Hey bitches (and I mean bitches as a term of endearment; also my son just walked up to the computer, read the first two words and said, "That's not appropriate"). Anyway bitches, I'm writing this while OUTSIDE on my back deck. I sent this text not too long ago:
OK, full disclosure. We're outside all right, but I'm hunched over the laptop on a table that's too low to be writing on. When I tried writing on my lap, I found the inability to use the mouse annoying. But what the hell. I'm barefoot and my kid is running around in shorts in the backyard. Today will be the warmest day of the week. We're going to enjoy the warmth while it lasts.
I should probably start a weekly post entitled, "Shit my kid says about his wiener". It's a never-ending topic in our house. I mean, he thinks of questions that I would never think of in a million years. This was from last night:
This is true, but he's only seven so he still needs help washing and rinsing his hair. Not too long ago I had him do it himself and he used like half the bottle of shampoo and it took half an hour to rinse the suds out. Also, he still does a really half-assed job of washing himself. He's more interested in playing with his toys (or his junk it would seem) than actually bathing himself.
I also got this response from a friend (be forewarned that there are all sorts of typos and missing words; this is real life people. This is what texting looks like):
I have to stop here and explain this reference. Years ago my friend Judy had to help clear out the house of a deceased relative (her husband's cousin). The deceased man had been a teacher at a local community college and had never married. Judy and her husband found a HUGE amount of pornography in this man's home. Like enough to fill up the back of Judy's husband's pickup truck. I remember that we laughed at this idea-- what if her husband had got rear-ended and all that porn came spilling out onto the road? How could you possibly explain yourself: "Really officer. It's not mine."
Perhaps I should be a bit embarrassed that anytime someone sees or thinks of something weird or inappropriate, they think of me and this blog. It actually makes me happy though. I'm always looking for fresh material. I'll take whatever you've got. Anyway, I just want to go on record as saying that the name "Pokiehontas" is the best blow-up sex doll name. Ever. Judy said that the doll had braids but she didn't remember if she looked Native American or not. This text conversation occurred during the afternoon at work and I ended up laughing hysterically while all alone in my office. I sometimes wonder if my co-workers who walk by and see my laughing alone wonder about my sanity. It's a legit question on their part.
This afternoon I had this memory for God know what reason (again, typos ahead):
This was a conversation I had with my boss by the way. Yes, I called him a fool. He's been called worse though. My usual nickname is "Worthless Bastard". But he knows I say it with love. A few years ago I thought up a newer nickname which is "Tootie McTootiepants". Not because he passes gas in front of me or anything. Just because it's so silly. We've worked together over 18 years. After a while you just become like family. Which is both good and bad.
Last thing is something I saw at Trader Joe's today:
And there was this response:
Agreed. Why take two perfectly good food products and ruin them by putting them together? One friend wrote back, "Someone got this for me and I would have to say that I did not love it." Which I think is her polite way of saying it sucked. However, if you were invited to a party where you didn't like the host or hostess (like a work function or something) this would be a good gift to bring. If you wanted to be a bastard that way. :)
I'm the worst kind of asshole-- I think I'm funny.
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