sunday, Captain Nutty got mad at me when she asked “Did I tell you….?” And I responded, “yes, yes you did….you told me last night….you told me ten minutes ago….perhaps it’s time to adjust your meds.”
On Sunday night, we arrive at some Bed & Breakfast a mile away from the POD’s base camp. I spend my time avoiding the granola-crunching, “guess what mystery juice I made” owner hippy of the converted 1972 house he’s charging $120 night for my resting pleasure .
On Monday, we join about 20 other parents who kids are being sprung from wilderness hell for a “parenting seminar”.
On Monday, I spend my day shushing Captain Nutty for blithering on and on like Oprah on crack (and for the record, she really doesn’t like to be shushed).
On Monday, I try not to be embarrassed by the fact that everything the Consort (my stepfather) says sounds like it came right out of a motivational poster that hangs right next to the “Hang in there, Kitty!” print in some middle management dweeb’s office.
On Tuesday, I had to hike. Hike up a very big hill. And it was hot. Like Africa hot. And the hill was big. Like steep. And big. Did I mention the big?
On Tuesday, I spotted the POD! Gave her big, huge hug. And then kindly pulled away as the over powering smell of an unwashed communing-with-nature body swooned the senses. I mean WOW. Wish y’all had smell-o-vision wow. Like I’ve washed her clothes 3 times and they still smell wow.
On Tuesday, I watched the POD start a campfire with sticks and two stones.
On Tuesday, I made a mental note to purchase more fire extinguishers for home use.
On Tuesday, I slept on the ground. Under a piece of plastic. With bugs. With snakes. With things that wanted to crawl across my face in the middle of the night.
On Tuesday, I felt every single minute of my 36 years. I felt all those minutes in my lower back. In my midnight delirium, I sang praises to the gods of Holiday Inn and Marriott.
On Wednesday, I did not complain one single time about lower back pain as I feared the POD might turn on me with feral eyes and scream “72 DAYS!! 72 DAYS!!!”.
On Wednesday, I brought the POD home and we learned more of our ‘rents plans to enjoy “happy happy family fun time’.
On Wednesday, the POD and I began the countdown as to when the ‘rents would leave.
On Thursday, I longed for the sweet release of alcohol.
On Friday, I longed for the sweet release of drugs.
On Saturday, I longed for the sweet release of death.
On Sunday, the ‘rents left for parts northward.
On Sunday, the POD and I assumed our usual positions on the couch and played Pokeman on our Gameboys. ALL. DAY. LONG.
And all was right with the world once again.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Purging Purgatory
Dear Fellow Bathroom Dweller,
Let me start by conveying to you exactly how important bathroom time is to me. I have needs. I have issues. I realize that ours is a shared lavatory in an office building. I respect that this is not my personal space. I acknowledge your right to use such facilities for your own personal pottying needs.
However, you and I both know that there are very few females on this floor. As such, I have developed a sort of personal interest in our two-stall domain. I always use the second stall. You know this. First stalls creep me out as they are too close to the door of said restroom which puts me in fear of being discovered with my pants around my ankles and my cellulite bulging over toilet seat for the world to ogle. (Clearly this is not an issue for you but for my therapist but you see my point)
I like our bathroom even though the soap dispenser does not work. Thoughtfully, the Korean ladies who clean such space have provided a lovely soap dispenser for our hygienic necessities. I don't even mind that they provided Clean N'Clear facial soap for us to wash our hands with as their hearts were surely in the right place.
What do I mind? I mind you puking all over my toilet. Since they are so few us, it either had to be you or one of your little rug rats that you have dragged to work with you simply praying for the day school starts back up. I sympathize. I truly do.
We all feel the need to regurgitate our lunch from time to time. Someone who eats as much McDonald's as I do certainly understands a little post-lunch spewing. What I don't understand is how you managed to leave my favorite stall and not wipe down the toilet seat. Notice I don't even point out the backsplash you left on the wall (that would be rude of me). Even the homeless guy around the corner who I saw combing his girlfriend’s hair for fleas would look at the toilet and go “no thanks – a little too nasty for me”.
Do you not see the sign posted on the mirror by management that reads "if you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie"? I was massively offended by management thinking they had to request professionals to do such obligatory maintenance but NOW I see their point.
I can maybe get past all of the things. I am an adult. Of course, I am an adult that drinks an average of 8 diet cokes throughout any given day so I must get past such issues or explode.
But do you know what I can't get past?
Going into the first stall to find you had somehow managed to puke all over that toilet as well.
I hope your kid pukes in your shoes.
Much love,
Floyd
Let me start by conveying to you exactly how important bathroom time is to me. I have needs. I have issues. I realize that ours is a shared lavatory in an office building. I respect that this is not my personal space. I acknowledge your right to use such facilities for your own personal pottying needs.
However, you and I both know that there are very few females on this floor. As such, I have developed a sort of personal interest in our two-stall domain. I always use the second stall. You know this. First stalls creep me out as they are too close to the door of said restroom which puts me in fear of being discovered with my pants around my ankles and my cellulite bulging over toilet seat for the world to ogle. (Clearly this is not an issue for you but for my therapist but you see my point)
I like our bathroom even though the soap dispenser does not work. Thoughtfully, the Korean ladies who clean such space have provided a lovely soap dispenser for our hygienic necessities. I don't even mind that they provided Clean N'Clear facial soap for us to wash our hands with as their hearts were surely in the right place.
What do I mind? I mind you puking all over my toilet. Since they are so few us, it either had to be you or one of your little rug rats that you have dragged to work with you simply praying for the day school starts back up. I sympathize. I truly do.
We all feel the need to regurgitate our lunch from time to time. Someone who eats as much McDonald's as I do certainly understands a little post-lunch spewing. What I don't understand is how you managed to leave my favorite stall and not wipe down the toilet seat. Notice I don't even point out the backsplash you left on the wall (that would be rude of me). Even the homeless guy around the corner who I saw combing his girlfriend’s hair for fleas would look at the toilet and go “no thanks – a little too nasty for me”.
Do you not see the sign posted on the mirror by management that reads "if you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie"? I was massively offended by management thinking they had to request professionals to do such obligatory maintenance but NOW I see their point.
I can maybe get past all of the things. I am an adult. Of course, I am an adult that drinks an average of 8 diet cokes throughout any given day so I must get past such issues or explode.
But do you know what I can't get past?
Going into the first stall to find you had somehow managed to puke all over that toilet as well.
I hope your kid pukes in your shoes.
Much love,
Floyd
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Like Sands Through The Hourglass
It's not that I mean to go so long without blogging, I simply lose track of time. I never seem to realize how long it's been. And then again, most of the time I feel like writing something, I'm sitting in a bar. Perhaps bringing the old laptop drinking with me is not such a bad idea. Of course, it might be the final straw to take me over into dorkdom but let's be frank - dorkdom claimed me as its leader eons ago.
So let's see....per usual, I have no overall cohesive thoughts but I certainly have a bullitted points rolling around my beer addled brain.
Update:
1. The POD will be graduating from her "therapeutic wilderness camp" on August 9th. This is grand. What is not so grand is that I have to attend a 3 day "parenting seminar" with....MY PARENTS. Cause really - nothing equals family fun more than staying in a freakin bed & breakfast with two people whose sole purpose is to convince psychologists and therapists that they are great, caring, oh-so-disciplined parental machines. What Captain Nutty and the Consort don't realize is that I have had top double secret phone calls with all said professionals and they are also convinced that my 'rents are whacked out above all normal comprehension. I'm evil that way. Lesson? Don't screw with me or I'll convince the world that you're nuts.
2. The POD will be returning home so that my liver can finally dry out a bit and I can go back to communing with Rory and Lorelie on the Gilmore Girls. My dog will also be thankful that Mommy will have another reason to come home other than simply needing a soft place to pass out.
3. As previously mentioned, these lovely nature people have taught the POD how to start a fire without matches and the like. I assume she starts such flames by rubbing sticks against her exceedingly calloused hands. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of informing Georgia Power that we will no longer be needing their services. The POD will soon learn to love cooking in our fireplace and will certainly appreciate the savings this entails.
4. The POD has been hiking every day with a 40 pound pack on her back and has not slept in a bed since Memorial Day weekend. So really when you think about, her tackling the dishwasher shouldn't be that big of a deal. Course, she doesn't know that I haven't done the dishes since Memorial Day weekend but still...it has to be an improvement over crapping in the woods and wiping up with leaves.
5. Upon the POD's graduation, Captain Nutty and the Consort will be returning to our happy little home to engage in some Nazi death camp type torture otherwise known as "family fun". This includes a return trip to Six Flags. Luckily, Captain Nutty informed me, "Not to worry as we will pay for all these excursions while we're down there!". Really? You're going to pay for it? Ummm.....yeah.... no shit. Cause if you ain't paying, then you can plan on spending your family fun time debating who should be winning Project Runway this season. Dumbass.
6. In a week or two, the POD will begin her junior year of high school. I celebrated my junior year of high school by creating a lifelong aversion to Chivas Regal Scotch and silver ballet flats. My wardrobe revolved around some kicking leggings paired with big shirts cinched by an even bigger sparkly belt. One hopes that the POD's taste in fashion has evolved slightly in the great woods. Cause as soon as she finds out I shrunk both her Marilyn Manson and her Stewie Griffin tshirts, my ass is grass.
Hmmm....looks like the impending return of POD has provided some cohesiveness to an otherwise uncohesive Floyd. Intriguing.
So let's see....per usual, I have no overall cohesive thoughts but I certainly have a bullitted points rolling around my beer addled brain.
Update:
1. The POD will be graduating from her "therapeutic wilderness camp" on August 9th. This is grand. What is not so grand is that I have to attend a 3 day "parenting seminar" with....MY PARENTS. Cause really - nothing equals family fun more than staying in a freakin bed & breakfast with two people whose sole purpose is to convince psychologists and therapists that they are great, caring, oh-so-disciplined parental machines. What Captain Nutty and the Consort don't realize is that I have had top double secret phone calls with all said professionals and they are also convinced that my 'rents are whacked out above all normal comprehension. I'm evil that way. Lesson? Don't screw with me or I'll convince the world that you're nuts.
2. The POD will be returning home so that my liver can finally dry out a bit and I can go back to communing with Rory and Lorelie on the Gilmore Girls. My dog will also be thankful that Mommy will have another reason to come home other than simply needing a soft place to pass out.
3. As previously mentioned, these lovely nature people have taught the POD how to start a fire without matches and the like. I assume she starts such flames by rubbing sticks against her exceedingly calloused hands. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of informing Georgia Power that we will no longer be needing their services. The POD will soon learn to love cooking in our fireplace and will certainly appreciate the savings this entails.
4. The POD has been hiking every day with a 40 pound pack on her back and has not slept in a bed since Memorial Day weekend. So really when you think about, her tackling the dishwasher shouldn't be that big of a deal. Course, she doesn't know that I haven't done the dishes since Memorial Day weekend but still...it has to be an improvement over crapping in the woods and wiping up with leaves.
5. Upon the POD's graduation, Captain Nutty and the Consort will be returning to our happy little home to engage in some Nazi death camp type torture otherwise known as "family fun". This includes a return trip to Six Flags. Luckily, Captain Nutty informed me, "Not to worry as we will pay for all these excursions while we're down there!". Really? You're going to pay for it? Ummm.....yeah.... no shit. Cause if you ain't paying, then you can plan on spending your family fun time debating who should be winning Project Runway this season. Dumbass.
6. In a week or two, the POD will begin her junior year of high school. I celebrated my junior year of high school by creating a lifelong aversion to Chivas Regal Scotch and silver ballet flats. My wardrobe revolved around some kicking leggings paired with big shirts cinched by an even bigger sparkly belt. One hopes that the POD's taste in fashion has evolved slightly in the great woods. Cause as soon as she finds out I shrunk both her Marilyn Manson and her Stewie Griffin tshirts, my ass is grass.
Hmmm....looks like the impending return of POD has provided some cohesiveness to an otherwise uncohesive Floyd. Intriguing.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
How Enlightening
It seems that Fated Mohammed woke up with a bit of a problem. He had a light bulb up his ass. According to poor old “Mo”, he simply woke up and there it was- illumination of the anal region.
Now, Mo is a prisoner in Pakistan who is serving time for making liquor, which is against the law. Liquor plus surprises in your anus? A coincidence? I think not.
I am curious as to how Mo’s Muslim brethren feel about anal insertions. How does that go? Liquor bad, anal toys right as rain! Does Allah frown on cocktails but smiles upon the anal arts? (And have no doubt, to be able to insert a glass bulb up a butt without it breaking is truly an art)
Mo claims the other prisoners drugged him and inserted the offending luminary without his knowledge whilst he was sleeping. Well, sure. When I’m bored in prison, I like to insert foreign objects into other people’s bums. But no one wants to be cruel about it! Drug the guy so he feels no discomfort. I’m sure they used Vaseline to ensure smooth entry cause I find prisoners to be very sensitive to one another’s needs.
The image of a bunch of Pakistani guys sitting around giggling going “hey, as soon as Fated goes to sleep, let’s take a light bulb and stick it where the sun don’t shine!” absolutely cracks me up.
And really, if you think about it, you must have some really poor muscle tone in your anus if you don’t crush a light bulb. In other words, I believe Mo’s anus had previously lost a lot of its original elasticity or else his rectum would have been more like glass minefield and less like a lamp. Me thinks this is not the first foreign object to meet Mo’s colon.
Instead of the standard light bulb appearing over a character’s head when he has an idea, I picture Mo’s ass lighting up when he has thought. Makes me chuckle every time I think about it.
I also hope he didn’t have a cold during this trauma cause I’m thinking one sneeze and whammo – you’ve got yourself a glass shard problem. And Allah forbid, you get a case of the runs! Or gas for that matter! One serious blow and you could put someone’s eye out!
As public service announcement, please be aware that we here at Floyd’s Tailgate do not support the insertion of glass lighting objects into the anal region generally under any circumstances. We will however make an exception if you are detained in Pakistani prison cause those guys like to paaarrrr-taaaaay.
Now, Mo is a prisoner in Pakistan who is serving time for making liquor, which is against the law. Liquor plus surprises in your anus? A coincidence? I think not.
I am curious as to how Mo’s Muslim brethren feel about anal insertions. How does that go? Liquor bad, anal toys right as rain! Does Allah frown on cocktails but smiles upon the anal arts? (And have no doubt, to be able to insert a glass bulb up a butt without it breaking is truly an art)
Mo claims the other prisoners drugged him and inserted the offending luminary without his knowledge whilst he was sleeping. Well, sure. When I’m bored in prison, I like to insert foreign objects into other people’s bums. But no one wants to be cruel about it! Drug the guy so he feels no discomfort. I’m sure they used Vaseline to ensure smooth entry cause I find prisoners to be very sensitive to one another’s needs.
The image of a bunch of Pakistani guys sitting around giggling going “hey, as soon as Fated goes to sleep, let’s take a light bulb and stick it where the sun don’t shine!” absolutely cracks me up.
And really, if you think about it, you must have some really poor muscle tone in your anus if you don’t crush a light bulb. In other words, I believe Mo’s anus had previously lost a lot of its original elasticity or else his rectum would have been more like glass minefield and less like a lamp. Me thinks this is not the first foreign object to meet Mo’s colon.
Instead of the standard light bulb appearing over a character’s head when he has an idea, I picture Mo’s ass lighting up when he has thought. Makes me chuckle every time I think about it.
I also hope he didn’t have a cold during this trauma cause I’m thinking one sneeze and whammo – you’ve got yourself a glass shard problem. And Allah forbid, you get a case of the runs! Or gas for that matter! One serious blow and you could put someone’s eye out!
As public service announcement, please be aware that we here at Floyd’s Tailgate do not support the insertion of glass lighting objects into the anal region generally under any circumstances. We will however make an exception if you are detained in Pakistani prison cause those guys like to paaarrrr-taaaaay.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Find The Crack Whore, Win A Dollar*
*And by no means is this meant to imply that I'm actually sending you a dollar
It has often been said by minds wiser than mine that the practice of law would be great, if it wasn't for the clients. And I'm here to tell you folks that I attract more than my fair share of whack jobs.
Just spent the morning with client who is seeking custody of his child. He actually said to me at one point, "You mean I have to go to court?". Ummmm...no...just send a nice Hallmark card, I'm sure the judge will have no problem just handing over a kid to you sight unseen. And seriously, if you don't stop responding to everything I tell you with "um, yeah, okay" when it is clear from the blank look in your eyes that you just don't get it, I'm going to beat you with the high heels you have forced me to wear to court with pantyhose even though it's 97 degrees outside.
I spent last month with client who wanted to fight to the death for custody of her children but due to her unfortunate habit of putting things up her nose while in the family room watching Wheel of Fortune, she lost custody. I then, in legal maneuvering worthy of F. Lee Bailey himself, fight to the death for liberal visitation for her with the children. I rant and rave about her being primary caretaker of children whom she loves dearly and how she's simply made a stupid mistake and "please, you Honor, give this a woman a chance to heal her relationship with her children". I win. I get any and all visitation....which my client decides she doesn't want. Nope. No need for her to see them after school every day, she just needs about 2 hours every other Saturday. Nothing warms the cockles like a mother's love.
I just got off phone with client who wants restraining order against ex-husband. Okay. Well, I ask, "Has he made threats?". Client says, "No". Well, I say, "Are you fearful for your safety?" Client says, "No". Okay, then I say, "Well, why then do you need a restraining order?". Client says, "He's just bugging me.". Ummmm....yeah....if that was sufficient grounds, I would have a restraining order out against you, now wouldn't I?
Yesterday, I sent my third bill off to the stripper (sorry, "exotic dancer" or "pole hostess"). I represented her in a DUI case and charged her a ridiculously small amount of money (Legal Buddy Rob scolded me). She promised me that she would pay me from all the "money she earned that weekend" prior to her going into lockup for the week. She gave me $160.00 and showed up at court with cocaine in her system. Wonder where the rest of my fee went? It's a mystery!
And let's not forget that DUI client that "just can't lose their license!". Ummm...yeah....then you shouldn't have gotten that third DUI cause I'm a lawyer, lady, I'm not Mr. Magician (Sidenote - I wanted to use Doug Henning as opposed to Mr. Magician but was concerned that my reference to this fuzzy haired, rainbow shirt wearing illuuuusionist of the '70s might not be appreciated).
Then there's the client that thinks "confidentiality" means he should tell you EVERYTHING like where he hid the money, his plans to defraud business partners or basically lie to cover his ass in a court of law. Guess what? Confidentiality don't cover all things, you amoral asshole. And if you don't stop sharing with me, I 'm going to start sharing with you about my inability to listen to you for more than 30 seconds a stretch or the fact that I haven't filed a single one of your papers yet.
And last but not certainly not least, my absolute favorite. The client that you talk to on the phone who after discussing legal business wants to ask you about your personal life. She prefaces her "small talk" with "and now, off the clock"....guess what, you old bat? I own the clock. I turn on the clock. I turn off the clock. And if I have to sit here and make nice with your drunken, anorexic ass, then it is most definitely on the clock cause if we are off the clock, then you will get to talk to the "real me" and me thinks you won't like that as much. Send a check and stop tying up my phone lines.
Ahhhh.....love the law.....love my job. Anyone need any legal help out there?
It has often been said by minds wiser than mine that the practice of law would be great, if it wasn't for the clients. And I'm here to tell you folks that I attract more than my fair share of whack jobs.
Just spent the morning with client who is seeking custody of his child. He actually said to me at one point, "You mean I have to go to court?". Ummmm...no...just send a nice Hallmark card, I'm sure the judge will have no problem just handing over a kid to you sight unseen. And seriously, if you don't stop responding to everything I tell you with "um, yeah, okay" when it is clear from the blank look in your eyes that you just don't get it, I'm going to beat you with the high heels you have forced me to wear to court with pantyhose even though it's 97 degrees outside.
I spent last month with client who wanted to fight to the death for custody of her children but due to her unfortunate habit of putting things up her nose while in the family room watching Wheel of Fortune, she lost custody. I then, in legal maneuvering worthy of F. Lee Bailey himself, fight to the death for liberal visitation for her with the children. I rant and rave about her being primary caretaker of children whom she loves dearly and how she's simply made a stupid mistake and "please, you Honor, give this a woman a chance to heal her relationship with her children". I win. I get any and all visitation....which my client decides she doesn't want. Nope. No need for her to see them after school every day, she just needs about 2 hours every other Saturday. Nothing warms the cockles like a mother's love.
I just got off phone with client who wants restraining order against ex-husband. Okay. Well, I ask, "Has he made threats?". Client says, "No". Well, I say, "Are you fearful for your safety?" Client says, "No". Okay, then I say, "Well, why then do you need a restraining order?". Client says, "He's just bugging me.". Ummmm....yeah....if that was sufficient grounds, I would have a restraining order out against you, now wouldn't I?
Yesterday, I sent my third bill off to the stripper (sorry, "exotic dancer" or "pole hostess"). I represented her in a DUI case and charged her a ridiculously small amount of money (Legal Buddy Rob scolded me). She promised me that she would pay me from all the "money she earned that weekend" prior to her going into lockup for the week. She gave me $160.00 and showed up at court with cocaine in her system. Wonder where the rest of my fee went? It's a mystery!
And let's not forget that DUI client that "just can't lose their license!". Ummm...yeah....then you shouldn't have gotten that third DUI cause I'm a lawyer, lady, I'm not Mr. Magician (Sidenote - I wanted to use Doug Henning as opposed to Mr. Magician but was concerned that my reference to this fuzzy haired, rainbow shirt wearing illuuuusionist of the '70s might not be appreciated).
Then there's the client that thinks "confidentiality" means he should tell you EVERYTHING like where he hid the money, his plans to defraud business partners or basically lie to cover his ass in a court of law. Guess what? Confidentiality don't cover all things, you amoral asshole. And if you don't stop sharing with me, I 'm going to start sharing with you about my inability to listen to you for more than 30 seconds a stretch or the fact that I haven't filed a single one of your papers yet.
And last but not certainly not least, my absolute favorite. The client that you talk to on the phone who after discussing legal business wants to ask you about your personal life. She prefaces her "small talk" with "and now, off the clock"....guess what, you old bat? I own the clock. I turn on the clock. I turn off the clock. And if I have to sit here and make nice with your drunken, anorexic ass, then it is most definitely on the clock cause if we are off the clock, then you will get to talk to the "real me" and me thinks you won't like that as much. Send a check and stop tying up my phone lines.
Ahhhh.....love the law.....love my job. Anyone need any legal help out there?
Friday, June 23, 2006
Work? What's That?
It's Friday and how can I be expected to work under these conditions?
1. Can someone please tell Heidi Klum to keep her legs crossed? She and Seal are going to have another baby. Which, of course, makes sense since she's been out of the hospital with her other baby for about 5 fucking minutes (and I mean that literally "fucking" minutes). Dude, I know she's hot and you look very similar to a dog's ass but seriously, keep it in your pants for just a month or two.
2. Would my DUI client please show the hell up?! I told her I'd be back in the office at 1:00 and it's now 3:26! For the love of all that's alcoholic, please get the hell here so I can go start to work on my own DUI! I'm starting to get that itch behind my eyeballs that can only be cured by Bud Light.
3. Did no one tell those new terrorists in Miami that I no longer work close to the Sears Tower? I know they were aiming for me. I know too much. I'm too savy to let live. One would have thought that their connections in the office next door would have informed them of my move. Better luck next time, suckers!
4. Is it really a good idea to be teaching the POD firestarting skills? POD is in "theraputic nature camp" where they are teaching her to start fires with possibly her own urine and stinging nettles, for pete's sake. Clearly, the therapists are unaware of the POD's "lighter collection" and my need to keep fires away from all of my belongings. Sure, it ups her confidence but really doesn't do a whole hell of a lot for mine! Dumbasses. Can't believe we're paying for this shit. It's like "Your child has emotional trouble? Well, let's teach her how to blow shit up! Does she know where the Sears Tower is?".
5. For the love of Kit, who the hell let David Hasselhoff back on TV? And you're letting him judge talent? If the guy knew what talent was, he would have gauged out his own eyeballs while watching a replay of Knight Rider simply to teach himself a lesson.
6. You know what I want to see? Mariah Carey and Britney Spears in a caged death match. I bet Mariah could kick Britney's redneck ass all the way back to swamp. But then maybe I could get Christina Aguillera to scare Mariah back into hiding cause I hate that half-dressed poodle princess as well.
Just a thought.
It's 3:42 - CLIENT HAS TWO MINUTES THEN I'M OUTA HERE!
Floyd needs a beer....or twelve.
1. Can someone please tell Heidi Klum to keep her legs crossed? She and Seal are going to have another baby. Which, of course, makes sense since she's been out of the hospital with her other baby for about 5 fucking minutes (and I mean that literally "fucking" minutes). Dude, I know she's hot and you look very similar to a dog's ass but seriously, keep it in your pants for just a month or two.
2. Would my DUI client please show the hell up?! I told her I'd be back in the office at 1:00 and it's now 3:26! For the love of all that's alcoholic, please get the hell here so I can go start to work on my own DUI! I'm starting to get that itch behind my eyeballs that can only be cured by Bud Light.
3. Did no one tell those new terrorists in Miami that I no longer work close to the Sears Tower? I know they were aiming for me. I know too much. I'm too savy to let live. One would have thought that their connections in the office next door would have informed them of my move. Better luck next time, suckers!
4. Is it really a good idea to be teaching the POD firestarting skills? POD is in "theraputic nature camp" where they are teaching her to start fires with possibly her own urine and stinging nettles, for pete's sake. Clearly, the therapists are unaware of the POD's "lighter collection" and my need to keep fires away from all of my belongings. Sure, it ups her confidence but really doesn't do a whole hell of a lot for mine! Dumbasses. Can't believe we're paying for this shit. It's like "Your child has emotional trouble? Well, let's teach her how to blow shit up! Does she know where the Sears Tower is?".
5. For the love of Kit, who the hell let David Hasselhoff back on TV? And you're letting him judge talent? If the guy knew what talent was, he would have gauged out his own eyeballs while watching a replay of Knight Rider simply to teach himself a lesson.
6. You know what I want to see? Mariah Carey and Britney Spears in a caged death match. I bet Mariah could kick Britney's redneck ass all the way back to swamp. But then maybe I could get Christina Aguillera to scare Mariah back into hiding cause I hate that half-dressed poodle princess as well.
Just a thought.
It's 3:42 - CLIENT HAS TWO MINUTES THEN I'M OUTA HERE!
Floyd needs a beer....or twelve.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Randomnisity
I think it will come as no surprise to any of you that I once again have no cohesive topic to discuss (but I do get bonus points for using the word "cohesive"). Therefore, we are once again resorting to my favorite literary tool - the list. Aren't I cutting edge? Aren't I just so clever? Blah.
1. You know what I miss? The penguin. Not the Batman penguin but the Bud Ice penguin. You remember him? During the fiasco I generally refer to as "why are we fucking with my beer?" in which Budweiser introduced Bud Ice, they had a great set of commercials. This penguin would come out and he would be singing "doobie doobie dooo" to the tune of Strangers in the Night. The tagline was "just watch out for the penguins". He totally rocked. I mean I like penguins, who doesn't? But a Sinatra singing flightless waterfowl selling beer? Priceless. And no, this really doesn't have a point other than to say that all I've been able to hear for the last several days is "doobie doobie dooooo" and thus, no cohesive topic.
2. Me thinks the terrorists next door are getting closer to carrying out their fiendish plot. They have painted symbols over their business name in dayglo orange paint. Strange, voodoo, chicken head cutting symbols, people! I don't know what the hell they mean but it's my mojo all atwitter. And I'm not even going into the alarm bell that randomly goes off and irregular intervals. They have a peephole and I know they're watching me in the hallway. I feel their beady little "want to blow you up" eyeballs roaming all over my fine person (they're foreign so they appreciate a voluptuous broad - fuck y'all for doubting me). If I send a letter to Homeland Security, do you think that will cause the federal government to review my tax returns for the past few years? Ummmmm...no reason.... just curious....and no cohesiveness.
3. There has been some serious Britney fallout from her previous sit-down with Matt Lauer, and I ain't talking about her cleavage, folks. Apparently, not a single publicist for Britney was present for said interview! The horror! Who let this cheeto-stuffing, chaps wearing, doesn't-have-the-brains-that-god-gave-a-walrus, donkey-breeding whore on TV without supervision! Puhleeeasssse, people! I still have a headache from watching this debacle. Somebody rope that redneck in. Cohesive to nothing.
4. So I listen to the a Regular Guys radio show on 96 Rock in the mornings. I tell you this because they keep using a sound bit (bit? bite? how do I know? I didn't go the Columbia School of Broadcasting!). The sound bit is of Stewie from the Family Guy going "Jesus is Chinese". They use it all the time. AND IT CRACKS ME UP EACH AND EVERY TIME. I mean "people looking at me from other cars and changing lanes" cracking up. I don't know why - I don't think Jesus was Chinese but I suppose it doesn't matter - it just kills me. But it's not cohesive.
5. Dear God/Jesus, I would like to apologize for laughing at the whole "son of god is Chinese" thingy and for saying "Christ on a Cracker" the other day. I know it's not funny to use for amusement purposes but damn, You got to admit, the picture of Jesus sitting on a Ritz is funny, funny stuff. Love, Floyd P.S. I would also like forgiveness for promoting A.S.S. (Anal Sex Saturday) cause I really don't know where you stand on the whole "optional entry" discussion but as you know, I am merely the creator of the holiday - I am NOT a participant. And I am NOT cohesive.
6. Okay. No one else has come out and said it so I’m guess I’ll have to be the one with the balls. The little Angelina-Brad genetic experiment? Um…yeah….it has her lips. And that’s all cool and everything but am I the only who’s noticed that the little offspring seems to be unable to close her lips? Yep, two of the world’s most beautiful people have bred a mouth breather. Hell, even Britney and her man-whore produced a kid without mouth abnormalities (course to be fair, Sean Preston will be the first 4 year old on the playground to be saying “Fuck, Mamma, I dun crushed my cigarettes! Make Daddy Whore go fetch me nuther pack!”). There. It has been said. I feel better now. But I don't feel cohesive.
Well, as you can tell, I'm getting a lot of work done today. But seeing how the terrorists next door will probably be blowing my ass up in the next few days, it all just seems pointless anyway.
1. You know what I miss? The penguin. Not the Batman penguin but the Bud Ice penguin. You remember him? During the fiasco I generally refer to as "why are we fucking with my beer?" in which Budweiser introduced Bud Ice, they had a great set of commercials. This penguin would come out and he would be singing "doobie doobie dooo" to the tune of Strangers in the Night. The tagline was "just watch out for the penguins". He totally rocked. I mean I like penguins, who doesn't? But a Sinatra singing flightless waterfowl selling beer? Priceless. And no, this really doesn't have a point other than to say that all I've been able to hear for the last several days is "doobie doobie dooooo" and thus, no cohesive topic.
2. Me thinks the terrorists next door are getting closer to carrying out their fiendish plot. They have painted symbols over their business name in dayglo orange paint. Strange, voodoo, chicken head cutting symbols, people! I don't know what the hell they mean but it's my mojo all atwitter. And I'm not even going into the alarm bell that randomly goes off and irregular intervals. They have a peephole and I know they're watching me in the hallway. I feel their beady little "want to blow you up" eyeballs roaming all over my fine person (they're foreign so they appreciate a voluptuous broad - fuck y'all for doubting me). If I send a letter to Homeland Security, do you think that will cause the federal government to review my tax returns for the past few years? Ummmmm...no reason.... just curious....and no cohesiveness.
3. There has been some serious Britney fallout from her previous sit-down with Matt Lauer, and I ain't talking about her cleavage, folks. Apparently, not a single publicist for Britney was present for said interview! The horror! Who let this cheeto-stuffing, chaps wearing, doesn't-have-the-brains-that-god-gave-a-walrus, donkey-breeding whore on TV without supervision! Puhleeeasssse, people! I still have a headache from watching this debacle. Somebody rope that redneck in. Cohesive to nothing.
4. So I listen to the a Regular Guys radio show on 96 Rock in the mornings. I tell you this because they keep using a sound bit (bit? bite? how do I know? I didn't go the Columbia School of Broadcasting!). The sound bit is of Stewie from the Family Guy going "Jesus is Chinese". They use it all the time. AND IT CRACKS ME UP EACH AND EVERY TIME. I mean "people looking at me from other cars and changing lanes" cracking up. I don't know why - I don't think Jesus was Chinese but I suppose it doesn't matter - it just kills me. But it's not cohesive.
5. Dear God/Jesus, I would like to apologize for laughing at the whole "son of god is Chinese" thingy and for saying "Christ on a Cracker" the other day. I know it's not funny to use for amusement purposes but damn, You got to admit, the picture of Jesus sitting on a Ritz is funny, funny stuff. Love, Floyd P.S. I would also like forgiveness for promoting A.S.S. (Anal Sex Saturday) cause I really don't know where you stand on the whole "optional entry" discussion but as you know, I am merely the creator of the holiday - I am NOT a participant. And I am NOT cohesive.
6. Okay. No one else has come out and said it so I’m guess I’ll have to be the one with the balls. The little Angelina-Brad genetic experiment? Um…yeah….it has her lips. And that’s all cool and everything but am I the only who’s noticed that the little offspring seems to be unable to close her lips? Yep, two of the world’s most beautiful people have bred a mouth breather. Hell, even Britney and her man-whore produced a kid without mouth abnormalities (course to be fair, Sean Preston will be the first 4 year old on the playground to be saying “Fuck, Mamma, I dun crushed my cigarettes! Make Daddy Whore go fetch me nuther pack!”). There. It has been said. I feel better now. But I don't feel cohesive.
Well, as you can tell, I'm getting a lot of work done today. But seeing how the terrorists next door will probably be blowing my ass up in the next few days, it all just seems pointless anyway.
Friday, June 16, 2006
She's Not Trashy, She's Your Baby's Mamma
First let me say, that Captain Nutty finally called at 7:18 pm eastern standard time to complain that I had not called her all day and after all, she was the one had to "grunt and strain" 36 years ago. I just apologized so I could get off the phone before she said "grunt and strain" again cause now I picture my birth as very similar to passing a turn the size of Toledo. (Note to self: bring extra money to therapist this week)
Enough about me. Let's talk about me watching TV.
Last night, I hope you all caught Matt Lauer's interview with Britney Spears cause it was a priceless display of the aforementioned southern inbreeding. I expect on my next trip to Six Flags, I will see Britney in line in front of me sporting her bikini top and arguing that Sean Preston is tall enough to ride the Scream Machine if he sits on her lap.
After watching Britney, I flipped channels and found an interview with Bill Gates, the richest man in the universe and beyond.
So let's see if you can guess what happened in which interview:
- One subject chewed gum through the entire chat. Said subject worked that gum like a starving cow working his way through his cud.
- One subject sported false eyelashes that made Tammy Faye pea green with envy. Such eyelashes made me have nightmares about spiders all freakin night long.
- One subject made me seriously concerned that I was about to see some nipplage. And let's be clear, I want to see neither Britney's nor Bill's love nubbins.
- One subject said they loved their spouse because that person was "so simple". Ummm...yeah.....has someone informed this person that "simple" can also mean "needs to wear a helmet to avoid self-injury"?
- One subject compared themselves to Julia Roberts and accused Ms. Roberts of stealing her husband away from another woman. I'm sure Julia was sitting at home going "Oh no, she didn't! I will kick that homespun bitch's ass!"
- One subject kept showing Matt what god gave her every time she crossed her legs. Sharon Stone was in awe of her technique. Matt, on the other hand, looked a little green around the gills.
- One subject seemed baffled by the use of big words and could occasionally be seen rolling her eyes into the back of her head as if she had a cheat sheet stapled on the back of her eyelids.
- One clearly needs to hire new hair and make-up people cause Liza Minnelli is looking more natural.
- One is excited about the future of robotics and eliminating malaria in third world countries.
The similarities are astounding, aren't they? Hard to tell which interview was which! It's like they share the same brain!
Britney for president, y'all. She totally rocks and K Fed will be an awesome first bitch. Peace out.
Enough about me. Let's talk about me watching TV.
Last night, I hope you all caught Matt Lauer's interview with Britney Spears cause it was a priceless display of the aforementioned southern inbreeding. I expect on my next trip to Six Flags, I will see Britney in line in front of me sporting her bikini top and arguing that Sean Preston is tall enough to ride the Scream Machine if he sits on her lap.
After watching Britney, I flipped channels and found an interview with Bill Gates, the richest man in the universe and beyond.
So let's see if you can guess what happened in which interview:
- One subject chewed gum through the entire chat. Said subject worked that gum like a starving cow working his way through his cud.
- One subject sported false eyelashes that made Tammy Faye pea green with envy. Such eyelashes made me have nightmares about spiders all freakin night long.
- One subject made me seriously concerned that I was about to see some nipplage. And let's be clear, I want to see neither Britney's nor Bill's love nubbins.
- One subject said they loved their spouse because that person was "so simple". Ummm...yeah.....has someone informed this person that "simple" can also mean "needs to wear a helmet to avoid self-injury"?
- One subject compared themselves to Julia Roberts and accused Ms. Roberts of stealing her husband away from another woman. I'm sure Julia was sitting at home going "Oh no, she didn't! I will kick that homespun bitch's ass!"
- One subject kept showing Matt what god gave her every time she crossed her legs. Sharon Stone was in awe of her technique. Matt, on the other hand, looked a little green around the gills.
- One subject seemed baffled by the use of big words and could occasionally be seen rolling her eyes into the back of her head as if she had a cheat sheet stapled on the back of her eyelids.
- One clearly needs to hire new hair and make-up people cause Liza Minnelli is looking more natural.
- One is excited about the future of robotics and eliminating malaria in third world countries.
The similarities are astounding, aren't they? Hard to tell which interview was which! It's like they share the same brain!
Britney for president, y'all. She totally rocks and K Fed will be an awesome first bitch. Peace out.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Just Call Me Molly Ringwald
Today is my birthday. I am 36 years old.
It is 5:06 p.m. eastern time.
I have yet to recieve a birthday call from my mother.
CHRIST ON A CRACKER, WOMAN! YOU CALL ME 900 TIMES A FUCKING DAY BUT THE DAY YOU ACTUALLY SHOT ME OUT OF YOUR WOMB, YOU CAN'T SEEM TO FIND A FUCKING PHONE!
This does not bode well for the old bar tab tonight. Does not bode well, indeed.
It is 5:06 p.m. eastern time.
I have yet to recieve a birthday call from my mother.
CHRIST ON A CRACKER, WOMAN! YOU CALL ME 900 TIMES A FUCKING DAY BUT THE DAY YOU ACTUALLY SHOT ME OUT OF YOUR WOMB, YOU CAN'T SEEM TO FIND A FUCKING PHONE!
This does not bode well for the old bar tab tonight. Does not bode well, indeed.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Song of the South
I'm not making excuses anymore for being a slackass as I'm guessing there is no one left here to read anything anyway. But, be that as it may, I’m feeling compelled to discuss a few issues.
As I haven't posted in a bit, I'm awash with difference topics. I don't know whether to tell you about my overwhelming fear of the inadequacy of the pipes in my new house and whether fiber therapy will assist to diminish said fear. Or should I discuss the fact that I have moved into a new office where the floor is so askew, it appears that I have set up my desk on the deck of the Titanic - a theory which is supported by the subzero temperatures in said office coupled with the occasional sighting of an off- course penguin.
I also considered discussing the fact that the office next door is clearly inhabited by terrorists which is evident by the peephole they have in their office and the occasional alarm bells I hear going off as they fail to follow proper procedure when removing their stash of plutonium which is kept in the freezer adjacent to my office wall.
All good topics to be sure. However, my need to discuss my recent trip to Six Flags overwhelms these rantings. Cause I, my friend, have at last found proof of the much rumored and ridiculed in breeding of fine southern folk.
Now, let me be clear. I can make fun of the South. I am Southern. And no transplanted from New York southerner or even some "I’m southern, I grew up in Florida" southern. I am a rare bird - a native Atlantan. Further, my entire family on both non-branching tree sides is southern. Matter of fact, on one side we trace our roots back to John Wilkes Booth (and yes, I know he was English but you see my point).
What does this mean? It means I can pick on Southern people but unless you grew up eating cornbread, vegetables boiled for 12 hours in bacon fat and the "last of this year's dairy cows" meat - you can't make fun of Southerners. It's like someone calling your mamma a "crazy, sadistic, lard ass" - you can call that crazy bitch that but if your buddy does, you'll sick that same whack job mamma on his weenie ass.
Anyway, I digress.
Prior to banishing the POD to wilderness camp for an indeterminate amount of time (and no, I don't want to talk about it), we decided to venture out with the masses to Six Flags. I used to LOVE Six Flags. Wanted to work there. Wanted to live there. Wanted to ride the Scream Machine until I puked. However, Six Flags has undergone a bit of a cultural shift.
In this previously stellar park, I finally found proof of the long rumored in breeding of Southern folk.
I will begin with the accident in genetics that was behind me in line for Goliath. He was a prime example of what Cowboy Dan refers to as “RBS” – Redneck Bone Structure. If I had been so inclined, I could have come right up on this guy and bashed him in the head with a two-by-four right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. He would never have seen me coming, as his eyes were set so far apart. Now, he probably could have kicked my ass in a lateral move but if I went straight in for the kill, he would be one knocked out redneck. Hell, his gap-tooted buddy would hardly have time to react.
A tad farther down the line was tattoo girl. Now, I myself have a discreet tattoo and find nothing wrong with it. But this gal was adventurous. Amongst her wide display of body art, she had a tattoo around her neck. A necklace, you ask? Oh, no. Barbed wire. With flesh and blood hanging off one spot of this lively decoration. Sound lovely, doesn’t it? A real “can’t wait to introduce her to Grandpa” kinda gal. Some poor kid from Alabama just about hurled up his $7 hot dog on the spot.
However, I will give old Barbed Wire one nugget of praise – she chose to wear a bra (I know this as her shirt was see-through but I’m being picky). Apparently, in the land of amusement parks, proper undergarments are now optional. I saw more bouncing mammary glands than you see at old Hugh’s house on trampoline night. My god, people, didn’t your mamma teach you nothing? Even my crazy ass loon of a mother made sure my accessories were firmly encased in a wire bound torture device because “good girls kept the girls supported”. AND IT’S AN AMUSEMENT PARK! Some of you could lose an eye like that!
And newsflash, sporting a bikini top does not count as proper support. It seems that here in the deep South, any time the temps hit over 80 degrees, the “ladies” find it acceptable to start wearing their bathing suits wherever they go. Here’s a hint – if you are more than 2 miles from the nearest cement pond, forgo the bathing attire. I look at you and all I see is a walking yeast infection. And your boyfriend squirting you down with a water pistol doesn’t count – perhaps it counts at your evening job of pole dancing, but not here.
And exactly when did we become like the Japanese in metro trains? STAND THE FUCK BACK! I have a personal space meter and you’re sending its readings off the charts. I don’t know where you’ve been but if that smell is any indication, you are communicable. Back the hell up.
And hey, Six Flags! Just because you keep giving me my cokes in a paper cup without a lid or a straw, isn’t going to make me buy your damn $9 souvenir drink thingie with that creepy dancing old man on top! Give me a damn lid before I introduce my foot to Tweetie’s ass.
All in all, an outing that was both fun and enlightening. When looking to carry the Floyds into the next generation, I might be better off looking a little north of the Mason-Dixon. I’m just saying.
As I haven't posted in a bit, I'm awash with difference topics. I don't know whether to tell you about my overwhelming fear of the inadequacy of the pipes in my new house and whether fiber therapy will assist to diminish said fear. Or should I discuss the fact that I have moved into a new office where the floor is so askew, it appears that I have set up my desk on the deck of the Titanic - a theory which is supported by the subzero temperatures in said office coupled with the occasional sighting of an off- course penguin.
I also considered discussing the fact that the office next door is clearly inhabited by terrorists which is evident by the peephole they have in their office and the occasional alarm bells I hear going off as they fail to follow proper procedure when removing their stash of plutonium which is kept in the freezer adjacent to my office wall.
All good topics to be sure. However, my need to discuss my recent trip to Six Flags overwhelms these rantings. Cause I, my friend, have at last found proof of the much rumored and ridiculed in breeding of fine southern folk.
Now, let me be clear. I can make fun of the South. I am Southern. And no transplanted from New York southerner or even some "I’m southern, I grew up in Florida" southern. I am a rare bird - a native Atlantan. Further, my entire family on both non-branching tree sides is southern. Matter of fact, on one side we trace our roots back to John Wilkes Booth (and yes, I know he was English but you see my point).
What does this mean? It means I can pick on Southern people but unless you grew up eating cornbread, vegetables boiled for 12 hours in bacon fat and the "last of this year's dairy cows" meat - you can't make fun of Southerners. It's like someone calling your mamma a "crazy, sadistic, lard ass" - you can call that crazy bitch that but if your buddy does, you'll sick that same whack job mamma on his weenie ass.
Anyway, I digress.
Prior to banishing the POD to wilderness camp for an indeterminate amount of time (and no, I don't want to talk about it), we decided to venture out with the masses to Six Flags. I used to LOVE Six Flags. Wanted to work there. Wanted to live there. Wanted to ride the Scream Machine until I puked. However, Six Flags has undergone a bit of a cultural shift.
In this previously stellar park, I finally found proof of the long rumored in breeding of Southern folk.
I will begin with the accident in genetics that was behind me in line for Goliath. He was a prime example of what Cowboy Dan refers to as “RBS” – Redneck Bone Structure. If I had been so inclined, I could have come right up on this guy and bashed him in the head with a two-by-four right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. He would never have seen me coming, as his eyes were set so far apart. Now, he probably could have kicked my ass in a lateral move but if I went straight in for the kill, he would be one knocked out redneck. Hell, his gap-tooted buddy would hardly have time to react.
A tad farther down the line was tattoo girl. Now, I myself have a discreet tattoo and find nothing wrong with it. But this gal was adventurous. Amongst her wide display of body art, she had a tattoo around her neck. A necklace, you ask? Oh, no. Barbed wire. With flesh and blood hanging off one spot of this lively decoration. Sound lovely, doesn’t it? A real “can’t wait to introduce her to Grandpa” kinda gal. Some poor kid from Alabama just about hurled up his $7 hot dog on the spot.
However, I will give old Barbed Wire one nugget of praise – she chose to wear a bra (I know this as her shirt was see-through but I’m being picky). Apparently, in the land of amusement parks, proper undergarments are now optional. I saw more bouncing mammary glands than you see at old Hugh’s house on trampoline night. My god, people, didn’t your mamma teach you nothing? Even my crazy ass loon of a mother made sure my accessories were firmly encased in a wire bound torture device because “good girls kept the girls supported”. AND IT’S AN AMUSEMENT PARK! Some of you could lose an eye like that!
And newsflash, sporting a bikini top does not count as proper support. It seems that here in the deep South, any time the temps hit over 80 degrees, the “ladies” find it acceptable to start wearing their bathing suits wherever they go. Here’s a hint – if you are more than 2 miles from the nearest cement pond, forgo the bathing attire. I look at you and all I see is a walking yeast infection. And your boyfriend squirting you down with a water pistol doesn’t count – perhaps it counts at your evening job of pole dancing, but not here.
And exactly when did we become like the Japanese in metro trains? STAND THE FUCK BACK! I have a personal space meter and you’re sending its readings off the charts. I don’t know where you’ve been but if that smell is any indication, you are communicable. Back the hell up.
And hey, Six Flags! Just because you keep giving me my cokes in a paper cup without a lid or a straw, isn’t going to make me buy your damn $9 souvenir drink thingie with that creepy dancing old man on top! Give me a damn lid before I introduce my foot to Tweetie’s ass.
All in all, an outing that was both fun and enlightening. When looking to carry the Floyds into the next generation, I might be better off looking a little north of the Mason-Dixon. I’m just saying.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Just Call Me "Rolly Polly"
I don't think I have a tummy anymore. At some point in time, I surpassed the tummy stage. Tummy implies a cute little area for gentelmen callers to worship. A little area that's all flat and cute. An area that has occassional "tummy aches" or "houses a bun in the oven". I don't have that area anymore.
Tummies usually have a cute little half-innie, half-outie belly button. In commercials, little balls of sweat delicately roll down the tummy into that tiny little crevice and a thousand schlongs stand at attention (Thank you Axe body spray for that image).
I don't so much have that. If the underboobie sweat makes it's way down the middle region, I can guarantee you that there is no one on earth that will find it sexy. However, in that statement, I'm excluding all East German porn fetish guys who I really can't say what exactly they're into. With my luck, there probably is a fat gut sweat fetish group out there and I'll be recieving an email from them at any minute. Side note - if you are emailing, I will accept no less than 1,000 euros for pictures of my sweaty gullet (I have no idead what 1,000 euros is equivalent to - I could be agreeing to do this for 5 bucks for all I know but hey, 5 bucks will get me a sandwhich).
Anyway, I digress.
I don't have one of those tummies. Not sure I've had one since I discovered that with my drivers license came the freedom to drive through McDonald's anytime I damn well pleased. I skipped right to belly. And I'm rapidly approaching gut. Not so sure I'm not already at gut level but a girl's gotta dream. And I'm sure you've noticed that I am posting exactly ZERO pictures to let you judge for yourself.
Of course with the loss of the tummy comes the lose of the cute belly button. A strong wind blows across my middle and you hear the low whistle that you get when blow across a half empty beer bottle. It's a little deep - an echo-like cavern really.
My point? I really don't know. Perhaps I just wanted to share the shock of realizing the my lower regions are now actively trying to grow to reach my upper regions. My belly is now a fleshy porch for the boobies and that can't be good. And hell, I'm thinking this summer we might have a potential chaffing situation and that friction could damn well start some type of fire problem and what with the dry grass situation in Georgia that could well lead to a forest fire. Do we see the ramifications? My gut will lead to the conflagration of an entire state yet I still don't seem to be able to drive past Krispy Kreme.
And now that I have a gut, the whole language changes. I "clear a room and make the dog wince" - I don't "pass gass". I have "I think I broke the plumbin" - I don't have an "upset tummy". I have a clear "I drink beer" middle - and not a "I'll have a wine spritzer" body.
Again, my point? I have no unearthly idea. But at least I'm not talking about Captain Nutty or the POD!
Small steps, people, small steps.
Next week, join for my discussion of back boobies and the desperately needed back bra.
Tummies usually have a cute little half-innie, half-outie belly button. In commercials, little balls of sweat delicately roll down the tummy into that tiny little crevice and a thousand schlongs stand at attention (Thank you Axe body spray for that image).
I don't so much have that. If the underboobie sweat makes it's way down the middle region, I can guarantee you that there is no one on earth that will find it sexy. However, in that statement, I'm excluding all East German porn fetish guys who I really can't say what exactly they're into. With my luck, there probably is a fat gut sweat fetish group out there and I'll be recieving an email from them at any minute. Side note - if you are emailing, I will accept no less than 1,000 euros for pictures of my sweaty gullet (I have no idead what 1,000 euros is equivalent to - I could be agreeing to do this for 5 bucks for all I know but hey, 5 bucks will get me a sandwhich).
Anyway, I digress.
I don't have one of those tummies. Not sure I've had one since I discovered that with my drivers license came the freedom to drive through McDonald's anytime I damn well pleased. I skipped right to belly. And I'm rapidly approaching gut. Not so sure I'm not already at gut level but a girl's gotta dream. And I'm sure you've noticed that I am posting exactly ZERO pictures to let you judge for yourself.
Of course with the loss of the tummy comes the lose of the cute belly button. A strong wind blows across my middle and you hear the low whistle that you get when blow across a half empty beer bottle. It's a little deep - an echo-like cavern really.
My point? I really don't know. Perhaps I just wanted to share the shock of realizing the my lower regions are now actively trying to grow to reach my upper regions. My belly is now a fleshy porch for the boobies and that can't be good. And hell, I'm thinking this summer we might have a potential chaffing situation and that friction could damn well start some type of fire problem and what with the dry grass situation in Georgia that could well lead to a forest fire. Do we see the ramifications? My gut will lead to the conflagration of an entire state yet I still don't seem to be able to drive past Krispy Kreme.
And now that I have a gut, the whole language changes. I "clear a room and make the dog wince" - I don't "pass gass". I have "I think I broke the plumbin" - I don't have an "upset tummy". I have a clear "I drink beer" middle - and not a "I'll have a wine spritzer" body.
Again, my point? I have no unearthly idea. But at least I'm not talking about Captain Nutty or the POD!
Small steps, people, small steps.
Next week, join for my discussion of back boobies and the desperately needed back bra.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Happy Captain Nutty Day
So, I've moved.
On Wednesday, movers showed up and toted all my crap to new house.
On Thursday, Captain Nutty arrived to "help".
On Friday, Captain Nutty slammed finger in car door. Thus, the next 5 hours were spent in the emergency room to determine that "yes, the finger is broken".
On Saturday, Captain Nutty bought me paint and complained about how much money they've given me over the past year. The irony was apparently lost on her.
Today, I wished Captain Nutty a happy mother's day, shoved some Krispy Kremes down her throat and kicked her ass out of my new house.
Happy Captain Nutty Day to all! And to those who have whack job mothers like mine, take a stiff swig of Jack Daniels and plan a vacation over Father's Day.
On Wednesday, movers showed up and toted all my crap to new house.
On Thursday, Captain Nutty arrived to "help".
On Friday, Captain Nutty slammed finger in car door. Thus, the next 5 hours were spent in the emergency room to determine that "yes, the finger is broken".
On Saturday, Captain Nutty bought me paint and complained about how much money they've given me over the past year. The irony was apparently lost on her.
Today, I wished Captain Nutty a happy mother's day, shoved some Krispy Kremes down her throat and kicked her ass out of my new house.
Happy Captain Nutty Day to all! And to those who have whack job mothers like mine, take a stiff swig of Jack Daniels and plan a vacation over Father's Day.
Monday, May 01, 2006
A World of Confusion
I'm stymied. Stuck. Frozen. Shut down. My friends, the world is akimbo and I'm a standing still. Unable to decide what to worry about most.
I'm simply crazy but I can't decide whether I'm bat shit crazy or ape shit crazy. I mean - bat shit crazy has that exotic "my life is worse than your life" feel that I usually go for. But frankly, this particular time period in my life I think I'm more "crazy baboon ass monkey throwing its own feces" crazy.
What, pray tell, has me so wonky?
I'm moving. In about 9 days. Of course, I just figured this out so like all things in my life I'm doing this half-assed and in a hurry. No big shocker there.
I'm living with the POD. Can't decide whether to go all old school, fire and brimstone, you're gonna burn hell and take away the 20 condoms (TWENTY, PEOPLE! TWENNNNNNTEEEEE!) I found in her purse. And before anybody points it out, yes, I know she's having more sex than I am and yes, I will kick the ever-living snot out of the first jackass that feels it is necessary to point this out to me.
I'm living with the POD, part deux. I don't know whether to be disturbed at the fact that she is smoking or that I found a pack of Marlboro Reds in her purse. I mean, REDS? What is she - a fucking truck driver? Does she fancy herself a Marlboro man? The first person that points out that she probably enjoys herself a nice smoke after blowing through a 20 pack of condoms will be cursed to such an extent that all testicular hair will be releasing itself into your drawers in such a manner as to cause excessive itching and embarassing social situation (especially if you don't have testicles).
I'm still fielding phone calls from Captain Nutty. Captain keeps calling and practically begging to come down and help me pack. However, the little sane person that lives deep in the recesses of my brain keeps calling me telling me, "For the love of all that's holy, are you fucking nuts? Don't let that nutcase within 500 miles of this cluster fuck or I will pack up what little sanity you have left and head for the hills never to be seen from again." Frankly, I tend to side with the little sane voice in my head. If not for that little voice, I would already be in Montana doing my best Unabomber impression.
Those seem to be the major themes but they are often accompanied by one of the following worries:
1. The dimples on my ass are starting to dimple.
2. My skank ass cousin is abandoning me for the wilds of Alabama (whore's getting married and she all thinks she deserves her own life! How ridiculous!)
3. My clients are getting stupider (and yes, I see the irony in calling THEM "stupider") by the minute such that I'm concerned if I do not clear up their cases in a timely fashion, they will all be drooling, incoherent morons that are unable to figure out how to write me a check.
4. And seriously? Have you seen the commercial for the new Amazing bar? The one where M&M's and a chocolate bar are parked on lover's lane? And they're all cozy in the back of a station wagon? And then, bammo, you got yourself a chocolate bar with M&M's in it? I REALLY DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT MY CANDY HAVING SEX! THAT IS SO DISGUSTING.
5. I went to the old Law School Reunion where I was informed that the majority of my classmates have donated $1,000 a piece to the new development fund. When did the rest of my classmates start hitting the crack pipe?
6. AND I'M FUCKING MOVING IN 9 DAYS BUT I'M WORRIED THAT I HAVEN'T BLOGGED!!!!
Me must go drink now. Me have headache. Me see monkey with big steaming pile of poo heading this way.
I'm simply crazy but I can't decide whether I'm bat shit crazy or ape shit crazy. I mean - bat shit crazy has that exotic "my life is worse than your life" feel that I usually go for. But frankly, this particular time period in my life I think I'm more "crazy baboon ass monkey throwing its own feces" crazy.
What, pray tell, has me so wonky?
I'm moving. In about 9 days. Of course, I just figured this out so like all things in my life I'm doing this half-assed and in a hurry. No big shocker there.
I'm living with the POD. Can't decide whether to go all old school, fire and brimstone, you're gonna burn hell and take away the 20 condoms (TWENTY, PEOPLE! TWENNNNNNTEEEEE!) I found in her purse. And before anybody points it out, yes, I know she's having more sex than I am and yes, I will kick the ever-living snot out of the first jackass that feels it is necessary to point this out to me.
I'm living with the POD, part deux. I don't know whether to be disturbed at the fact that she is smoking or that I found a pack of Marlboro Reds in her purse. I mean, REDS? What is she - a fucking truck driver? Does she fancy herself a Marlboro man? The first person that points out that she probably enjoys herself a nice smoke after blowing through a 20 pack of condoms will be cursed to such an extent that all testicular hair will be releasing itself into your drawers in such a manner as to cause excessive itching and embarassing social situation (especially if you don't have testicles).
I'm still fielding phone calls from Captain Nutty. Captain keeps calling and practically begging to come down and help me pack. However, the little sane person that lives deep in the recesses of my brain keeps calling me telling me, "For the love of all that's holy, are you fucking nuts? Don't let that nutcase within 500 miles of this cluster fuck or I will pack up what little sanity you have left and head for the hills never to be seen from again." Frankly, I tend to side with the little sane voice in my head. If not for that little voice, I would already be in Montana doing my best Unabomber impression.
Those seem to be the major themes but they are often accompanied by one of the following worries:
1. The dimples on my ass are starting to dimple.
2. My skank ass cousin is abandoning me for the wilds of Alabama (whore's getting married and she all thinks she deserves her own life! How ridiculous!)
3. My clients are getting stupider (and yes, I see the irony in calling THEM "stupider") by the minute such that I'm concerned if I do not clear up their cases in a timely fashion, they will all be drooling, incoherent morons that are unable to figure out how to write me a check.
4. And seriously? Have you seen the commercial for the new Amazing bar? The one where M&M's and a chocolate bar are parked on lover's lane? And they're all cozy in the back of a station wagon? And then, bammo, you got yourself a chocolate bar with M&M's in it? I REALLY DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT MY CANDY HAVING SEX! THAT IS SO DISGUSTING.
5. I went to the old Law School Reunion where I was informed that the majority of my classmates have donated $1,000 a piece to the new development fund. When did the rest of my classmates start hitting the crack pipe?
6. AND I'M FUCKING MOVING IN 9 DAYS BUT I'M WORRIED THAT I HAVEN'T BLOGGED!!!!
Me must go drink now. Me have headache. Me see monkey with big steaming pile of poo heading this way.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
And I'll Tell You Another Thing...
I'm dddddrrrrruuuuuuunnnk. I'm drunk blogging. And it took me 12 hours to type the title without misspellings. Bite me.
My point is this - what is the most disgusting food to throw up?
If you don't say hot dogs, then you're a fucking tard.
Just thought I'd share.
My point is this - what is the most disgusting food to throw up?
If you don't say hot dogs, then you're a fucking tard.
Just thought I'd share.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Blameless
I know - you're neglected. But see I got this email that suggested...nay....demanded that I get ready for bikini season and as I'm sure you can understand, this took me completely by surprise. I simply had no idea. So of course, getting ready for said season is exceptionally time consuming. I know you forgive me.
I attended law school reunion. I went to Graceland. I sold my house(twice). I survived a ten day visit from Captain Nutty.
So lots to tell but you know that bikini is a monkey on my back.
In other words, I'll write more tomorrow.
I attended law school reunion. I went to Graceland. I sold my house(twice). I survived a ten day visit from Captain Nutty.
So lots to tell but you know that bikini is a monkey on my back.
In other words, I'll write more tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
A Marketer's Wet Dream
So now that I'm all "laptop friendly, I'm reconnecting with my first love. Television. This of course has led me to one of my usual dilemmas.
For instance, I'm apparently gonna have to go buy some new lotion (and for those of you who read "lotion" and immediately thought "masturbation" - shame on you). There's a new commercial for a new Lubriderm. Lubriderm with Sea Kelp! It gives you marvelous skin according to the model who last ate a cracker last Thursday.
Well, dammit! I already have twelve other versions of Lubriderm! Can't they pick a fucking additive and stick with it. I've got the "original Formula" and it does a bang up a job. I then saw the ad for the one with oatmeal and thought "Well, I don't eat the shit, so I might as well slather on the body. That totally counts for healthy, right?".
And holy mother of God! How the hell am I supposed to know whether I have sensitive skin or not?
Do I need Advance Therapy? What the hell is Advance Therapy? Was the previous like "Dark Ages Therapy"? What is the age limit for Advance Therapy? Was it fucking 30 thirty cause I'm late!
And NO, I don't want skin cancer but I also don't want to walk around smelling like I can't find the beach. I don't like SPF! Does it stand for "hey, Stupid Pay For this?" Cause that's what I'm thinking!
I guess I gotta go with the Sea Kelp except well it probably smells like a Mermaid's sally. Yuck,
Good god, I've got to get a hobby.
For instance, I'm apparently gonna have to go buy some new lotion (and for those of you who read "lotion" and immediately thought "masturbation" - shame on you). There's a new commercial for a new Lubriderm. Lubriderm with Sea Kelp! It gives you marvelous skin according to the model who last ate a cracker last Thursday.
Well, dammit! I already have twelve other versions of Lubriderm! Can't they pick a fucking additive and stick with it. I've got the "original Formula" and it does a bang up a job. I then saw the ad for the one with oatmeal and thought "Well, I don't eat the shit, so I might as well slather on the body. That totally counts for healthy, right?".
And holy mother of God! How the hell am I supposed to know whether I have sensitive skin or not?
Do I need Advance Therapy? What the hell is Advance Therapy? Was the previous like "Dark Ages Therapy"? What is the age limit for Advance Therapy? Was it fucking 30 thirty cause I'm late!
And NO, I don't want skin cancer but I also don't want to walk around smelling like I can't find the beach. I don't like SPF! Does it stand for "hey, Stupid Pay For this?" Cause that's what I'm thinking!
I guess I gotta go with the Sea Kelp except well it probably smells like a Mermaid's sally. Yuck,
Good god, I've got to get a hobby.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
I'm NOT Goofing Around On A Work Day
I am now the proud owner of a laptop. Yep. You know what that means? I can blog while I watch tv! I know you've all been dying to have my up-to-the-minute comments on all shows of any importance.
Course right now, it's the middle of the day and I am NOT watching the Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. I am working.
I'll tell ya what else I'm not doing:
1. I'm NOT pondering the fact that the POD turned 16 yesterday and that her therapist called with concerns over her myspace page.
2. I'm NOT working at the kitchen counter because my office is so messy that I don't want to go back there.
3. I'm NOT pondering sending my new slogan for q-tips to Masters & Johnson - "Q-tips...so many orifices, so little time".
4. I'm NOT wondering if the Weight Watchers nazis will actually come to my home to drag my fat ass back to a meeting.
5. I'm NOT contemplating ways to get out of an impending blind date. (And the next person who tells me "You have to put yourself out there!" will get the bitch slap of their lives. If you want out there so bad, you go on a blind date, jackass.)
6. I'm NOT cleaning the house for the termite inspection guy cause he most certainly won't say "Open packages of peeps attract termites like an ice cream truck's jingle attracts you, Fattie".
7. I'm NOT sitting hear listening to the commercial for this afternoon's Oprah which alludes to "the sexual practice you've never heard of!". Well, how the hell does she know? I'm quite worldly. I read. Ummmmm....but is it worse if I have heard of it? Does that make me a whore? DAMN YOU, OPRAH! YOU AND YOUR MIND RAY WILL NOT CONTROL ME! but i will be watching.
8. I'm NOT wondering why the Geico lizard has a cockney accent. Are we more likely to buy car insurance from a British lizard as opposed to an American one?
9. I'm NOT contemplating which Simpsons line is my favorite. I'm NOT thinking about Ralphie saying "She choo choo choooooses me!" or Milhouse saying, "Everything's coming up Milhouse!" or Reverend Lovejoy announcing the hymn, "In the Garden of Eden by I. Ron Butterfly" and then Homer whispering to Marge, "hey, remember when we used to make out to this hymn?" or Lisa saying "Can't talk....coming down" after ingesting water from a ride at Duff Land. NOT thinking about the Simpsons at all.
10. I'm NOT obsessing over the fact that the previous lines excluded all lines by Troy McClure and Lionel Hutz.
No. My laptop is only for working. I am NOT doing any of the above stuff cause that would just be wrong.
Course right now, it's the middle of the day and I am NOT watching the Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. I am working.
I'll tell ya what else I'm not doing:
1. I'm NOT pondering the fact that the POD turned 16 yesterday and that her therapist called with concerns over her myspace page.
2. I'm NOT working at the kitchen counter because my office is so messy that I don't want to go back there.
3. I'm NOT pondering sending my new slogan for q-tips to Masters & Johnson - "Q-tips...so many orifices, so little time".
4. I'm NOT wondering if the Weight Watchers nazis will actually come to my home to drag my fat ass back to a meeting.
5. I'm NOT contemplating ways to get out of an impending blind date. (And the next person who tells me "You have to put yourself out there!" will get the bitch slap of their lives. If you want out there so bad, you go on a blind date, jackass.)
6. I'm NOT cleaning the house for the termite inspection guy cause he most certainly won't say "Open packages of peeps attract termites like an ice cream truck's jingle attracts you, Fattie".
7. I'm NOT sitting hear listening to the commercial for this afternoon's Oprah which alludes to "the sexual practice you've never heard of!". Well, how the hell does she know? I'm quite worldly. I read. Ummmmm....but is it worse if I have heard of it? Does that make me a whore? DAMN YOU, OPRAH! YOU AND YOUR MIND RAY WILL NOT CONTROL ME! but i will be watching.
8. I'm NOT wondering why the Geico lizard has a cockney accent. Are we more likely to buy car insurance from a British lizard as opposed to an American one?
9. I'm NOT contemplating which Simpsons line is my favorite. I'm NOT thinking about Ralphie saying "She choo choo choooooses me!" or Milhouse saying, "Everything's coming up Milhouse!" or Reverend Lovejoy announcing the hymn, "In the Garden of Eden by I. Ron Butterfly" and then Homer whispering to Marge, "hey, remember when we used to make out to this hymn?" or Lisa saying "Can't talk....coming down" after ingesting water from a ride at Duff Land. NOT thinking about the Simpsons at all.
10. I'm NOT obsessing over the fact that the previous lines excluded all lines by Troy McClure and Lionel Hutz.
No. My laptop is only for working. I am NOT doing any of the above stuff cause that would just be wrong.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
StopYour Breathing...It's Annoying
Okay, okay - I'm slack. I know this - you know this. Stop with the heavy panting. I'm blogging.
Blogging is difficult when coming off a three day bender. I'm hungover. I of course attended the Atlanta Race this past weekend with Kitty and Daddy (Cowboy Dan was playing dutiful farm daughter and was unable to play "giddy up" with us - she was sorely missed).
Of course, I'm not only recovering from inhaling 4 out of 5 cases of beer, one bottle of Jim Beam and one excelent bottle of Sky Vodka - I'm recovering from "Captain-Nutty-came-to-town-to-watch-the-POD" overindulgence.
Since I can only remember about 1/2 of my activities over the weekend, let's talk about Captain Nutty's activities, shall we?
1. She convinced my real estate agent who also happens to be my friend-who-has-done-everything-except-buy-my-house-herself to mow my fucking lawn. That's right, kids. I leave town and my mom cons my pal into sweating over my front yard. How long will it take me to pay back the-most-fantabulous-real-estate-agent-in-the-world? Hard to say, hard to say.
2. She "shared" all of her life troubles with previously mentioned long-suffering-real-estate-agent-who-hopefully-will-remain-my-friend-if-I-ever-sell-my-house which of course resulted in major water works on Nutty's part and a severe longing for a vodka and fresca on my never-will-help-you-with-anything-again-real-estate-agent-friend.
3. She discovered the POD doing flips on the monkey bars whilst wearing a skirt in the immigrant hang-out park down the street. Apparently, Captain Nutty arrived on the scene just in time to disuade two amigos from determining whether the POD was a shaver or a bikini waxer.
4. And last, but certainly not least, let's not forget that Captian discovered a nearly empty "bag of oregano" on POD's person over the weekend. Yep. That's a winner. Of course, POD admitted that she was "holding for a friend". I didn't buy the oldest excuse in the book and dragged her ass in for a drug test (which I made her pay for). And? Well, it was all negative. Don't know whether to be happy or sad. This means she was telling the truth - which means - Great! She hasn't been smoking pot....but also means, Great! She's so damn stupid that she really is holding pot for a friend!
I will never reproduce. And don't anyone ask me what happened to the bag of pot.
P.S. My good buddy over at Tinfoil Viking Science apparently talks to his little friend in his pants. Now, I would like to point out that I did not read this post prior to writing my missive to Sally. So this means one of two things - either Bottlerocket and I are truly soulmates who have yet to meet.....or we are both truly mental and will be living out our days together in a fine state run mental facillity in Harvey, Illinois. Hell, who are we kidding....it probably means both.
Blogging is difficult when coming off a three day bender. I'm hungover. I of course attended the Atlanta Race this past weekend with Kitty and Daddy (Cowboy Dan was playing dutiful farm daughter and was unable to play "giddy up" with us - she was sorely missed).
Of course, I'm not only recovering from inhaling 4 out of 5 cases of beer, one bottle of Jim Beam and one excelent bottle of Sky Vodka - I'm recovering from "Captain-Nutty-came-to-town-to-watch-the-POD" overindulgence.
Since I can only remember about 1/2 of my activities over the weekend, let's talk about Captain Nutty's activities, shall we?
1. She convinced my real estate agent who also happens to be my friend-who-has-done-everything-except-buy-my-house-herself to mow my fucking lawn. That's right, kids. I leave town and my mom cons my pal into sweating over my front yard. How long will it take me to pay back the-most-fantabulous-real-estate-agent-in-the-world? Hard to say, hard to say.
2. She "shared" all of her life troubles with previously mentioned long-suffering-real-estate-agent-who-hopefully-will-remain-my-friend-if-I-ever-sell-my-house which of course resulted in major water works on Nutty's part and a severe longing for a vodka and fresca on my never-will-help-you-with-anything-again-real-estate-agent-friend.
3. She discovered the POD doing flips on the monkey bars whilst wearing a skirt in the immigrant hang-out park down the street. Apparently, Captain Nutty arrived on the scene just in time to disuade two amigos from determining whether the POD was a shaver or a bikini waxer.
4. And last, but certainly not least, let's not forget that Captian discovered a nearly empty "bag of oregano" on POD's person over the weekend. Yep. That's a winner. Of course, POD admitted that she was "holding for a friend". I didn't buy the oldest excuse in the book and dragged her ass in for a drug test (which I made her pay for). And? Well, it was all negative. Don't know whether to be happy or sad. This means she was telling the truth - which means - Great! She hasn't been smoking pot....but also means, Great! She's so damn stupid that she really is holding pot for a friend!
I will never reproduce. And don't anyone ask me what happened to the bag of pot.
P.S. My good buddy over at Tinfoil Viking Science apparently talks to his little friend in his pants. Now, I would like to point out that I did not read this post prior to writing my missive to Sally. So this means one of two things - either Bottlerocket and I are truly soulmates who have yet to meet.....or we are both truly mental and will be living out our days together in a fine state run mental facillity in Harvey, Illinois. Hell, who are we kidding....it probably means both.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
