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.
Friday, May 19, 2006
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.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
An Open Letter To Sally
Dear Sally,
First, let me start off by saying you've been a great noonie. A downright world-class va-jayjay. Hell, I'm some circles, you're downright famous. And well, frankly I haven't been treating you right. And NOW, well, let's just say after yesterday's events, I owe you a big old apology.
Let's be clear - you certainly had your fun times, your popular days. You enjoyed college and you really hit your prime in law school. Nothing wrong with that. But lately, you've had trouble making friends through no fault of your own.
I mean it certainly isn't your fault that the psyche has decided to eat it's way through the last year. I know from your vantage point, all you can see is the stomach overhanging your roof but let me tell you, the rest of the body ain't looking so hot either. But the stomach can certainly be blamed for many of your latest difficulties in "getting out". You used to be a "daylight, strobelight, spotlight" kinda gal but thanks to the ass and thigh department, you may have to spend the rest of your days as a "lights off and blackout shades" kinda player. Still, I'm sure you simply hope to play at all.
There has been neglect, Sally, and I'm the first to admit it. You've been ignored. I suspect it has been you that has been pushing the body into consuming vast amounts of alcohol in order to let you out a little more. I can't blame you for that - that old trick has certainly worked in the past. But for some reason, now when we drink we seem to skip the "let's play" stage and go straight to the "gonna hurl if I'm naked" stage. A sad, sad turn of events....but nothing compared to the greivous insult done onto you yesterday.
Sally, I was in a hurry. I was vacuuming and being a little careless. You see, left foot stepped on the cord but did not communicate his intent to right foot. Right foot continued on his merry way...and well, as you now know, we walked you right into the handle of the vacuum cleaner. The whole body heard your indignant cry of pain. Hell, the little man in the canoe went upstream and we may never hear from him again.
Sally, on behalf of the rest of the body, we are sorry. We promise that as soon as the swelling goes down and you lose that blackeye, we will try to get you out more. We're making no "George Clooney" type promises but there has to be some blind fella out there that the rest of the body will be willing to let you visit.
I promise I'll get to work on it. In the meantime, keep your head down and soldier through the pain.
Your pal,
Floyd
P.S. Please for the love of all that's holy, don't let today be the day that Daddy decides to start reading my blog again.
First, let me start off by saying you've been a great noonie. A downright world-class va-jayjay. Hell, I'm some circles, you're downright famous. And well, frankly I haven't been treating you right. And NOW, well, let's just say after yesterday's events, I owe you a big old apology.
Let's be clear - you certainly had your fun times, your popular days. You enjoyed college and you really hit your prime in law school. Nothing wrong with that. But lately, you've had trouble making friends through no fault of your own.
I mean it certainly isn't your fault that the psyche has decided to eat it's way through the last year. I know from your vantage point, all you can see is the stomach overhanging your roof but let me tell you, the rest of the body ain't looking so hot either. But the stomach can certainly be blamed for many of your latest difficulties in "getting out". You used to be a "daylight, strobelight, spotlight" kinda gal but thanks to the ass and thigh department, you may have to spend the rest of your days as a "lights off and blackout shades" kinda player. Still, I'm sure you simply hope to play at all.
There has been neglect, Sally, and I'm the first to admit it. You've been ignored. I suspect it has been you that has been pushing the body into consuming vast amounts of alcohol in order to let you out a little more. I can't blame you for that - that old trick has certainly worked in the past. But for some reason, now when we drink we seem to skip the "let's play" stage and go straight to the "gonna hurl if I'm naked" stage. A sad, sad turn of events....but nothing compared to the greivous insult done onto you yesterday.
Sally, I was in a hurry. I was vacuuming and being a little careless. You see, left foot stepped on the cord but did not communicate his intent to right foot. Right foot continued on his merry way...and well, as you now know, we walked you right into the handle of the vacuum cleaner. The whole body heard your indignant cry of pain. Hell, the little man in the canoe went upstream and we may never hear from him again.
Sally, on behalf of the rest of the body, we are sorry. We promise that as soon as the swelling goes down and you lose that blackeye, we will try to get you out more. We're making no "George Clooney" type promises but there has to be some blind fella out there that the rest of the body will be willing to let you visit.
I promise I'll get to work on it. In the meantime, keep your head down and soldier through the pain.
Your pal,
Floyd
P.S. Please for the love of all that's holy, don't let today be the day that Daddy decides to start reading my blog again.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Putting the Spring in Spring Break
WOOOOHOOOOO!!!! It's spring break, my homies! And you of course know what that means? The POD has left the building!
POD retired to Chicago to scare the beejezus out of Captain Nutty and the Consort, otherwise known as the POD's-parents-who-should-be-raising-her-but-are-too-moronic-to-do-so. And yes, they are one set of my parents too, but let's not get into that right now.
Sooooooooo, what are the broader implications? I will be drunk for a whole week. Yep. Every hour is happy hour, my friends. If your a client, you'll be getting your work back tommorrow or whenever I sober up. If you know me at all, I think you know what that means.
No waking up at crack-o-dawn for driving child to school. No arranging plans around picking up child from school. No arguments about one's completing or not completing one's homework. Hot damn, this is going to be fan-fucking-tastic.
Of course, after 2 days my liver will be begging for some relief and thus, the POD will be welcomed whole-heartedly back into the nest.
Now, I AM expecting a never-ending string of weeping phone calls from my mother asking me what to do in certain situations. That is par for the course. For instance, Captian Nutty asks POD to empty the dishwasher and the POD tells her to "go lick Satan's balls". I clearly envision this type of exchange happening on a frequent basis.
But perhaps we should talk about what POD has been doing since she got home on Friday night, shall we?
She's already had a "talking to" with the local police. She thinks she was called down by the fuzz and is thrilled to be getting a little street cred. What she doesn't know is that the whole damn thing was orchestrated.
Y'all remember Krystal-with-a-"K"? For the newbies, Krystal with a "K" is the POD's former girlfriend (the POD considers herself a bit of player for both teams at the ripe old age of 15). Anywhooooo, Krystal with a K and the POD have been broken up for quite a bit now but they still talk (Hooooray! Keep those friends close!). Krystal with a "K" is also a former latino gang banger - cause when your kid is swinging with the other team you soooooo want her to be hooked up with a gang member. Krystal with a "K" got mad at the POD and thus has called out a "whooop up on her if you see her" request to her suburban gang-banging friends. This of course scared the ever-living-medicated-shit out of Captain Nutty who called Officer DoGooder at the local station. An entire production has been made where the POD was called down and given a stern talking to. So now the POD is properly forewarned about potential violence.
Sounds good, right? Sounds like as a 15 year-old, you would be scared shitless? Not so much the POD. She's loving it. She's "down wid it" and "rockin it old school"- none of which she actually said but I hear it in my head. What did she honestly say? My hand to God - the kid said to Officer DoGooder, "It's okay - I like to live on the edge."
Yep.
At that point, my mother was seen scouring the surburban phone book for priests that conduct exorcisms with less than 24 hour notice....and we aren't even catholic.
Can't wait to share this story at the reunion! Folks in Mississippi gonna eat this up!
Barkeep - keep those Bud Lights a coming, please!
POD retired to Chicago to scare the beejezus out of Captain Nutty and the Consort, otherwise known as the POD's-parents-who-should-be-raising-her-but-are-too-moronic-to-do-so. And yes, they are one set of my parents too, but let's not get into that right now.
Sooooooooo, what are the broader implications? I will be drunk for a whole week. Yep. Every hour is happy hour, my friends. If your a client, you'll be getting your work back tommorrow or whenever I sober up. If you know me at all, I think you know what that means.
No waking up at crack-o-dawn for driving child to school. No arranging plans around picking up child from school. No arguments about one's completing or not completing one's homework. Hot damn, this is going to be fan-fucking-tastic.
Of course, after 2 days my liver will be begging for some relief and thus, the POD will be welcomed whole-heartedly back into the nest.
Now, I AM expecting a never-ending string of weeping phone calls from my mother asking me what to do in certain situations. That is par for the course. For instance, Captian Nutty asks POD to empty the dishwasher and the POD tells her to "go lick Satan's balls". I clearly envision this type of exchange happening on a frequent basis.
But perhaps we should talk about what POD has been doing since she got home on Friday night, shall we?
She's already had a "talking to" with the local police. She thinks she was called down by the fuzz and is thrilled to be getting a little street cred. What she doesn't know is that the whole damn thing was orchestrated.
Y'all remember Krystal-with-a-"K"? For the newbies, Krystal with a "K" is the POD's former girlfriend (the POD considers herself a bit of player for both teams at the ripe old age of 15). Anywhooooo, Krystal with a K and the POD have been broken up for quite a bit now but they still talk (Hooooray! Keep those friends close!). Krystal with a "K" is also a former latino gang banger - cause when your kid is swinging with the other team you soooooo want her to be hooked up with a gang member. Krystal with a "K" got mad at the POD and thus has called out a "whooop up on her if you see her" request to her suburban gang-banging friends. This of course scared the ever-living-medicated-shit out of Captain Nutty who called Officer DoGooder at the local station. An entire production has been made where the POD was called down and given a stern talking to. So now the POD is properly forewarned about potential violence.
Sounds good, right? Sounds like as a 15 year-old, you would be scared shitless? Not so much the POD. She's loving it. She's "down wid it" and "rockin it old school"- none of which she actually said but I hear it in my head. What did she honestly say? My hand to God - the kid said to Officer DoGooder, "It's okay - I like to live on the edge."
Yep.
At that point, my mother was seen scouring the surburban phone book for priests that conduct exorcisms with less than 24 hour notice....and we aren't even catholic.
Can't wait to share this story at the reunion! Folks in Mississippi gonna eat this up!
Barkeep - keep those Bud Lights a coming, please!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Put Away the Sharp Pointy Things
No need to come after me with your spears and other sharp objects, gentle readers. THIS time, my absence was legit - you see, despite the commercials, sometimes Comcast isn't so COMTASTIC! and your Internet decides to go all "let's see how long she'll actually wait for me to check her email". However, thanks to Julio (who IS by the way, COMTASTIC!), we are now right as rain and I'm sure you've forgiven me similar to the way an abused woman forgives her asshat husband for making him hit her- I've got you bitches trained!
I received a lovely little letter in the mail the other day reminding me that my 10-year law school reunion is rapidly approaching. I'm flat out dying to go to this shindig. In fact, all of the usual suspects (i.e. Kitty and Fat Baby's Mamma) are planning a big "let's pretend we can still drink for 12 hours and then pose a legal theory in front of the whole class" kinda trip. I'm all for it.
However, I am a little unsure of myself. I mean, let's be real - it's be TEN FUCKING YEARS and where am I?
Well, let me recap for those of you just joining us - I'm poor as hell and no lawyer ten years out should be this poor unless you're working for some sanctimonious do-gooder place. I'm raising my 15 year-old nutbag sister (POD) who worships the devil when not plotting to kill my parents. I'm coddling my nutbag mother(Captain Nutty)who frankly makes me want to worship the devil and plot her painful demise. I'm fat. Let me repeat that one, I'M FATTER THAN KIRSTIE ALLEY AT A HO-HO CONVENTION (with apologies to Kirstie considering her recent lesbian affair with Jenny Craig). And, oh yeah, let's not forget this little nugget of joy - I'M STILL SINGLE.
As far as I can tell, there are only 3 single people left in the class of 1996. Me. Kitty. And criminal law buddy, Rob. Kitty and I are waging a full out war to convince Rob to come with us to said reunion - you know, the old "misery in numbers"....or really, "kitty and i have already spent a lot of time drunk and bemoaning our fate and we need new blood in this pissing contest".
To answer my concerns, I believe I've come up with a full-proof plan. Lie. Yep, lie and lie big. Hell, I didn't go to law school for the fucking t-shirt. I learned to lie with the best of them (frankly, law school merely polished my already gifted natural ability but that’s just bragging).
I've decided that I would like to tell everyone at the reunion that I'm pregnant. No one ever blames a pregnant woman for being fat! They consider it down right cute! I'll get myself some nice maternity duds, slap on a little self-tanner for that "pregnancy glow" and bammo, no fat embarrassment. Trust me, I’ve got the gut that screams “get this woman to a doctor before her water breaks all over my weejuns”. This could make drinking a tad touchy but no one really would be surprised that I can't give up the sauce. Let’s be frank, these are the same people that have witnessed my finest moments…..if only I could remember them……anyhooooo.
However, this is Mississippi we're talking about....so the unmarried thing might be an issue. Not to mention, if I show up pregnant with Kitty and without a ring, the lesbo talk will be a deafening roar of condemnation (all have witnessed Kitty's undeniable attraction to me).
And that dear, Robbo, is where you come in. Instant husband. Nothing like a fake marriage to make a reunion fun! I'll supply the rings and you pick the sex of the baby! Hell, I'll even allow for conjugal rights with Kitty! We will tell everyone how ridiculously happy and famously wealthy we are and they will all upchuck their crawfish with jealousy! A more perfect scheme was never hatched. I'll even throw in a "Rob is sooooo HUGE we're worried about him dimpling the baby's head!" comments.
Just think about it, oh Swami Rob...it just might work.
Here's to the class of 1996! May you all want to be me!
I received a lovely little letter in the mail the other day reminding me that my 10-year law school reunion is rapidly approaching. I'm flat out dying to go to this shindig. In fact, all of the usual suspects (i.e. Kitty and Fat Baby's Mamma) are planning a big "let's pretend we can still drink for 12 hours and then pose a legal theory in front of the whole class" kinda trip. I'm all for it.
However, I am a little unsure of myself. I mean, let's be real - it's be TEN FUCKING YEARS and where am I?
Well, let me recap for those of you just joining us - I'm poor as hell and no lawyer ten years out should be this poor unless you're working for some sanctimonious do-gooder place. I'm raising my 15 year-old nutbag sister (POD) who worships the devil when not plotting to kill my parents. I'm coddling my nutbag mother(Captain Nutty)who frankly makes me want to worship the devil and plot her painful demise. I'm fat. Let me repeat that one, I'M FATTER THAN KIRSTIE ALLEY AT A HO-HO CONVENTION (with apologies to Kirstie considering her recent lesbian affair with Jenny Craig). And, oh yeah, let's not forget this little nugget of joy - I'M STILL SINGLE.
As far as I can tell, there are only 3 single people left in the class of 1996. Me. Kitty. And criminal law buddy, Rob. Kitty and I are waging a full out war to convince Rob to come with us to said reunion - you know, the old "misery in numbers"....or really, "kitty and i have already spent a lot of time drunk and bemoaning our fate and we need new blood in this pissing contest".
To answer my concerns, I believe I've come up with a full-proof plan. Lie. Yep, lie and lie big. Hell, I didn't go to law school for the fucking t-shirt. I learned to lie with the best of them (frankly, law school merely polished my already gifted natural ability but that’s just bragging).
I've decided that I would like to tell everyone at the reunion that I'm pregnant. No one ever blames a pregnant woman for being fat! They consider it down right cute! I'll get myself some nice maternity duds, slap on a little self-tanner for that "pregnancy glow" and bammo, no fat embarrassment. Trust me, I’ve got the gut that screams “get this woman to a doctor before her water breaks all over my weejuns”. This could make drinking a tad touchy but no one really would be surprised that I can't give up the sauce. Let’s be frank, these are the same people that have witnessed my finest moments…..if only I could remember them……anyhooooo.
However, this is Mississippi we're talking about....so the unmarried thing might be an issue. Not to mention, if I show up pregnant with Kitty and without a ring, the lesbo talk will be a deafening roar of condemnation (all have witnessed Kitty's undeniable attraction to me).
And that dear, Robbo, is where you come in. Instant husband. Nothing like a fake marriage to make a reunion fun! I'll supply the rings and you pick the sex of the baby! Hell, I'll even allow for conjugal rights with Kitty! We will tell everyone how ridiculously happy and famously wealthy we are and they will all upchuck their crawfish with jealousy! A more perfect scheme was never hatched. I'll even throw in a "Rob is sooooo HUGE we're worried about him dimpling the baby's head!" comments.
Just think about it, oh Swami Rob...it just might work.
Here's to the class of 1996! May you all want to be me!
Monday, February 20, 2006
A Tactical Error
Time to pity me. On Friday while my best buds were in Daytona celebrating the advent of the racing season, I was sitting in a legal seminar as the state bar requires us to attend from time to time. And not only was it LEGAL in nature, it was about freaking bankruptcy. So, I spent 6 freaking-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-with-a-fork hours learning about changes in bankruptcy laws. Jealous?
So, I'm crammed into this ballroom in downtown Atlanta with about 200 of my closest legal pals, sitting ass cheek to ass cheek cause god forbid they waste one precious money-making inch. I "listen" to some dude drone on and on about an area of law that I intend to never practice again. Good times.
Well, by the time lunch rolled around, I was visualizing stripping down to what the good Lord gave me and running up and down the aisle screaming "I've got your Chapter 13 Plan in my pants!!!"
Needless to say, I thought that spending lunch eating rubber chicken with these numbnuts might possibly mean the end of my legal career (or at least the end of my life free of straight jackets).
So, free lunch or no free lunch, I thought it best to venture out. And this, gentle readers, is where I made a tactical error.
You see, previously mentioned hotel is in the part of "nobody-comes-here-except-tourists" Atlanta. My luncheon options were limited. However, I spotted the Hard Rock Cafe a couple of doors down and thought, "well, a $12 salad is still better than rubber chicken with the brain dead bankruptcy bar" so I journeyed forth into tourista land.
Now, let's be clear - I've never been to a Hard Rock Cafe but I clearly expected overpriced food, tacky decor, loud rock music and JoeBob/BettyJane from out-yonder who is just in the city for a spell. Fair nuff.
I took a seat at the bar which overlooked the whole restaurant and at noon wasn't crowded (apparently Atlanta tourists dont' drink until a more respectable hour and therefore are real Sallies). Well, I ordered a quesidilla (no one really bought the salad line, did they?) and began to enjoy the "ambience".
Now, let's talk music, shall we? The name of the place is HARD rock....I get the Foo Fighters, I get the Green Day....but Will Smith getting jiggy wid it? Not so much. But whatever floats their hard rocking boat.
Do you feel the turning point coming? Cause it's a coming!
The waitres brings me the Hard Rock version of a nouveau, art-deco quesidilla and I prepare to strap on the old feebdag.
And then I hear the Village People. The old familiar strains of Y.M.C.A. that makes everyone under the age of 50 throw their arms in the air with spastic gay glee.
Still. I'm good.
But then I realize that 3 waitresses have taken all the surrounding bar stools from my side and lined them right behing my back so that they are facing the entire restaurant down below. Then they proceed to shimmy on up those bar stools so that they can lead the restaurant in the Hard Rock version of the Y.M.C.A. which I swear included a little shoutout to the Batusie. Said waitresses who will now be referred to as those Fucking Whores, were doing their prearranged boogie right behind my fat ass.
Now in general, I'm not against an exuberant display of disco Sally. I'm cool. I'm all J.J. and "DY-NO-MITE!" . But give me a freaking break. I DO mind when said retro-doings are occurring directly behing my broad Batusie butt so that the whole restaurant patronage can watch me taking my first big old bite of my meal. I could practically hear the calls of "Who gave the Fattie guacomole? Was that really wise?"
I silently stewed and thought "I'll just eat my $20 lunch and get the hell out of Dodge". No worries.
But of course that was when the junior high cheerleading squad just off the incest bus from butt-fuck Georgia pulled in for some fun. Apparently, a little event they like to call Cheer Georgia was happening and every 70 pound, 13 year old felt compelled to dine out in their flannel pajama bottoms and their fake birkenstocks. They, of course, were all about the atmosphere but even these little prepubscent monsters refrained from dancing. Unlike the dork in the short sleeve dress shirt sitting next to me at the bar. Seriously, I wasn't sure he needed medical intervention or not but decided he was simply getting his groove on.
Still no worries. I'll just eat my $30 meal a little quicker and retreat to the safe dry world of bankruptcy. (And right now, if you can hear Revrend Lovejoy going "Constancy....sweeeeeeet constancy" in your head, give yourself a gold star cause I'm a hearing it)
What was the breaking point? Well, let me tell you. It appeared in the form of a gaggle of college boys who joined me at the bar. They all decided it was "beer-thirty somewhere! wooohoo!" and franky, I gave them a mental "attaboy!" cheer.
However, to my dismay I quickly learned this gaggle was a passle of "country cousin come to town" kinda rubes. They all got really, really excited that there was beer on tap. Lots of high-fiving and "git-r-dun's". But then the startling moment of exultation! They realized that the bar had.....BUDWEISER ON TAP! MY GOD! THE JOY! THE SHEER UNADULTERATED JOY! I MEAN REALLY WHEN DO YOU EVER SEE THAT! WE NEED TO HOLLER! WE NEED TO SHOUT OUR JOY OF DISCOVERY!
That's right, gentle reader, these butt buddies got excited about a Bud being on tap. I haven't seen such celebration since the wall came down.
So, as I was trying to de-ass the area, they ordered about 7 buds.....and 1 Long Island Iced Tea (I didn't spot the token closeted gay guy but he must have been there somewhere).
That was the proverbial straw. I made my way back to the sweet, dry world of law and scolded myself for not taking the free lunch.
And worst of all? The damn seminar didn't even serve any after lunch cookies. Cheap ass bankruptcy bastards. I shall never stray again.
So, I'm crammed into this ballroom in downtown Atlanta with about 200 of my closest legal pals, sitting ass cheek to ass cheek cause god forbid they waste one precious money-making inch. I "listen" to some dude drone on and on about an area of law that I intend to never practice again. Good times.
Well, by the time lunch rolled around, I was visualizing stripping down to what the good Lord gave me and running up and down the aisle screaming "I've got your Chapter 13 Plan in my pants!!!"
Needless to say, I thought that spending lunch eating rubber chicken with these numbnuts might possibly mean the end of my legal career (or at least the end of my life free of straight jackets).
So, free lunch or no free lunch, I thought it best to venture out. And this, gentle readers, is where I made a tactical error.
You see, previously mentioned hotel is in the part of "nobody-comes-here-except-tourists" Atlanta. My luncheon options were limited. However, I spotted the Hard Rock Cafe a couple of doors down and thought, "well, a $12 salad is still better than rubber chicken with the brain dead bankruptcy bar" so I journeyed forth into tourista land.
Now, let's be clear - I've never been to a Hard Rock Cafe but I clearly expected overpriced food, tacky decor, loud rock music and JoeBob/BettyJane from out-yonder who is just in the city for a spell. Fair nuff.
I took a seat at the bar which overlooked the whole restaurant and at noon wasn't crowded (apparently Atlanta tourists dont' drink until a more respectable hour and therefore are real Sallies). Well, I ordered a quesidilla (no one really bought the salad line, did they?) and began to enjoy the "ambience".
Now, let's talk music, shall we? The name of the place is HARD rock....I get the Foo Fighters, I get the Green Day....but Will Smith getting jiggy wid it? Not so much. But whatever floats their hard rocking boat.
Do you feel the turning point coming? Cause it's a coming!
The waitres brings me the Hard Rock version of a nouveau, art-deco quesidilla and I prepare to strap on the old feebdag.
And then I hear the Village People. The old familiar strains of Y.M.C.A. that makes everyone under the age of 50 throw their arms in the air with spastic gay glee.
Still. I'm good.
But then I realize that 3 waitresses have taken all the surrounding bar stools from my side and lined them right behing my back so that they are facing the entire restaurant down below. Then they proceed to shimmy on up those bar stools so that they can lead the restaurant in the Hard Rock version of the Y.M.C.A. which I swear included a little shoutout to the Batusie. Said waitresses who will now be referred to as those Fucking Whores, were doing their prearranged boogie right behind my fat ass.
Now in general, I'm not against an exuberant display of disco Sally. I'm cool. I'm all J.J. and "DY-NO-MITE!" . But give me a freaking break. I DO mind when said retro-doings are occurring directly behing my broad Batusie butt so that the whole restaurant patronage can watch me taking my first big old bite of my meal. I could practically hear the calls of "Who gave the Fattie guacomole? Was that really wise?"
I silently stewed and thought "I'll just eat my $20 lunch and get the hell out of Dodge". No worries.
But of course that was when the junior high cheerleading squad just off the incest bus from butt-fuck Georgia pulled in for some fun. Apparently, a little event they like to call Cheer Georgia was happening and every 70 pound, 13 year old felt compelled to dine out in their flannel pajama bottoms and their fake birkenstocks. They, of course, were all about the atmosphere but even these little prepubscent monsters refrained from dancing. Unlike the dork in the short sleeve dress shirt sitting next to me at the bar. Seriously, I wasn't sure he needed medical intervention or not but decided he was simply getting his groove on.
Still no worries. I'll just eat my $30 meal a little quicker and retreat to the safe dry world of bankruptcy. (And right now, if you can hear Revrend Lovejoy going "Constancy....sweeeeeeet constancy" in your head, give yourself a gold star cause I'm a hearing it)
What was the breaking point? Well, let me tell you. It appeared in the form of a gaggle of college boys who joined me at the bar. They all decided it was "beer-thirty somewhere! wooohoo!" and franky, I gave them a mental "attaboy!" cheer.
However, to my dismay I quickly learned this gaggle was a passle of "country cousin come to town" kinda rubes. They all got really, really excited that there was beer on tap. Lots of high-fiving and "git-r-dun's". But then the startling moment of exultation! They realized that the bar had.....BUDWEISER ON TAP! MY GOD! THE JOY! THE SHEER UNADULTERATED JOY! I MEAN REALLY WHEN DO YOU EVER SEE THAT! WE NEED TO HOLLER! WE NEED TO SHOUT OUR JOY OF DISCOVERY!
That's right, gentle reader, these butt buddies got excited about a Bud being on tap. I haven't seen such celebration since the wall came down.
So, as I was trying to de-ass the area, they ordered about 7 buds.....and 1 Long Island Iced Tea (I didn't spot the token closeted gay guy but he must have been there somewhere).
That was the proverbial straw. I made my way back to the sweet, dry world of law and scolded myself for not taking the free lunch.
And worst of all? The damn seminar didn't even serve any after lunch cookies. Cheap ass bankruptcy bastards. I shall never stray again.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Oh Joyous Holiday
So I just wrote a full post about a client and it was lovely. Full of sarcasm and venting. However, just as I was wrapping things up, it occurred to me that certain people would know exactly who I was talking about and therefore I was probably crossing some sort of "attorney-client" privilege ethical line....and well, dammit, as much as I like to deny that I have such lines, apparently I do have a few. As much fun as it would be to skewer this person, I suppose it's not worth my license (which is printed on really nice paper so it might be worth a buck or two).
Of course, that leaves me with one and only one topic for the day. Valentine's Day.
Yippee. But what can really be said, that I haven't already said? Not much, my friends, not much.
I think we all know that I have a particular animosity towards Cupid, that fat little bitch. Howevever, today, I declare Singles Day. That's right, I'm celebrating the fact that I am single and not sharing my life with some snoring, bleching, hairy ape man (Stella, my black lab, looks slightly offended).
So, the following are reasons why it's great to be single:
1. I fart. Loudly and often. No worries about offending anyone (though the POD would beg to differ).
2. I eat chocolate for dinner. No need to fix no pot pies or no HungryMan dinners.
3. I still sleep in flannel pajama pants that are 4 sizes too big and have candy canes all over them.
4. I take off my bra as soon as I get home. No one to impress by their gravity-defying tricks anymore.
5. When I find hair in the bath, I know it's mine.
6. Speaking of hair, I won't be sharing how long it's been since I shaved....my legs.
7. I pee with door open.....I actually do a lot of things with the door open much to the POD's dismay.
8. I only have to deal with MY family, not some boy's mother who's life goal is to get him back on the teet. And as I think we all know, my family is enough for all to enjoy!
9. I only watch the sports I want to watch. I don't have to sit through Canadian, midget bowling just because it's on ESPN (unless I want to....I do sort of have a thing for midgets....ummm.....little people....they really do some mean bowling).
10. I have total, unadulterated control of the remote. No if's, no and's, no but's. This means a lot of Gilmore Girls, Grey's Anatomy and Oprah watching (though she bugs the ever-living crap out of me).
So today I will not be receiving any flowers, no cheap-ass teddy bears holding hearts, none of those awful candy hearts with happy little sayings on them. I will receive no sappy cards (one from Captain Nutty doesn't count) and I won't have to dress up to go out to dinner with a 2 hour wait. I will not have to eat all the bad pieces of candy to find the one decent one with toffee in the center from a heart shaped box.
Instead, I will be wearing candy cane pajamas, eating pizza, watching the Gilmore Girls and probably passing more wind than a hurricane. Envy me, people....envy me.
Of course, that leaves me with one and only one topic for the day. Valentine's Day.
Yippee. But what can really be said, that I haven't already said? Not much, my friends, not much.
I think we all know that I have a particular animosity towards Cupid, that fat little bitch. Howevever, today, I declare Singles Day. That's right, I'm celebrating the fact that I am single and not sharing my life with some snoring, bleching, hairy ape man (Stella, my black lab, looks slightly offended).
So, the following are reasons why it's great to be single:
1. I fart. Loudly and often. No worries about offending anyone (though the POD would beg to differ).
2. I eat chocolate for dinner. No need to fix no pot pies or no HungryMan dinners.
3. I still sleep in flannel pajama pants that are 4 sizes too big and have candy canes all over them.
4. I take off my bra as soon as I get home. No one to impress by their gravity-defying tricks anymore.
5. When I find hair in the bath, I know it's mine.
6. Speaking of hair, I won't be sharing how long it's been since I shaved....my legs.
7. I pee with door open.....I actually do a lot of things with the door open much to the POD's dismay.
8. I only have to deal with MY family, not some boy's mother who's life goal is to get him back on the teet. And as I think we all know, my family is enough for all to enjoy!
9. I only watch the sports I want to watch. I don't have to sit through Canadian, midget bowling just because it's on ESPN (unless I want to....I do sort of have a thing for midgets....ummm.....little people....they really do some mean bowling).
10. I have total, unadulterated control of the remote. No if's, no and's, no but's. This means a lot of Gilmore Girls, Grey's Anatomy and Oprah watching (though she bugs the ever-living crap out of me).
So today I will not be receiving any flowers, no cheap-ass teddy bears holding hearts, none of those awful candy hearts with happy little sayings on them. I will receive no sappy cards (one from Captain Nutty doesn't count) and I won't have to dress up to go out to dinner with a 2 hour wait. I will not have to eat all the bad pieces of candy to find the one decent one with toffee in the center from a heart shaped box.
Instead, I will be wearing candy cane pajamas, eating pizza, watching the Gilmore Girls and probably passing more wind than a hurricane. Envy me, people....envy me.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Look At Me! Look At Me!
Well smack my ass and call me Sally....February 1 was my anniversary! As very appropriate for my life, I seemed to have celebrated by putting my dog down. Do I know how to party or what?
On a much better note, I also celebrated with a new look! I mean HOLY CRAP! Do I look fan-freaking-tastic or what? My old pal Zoot designed a whole new look for me and let's be clear - she totally rocks. I love her with a love that is slightly embarassing and most assuredly wrong by baptist standards.
I feel like I should have some wise words of wisdom or at least something witty to say on this auspicious occassion but as usual, when I need the words, they simply won't come (Kinda like my sex life! HA! Get it? Won't come? Sex life? Thank you, folks, I'll be here all week!)
Anywhoooo, so I went back and looked at my very first few posts....and wow, the fact that you people are still here amazes the ever-living pee out of me.
Perhaps some reflection on how life has changed in the last year would be appropriate at this venture. I do sense a bit of a pattern - which might be new for y'all but really doesn't surprise me at all. When I make some changes, I make some big ass changes. Nothing small for this kid...including the size of my ass but that's another post entirely.
Okay, sooooooo in the last year.....
1. I quit my job. There's a biggie for you! Quit job and started own law firm. Yep, also related - applied for that frontal lobotomy.
2. I became abundantly poor. See number 1 above.
3. My ass has gone from the size of a small third world country to the size of unified Europe. And I'm not even going to mention what the France part looks like.
4. I'm trying to sell my house to enmesh myself further into surburbia. See number 2 above.
5. I've had to substantially cut down on my racing time as my duties with POD have intervened. POD has met my "I will not change my social life to care for this child" mentality with her "I will do everything in my power to make you crazy and fear for my life" actions. Parenthood...it's a bitch and despite never having conceived, I have the stretch marks to prove it. See number 3 above.
6. Working from home means no more concern about surfing porn during work hours. (not that I do that because that would be WRONG and would basically make me a guy but it's nice to know I have the option).
7. Regular blogging becomes more difficult when you're not doing it behind a boss' back on the sly. I mean who am I screwing here? Where's the fun in that?
8. I've learned that the mortgage company will wait three months before foreclosure and a car company will wait three months before repossession. I won't say how I know this....let's just assume it's for a client, shall we?
9. I've learned that I'm a blogger stereotype in that I think I can write a book. And really who are we kidding there? Have we seen my spelling and grammar skills? Have we seen my inability to pull together a cohesive topic? Have we seen how much I like to use profanity?
10. I've learned it's possible to have blogging friends....and that you just might like some of them a little better than in person friends. (No offense intended toward Kitty, Cowboy Dan, Fat Baby's Mamma and the like).
However, most importantly, I've learned that it is possible for me to piss away and entire year's worth of time without ever really saying anything meaningful! Woooooohoooooo!!!!
Here's to you, gentle reader! I thank you for being here. I thank you for commenting. I thank you for not running from your computer screen screaming "MY EYES!! MY EYES!!!".
With much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot
On a much better note, I also celebrated with a new look! I mean HOLY CRAP! Do I look fan-freaking-tastic or what? My old pal Zoot designed a whole new look for me and let's be clear - she totally rocks. I love her with a love that is slightly embarassing and most assuredly wrong by baptist standards.
I feel like I should have some wise words of wisdom or at least something witty to say on this auspicious occassion but as usual, when I need the words, they simply won't come (Kinda like my sex life! HA! Get it? Won't come? Sex life? Thank you, folks, I'll be here all week!)
Anywhoooo, so I went back and looked at my very first few posts....and wow, the fact that you people are still here amazes the ever-living pee out of me.
Perhaps some reflection on how life has changed in the last year would be appropriate at this venture. I do sense a bit of a pattern - which might be new for y'all but really doesn't surprise me at all. When I make some changes, I make some big ass changes. Nothing small for this kid...including the size of my ass but that's another post entirely.
Okay, sooooooo in the last year.....
1. I quit my job. There's a biggie for you! Quit job and started own law firm. Yep, also related - applied for that frontal lobotomy.
2. I became abundantly poor. See number 1 above.
3. My ass has gone from the size of a small third world country to the size of unified Europe. And I'm not even going to mention what the France part looks like.
4. I'm trying to sell my house to enmesh myself further into surburbia. See number 2 above.
5. I've had to substantially cut down on my racing time as my duties with POD have intervened. POD has met my "I will not change my social life to care for this child" mentality with her "I will do everything in my power to make you crazy and fear for my life" actions. Parenthood...it's a bitch and despite never having conceived, I have the stretch marks to prove it. See number 3 above.
6. Working from home means no more concern about surfing porn during work hours. (not that I do that because that would be WRONG and would basically make me a guy but it's nice to know I have the option).
7. Regular blogging becomes more difficult when you're not doing it behind a boss' back on the sly. I mean who am I screwing here? Where's the fun in that?
8. I've learned that the mortgage company will wait three months before foreclosure and a car company will wait three months before repossession. I won't say how I know this....let's just assume it's for a client, shall we?
9. I've learned that I'm a blogger stereotype in that I think I can write a book. And really who are we kidding there? Have we seen my spelling and grammar skills? Have we seen my inability to pull together a cohesive topic? Have we seen how much I like to use profanity?
10. I've learned it's possible to have blogging friends....and that you just might like some of them a little better than in person friends. (No offense intended toward Kitty, Cowboy Dan, Fat Baby's Mamma and the like).
However, most importantly, I've learned that it is possible for me to piss away and entire year's worth of time without ever really saying anything meaningful! Woooooohoooooo!!!!
Here's to you, gentle reader! I thank you for being here. I thank you for commenting. I thank you for not running from your computer screen screaming "MY EYES!! MY EYES!!!".
With much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Farewell, Old Buddy
My dog Ben had to be put to sleep yesterday so I thought it about time I broke the “stop talking about your pets” rule and let you know a little about him.
Ben was my law school graduation present (notwithstanding the green marble bookends with my initials on them – egad!). I found a breeder in north Illinois that had a big old litter (and for those of you who feel like giving me shit for going to a breeder, you can kiss my ass – I’ve also been a foster mom for more rescued labs then I can count so bite me).
I sat down on the floor and all these puppies came flying out at me – crawling everywhere like someone had jacked up their mom’s milk with a crack cocktail. All except for one. This big fat one (twice the size of the others) comes moseying on out and yawning. He walks over to me – curls up next to my leg and falls asleep. He had an underbite. This dog was soooooo for me. He slept the whole car ride home while I had heavenly visions of our future times together. You know those times - the ones where I would be reading a book and he would quietly lie at my feet chewing a bone. The ones where I could walk with him through neighborhood and he would calmly greet all passers-by and they would comment about “what a good dog!” he was.
And then we got home. That car ride was the last time Ben was calm for about the next 5 years.
I had purchasd the holy terror of doggiedom. The Canine Anti-christ. The reason people will tell you that they're a "cat person". And I have the scars to prove it….and I mean that literally. In his first year of life alone, he plowed into me leaving a scar on my inner thigh (I tell the boys it was from rough sex but truly it was from the dog….but not rough sex with the dog, you sick bastards!) .
He also managed to pull my dad down a flight of stairs (Daddy still blames Ben but I blame the 30 year old flip flops my father was wearing combined with his good friend, Mr. Smirnoff).
I am the only dog owner I know that has the number to animal poison control memorized. I’ve had to call three times – and they charge you $30 a pop. Ben ate a canister of air gun oil, the packet of chemicals that come with fresh cut flowers and the little packet of silica gel that come with your new shoes and reads “DO NOT EAT”…..Ben didn’t read so well.
And that was just the poisonous stuff. He also ate 3 remote controls, 1 cordless phone, 1 daybed mattress, 1 couch, 2 windowsills and 4 bars of soap. Needless to say, he blossomed out to a good 107 pounds of dog. He was a BIG boy and I loved that about him.
Of course, he was a 107 pound dog that was afraid of all toys that had eyes but nevertheless, he was a tough looking guy at times. A stuffed monkey that I brought home scared the bejeezbus out of him.
Once I came out of the shower to discover that he had managed to open a new box of 1000 q-tips. He artfully scattered them throughout the entire apartment and still had about 50 of them sticking out from his gums when I caught him. He looked like he had eaten a colony of little tiny q-tip people.
If you didn’t continuously throw his tennis ball, he barked at you. If you were on the phone, he barked at you. If he saw a fly, he barked at you. If he felt your mind was on anything but entertaining him, he barked at you. And then sometimes, he just stood in the middle of the room barking at you.
One night he farted so loudly that he woke himself up. He spun around and started barking at whatever had snuck up behind him. I could never get him to understand that he had been startled by his own bodily emissions…Ben didn’t understand Biology too well.
No one even really liked my dog for the first 4 years of his life, except for me….and hell, for me at times, “liking him” was pushing it. But he did get older and did somewhat mellow.
He still had his moments though. He was at least 7 years old when in the middle of the night, I heard him downstairs drinking an entire bowl of water. I soon discovered that he had gotten an unopened jar of peanut bar off the kitchen counter…..a jar from Sam’s Club…..a jar of about 5 pounds of peanut butter. He had managed to open it and eat all that he could reach before his snout got caught on the rim…..and then he licked the sides clean.
Needless to say by the time I discovered him, he wasn’t feeling so well. Of course, about 15 minutes later, he threw up every bit of peanut butter along with that entire bowl full of water all over my bed…….and you might think you have an idea of how bad that smells but you would be wrong. The human mind can barely comprehend that smell. However, sitting here, I can still smell it.
He developed diabetes in his old age and became almost totally blind. When he started having seizures, I knew it was time and I don’t regret letting him go.
But he was my best friend. He was the first thing that was ever simply ALL mine. He loved me a lot. Which is only a portion of how much I loved him.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
I Got Nothing
I'm not trying to be so quiet, I just got nothing. Nothing to say about nothing.
To prove this, I tender the following thoughts that have gone through my pea brain this day:
"I haven't worn clean socks in over a month."
"Good god, what does that mean for the status of my underwear?"
"Hmmm...if the feds are so all-fired-up on this wire tapping thing, does this mean their recording my internet porn usage too?"
"I think my head is going to explode."
"What is the probability of my ovaries staging a mutiny and leaving my body the hard way?"
"What in all holy hells is that smell? ....Oh, right, the socks."
"How many phone calls can a lawyer refuse to return before it officially becomes malpractice?"
"Wonder if people on the internet can tell when I'm picking my nose."
"Is pot roast fattening?"
"Shit on a cracker, internet porn isn't illegal, is it? Seriuosly, for $100,000 they should have taught us that in law school."
"If my law school reunion is in April, that give me 4 months to loose 100 pounds.....no problem....I can start tomorrow."
"Wonder if POD knows that I simply picked up her uniform from yesterday off the floor and gave it to her today to rewear."
"Wonder if any doctors will voluntarily wire your jaw shut even though you're not injured."
"Dude, I could still totally drink beer with my jaw wired."
"God, I've got to come up with a bloggable topic."
See? I told you....lights are on, no one home.
To prove this, I tender the following thoughts that have gone through my pea brain this day:
"I haven't worn clean socks in over a month."
"Good god, what does that mean for the status of my underwear?"
"Hmmm...if the feds are so all-fired-up on this wire tapping thing, does this mean their recording my internet porn usage too?"
"I think my head is going to explode."
"What is the probability of my ovaries staging a mutiny and leaving my body the hard way?"
"What in all holy hells is that smell? ....Oh, right, the socks."
"How many phone calls can a lawyer refuse to return before it officially becomes malpractice?"
"Wonder if people on the internet can tell when I'm picking my nose."
"Is pot roast fattening?"
"Shit on a cracker, internet porn isn't illegal, is it? Seriuosly, for $100,000 they should have taught us that in law school."
"If my law school reunion is in April, that give me 4 months to loose 100 pounds.....no problem....I can start tomorrow."
"Wonder if POD knows that I simply picked up her uniform from yesterday off the floor and gave it to her today to rewear."
"Wonder if any doctors will voluntarily wire your jaw shut even though you're not injured."
"Dude, I could still totally drink beer with my jaw wired."
"God, I've got to come up with a bloggable topic."
See? I told you....lights are on, no one home.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
The Price Is Right
I'm sure it comes as no surprise to my faithful and woefully patient readers to know that I can be bought. Yep, I will represent you if the price is right.
You may recall previously that I helped take a baby away from a crack whore...which is my ghetto way of saying I represented the father in a custody battle where the mother had a bit of a crack issue. I won. I was morally right.
Well, yesterday, I represented a cocaine addict trying to keep custody of her kids away from her equally sniffing husband. Moral boundaries? Not so much.
I swim in the moral ambiguity pool. Hell, who are we kidding? I ain't just swimming, I'm a sharking. And really I have no problem with that.
People like to hate lawyers...and I really don't care if you hate me or not...just pay me. Everybody hates lawyers until your ass is sitting in jail with some 7 foot, 400 pound Bubba looking at you like you're tonight's main course. Then see how much you hate me (however, please note - do not call me from jail, I ain't your mama or your bailsman).
We all go into law school with wide-eyed ideals of keeping the evil criminal off the streets. But then we rack up $100,000 in law school debt and you're looking at Jeffrey Daumer's lawyer going "you lucky son of a bitch!" cause you can't by that type of advertising!
I was talking to my old law buddy Rob last night and he told me that we practice "Come On Law". Example, "Sure you have tape of my client on 12 hour cocaine bender, but COOOOOMMMEEEE OOOOONNNNN! She's wearing a nice turtleneck!". Example, "Sure, my client knocked up a 15 year old girl, but COOOOOMMMMEEEE OONNNNNN! She's smokin hot!".
I'm thinking this approach would work well for me if I was in the current Supreme Court confirmation hearings.
Example, "Yes, Senator Kennedy, I did miss every single Friday class of Constitutional Law because I was hungover but COOOOMMMMMEEEE OOOOONNNN! Surely you can appreciate a gal needing a good drink!"
Example, "Yes, Senator Dumbass, I did belong to a conservative group at law school that hated minorities but COOOOMMMMMEEEEE OONNNNNNN! They provided free lunches and I can only at Taco Bell so many times!"
Example, "No, Senator Stickupabut, I do not recall that videotape being made but COOOOOOMMMMMEEEE OOOOONNNNN I'm sure it's an accurate protrayal of my day at the Delta Blues Festival".
Example, "No, Senator Talkstomuch, I do not know how I got all those beads at Mardi Gras but COOOOOMMMMMEEEE OOOONNNNN! Have you seen my rack? It's a crime to keep these beauties covered up!"
I would expect a lightening fast admittance to the Supreme Court where I would hire all the eggheads interns I could find and not write a single personal opinion.
Well, I take that back. I may write a few opinions like:
"Defendant is clearly a self-wetting moron and should not only lose on this appeal but should be shot to prevent others from following in his footsteps. And while we're at it, do the gene pool a favor and snuff out his kids."
or
"So the Plaintiff was sexually harassed? Have you seen her ugly mugg? She should be thanking the company for providing her some sexual interaction outside of her computer dating and t.v. nights with Battlestar Gallactica."
or
"Roe v. Wade? Never heard of it."
I think I can expect a call from the President at any minute.
You may recall previously that I helped take a baby away from a crack whore...which is my ghetto way of saying I represented the father in a custody battle where the mother had a bit of a crack issue. I won. I was morally right.
Well, yesterday, I represented a cocaine addict trying to keep custody of her kids away from her equally sniffing husband. Moral boundaries? Not so much.
I swim in the moral ambiguity pool. Hell, who are we kidding? I ain't just swimming, I'm a sharking. And really I have no problem with that.
People like to hate lawyers...and I really don't care if you hate me or not...just pay me. Everybody hates lawyers until your ass is sitting in jail with some 7 foot, 400 pound Bubba looking at you like you're tonight's main course. Then see how much you hate me (however, please note - do not call me from jail, I ain't your mama or your bailsman).
We all go into law school with wide-eyed ideals of keeping the evil criminal off the streets. But then we rack up $100,000 in law school debt and you're looking at Jeffrey Daumer's lawyer going "you lucky son of a bitch!" cause you can't by that type of advertising!
I was talking to my old law buddy Rob last night and he told me that we practice "Come On Law". Example, "Sure you have tape of my client on 12 hour cocaine bender, but COOOOOMMMEEEE OOOOONNNNN! She's wearing a nice turtleneck!". Example, "Sure, my client knocked up a 15 year old girl, but COOOOOMMMMEEEE OONNNNNN! She's smokin hot!".
I'm thinking this approach would work well for me if I was in the current Supreme Court confirmation hearings.
Example, "Yes, Senator Kennedy, I did miss every single Friday class of Constitutional Law because I was hungover but COOOOMMMMMEEEE OOOOONNNN! Surely you can appreciate a gal needing a good drink!"
Example, "Yes, Senator Dumbass, I did belong to a conservative group at law school that hated minorities but COOOOMMMMMEEEEE OONNNNNNN! They provided free lunches and I can only at Taco Bell so many times!"
Example, "No, Senator Stickupabut, I do not recall that videotape being made but COOOOOOMMMMMEEEE OOOOONNNNN I'm sure it's an accurate protrayal of my day at the Delta Blues Festival".
Example, "No, Senator Talkstomuch, I do not know how I got all those beads at Mardi Gras but COOOOOMMMMMEEEE OOOONNNNN! Have you seen my rack? It's a crime to keep these beauties covered up!"
I would expect a lightening fast admittance to the Supreme Court where I would hire all the eggheads interns I could find and not write a single personal opinion.
Well, I take that back. I may write a few opinions like:
"Defendant is clearly a self-wetting moron and should not only lose on this appeal but should be shot to prevent others from following in his footsteps. And while we're at it, do the gene pool a favor and snuff out his kids."
or
"So the Plaintiff was sexually harassed? Have you seen her ugly mugg? She should be thanking the company for providing her some sexual interaction outside of her computer dating and t.v. nights with Battlestar Gallactica."
or
"Roe v. Wade? Never heard of it."
I think I can expect a call from the President at any minute.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
POD's Big Adventure*
*Alternative titles - Why POD Lives With Me Instead Of Our Parents...or... For The Love Of All That's Holy, Keep An Eye On Your Kid
POD returned from her journey to the great white north of Chicago and she had herself a swell time. I mean a "smack my ass and call my Sally" kinda good time.
Let's go over some of POD's activities, shall we?
1. She managed to spend $150 between Hot Topic and Spencers...one wonders exactly how much cheap, gothic crap one can buy. Of course, she needs new shoes (and please, for the sake of her mammary glands, a new bra) but I suppose those are hard to come by in those stores.
2. She made out with some random girl in the elevator at Borders bookstore. Yep. Random girl...Borders...3 times...3 trips in the elevator. Yep. So very, very proud.
3. She managed to break a wooden chunk out of parents' bedroom door. Now, here's the thing, we know teenagers are destructive by nature, but how the hell do you break solid wood? And MORE importantly, what the fuck do you want in there so badly for? Good god, someone could be naked! Some parental type person! MY EYES! MY EYES!
4. She lost the following items: the charger for MY cellphone, my mother's razor cellphone, her school shoes, every pair of underwear she owns (I don't even want to know where these might be), the charger for her dvd player, her playstation, and finally my mother's sanity (though we can't really claim that was the POD's to lose). Notice what is not on the list? POD's virginity (hey, this is my fantasy land and if I want to believe it, I damn well can - get on board my delusion train or go the hell away)
5. She made out on the sidewalk in front of our upper-middle-class-so-like-the-Cleavers house at 7 in the morning with a psycho 17 year old kid who got kicked out of school and somehow has just beaten a rap for having sex with a 14 year old and having naked pictures of her on his computer. Captain Nutty was aware that they were "saying goodbye"....for 2 hours. 2 fucking hours. Seriously. Can't make this shit up.
6. POD had some Chicago friends over to meet her Atlanta friend that had joined her on her trip home. Chicago friends ended up duct taping up Atlanta friend. Again, really, really wished I didn't know this. Perhaps it was some new hair removal technique for her little gay friend? I sooooo feel a lawsuit coming on this one.
7. She found what she calls a mini condom. It's a condom that basically goes over your finger. I have no idea what the hell it is or where the hell she got it or what the hell you do with it...but, EEEEWWWWWWWW!
8. While in Chicago, she called her school down here and decided to drop pretty much every substantive class she could and picked up such solid academic choices as Drama 2 and Music. Harvard, here we come!
9. She decided her eyebrows which are making a valiant effort of trying to overgrow here eyeballs didn't need plucking. Ladies and gentlemen, my sister...the missing link!
10. She decided she wanted to move back to Chicago (not an option) since "Mom and Dad trust me so much more than you do!". Yeah...trust....hmmmm....or perhaps "obliviousness"? You make the call.
POD returned from her journey to the great white north of Chicago and she had herself a swell time. I mean a "smack my ass and call my Sally" kinda good time.
Let's go over some of POD's activities, shall we?
1. She managed to spend $150 between Hot Topic and Spencers...one wonders exactly how much cheap, gothic crap one can buy. Of course, she needs new shoes (and please, for the sake of her mammary glands, a new bra) but I suppose those are hard to come by in those stores.
2. She made out with some random girl in the elevator at Borders bookstore. Yep. Random girl...Borders...3 times...3 trips in the elevator. Yep. So very, very proud.
3. She managed to break a wooden chunk out of parents' bedroom door. Now, here's the thing, we know teenagers are destructive by nature, but how the hell do you break solid wood? And MORE importantly, what the fuck do you want in there so badly for? Good god, someone could be naked! Some parental type person! MY EYES! MY EYES!
4. She lost the following items: the charger for MY cellphone, my mother's razor cellphone, her school shoes, every pair of underwear she owns (I don't even want to know where these might be), the charger for her dvd player, her playstation, and finally my mother's sanity (though we can't really claim that was the POD's to lose). Notice what is not on the list? POD's virginity (hey, this is my fantasy land and if I want to believe it, I damn well can - get on board my delusion train or go the hell away)
5. She made out on the sidewalk in front of our upper-middle-class-so-like-the-Cleavers house at 7 in the morning with a psycho 17 year old kid who got kicked out of school and somehow has just beaten a rap for having sex with a 14 year old and having naked pictures of her on his computer. Captain Nutty was aware that they were "saying goodbye"....for 2 hours. 2 fucking hours. Seriously. Can't make this shit up.
6. POD had some Chicago friends over to meet her Atlanta friend that had joined her on her trip home. Chicago friends ended up duct taping up Atlanta friend. Again, really, really wished I didn't know this. Perhaps it was some new hair removal technique for her little gay friend? I sooooo feel a lawsuit coming on this one.
7. She found what she calls a mini condom. It's a condom that basically goes over your finger. I have no idea what the hell it is or where the hell she got it or what the hell you do with it...but, EEEEWWWWWWWW!
8. While in Chicago, she called her school down here and decided to drop pretty much every substantive class she could and picked up such solid academic choices as Drama 2 and Music. Harvard, here we come!
9. She decided her eyebrows which are making a valiant effort of trying to overgrow here eyeballs didn't need plucking. Ladies and gentlemen, my sister...the missing link!
10. She decided she wanted to move back to Chicago (not an option) since "Mom and Dad trust me so much more than you do!". Yeah...trust....hmmmm....or perhaps "obliviousness"? You make the call.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Still On Holiday Mode
I survived Christmas and hope the rest of you did as well. I will of course recap the gory details later but no time right now.
I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of Kitty from her south Flordia abode. We will be joining Cowboy Dan and Fat Baby's Mamma to ring in the new year right - and by "right", I mean by getting drunk in the woods of north Georgia.
I'll be back soon and might even feel amusing by that time.
Till then - rock out with your cock out!
I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of Kitty from her south Flordia abode. We will be joining Cowboy Dan and Fat Baby's Mamma to ring in the new year right - and by "right", I mean by getting drunk in the woods of north Georgia.
I'll be back soon and might even feel amusing by that time.
Till then - rock out with your cock out!
Friday, December 16, 2005
Just a Drive-By Cranky
Some quick crankiness...
- Hey, dumbass client! Leaving me the same message 4 times a day wil not, I repeat NOT, make me respond to you any fucking faster. Matter of fact, it just teases the tiger within and I start to see how long I can actually go without contacting you until you ultimately fire me. I already have your money so at this point I really don't give a crap.
- Here's a thought....when I agree that your kid can come over and play with POD, that means for a short stint. It means I expect her not leave popcorn kernels all over my "on the market" house and not to talk at eardrum shattering decibels. It also means to pick her up at 4 so I can get my happy ass to the bar. It's fucking Friday - come get your kid or I'll let POD turn her bisexual so fast it'll make your rainbow flag spin!
- Hey, dumbass client #2! I can't serve papers on a woman for whom you have no damn address! Simply putting her name on a court complaint and sending it to the state of Mississippi does not work. So the next time she calls to harass you, please ask her what fucking county she lives in cause your ass ain't paying me enough for any private detective services!
- Hey, prospective dumbass client! Don't leave me messages saying your statute of limitations is about to run and you need me to take your case then when I actually returne your call you inform me that your "good for nothing ass of attorney" took two years to file your case. Hey, guess what, you moronic twit! He FILED! That means no statute of limitation issues. Why don't you leave the high level thinking to those of us with opposable thumbs?
- DID I MENTION THAT IT IS COCKTAIL HOUR AND I'M STUCK IN THE HOUSE WITH TWO DAMN TEENAGERS????
- POD got a C- in Art this semester. How exactly does one grade art? What is the difference in a 15 year old's artwork that makes a teacher go "hmmmmm.....certainly no Picasso but a C- seems adequate"? POD's explanation? "I don't draw good".....yeeeaaahhh, you no talk so good either, what was your fucking English grade?
Screw it....time to start drinking at home.
Happy fucking holidays.
- Hey, dumbass client! Leaving me the same message 4 times a day wil not, I repeat NOT, make me respond to you any fucking faster. Matter of fact, it just teases the tiger within and I start to see how long I can actually go without contacting you until you ultimately fire me. I already have your money so at this point I really don't give a crap.
- Here's a thought....when I agree that your kid can come over and play with POD, that means for a short stint. It means I expect her not leave popcorn kernels all over my "on the market" house and not to talk at eardrum shattering decibels. It also means to pick her up at 4 so I can get my happy ass to the bar. It's fucking Friday - come get your kid or I'll let POD turn her bisexual so fast it'll make your rainbow flag spin!
- Hey, dumbass client #2! I can't serve papers on a woman for whom you have no damn address! Simply putting her name on a court complaint and sending it to the state of Mississippi does not work. So the next time she calls to harass you, please ask her what fucking county she lives in cause your ass ain't paying me enough for any private detective services!
- Hey, prospective dumbass client! Don't leave me messages saying your statute of limitations is about to run and you need me to take your case then when I actually returne your call you inform me that your "good for nothing ass of attorney" took two years to file your case. Hey, guess what, you moronic twit! He FILED! That means no statute of limitation issues. Why don't you leave the high level thinking to those of us with opposable thumbs?
- DID I MENTION THAT IT IS COCKTAIL HOUR AND I'M STUCK IN THE HOUSE WITH TWO DAMN TEENAGERS????
- POD got a C- in Art this semester. How exactly does one grade art? What is the difference in a 15 year old's artwork that makes a teacher go "hmmmmm.....certainly no Picasso but a C- seems adequate"? POD's explanation? "I don't draw good".....yeeeaaahhh, you no talk so good either, what was your fucking English grade?
Screw it....time to start drinking at home.
Happy fucking holidays.
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