The One Where the Label (and Grammar) Sucks

This is one of those days where I would like people to just leave me the fuck alone. However, since nobody else seemed to have gotten the memo, and keep wandering in asking for food and attention and can I come out of the closet please, it's hot in here I'll be good ... I don't really have a proper end to this statement. Hmmmm.

This has been an interesting week. I lost a chicken (not 'lost' as in: "Well, did you check under the couch cushions?" but 'lost' as in 'Laying eggs is for suckers, I wanna be STEW.') I'm not sure exactly sure how it happened, but I'm relatively sure it went something like this: "Hey, Other Chickens! Wanna see something really cool? I can fit my ENTIRE HEAD between this cinderblock and the underside of the chicken coop, and JUMP OFF!" So, starting the week by burying one of my critters (to which my husband yells: "YOU didn't bury ANYTHING, I DID.") ... fine, METAPHORICALLY burying one of my critters (and when, exactly, did I become Ellie Mae Clampett, and can I be expecting the boobs anytime soon?) just seemed like an icky way, karmically (karma-ically? karmicly?) speaking way to start the week.

Then I get the holy mother of god this fucking HURTS migraine from hell on acid two days later (you know the type, when you have a steel band wrapped around a vise grip that is digging into your brain (and, as a side note? When your significant other is prostrate on the floor, sobbing in agony and describing the pain as above, it's NOT helpful to spout out bits of information like this: "Well, you can't feel ANYthing in your brain, as there are no nerve endings up there." "Oh, yeah? Well, are there nerve endings down HERE?!?" (This last statement was only just now made up, and was never uttered out loud. I'm way too refined and delicate a flower to utter such vulgarities to my dear spouse.) Which brings me to another totally related and not at all bizarre segue; this is just one of the best lines ever: "I'm pleasant. Damn it! I saw Drum Eatenton at the Piggly Wiggly this morning, and I smiled at the son of a bitch 'fore I could help myself." Which also leads to one of the worst lines ever: "Smile! It increases your face value!" Which leads to the question: There was a Steel Magnolias TV show? Who thought this was a good idea? I'll bet it was someone who enjoys that particular line, and has a poster with a kitten hanging from a branch with the caption: Hang in there!

Well, I suppose I'll have to have some sort of moral ending or some shit like that, now, won't I? Let's see ...I know! It could always be worse. See?


Thanks be to Derek for A) having the type of job where he can sit around and record insects instead of WORKING, and B) probably being the only person to read and/or comment on this drivel.

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

I can only assume that the lack of comments on my last post was some sort of bizarre retaliatory response to the incorrect paraphrasing of Sir Elton's song, and not at all a show of lack of readership resulting from my spotty posting style of late. To which I respond: Fuck you, it's my blog, and I can misquote whoever and whatever the hell I feel like.

That being said, I did promise to write something (there may even have been something mentioned about 'funny' and 'not so much crap anymore' but I was probably lying) so here goes with the something.

Um ... well ... huh. Let's see ... Oh! We can always talk about how life would be more entertaining if it were like the movies. Remember in Groundhog Day, when Bill Murray's character has relived the same day for maybe the 15th time, and is shocking and awe-ing Andie McDowell's character with all the personal details he knows about everybody in the town. That would make parties so much more entertaining if one could introduce people in this way.

"This is Janice. She drinks too much, and her husband's a dick. Over here are Ted and Alice. They vote Republican, and both have sticks the size of redwood trees up their asses. Oh, and their son is gay and schtupping his gym teacher. Have you met Woody? He drives a very big truck to overcompensate for a small penis, and he's terrible in the sack. That's his wife, Mia, over there. She's an anal retentive neat freak who gives out personal information way too freely. And this is Bob. He has a serious flatulence problem, and will probably be on the news someday for taking hostages at the local McDonald's. Enjoy the party!"

And ... that's all I have for today.

And You Can Tell Everybody ... This Blog is For You ....

Leave it to Pops to force me out of kinda-but-not-really-retirement by becoming the latest victim of Sir Robin-itis. He's off to become a real writer, make shitloads of money, and eat peanut butter off the rippling abs of ... rippling worshippers of writers with shitloads of money. I had that dream, meself ... (only without the peanut butter. Eww.) I was making moves toward that ... then I suddenly started to suck.

Not that this post is any great shakes, but I used to be ... oh, I don't know ... funny? Then suddenly, I wasn't so much anymore. I don't know what happened exactly, but my posts were just downright shitty. Then I got bored. Then I got all involved in the real world, and started making conversations with people with actual faces in place of blogsites, and things just got all weird after that. You start off having conversations, then you start making lunch dates, showering on a regular basis and changing your clothes daily ... What the hell was I thinking?

So, I'm back, bitches. Pops can just go off and make a million dollars and eventually be mowed down by a minivan, (I wish him the best of luck, though. Bastard.), I'll still be here.

I may not even suck so much. Anything is possible.