Many of you may not know, but the week after I got hitched, I bailed and went to Germany for 10 days. Fun, fun, fun don’cha know.

Anyway, I was in Hannover for a couple of days and managed (between the raindrops) to get out and do the tourist schlep. Grabbed a cab and took in Herrenhausen Gardens. Quite the impressive place actually. One could get lost up in there.

Figured I’d share with you what the German folk consider to be art, as they had an art exhibition in full gear within the garden gates whilst I was there. Enjoy.

Ok, so these are babydolls cocooned in Saran Wrap and hung in trees.
*scratches head* I still don’t quite get it, but ok. Kinda creepy in a Blair Witch kinda way.

And this is an exhibit called (surprisingly) “Split Pea Soup & Beer”

In case you’re wondering, the lil sign says no drinky the beer or do not touch or something to that effect.

This here is the Creme de la Creme. A Penis made out of a sticky bush. Nice. The exhibit was entitled “Sex.”

Imagine that. I certainly could have done with a lil nookie after looking at a seven foot tall prickly penis.

And the grande finale photo is not actually part of the art exhibit, it was just one of the few flowers left that hadn’t frozen it’s stamen off yet.

It was cold and miserable that day, but the oversized penis… dayum, it really did make the whole thing worth it.

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.

I am the type of person who requires some sort of white noise in the background at all times.  The news on while I’m cooking, the stereo on while I’m scrubbing the toilet, or even just the radio on while I’m driving. 

I was transporting my 16-year-old daughter to school today when Timberland’s, “The Way I Are” came piping through the speakers.  Have you ever listened to the words of this song? It’s a duet about a scrub and some skanky chick’s acceptance of his scrubiness.

I would like to take a moment to address Timberland and clear the air about what is acceptable, and what is not. 

It goes a little somethin’ like this:

*Verse 1* (Timberland)
I ain’t got no money
I ain’t got no car to take you on a date
I can’t even buy you flowers
But together we’ll be the perfect soulmates
Talk to me girl

Ok, first, if you have no money and no car, what are you gonna do?  Are you gonna walk to my house with the intentions of gettin’ a little lovin’?  And trust me, even if you were lucky enough to hitch a ride with a homey, even if you hit the bell with flowers in your hand, you still ain’t gettin none.  And to even consider that we might be soulmates is blasphemy.  Soulmates are connected.  I gots a job, I gots a ride.  Accept your destiny, pal,  walkin and beatin off.

*Bridge* (The chick)
Oh, baby, it’s alright now, you ain’t gotta flaunt for me
If we go there, you can still touch my love, it’s free
We can work without the perks just you and me
Thug it out ’til we get it right

Now, I’m no gold-digger by any means.  But, if the boy ain’t got a job, money, or car, what hell would he have to flaunt in the first place?  And to think she’s gonna consider “going there” with him… for free… without the perks?  What perks?  Massage oil?  Happy Jack Rabbit?  Sweet Jesus.  I am going out on a limb here… she’s got to be very horny and/or very desperate to reproduce.

Let’s skip her part from here on out.  It’s repetition of the previous desparation and her forgiveness of his slackeristic nature.  Let us explore the remaining 2 verses of this mockery of man-li-ness.

*Verse 2*
I ain’t got no Visa
I ain’t got no Red American Express
We can’t go nowhere exotic
It don’t matter ’cause I’m the one that love you best
Talk to me girl

I wouldn’t care much that there is no plastic, so long as he has a J-O-B that results in some sort of cash flow.  It’s nice if a man has the money to give birthday and Christmas presents that aren’t from a Cracker Jack box along with small tokens of his affection through-out the year.
No exotic trips?  It’s mandatory to go somewhere to have sex, other than ones own bedroom, at least occassionally.  A trip to the Keys.  A trip to Vegas. Sex is good in Vegas.  But, still he spouts that he’s the one she loves best.  Again, most likely her poor self image.  Get therapy.

*Verse 3*  (The finale)
Baby girl, I don’t got a huge ol’ house
I rent a room in a house
Listen baby girl, I ain’t got a motorboat
But I can float ya boat
So listen baby girl, once you get a dose of D.O.E.
You gon’ want some mo’
So listen baby girl, when I make it
I want you back, want you back, yeah

He rents a room.  Nice.  A room in a house where other people live.  Which means either the home owners are going to hear the headboard bangin’ and the naughty sounds coming from the room or we’ll only be gettin busy in my house.  Uh, No.

No boat floating from  you until you get a job, a car, flowers, some select pieces of jewelery.

     Aside from spending a small fortune cleaning viruses and browser hijackers from your computer after surfing porn sites, there are other, more disturbing dangers of using the Internet to help satisfy your carnal nature…

     Could’ve been worse…

You know, for the past decade, I kept thinking to myself “Damn. Christmas seems to come earlier and earlier every year. I thought it was only in my head because I am simply annoyed by how commercial Christmas has become.

I took note, back in August no less, that as soon as Wal-Mart took out the swimming pools and other summer items… in came the Christmas stuff. IN AUGUST! Before even halloween had time to come and go.

Pisses me off, the money-grubbing devil stores peddle as much as they can for as long as they can. And what really slays me is the fact that, everytime I’d pass through lawn & garden, even back in late summer, there were people buying that shit up. It wasn’t on sale, it was just out on display and for sale at regular prices.

Now I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t want my house decorated with little elves and the like that early in the year. I’m the type that as soon as Christmas is over, I’m ready to jerk the ornaments down and sling the tree in the yard.

What I think should happen is, since the the stores have all the Christmas crap out that early, the Salvation Army should round up sexy bell ringers and have them out there in the heat of summer in a Santa-like underwear  made of red velvet with white trim and an excellent and yummy tan.  Then maybe I could swallow Christmas that early in the damn year.

Bah!  Friggin Humbug!