I’m officially cookin with gas now… No, I don’t mean the fumes that burst periodically out of T’s butt from the fart war. No, I’m actually steppin in high cotton now, kids. T acquired me a new, gas grill yesterday. Ain’t it cool? I pity those ladies who get flowers and jewelery. Sheer chicken perfection came off that bad boy last night. Beautifully sliced for fajitas which I shall scarf down for lunch today.

In other flatulent news, Me and Big T have been in a fart war for a little over a week. Yah, I know, that’s not lady like and totally sick. Just so you know, he started that shit…(hahaha). It has been scientically proven that, in fact, my shit does NOT stink and his could peel the paint off the walls. Please don’t look down on me for being childish and obscene. Thanks!

Running score: Tony 5, Me 4

How do you keep a marriage fresh? Make time to go on a date together. Get rid of the kiddies and get ‘r dun. After Big T and Me saw his mom Saturday night and dropped the boy off. We were feelin a little froggy. We went to Shoney’s for their sinfully rich-half frozen tasty treat… Hot Fudge Cake. Actaully it wasn’t a bona-fide date, but I told him I was goin for something sweet and yummy and that I wasn’t driving not even 1/10 of a mile farther until I got loaded up with some coffee.

Still yet, we had some alone time to make fun of all the people making mountain sized salads.

The Holiday Spirit kicked me right square in the ass over the weekend. I got all holly and jolly and started up with the Christmas decorations. No, I’m not redneck enough that I’m going to light them up just yet. I’m just pre-decorating in an effort to be the tackiest, most well lit house in the neighborhood. Go me! I’ve got more than 3,500 little twinkle lights and I fully intend to utilize every single one of them. (Once I get in the running for Tackiest Decorations of 2007, I’ll post some pix).

It dawned on me over the weekend, and it saddens me greatly. Big T and I started talking about creating a clone shortly after we married (2 months ago).

This is great news and I couldn’t be any more tickled for real. Growing a mini-T in the oven. It’s beautiful.

So, what’s so sad about about it, you might be asking. Well, I’ll tell ya.

I decided with my advancing age (an astounding 37 years), that maybe I should go see Dr. Brad and get official clearance that my oven is still capable of baking without undercooking or burning the buns.

Now don’t you fret, kids. The news is nothing Earth shattering. Just a FAT reality check.

1st. I’m getting old. Dammit. If a body is in the 35+ age group and goes to the OB/GYN and tell them that you’re gonna have hot monkey sex and procreate… LORD HAVE MERCY. Red flags start flying up, sirens start sounding throughout the office, and a big fat sticker goes on your chart. Dayum.

In fact, simply because I’m post-35 (apparently well into middle age), I will have to go through the joys of doctor visits nearly double what I did with my last clone (16 years ago).

2nd. Dr. Brad looks at me all serious during the consultation after the exam (ewwww!)… and says, “We strongly suggest you drop 45-50 pounds before actively pursuing pregnancy.”

I sat there for a minute. Depressed already that I am old and I saw the sticker stating such on my chart….
before asking Dr. Brad, “So, why didn’t you just tell me I’m old and fat? Wouldn’t that be exactly what you’re saying? Besides, you aren’t telling me anything these crows feet around my eyes and the scale haven’t already disclosed.”

“Well, no. It’s just that with your age..” He started.

“Fine, I’ll go to the gym. But I think you should just start being honest with your patients. Old and fat, buddy.”

He smiled that doctor smile when he realized I wasn’t, in fact, pissed off and about to go hormonal on him and his entire staff.

How in the hell do folks roll in a vehicle when the music is so damn loud I can hear it from inside my office when they are a mile or more away??

https://youtube.com/watch?v=R5_8qdzaPV4

Why am I concerning myself with such petty bullshit on a Friday afternoon, you ask?

Well, friends and neighbors, I’ll tell ya why. I just got set off like I have a fire cracker up my ass and it’s the 4th of July.

We have had our office location for nearly 7 years.  We are located between Fade to Black Barber Shop and Vogue Hair Salon. Our only source of entertainment here is to watch the old ladies wander in and out of their weekly hair appointments and listen to the drama/comedy coming from the barber shop next door.

I shit you not, it’s like a scene from “Coming to America” sometimes.  I love to sit here and listen to the shit flyin… but that’s not what’s on my mind today.  No.

What really gives me pain like a full on titty twister is when the good ‘ol boys next door come driving up with that shit blarin’ so loud that it rattles the windows in my office.

I’ve even had customers (mind you I work with Doctors and Researchers and other esteemed individuals worldwide) ask me why I don’t turn my music down before I bother the answer the phone.

I’ve busted out the front door of our office and sneered dirty looks that way.  How fucking hard is it to have a little common sense and public decency to turn that shit down to the point where your whole car isn’t shaking along with the ground under it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that these kids have something to prove to one another.  In addition, the music gets cranked way loud right in front of said barber shop, because I reckon they feel it impressive to the rest of humanity.

Personally, I think the louder and more abnoxious the music is, the smaller the dick of said music master is.

     When Diva and Tony tied the knot in September, I couldn’t help but remark at the one photo which really stood out:

     “…from the looks of it, Tony is actually able to handle her.”

     But this post has absolutely nothing to do with that.

     Well…

     Other than a wedding.

     Earlier this week in India, a deeply superstitious farmhand was married, as well.  In fact, Mr. P. Selvakumar has finally found his perfect bitch.

     He says he was “cursed” after killing a couple of canines, and hopes this action will help lift it.

     Me, I’ll just sit back and laugh with a Top 10 list:

1. She’s on his crotch as soon as he walks in the door!
2. She can smell a rat a mile away!
3. He really keeps her on a short leash…
4. When she gets pissed, she’s absolutely rabid!
5. He’ll be in the dog house for the rest of his life.
6. Well, isn’t she just the pick of the litter?
7. Bet they’ll make some beautiful pups.
8. She lies like a dog!
9. Wonder if she likes it doggy-style?
10. Truly, this man knows how to handle his bitch.

     Man, you just can’t make stuff like this up…

Note: Selvakumar Photo Copyright © 2007 Associated Press, All Rights Reserved

     Just say “No!” to hotlinking.  It’s a bad habit.

     This has been our hotlinking image for a long, long time:

     Nobody wants to see that, now do they? 

     Rob Ullman over at Atom Bomb Bikini, after being contracted to caricature the campaigning Clinton, quickly crafted this bit of cartoony goodness:

     [ Side Note: How’s that for aliteration, Sam?  I feel empowered! ]

     Why, seeing Photo vs. Caricature, it’s rather clear where the inspiration came from, isn’t it? 😉

Tip: Doug @ Reality Me!