Have you ever...
...seriously, seriously considered eating at the "Happy Happy China 100 Super Super Buffet" restaurant?
....wondered if your ovaries were fed up with the lack of activity and were currently hatching a plan in which they tunnel their way out through your belly button?
...really, really regretted buying the cheap toilet paper at a really, really bad moment?
...enjoyed cleaning out your dog's infected ear with q-tips?
...had to call your best friend in another state with a really, really moronic filing question cause you never do any real litigation work even though you tell your clients that you're "in court" ALL the time?
...been looking a client right in the eyes and spewing forth all kinds of sympathy while in your head, the little voices are saying, "man, this guy is sooooo screwed"?
...recommend a client seek professional help and then realize while the words are coming out of your mouth, "oh yeah, I AM the professional help"?
...wondered exactly how fat you have to be before you become unable to wipe your own ass?
...wondered how close you were to having to recruit some ass-wiping help?
...felt like you needed a beer even though it was only 9 am?
Ummmm...yeah....me neither.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Sign of the Apocalypse, Part Deux
Well, gentle readers, it's happened. As all things in the blogworld turn, my idiot friends have collectively decided, "Fuck Floyd! We're worlds funnier than her and why should she be the only one seeking internet fame and fortune!". And frankly, we all know they're right.
That's right, gentle reader. My pals and chums have decided to join us here in blogland. So without further ado, I introduce you to the following:
Me Wonders - the ramblings and musings of our very own Cowboy Dan
Team Endura - and of course, Kitty is not to outdone
Mandals - my good pal, the Dutch Porn Star has also taking his turn as a wordsmith.
Enjoy. And be kind - I don't want to be the evil bitch that sent the forces of darkness upon them....or maybe I do...hmmmmm.
That's right, gentle reader. My pals and chums have decided to join us here in blogland. So without further ado, I introduce you to the following:
Me Wonders - the ramblings and musings of our very own Cowboy Dan
Team Endura - and of course, Kitty is not to outdone
Mandals - my good pal, the Dutch Porn Star has also taking his turn as a wordsmith.
Enjoy. And be kind - I don't want to be the evil bitch that sent the forces of darkness upon them....or maybe I do...hmmmmm.
Penis Times Two*
*Who are we kidding - I just love any excuse to work the word "penis" into a title
Word through the grapevine is that Big Fat Twin Mamma (hereinafter Mamma) gave birth to happy, healthy baby boys last night. The new boys came in at a whopping 4 lbs., 12 oz. and 4 lbs., 9 oz. - I say whopping cause poor old Mamma has been on bed rest trying to keep those rambunctious rascals in utero until such time as they were big enough to whoop some ass upon arrival.
I also have it on good authority that said babies are being named Floyd, Jr. and Floyd, II - of course to be called "Junior" and "Deuce". I'm greatly looking forward to the days when the boys are older and start sporting their matching mullets which if they inherit their mother's beautiful curly hair might seem a little "Welcom Back, Kotter" but the twins will be style setters - I have no doubt about that. I'm sure they'll spend their teenage years driving around town in their tricked out truck mooning the local girls. Mamma will certainly have her hands full but they will know early on not to cross Mamma - Mamma is NOT to be trifled with - especially not after she's had a couple of martinis and with twin boys, me thinks Mamma's drinking is about to increase dramatically.
And they will of course be spending quality time with their Auntie Kitty who really has a magical way with children. Per the course for Kitty, she will wait until after their first tee-ball practice and say, "Hey Junior! Hey, Deuce! Mamma said you're playing tee-ball. Do you swing the bat like a girl?" At which point Mamma will have to remove the twins from Auntie Kitty's presence and immediately enroll them in gender identification therapy.
Of course, Auntie Floyd will only be allowed limited access considering her propensity to randomly use the word "penis" at highly inopportune moments. But Auntie Floyd understands. Just knowing her namesakes are healthy, thriving little buggers is enough for her.
Congratulations to the entire Big Fat Twin Mamma clan! And welcome to the world Junior and Deuce!
Word through the grapevine is that Big Fat Twin Mamma (hereinafter Mamma) gave birth to happy, healthy baby boys last night. The new boys came in at a whopping 4 lbs., 12 oz. and 4 lbs., 9 oz. - I say whopping cause poor old Mamma has been on bed rest trying to keep those rambunctious rascals in utero until such time as they were big enough to whoop some ass upon arrival.
I also have it on good authority that said babies are being named Floyd, Jr. and Floyd, II - of course to be called "Junior" and "Deuce". I'm greatly looking forward to the days when the boys are older and start sporting their matching mullets which if they inherit their mother's beautiful curly hair might seem a little "Welcom Back, Kotter" but the twins will be style setters - I have no doubt about that. I'm sure they'll spend their teenage years driving around town in their tricked out truck mooning the local girls. Mamma will certainly have her hands full but they will know early on not to cross Mamma - Mamma is NOT to be trifled with - especially not after she's had a couple of martinis and with twin boys, me thinks Mamma's drinking is about to increase dramatically.
And they will of course be spending quality time with their Auntie Kitty who really has a magical way with children. Per the course for Kitty, she will wait until after their first tee-ball practice and say, "Hey Junior! Hey, Deuce! Mamma said you're playing tee-ball. Do you swing the bat like a girl?" At which point Mamma will have to remove the twins from Auntie Kitty's presence and immediately enroll them in gender identification therapy.
Of course, Auntie Floyd will only be allowed limited access considering her propensity to randomly use the word "penis" at highly inopportune moments. But Auntie Floyd understands. Just knowing her namesakes are healthy, thriving little buggers is enough for her.
Congratulations to the entire Big Fat Twin Mamma clan! And welcome to the world Junior and Deuce!
Friday, July 22, 2005
Have You Ever...
So gentle readers, have you ever...
...plucked your eyebrows with the same tweezers you just used to remove a tick of your dog's ass?
...based solely on the smell of a fart, thought, "Wow...I must surely be dying?"
...told clients that you couldn't meet with them because you were caught up in court when actually you were sitting around in your pajamas watching Oprah while eating a big bowl of ice cream?
Ummmmm...yeah....me neither.
...plucked your eyebrows with the same tweezers you just used to remove a tick of your dog's ass?
...based solely on the smell of a fart, thought, "Wow...I must surely be dying?"
...told clients that you couldn't meet with them because you were caught up in court when actually you were sitting around in your pajamas watching Oprah while eating a big bowl of ice cream?
Ummmmm...yeah....me neither.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Hey Jackass...I'm Charging By the Hour
Dear Asswipe Client,
I realize that you may or may not have some legal issues which you would like dealt with in a professional and successful manner. I realize that you are probably truly stressed by the rough hand some big, bad meanie out there has dealt you. I realize that under ALL that turmoil you have found it very difficult to reach out to the dreaded and evil lawyer for help. I realize that all lawyers should be in the bottom of the ocean or that according to Shakespeare, we should all be killed first.
But guees what, Jackass?
NONE OF THIS GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO SHOW UP TWO HOURS LATE.
That's right, Dick Smoke. Despite what thoughts might be floating around in the little pea brain of yours, my time is valuable. I do not sit at my desk all day merely waiting for you to appear so that I can listen to you whine and bitch about how society is either - a) racist; b) sexist; c) ageist; or d) simply cruel and out to get you. Cause really unless you show up with a certified check and hand it to me before you even open your yapper, I could really give a rat's ass.
Despite what you see on t.v., the world doesn't owe you shit - and neither do I. Matter of fact, it is YOU who owe me - that's right, you're harshing my buzz. You are sucking up my oxygen and ruining precious hours in which I could be drunk.
So the next time you think you need a little legal shoulder to cry on, call the People's Court cause I'm heading to the bar.
Sincerely,
Your Devoted Legal Counsel
I realize that you may or may not have some legal issues which you would like dealt with in a professional and successful manner. I realize that you are probably truly stressed by the rough hand some big, bad meanie out there has dealt you. I realize that under ALL that turmoil you have found it very difficult to reach out to the dreaded and evil lawyer for help. I realize that all lawyers should be in the bottom of the ocean or that according to Shakespeare, we should all be killed first.
But guees what, Jackass?
NONE OF THIS GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO SHOW UP TWO HOURS LATE.
That's right, Dick Smoke. Despite what thoughts might be floating around in the little pea brain of yours, my time is valuable. I do not sit at my desk all day merely waiting for you to appear so that I can listen to you whine and bitch about how society is either - a) racist; b) sexist; c) ageist; or d) simply cruel and out to get you. Cause really unless you show up with a certified check and hand it to me before you even open your yapper, I could really give a rat's ass.
Despite what you see on t.v., the world doesn't owe you shit - and neither do I. Matter of fact, it is YOU who owe me - that's right, you're harshing my buzz. You are sucking up my oxygen and ruining precious hours in which I could be drunk.
So the next time you think you need a little legal shoulder to cry on, call the People's Court cause I'm heading to the bar.
Sincerely,
Your Devoted Legal Counsel
Monday, July 18, 2005
And Now....A Little Something About Me
Well, gentle readers, I've managed to subdue my liver after some careful bribing with a Bourbon and a Big Mac. He says he'll stick around a little longer if I promise to drink one glass of water per week. It's a hard bargain but I suppose one must do what one must do.
As I am currently wrapped up in full Harry Potter mania and therefore do not have a single original thought in my head that doesn't involve muggles or pensives, I thought it prime time to turn to you, gentle reader. That's right! It's time for Reader Email! (If you could please hear some sort of trumpet fanfare or perhaps Spanish Flea playing in the background, I would greatly appreciate it)
So, let's get right to it...
1. Exactly how many medications are you on?
Weeeelllll, hard to say, hard to say. On a daily basis? None. However, I would say that about weekly some guys in white coats hold me down and administer a few shots. I think that's just for the rabies though.
2. Is the POD (the Princess of Darkness) really all that dark?
No, she's blond. HA! But she does have a fondness for the color black and a general hatred toward all things pink. And I mean, HATRED - the color pink has been somewhat demonized by the POD. We are a pink-free zone.
3. So really, how much are you drinking and should I be concerned?
Ummmmm...I'm probably drinking a lot in YOUR book but in my book, I'm just drinking up to a "colorful" or perhaps "eccentric" level. No need for an intervention. (But if you are planning an intervention I do NOT want to be on that A&E show "Intervention" - their makeup person clearly sucks)
4. How's the new business going?
Well, I suppose okay...I'm broke...but people still call and I'm able to bullshit my way through their issues (ummmm...except for any clients that may be reading right now - your stuff I've got handled, no worries!)
5. Holy crap, does your family know you write about them this way?
Hell no! What kind of moron do you take me for? Well, actually Daddy and Skank Ass Cousin know about it but that's about it. POD would find it amusing but would probably devise new antics to be included in my commentary more often - and my heart (or heck, my liver) couldn't take that. If Captain Nutty knew, she would be forced into years more intensive therapy and I would be subjected to at least 2 more weepy phone calls per day over the 2 daily hand wringing episodes I already receive.
6. So is Captain Nutty really all that nutty?
Yes.....oh god, yes. You people have no idea. NO IDEA.
7. Are you as hot looking in person as you are in your pictures?
Yes....oh god, yes. You people have no idea. NO IDEA.
8. Aren't you concerned that with sharing all this information someone is going to steal your identity?
HAHAHAHAHAHA....GOOOD LUCK. If someone goes through all that trouble, I hope they take that $20 worth of credit and run with it. Party on me. Hell, here's my social security number - 334-58-0092 - have fun.
9. What's with all the weird names of your friends? Can a fella get a little helping hand or a decoder ring?
Okay, I realize those that newly pop in may become confused by the nicknames. However, I would like to inform all that I really call these people by these names. Per your request, decoder ring coordinates follow:
Kitty and Cowboy Dan = best pals - both chicks (and no, I don't know why I call her Cowboy Dan, I just do)
Fat Baby family = other best friend - all spoken of in relation to Fat Baby because he is the center of our universe
POD = Princess of Darkness who is 15 year old little sister who lives with me during the school year
Captain Nutty = my mother...nuf sed.
Skank Ass Cousin = rather self-explanatory, I would think. Also serves as best friend and compatriot in many adventures (read: drunkenness)
I have other pals who comment that I do know in my personal life - Paradise Lesbian, Magoozie, Big Fat Twin Mamma and many more.
10. Should I be calling for help?
Yes...yes, you should. Matter of fact, what the fuck are you still doing here? Get me some help!
11. Are you really a lawyer? Cause seriously, your spelling and grammar really kinda suck...
No, but I play one on the Internet....and in my office, but don't tell anyone. I'm actually a 12 year-old repeating the 4th grade for the third time.
12. Seriously, for the love of all that's holy, please, please tell me you make this stuff up?
No. I wish I could tell you that I'm that creative but everything here is true....well, except for a little creative license here and there. OKAY! You busted me - in the Daytona post, I mentioned that Kitty and Cowboy Dan rode around in a little red wagon....it was yellow. So sue me.
Sooooo, that ought to help you out a little bit. Feel free to keep the questions coming. I'll feel free to bullshit my way through them.
Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot
P.S. Before you ask, Vladimir Poopshoot is one my many aliases and a key proponent in the fight to make A.S.S. a national holiday.
P.S.S. No, I haven't forgotten you, Dutch Porn Star. You will have your debut very soon.
P.S.S.S. Special shout out to Big Fat Twin Mamma - you keep those kids in there, you hear me! If you let them start calling the shots now, you'll never get the upper hand again! Sure, now they just want out of the womb a little early, but the next thing you know they're stealing your car, smoking the whacky weed and blaming each other for knocking up the neighbor's daughter. Keep your legs crossed and your ass on the couch, Mamma!
P.S.S.S.S. Another shout out to Big Fat Twin Mamma - Floyd is a great name for a boy...no really...I'm just saying.
As I am currently wrapped up in full Harry Potter mania and therefore do not have a single original thought in my head that doesn't involve muggles or pensives, I thought it prime time to turn to you, gentle reader. That's right! It's time for Reader Email! (If you could please hear some sort of trumpet fanfare or perhaps Spanish Flea playing in the background, I would greatly appreciate it)
So, let's get right to it...
1. Exactly how many medications are you on?
Weeeelllll, hard to say, hard to say. On a daily basis? None. However, I would say that about weekly some guys in white coats hold me down and administer a few shots. I think that's just for the rabies though.
2. Is the POD (the Princess of Darkness) really all that dark?
No, she's blond. HA! But she does have a fondness for the color black and a general hatred toward all things pink. And I mean, HATRED - the color pink has been somewhat demonized by the POD. We are a pink-free zone.
3. So really, how much are you drinking and should I be concerned?
Ummmmm...I'm probably drinking a lot in YOUR book but in my book, I'm just drinking up to a "colorful" or perhaps "eccentric" level. No need for an intervention. (But if you are planning an intervention I do NOT want to be on that A&E show "Intervention" - their makeup person clearly sucks)
4. How's the new business going?
Well, I suppose okay...I'm broke...but people still call and I'm able to bullshit my way through their issues (ummmm...except for any clients that may be reading right now - your stuff I've got handled, no worries!)
5. Holy crap, does your family know you write about them this way?
Hell no! What kind of moron do you take me for? Well, actually Daddy and Skank Ass Cousin know about it but that's about it. POD would find it amusing but would probably devise new antics to be included in my commentary more often - and my heart (or heck, my liver) couldn't take that. If Captain Nutty knew, she would be forced into years more intensive therapy and I would be subjected to at least 2 more weepy phone calls per day over the 2 daily hand wringing episodes I already receive.
6. So is Captain Nutty really all that nutty?
Yes.....oh god, yes. You people have no idea. NO IDEA.
7. Are you as hot looking in person as you are in your pictures?
Yes....oh god, yes. You people have no idea. NO IDEA.
8. Aren't you concerned that with sharing all this information someone is going to steal your identity?
HAHAHAHAHAHA....GOOOD LUCK. If someone goes through all that trouble, I hope they take that $20 worth of credit and run with it. Party on me. Hell, here's my social security number - 334-58-0092 - have fun.
9. What's with all the weird names of your friends? Can a fella get a little helping hand or a decoder ring?
Okay, I realize those that newly pop in may become confused by the nicknames. However, I would like to inform all that I really call these people by these names. Per your request, decoder ring coordinates follow:
Kitty and Cowboy Dan = best pals - both chicks (and no, I don't know why I call her Cowboy Dan, I just do)
Fat Baby family = other best friend - all spoken of in relation to Fat Baby because he is the center of our universe
POD = Princess of Darkness who is 15 year old little sister who lives with me during the school year
Captain Nutty = my mother...nuf sed.
Skank Ass Cousin = rather self-explanatory, I would think. Also serves as best friend and compatriot in many adventures (read: drunkenness)
I have other pals who comment that I do know in my personal life - Paradise Lesbian, Magoozie, Big Fat Twin Mamma and many more.
10. Should I be calling for help?
Yes...yes, you should. Matter of fact, what the fuck are you still doing here? Get me some help!
11. Are you really a lawyer? Cause seriously, your spelling and grammar really kinda suck...
No, but I play one on the Internet....and in my office, but don't tell anyone. I'm actually a 12 year-old repeating the 4th grade for the third time.
12. Seriously, for the love of all that's holy, please, please tell me you make this stuff up?
No. I wish I could tell you that I'm that creative but everything here is true....well, except for a little creative license here and there. OKAY! You busted me - in the Daytona post, I mentioned that Kitty and Cowboy Dan rode around in a little red wagon....it was yellow. So sue me.
Sooooo, that ought to help you out a little bit. Feel free to keep the questions coming. I'll feel free to bullshit my way through them.
Much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot
P.S. Before you ask, Vladimir Poopshoot is one my many aliases and a key proponent in the fight to make A.S.S. a national holiday.
P.S.S. No, I haven't forgotten you, Dutch Porn Star. You will have your debut very soon.
P.S.S.S. Special shout out to Big Fat Twin Mamma - you keep those kids in there, you hear me! If you let them start calling the shots now, you'll never get the upper hand again! Sure, now they just want out of the womb a little early, but the next thing you know they're stealing your car, smoking the whacky weed and blaming each other for knocking up the neighbor's daughter. Keep your legs crossed and your ass on the couch, Mamma!
P.S.S.S.S. Another shout out to Big Fat Twin Mamma - Floyd is a great name for a boy...no really...I'm just saying.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
A Cry for Help
Dear Internet,
Hello, gentle readers,let me introduce myself - I am Floyd's liver. Floyd would like to be able to post right now but if any of you are still out there, you are well aware that her recent proclivity to drink has really dashed all hope for amusing antecdotes in recent weeks.
However, as you once found her occassionally entertaining...or at least as engaging as watching a walrus humping a rhinoceros, I turn to you in my hour of need.
For the love of all that's holy, someone give this chick a glass of water. And when she asks you to throw a little bourbon in there to make it "worth her effort", please slap the ever-loving crap out of her.
I used to be all healthy back in the day. All filled with bile and living a good life. Suuuurrre, Floyd and I have had our issues with fatty foods and a fondness for sugar. And suuuurrreee, the college and law school years were hard on us all - I mean the girl likes her Budweiser. But now, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph (being a liver, i'm of course catholic), I'm pickling, folks, FLAT OUT PICKLING! I mean if you could see me now - no healthy pink glow, no filtering function, nothing. I think a piece of beef jerky could do a better job than me at this point.
After her recent ho'down at the racetrack, I tried to escape through her anus, but that butthole wouldn't cooperate. He said he had his own problems what with being fed nothing but chips and french onion dip for four days. I thought I could sneak out with that round of McDonald's but there just wasn't room.
And this just in, her kidneys aren't that damn happy either! They're threatening to go on strike and block up the whole urinary tract system. And friends, if you know Floyd at all, you know her urinary tract don't play no games. Those are some badass fuckers down there.
So, please, if you have a heart at all and if you see Floyd on the street, roll her ass out of the gutter and slap her silly. If you happen to see her with the whore dog, Cowboy Dan, tell her to head back to the rodeo and to get her own horse drunk and leave Floyd alone!
You, gentle reader, are my only hope.
Best regards,
Floyd's Liver
Hello, gentle readers,let me introduce myself - I am Floyd's liver. Floyd would like to be able to post right now but if any of you are still out there, you are well aware that her recent proclivity to drink has really dashed all hope for amusing antecdotes in recent weeks.
However, as you once found her occassionally entertaining...or at least as engaging as watching a walrus humping a rhinoceros, I turn to you in my hour of need.
For the love of all that's holy, someone give this chick a glass of water. And when she asks you to throw a little bourbon in there to make it "worth her effort", please slap the ever-loving crap out of her.
I used to be all healthy back in the day. All filled with bile and living a good life. Suuuurrre, Floyd and I have had our issues with fatty foods and a fondness for sugar. And suuuurrreee, the college and law school years were hard on us all - I mean the girl likes her Budweiser. But now, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph (being a liver, i'm of course catholic), I'm pickling, folks, FLAT OUT PICKLING! I mean if you could see me now - no healthy pink glow, no filtering function, nothing. I think a piece of beef jerky could do a better job than me at this point.
After her recent ho'down at the racetrack, I tried to escape through her anus, but that butthole wouldn't cooperate. He said he had his own problems what with being fed nothing but chips and french onion dip for four days. I thought I could sneak out with that round of McDonald's but there just wasn't room.
And this just in, her kidneys aren't that damn happy either! They're threatening to go on strike and block up the whole urinary tract system. And friends, if you know Floyd at all, you know her urinary tract don't play no games. Those are some badass fuckers down there.
So, please, if you have a heart at all and if you see Floyd on the street, roll her ass out of the gutter and slap her silly. If you happen to see her with the whore dog, Cowboy Dan, tell her to head back to the rodeo and to get her own horse drunk and leave Floyd alone!
You, gentle reader, are my only hope.
Best regards,
Floyd's Liver
Sunday, July 10, 2005
In Retrospect...
I should have continued on my bender and not bothered with sobering up at all.
My deepest apologies to you, gentle readers, for my absence. It's been quite the hoot-a-nanny around here. I suppose I should start at the beginning.
After we last talked, Daddy's heart tried to leave his body the hard way, i.e. right through his chest. At least, that's what we thought at the time considering Daddy has previously gone the heart attack/bypass route. After a lovely 5 hour stint in the emergency room in which I deeply regretted having ingested Taco Bell for dinner that night, we discovered Daddy's chest cavity had managed to retain said heart but that his blood pressure was running amuck. We were sent home with a ream full of prescriptions and hardy slap on the back. At this point in order to preserve Daddy's sense of decorum, I will not mention the fact that they pumped him so full of dope that he acted like a drunk on tilt-a-whirl. I also won't mention his inability to walk or talk correctly and what he may or may not have done to my bathroom floor but I will mention my contemplated lawsuit toward said emergency room for not admitting him and leaving me to deal with his hepped-up-on-goofballs ass.
Anyhooooo, Cowboy Dan arrived on Tuesday night where we saw really no reason to delay or alter our Daytona-bound plans since Daddy was right as rain and promised me limited activity whilst I was away. Soooo, on Wednesday, we set out for the Nirvana of Redneckdom, otherwise knows as the Pepsi 400.
We met up with Kitty and other track friends and just as I was getting into a cab to hit some of Daytona Beach's fine, fine drinking establishments, I got a call from Daddy who was back in the old hospital. Luckily, Daddy is a race fan and refused to let me come home. So, I did what any reasonable daughter would do in such a situation....I got drunk.
Daddy had to stay prisoner in the hospital for a few days but was released with new drugs and feeling like he was run over by a dump truck. But he is on the mend and no permanent damage done...at least until I kill his ass if he doesn't take better care of himself (You hear me, Old Man? You're toast for cutting the grass).
I, however, continued to indulge in my worship of King Budweiser for a full 4 days with side offerings to Lord Jim Beam and Lady Kettle One. Daddy would have wanted it that way, after all.
So, let's review some Daytona debauchery, shall we?
Let's compare this recent Daytona trip to racing trips of the past...
I drank moonshine...again.
3 girls managed to consume 6 cases of beer over 4 days...again.
I managed to play piss poor poker....again.
I wrestled over whom I should marry, Dale Jr. or Elliott Sadler....again.
I rode around on a golfcart like I was the grand poobah of infield relations...again.
I did shots of some bizarro purple concotion at some pseudo bar set up by guys who were living in a tent for 4 days...again.
Kitty and Cowboy Dan were pulled around on a little red wagon throughout the infield like they were on parade...again.
I drank myself some rythym and decided I was the 21st century's answer to the Solid Gold Dancers....again.
I got my ass spanked a couple of times...again.
I enjoyed said spanking...again.
Oh, and there was some racing....saw that too...again.
A lovely time was had by all...at least from what I can remember.
OOOOOOO! Wait...here's a goood one. Soooooo, Friday morning, we all head to the Fan Zone which is a little happening spot in the middle of the infield at Daytona where one can commune with fellow racing fans and also pay $8.50 from some frozen fruity drink concoction. Me and my pals are sitting around the table enjoying the first drink of the day and Kitty suddenly gets an odd look on her face. She grabs the arm of my chair with sort of a panicked expression and begins looking around frantically. She bolts out of her chair...and WAAAAIIIIIT FOR IT....pukes right back into her glass. Right at the table. Without any warning. Filled the almost empty glass right full again. You will be proud of me though - amongst the sounds of shock and disapproval from the families sitting around us (and frankly, serves them right - the infield is no place for kids), I managed to hold in my laughter for a full 2 minutes....at least until Kitty could wipe the spittle off the tip of her nose.
True friendship? You bet your sweet ass.
My deepest apologies to you, gentle readers, for my absence. It's been quite the hoot-a-nanny around here. I suppose I should start at the beginning.
After we last talked, Daddy's heart tried to leave his body the hard way, i.e. right through his chest. At least, that's what we thought at the time considering Daddy has previously gone the heart attack/bypass route. After a lovely 5 hour stint in the emergency room in which I deeply regretted having ingested Taco Bell for dinner that night, we discovered Daddy's chest cavity had managed to retain said heart but that his blood pressure was running amuck. We were sent home with a ream full of prescriptions and hardy slap on the back. At this point in order to preserve Daddy's sense of decorum, I will not mention the fact that they pumped him so full of dope that he acted like a drunk on tilt-a-whirl. I also won't mention his inability to walk or talk correctly and what he may or may not have done to my bathroom floor but I will mention my contemplated lawsuit toward said emergency room for not admitting him and leaving me to deal with his hepped-up-on-goofballs ass.
Anyhooooo, Cowboy Dan arrived on Tuesday night where we saw really no reason to delay or alter our Daytona-bound plans since Daddy was right as rain and promised me limited activity whilst I was away. Soooo, on Wednesday, we set out for the Nirvana of Redneckdom, otherwise knows as the Pepsi 400.
We met up with Kitty and other track friends and just as I was getting into a cab to hit some of Daytona Beach's fine, fine drinking establishments, I got a call from Daddy who was back in the old hospital. Luckily, Daddy is a race fan and refused to let me come home. So, I did what any reasonable daughter would do in such a situation....I got drunk.
Daddy had to stay prisoner in the hospital for a few days but was released with new drugs and feeling like he was run over by a dump truck. But he is on the mend and no permanent damage done...at least until I kill his ass if he doesn't take better care of himself (You hear me, Old Man? You're toast for cutting the grass).
I, however, continued to indulge in my worship of King Budweiser for a full 4 days with side offerings to Lord Jim Beam and Lady Kettle One. Daddy would have wanted it that way, after all.
So, let's review some Daytona debauchery, shall we?
Let's compare this recent Daytona trip to racing trips of the past...
I drank moonshine...again.
3 girls managed to consume 6 cases of beer over 4 days...again.
I managed to play piss poor poker....again.
I wrestled over whom I should marry, Dale Jr. or Elliott Sadler....again.
I rode around on a golfcart like I was the grand poobah of infield relations...again.
I did shots of some bizarro purple concotion at some pseudo bar set up by guys who were living in a tent for 4 days...again.
Kitty and Cowboy Dan were pulled around on a little red wagon throughout the infield like they were on parade...again.
I drank myself some rythym and decided I was the 21st century's answer to the Solid Gold Dancers....again.
I got my ass spanked a couple of times...again.
I enjoyed said spanking...again.
Oh, and there was some racing....saw that too...again.
A lovely time was had by all...at least from what I can remember.
OOOOOOO! Wait...here's a goood one. Soooooo, Friday morning, we all head to the Fan Zone which is a little happening spot in the middle of the infield at Daytona where one can commune with fellow racing fans and also pay $8.50 from some frozen fruity drink concoction. Me and my pals are sitting around the table enjoying the first drink of the day and Kitty suddenly gets an odd look on her face. She grabs the arm of my chair with sort of a panicked expression and begins looking around frantically. She bolts out of her chair...and WAAAAIIIIIT FOR IT....pukes right back into her glass. Right at the table. Without any warning. Filled the almost empty glass right full again. You will be proud of me though - amongst the sounds of shock and disapproval from the families sitting around us (and frankly, serves them right - the infield is no place for kids), I managed to hold in my laughter for a full 2 minutes....at least until Kitty could wipe the spittle off the tip of her nose.
True friendship? You bet your sweet ass.
Friday, July 08, 2005
I'm Here, I'm Here!
I have not disappeared...just sorta hiatus-ed. I promise I will post more today/this weekend. I promise I will try to say something witty (but no guarantees).
It's been a very eventful few weeks including trips to the emergency room and drinking in Daytona - do I have your curiostiy peaked? Yeah, I didn't think so but come back nonetheless.
More later...
It's been a very eventful few weeks including trips to the emergency room and drinking in Daytona - do I have your curiostiy peaked? Yeah, I didn't think so but come back nonetheless.
More later...
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