It's fun for a girl and a boy.

Smack him in the coconut! Bean him in the piehole! Pop him one good in the peeper!

Well, ok. Maybe it is more fun for girls than boys.

But after all the Dirt-clod Ambushes, the Dangling Spit Tortures, and the Run-by Fartings, you asked for it. It's the "Throw Rocks at Boys" game. Finally, huh? Brang it awn.

 

"D'oh!-mosexual?"

How do I even find these things?

http://www.sky.com/skynews/article/0,,30000-1145046,00.html

 

"God made man, but he used a monkey to do it."
-- Devo

Attention: All blasphemers will be peeled like bananas and fed to the giant monkeys, now invading Chicago.

http://www.adfuntureworkshop.com/monkeyshow/index.htm

 
By the way, I took a picture yesterday of the movie set across the street and all, and it just came out looking like this: 

 


Mighty thrilling, huh? Sorry. They had rented guns. I flaked.

Inside, it's all set up to look like a dimestore. Pretty cool cars all around, too. But much like real life and my photo, you can't see the forest for the mini-vans.

About the only thing non-ordinary that happened was that after work, I walked right past Reese Witherspoon waiting ready in the wings of the sidewalk and accidentally looked her right in the eye. And according to her nervous reaction, I must've had "That Look" on my face. You might know that look, the one where maybe I missed my bus (again) and forgot my sunglasses (yet again) and had to trudge past beautiful people with flawless everythings.

Or, was that in fact a mere reflection of me in the dimestore window instead? Hmmmm?

Poor Reese. Her jealousy will fade over time.

(Let me dream, people.)

Shooting on Main Street.

No, not that kind of shooting.  Not this time anyway. No, it's the movie about Johnny Cash called "Walk the Line." Where's my camera? Be back later....

 

Hey! Product Review, Product Review...

It's neato mosquito Skittles Gum!

They look just like Skittles. They taste just like Skittles. But I completely forgot that I don't even like Skittles. I only like the red and yellow ones. I hate it when I forget stuff.

But try 'em -- they're intense at first, and they lose flavor a little too quickly, just like me. But that just gives you an excuse to shove one more handful in your mouth. I like gums that you can add to continuously like that. Except that I end up chewing the whole box and looking like a prairie dog. But that just adds to the entertainment value for everybody, now doesn't it?

What was I talking about? I forgot!

Happy Monday!

Yeah. I had to get one.

I had to get an aquapet.

How old am I exactly? Like it matters when you just bought yourself a new aquapet. I'm such a geek. I bet I'm not the only one.
I bet I buy another one to go with it, too.

401(k)? No. Bebe or Miku is my next investment. I can feel it.

You wanna know which one I got? Not unless you admit to your geekdom, too.

"My name is Bethany...and I...am a crapaholic."

I LOVE MY AQUAPET, and it's not even here yet.

I Might Be Excited

Yaayyyy! I want a shooehorn, the kind with teeth...

 

And, even though I know how it ends, I bought this anyway:

The End.

 

 

Today's special:

Mesmerizing monkeys and hypnotic evil machines ...

 

 

Apparently, Napoleon Dynamite has gotten nothing but bad reviews so far.

So either it must be geniunely good or people are just tense from the lack of carbohydrates. My intuition tells me it's probably both.

I'll let you know my humble opinion soon. Until then, make your neighbors eat some pasta and walk them around the block a time or two. This "Triple Sour Cream and Brisket" Adkins diet is honestly starting to alarm me.

(Interesting reading here.)

 

 

I went to a wedding.

And yes, I missed Ron. But I think it's okay, I think he'd say the same thing: I really missed the dog. A lot.

Which reminds me, if you don't have a subscription to Urban Dog yet, what are you waiting for? It's good, I tell you. GOOD! Thank you to Mizz Lisa Robinson of N'awlins for starting it all. You are the best, mon ami chien-affectueux*.

I'll post some pictures from the wedding once they start rolling in. They'll be worth it. It was a Louisiana wedding with champagne flowing non-stop. What a great time. I cried my eyes out and woke up looking like a fetus in the seventh month of gestation. I'll miss Jacquie and Daniel. Probably almost as much as I missed my dog. Almost.

 

*I hope that doesn't translate into something tres dirty. My French is tres rusty.

 

 

That Pitman spokes-pit sure is scientifically hideous.

But hey, I'm not the target audience, now am I? I sure hope not, or else I've wasted a lot of money and time in charm school.

The rest of the axe effect site itself with its Tetris-esque game is rather swell though. So give it a chance. A lot of sweat went into making this website. I'm sorry. I'm such a hack. Enjoyyyyy.

Neato.

I applied one of those new Blogger templates. And the McSubdivision I built in had people camping out overnight just to buy a lot to build on. One girl already has a house here but is buying another with one of those things bigger than a yarden, what do you call them, oh yeah... grassy yards. So wait a minute. Does this mean I actualy invested in something of monetary value? I might actually have one of those neato ROI's I've heard about? Wow. This never happens to me. Oh, and I had pizza last night, too. So, life appears decent. And something should explode right about... now.

Tomorrow's headline: "Island Bubdivisions Built Upon Sinking Sands of Ancient Burial Grounds. Expect Poltergeists." Ron says* "no...'Mud Island Homes Built on Huge Pile of Radon."

Fine. Give me my normalcy back.

Speaking of backs, 9 out of 10 doctors say I tore a disk in my back. My advice to you is "Don't do that. It hurts." Oh and one of my legs is shorter than the other. You'd think someone would've told me that before now. There it was on the x-ray. I saw it last time I had that Unfortunate Underwire Bra X-Ray. I was hoping to see a set of 24K gold keys lodged in my back by the Lumbar Fairy instead. But you know me and my luck. It's an acquired taste.

Radioactivity. Maybe that explains the shortened leg and ripping back problems.

Did I tell you I started making merlot wine in my closet? No, really. I'll keep you posted on this delicate prison punch.

I'm sorry. I didn't really have anything to say, so go. Get out there and have a good weekend, people.

*Hey! Ron's back -- long live Pimpdaddy Ron, best husband everrr. Welfare, ha says... His radioactive butt better be jive talkin'...

Raccoon feces. Yi, again with the raccoon feces. Whoever you are, your persistence fascinates me. Even more than John Wayne Gacy. So here:





And whoever that is Googling for Mike Norton with a camaro, you're cordially invited to come over to me'n'Ron's tonight for pizza and a 24-pack of Old Style. Cuz brah, we tight, we buds. Werd.

Bums awaaaayyy!

"Two Caucasian men in their thirties dropped from the undercarriage of an Air France Boeing 777 as it approached Pudong International airport in Shanghai on 24 January after a flight from Paris . One of the men smashed through the roof of a house, leaving a large gash in the roof. The men, who showed signs of frostbite, had probably frozen to death in the wheel wells of the aircraft during the 11-hour journey, dropping from the sky when the landing gear was deployed. Neither carried identification. Stowaways falling from aircraft wheel wells are usually escaping from developing countries and trying to reach the west." -- New York Times, 25 Jan 2003.

And you thought your day was rough.

For a moment this morning, I found a comfortable position for my broken backbone. If you get bored, you should try it. Lie face down on your bed. Pull yourself over the side until your hips are holding you naturally as you stand on your head.

And what's the first thing that came to my mind after a euphoric seventeen pints of my own red blood? The first thought was that my legs are out of commission and my arms are all I've got in this situation, so "Jeez, I hope I don't snap my neck and die hanging like this."

"Sure," I thought, "unsolved mysteries intrigue me, but does that dirty up my karmic forcefields watching those things? I know I shouldn't have read all that gossip about Mary-Kate being a coke addict versus simply anorexic. I don't want to flip off this bed and crash into that 20-gallon fishtank over there. Man, that Dyson vacuum cleaner really did a great @#$%ing job under this bed. But is that a ball of cat hair I missed, or just a brown recluse? I really want to take a trip to London. Pink cookies are good cookies..."

And then, just like usual, I lost track of time and realized I could go on hanging upside down and pondering useless smack for as long as my blood pressure allowed.

Unsolved mysteries. Cold Case Files. Biographies on nutjob serial killers: I watch too many of them. On tv. Let me just clarify that. It's interesting to me just how insane people can be. I can't watch them non-stop; I have to take breaks between them though, or I'd never be able to fully function again. I'd probably stay indoors for the rest of my life and knit socks out of cat hair.

I bet one comes on tonight, and I bet I watch it. Oh, I think they're interesting. Especially when I'm drifting off to sleep slack-jawed on the couch after a Flexeril. I have no idea what they are for exactly, but I figured if my mom sent them, they must be primo. Some people's mothers send cookies. My mom sends contraband. I love my mother. And all the pretty colors...



DIY RIP

I'm serious, if only I were this productive, I'd be dangerous. Scary dangerous. Right now, I'm just scary. It's the humidity.



And finally...

"It not only belonged to my great-grandma, it is my great-grandma."

I'm thinking about turning my cat into a pair of earrings. And if you've ever seen my cat, you know those will be some sweet fatcat rocks.*





*Aw, no actual Googies were harmed during the posting of this blog. Until he tears up my couch and then it's "Zoom-Pow, To the Moon, Alice."

Son of a...

What's left of my back still hurts with the constant prodding of Satan's pitchfork. And what's left of my charcoal soul is a little smoldering heap of hate for the old lady I unfortunately t-boned in Atlanta. Just for fun, let's say I actually fall asleep at night; when I wake up, I feel exactly like a big burlap bag of broken dishes. That can't be good, can it? Oh well. Look at me, I'm wretched. One more trip to the chiropractor and after that, I'm bidding on that Bionic Back 2000 on eBay and also see if I can scrounge some serious narcotics.

That's all I got today. Pathetic, huh? Yes, it certainly is what we call a "serious mo'fo." So Jacquie, if yer a'readin' this, I'll call ya as soon as I kin, an' I'll talk atcha like a redneck. Shoot fire an' save matches, I done called yew once; yalls ain't got no answerin' machine er what? No really, I'll call back, and promise not to talk like a redneck because it's truly more unbecoming than and as boring as talking about a crushed spinal column.

So since I got nothin' today, and since he's mucho grande talented, please visit my favorite drawer I've never met named Kyle for your daily dose of dootles. By the way, if you'd like to be his guest drawer, submit him a dootle by this Sunday.


If I'm not better in a few days, I will pay someone to hit me in the head with a shovel. Check back for your chance. Hell, I'll even let you hit me for free.

Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor.


O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!

From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.



Happy Canada Day, by the way. And mannnyyyy more!


And, on a truly unrelated topic: "Michael Moore" ends up with 500 anagram combinations on anagramsite if anyone needs something to do for a few minutes.

Again with an unrelated topic: I've got the worst backache in the entire world. In fact, I think its officially *out* -- thanks to some giant, aged potato of a woman who decided to sneak through a light on one of the busiest streets in Atlanta way back in November of 1998.

Madame: To you I say (if you are even still alive after smoking all those menthol 100s), please drive a smaller car so the next time you're t-boned at an intersection by a poor, unfortunate girl only trying to better herself and her career in the Big City, then you will hastily ensure your proper place in the choir invisible, as you should.

God bless the really good chiropractors of the world. If she can't fix it, I might proposition someone to asphyxiate me. Volunteers? I'm sure there are a few.

Oh, and God bless a Krispy Kreme. Nothing makes you forget the burning in your hips and rigor mortis in your back faster than a donut. I think that's an ancient proverb or something. If not, it should be.