Friday Free-For-All

Aaaaah!! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Combed!

REDRUM!

Noooooooo!

Braaaaainnnns! Need more BRAAAAAINNNS!

EEEEEE-HEEEE-EEEEEK!

And, finally, it wouldn't be Halloween without pumpkin guts everywhere.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

How Do I Love He?

Let me count the ways.

Reason #38742 why I adore my husband and will willingly do things with him that I wouldn't do willingly with other people:

He spouts off sentences like this on a regular basis: "You're very big on spleens."

I mean, really. Who wouldn't love that? (YOU won't, that's RIGHT. Because I'm very big on spleens.)

Friday Free-For-All

Right now, my life is held together with a Band-Aid and a string, and I'm about thisclosetohavingabreakdown of some sort.

Therefore, this is all the mental laundry lint I have to spare for y'all:

Just when I thought I was done with the shabby treatment given me by ER, and could move on to a quality relationship with the much better written but less aesthetically pleasing (Patrick Dempsey was mildly charming in Can't Buy Me Love, but he is NO Goran Visnjic and I'm not 12 anymore) Grey's Anatomy, they drag in John Leguizamo, a man I would pay money to watch eating cornflakes nekkid. First they bring in the Amazon for the menfolk, and now this.

Bastards, the lot of 'em.

Business As Usual

I will be posting sporadically-er over the next couple of weeks. I'm very busy doing super secret stuff that involves such things as gift baskets, cakewalks, and begging strangers for gifts and monetary donations.

Speaking of gifts from strangers, I received my super spectacular prize from The Son of Cheese today, and you can't get much stranger than him. I've tried, believe me, but I ended up with a bruised collarbone and at least two broken ribs. Although it wasn't an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle, it was spectacular, so thanks to Derek for that.

And that's all I got for today, kids. Try not to shoot your eyes out.

Friday Free-For-All*

Okay, so this is my first attempt at trying one of them 'serial-type' things. Not serial-killing-type things, because that would take up too much time and cause too much laundry; and not a cereal-type thing, either, because that's A) a really bad joke and B) there is only so much Count Chocula in the world, and I'm not good at sharing. So, let's get this party started, and we'll see how it goes. Actually, now that I think about it, it's not really a serial-type thing at all, but more like a recurring nightmare type thing. Whatever, Count Chocula is delicious, so just shaddup and read, already.

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I'm pretty sure that Christopher Walken is my dad. Sure, my mom never met him, and there is no evidence that I was adopted, and I look nothing like him and maybe if Maury Povich were to have us as guests on one of those 'Who's My Daddy?' episodes, our DNA would not come close to matching, but after seeing this, I'm convinced. How much more proof does anybody need, anyway?

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Hey! Look what I can do!

PLAY ME.

Free music video codes by PCPlanets.com

So I can't sing or play any musical instrument without making the listener's ears bleed and at least one internal organ explode, but I can cut and paste code like a demon. Like a DEMON, I said. Fear me.

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Here are some things I should be doing, and good excuses why I'm not doing them:

Brush my hair.
Excuse: This would involve movement, and I can't find my brush, anyway, and this would interfere with that whole 'Depression Chic' thing I've got going on.

Do some work on the volunteer/indentured servitude committee I was forced into at gunpoint willingly accepted after aliens ate my brain.
Excuse: That whole 'movement' thing really sucks shit. Besides, I haven't brushed my hair.

Wash dishes.
Excuse: It involves water, gooey leftover food and movement. Try and pay attention, would you please?

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Dubious honor(s) du jour:

Pops referred to my blog as: Mine is ho-hum everyday drudgery while yours is condensed into time-release capsules of erratic and occasional Explosive Hi-Larity, sometimes up to 30 words in length. (Yes, he DID. See, right here underneath the picture of Gerard Dippity-Doo.)
I'm going to ignore the implication that I maintain the diarrhea of the blogosphere, and instead point and laugh, because of the implication that his is the constipation. HAH.

Speaking of blog diarrhea, I won something here for having this condition. I'm hoping it isn't his finger, or part of his ear, although I could probably make a mint selling it on e-bay. I'm also not going to provide you with any handy links to narrow down your search, because I'm a winner, that's why.

Finally, MPH thinks I'm really cool. He said so, and I didn't even have to make him a sandwich. Take my word for it, I'm not about providing the proof. I don't have to, because my daddy's going to be President.


*It's Friday. It's a Free-For-All. Can't get any more clear than that.

Less Than Less Than Zero

I got nothing.

Thought you'd like to know.

Well, except for this:














Oh, yeah, and then there's this:











Discuss.

There will be a test.