Missed Conections

You: a hot, greasy McRib, slathered in BBQ sauce. The sun was glistening off the reflective surface of your billboard about a mile from my house. The caption next to you said "Missed me?"

Me: driving past you, finding myself jealous of the box of fries resting next to you. I did miss you, with all my heart. I'm fighting the urge to order you and gobble you right up, McRib. Why must you torture me? You are gone most of the year and then just show up around the holidays, expecting me to take you back? I haven't even seen you since last January. Just go McRib, it easier if I never see you again.

Children and Guns and Dr. Seuss

This week I received two pictures of my brother's children. The first was a beautiful nature shot of my niece and nephew, both under the age of ten, bundled in their winter coats, posed proudly next to two deer carcasses and the guns that killed them.

The second was all three of his kids. The oldest boy in a Cat in the Hat costume and his two little sisters dressed as Thing 1 and Thing 2. How adorable they were, and innocent looking. Then it occurred to me. If a child can look so harmless in a striped stovepipe hat and large bow tie, and also be capable of murdering a deer, then what else are they capable of?

Be careful this Halloween season, you don't know what these little creatures can do.

Whatever story your son is telling you, the truth is: he punched me.

It's so nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming to your son's parent-teacher conference. I know we have never met, even though I had Stephen in class last year. I'd just like to say, no matter what your son has told you, he is the one who punched me in the mouth.

I'm sure he's at least mentioned the incident last year, but let me be clear: I did not bite your son's hand. I'm sure he will tell elaborate stories about how other students saw me bite him and how I called him a liar. Honestly, who are you going to believe? Some snot-faced kid who punches teachers in the mouth? Or me? Look at me, I'm like, a grown-up.

I'm sorry about having to tell you that your son is a liar, and prone to violence against educated women, but I think it's best that you know. I hope you are able to find him some help. He may need years of therapy to reprogram his obviously confused memory. How sad, I think he actually believes that I bit his hand and then lied about him punching me. Poor kid.

A Teacher's Funeral

Here's the deal. I know this guy who was a teacher at a school in my district. He was the drama teacher (like me) and did a lot of shows at the community theater (twinsies!). This guy was a really nice teacher guy, and honestly I didn't know him that well, but rather knew of him. Anyway, I thought it would be prudent for me to attend the memorial service and pay my respects, along with the rest of the theater community.

I show up and there are a lot of nicely dress kids there. "Wow," I thought, "How nice of them to pay their respects by showering and putting on clean clothes." During the service, lots of actors and other directors got up to memorialize this man's contributions to their lives and the community as a whole. Then the kids began to bravely, and tearfully, speak about their "favorite teacher." Their words were kind, and truthful and eloquent (for the most part.) As the audience sat in the theater and shed a few well-deserved tears, listening to children speak from their hearts, I was suddenly struck with a sobering thought: "What will the children say about me when I die?" Here are a few possibilities:

"She used to tell me to turn my face off."
"She fell a lot."
"Even when she threatened me with the pointiest part of her elbow, I knew she was kidding."
"One time she bit my hand." (I will argue, to my grave, that kid punched me in the mouth.)
"Sometimes we thought she might be possessed by some type of evil spirit."
"I remember how she used to say that the crushed soul was the most delicious part of the child."
"I'm pretty sure she wasn't a real teacher."
"She used singing as a torture device."
"I think she changed her name so often because she was running from the law."

I'm not saying that this sudden realization is going to make me change my teaching strategies, just that if I die, you might want to record what the children have to say. It could be entertaining.

I have a confession to make.

Hey Blog,
Listen. I know I have been kind of distant lately. I feel really bad about it. It's just that... I have something I need to tell you.

You know that when I started you, you were my only blog. I had a lot of emotions I needed to get out and enough time to spend with you. Remember when I used to update you nearly every day? Those were really good times.

Well, things have changed. I didn't want to tell you, but I know you've noticed my neglect. The thing is that I have another blog. Well, three actually. Two of them are for my classes at school, but I run them from the same account, so I guess they are twins. The other one is on my Avon website. I started them because I worked with them, and you weren't there. I know that sounds shallow, but they do things that you never have. My school blogs fulfill my needs during the day and the Avon blog just understands me and my beauty product issues.

So, I'm really sorry. I know you probably won't be able to trust me for a while. But I'm begging you, come back to Ike baby!

In the Old Days, I Was Not Old

I haven't blogged in over a week. I went to bed last night at 7:00 PM, after I watched most of an episode of Dr. Phil. What happened to me?

I'm buying night cream for wrinkles and making desperate phone calls to my hairdresser/sister because the gray hairs keep showing back up. Each time I look, the little silvery bastards are more organized and have become so daring as to appear in a perfect little boot camp line along my part.

Two nights ago, I woke up to pee. TWICE.

The stand-up comedians on cable are becoming less and less hilarious, and I hear my mother's words pour out of my mouth "That's not funny, that's just rude."

So forgive me if the inevitable arrival of my 30th birthday is causing me to pop a xanax and rant about some flawed political system or other. I've got to let the stress out somehow, and doing a keg stand with a beer bong on the side just doesn't seem to do anymore.

You Expect Me to do WHAT?

I'm sorry. Excuse me? I'm a little unclear as to precisely what you want me to do. See, I'm incredibly busy right now. I'm not sure how you think I have to time to "return to work." Yes, I understand I signed a contract that indentures me to another year of servitude in the educational system, but I'm just not sure I'll be able to fit educating into my really packed schedule.

See, I already have a pretty full day as it is. I wake up and check my e-mail right about the time your bell rings. I mean, I don't usually take a shower until ten or 11 o'clock. Then I get back on the computer and blog, or read blogs for a while, then it's youtube and Facebook for at least two or three hours a day. I can't even get to youtube or Facebook at work because the web filter blocks them, so multitasking is out of the question.

I'm also confused because I watch 5-6 episodes of Hoarders, Intervention, Toddlers & Tiaras, House or NCIS every day, and there is no cable connection in any of my classrooms.

Also, there is no way all those kids would let me get any rest during my usual nap time either, so even if I did bring my little couch from home it would be totally useless. I can't be expected to miss my nap, I'm pretty sure that's an ADA law or something.

So, yeah. If you can come up with a way for me to take care of all my necessities and do this precious work you keep talking about, let me know. Really. I'm totally open to suggestions.

Crusader Promises Bloodbath

8.3.11

Cancer Crusader, Jordan Dlask vows eternal alliance of  Crusaders and Vikings in an all-out, 50 mile walking war against all cancer pirates. In a show of solidarity and honor, Dlask inscribed the name of Gary Richardson, King of the Vikings on his Crusading Cape. He will be walking this Friday, August 5th, in a lap-by-lap pirate slaughter. If you wish to support him verbally or monetarily, visit http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY11GW?px=22368700&pg=personal&fr_id=34020

As of press time, there was no contact with the Unicorns, but it can be assumed they are also an Allied Force. The Ninjas have yet to choose a side.

I know this is like way off topic...

... but does anyone remember what Black Snake Moan was about? I know it had Samuel L. Jackson and Christina Ricci, but what the eff was it about? All I remember is the part where she's in a half shirt and panties and he's got her chained to an engine block. Oh, and it's in the South. Duh! Samuel L. Jackson.

You know, I'm pretty sure I never understood what that movie was about, so it's not that I don't remember, it's just that I don't get it.

OK, I also know that movie was from like 10 years ago and maybe I missed whatever conversations people had about it when it came out. But it has really been bugging me lately. I realize I could Netflix it and watch it again and try to figure it out, but from what I do recall, I'm pretty sure it would be a huge waste of time.

So, you know, whatever. Any insight you may have would be really great. Thanks!

Cat Food, Meat Tenderizer, Air Fresheners

These were the contents of my shopping cart at Target last night. A large bag of cat food, a meat tenderizing hammer (special care taken that it is the dishwasher safe model) and two 2-pack air fresheners. That's four air fresheners. As I exited the retail market, a number of possible newspaper headlines ran through my mind:

Area Cat Owner has Stinky Home and Tough Meat

Lonely, Smelly Cat Lady Doesn't Like to Wash Kitchen Tools by Hand

Crazy Woman Lures Neighborhood Cats, Bludgeons Them, Hoards Carcasses, Police Alerted by Smell of Death and Fresh Waters

Huge Sale on Cat Food, Meat Tenderizers and Air Fresheners!

Local Chef Actually Cat-Person, Hid Tail Under Apron and Feline Odor with Plug-Ins

Meow Mix and Lavender Fragrance Theft at All Time High, Protect Your Goods!

Psychosis Often Begins with Over Analysis of Personal Retail Purchases

Thanks, Amy Winehouse

No, really. Thanks. I appreciate it. Your death has, once again, reminded me that I am already too old to die at the age of 27. Not only that, since you died, I have been reflecting seriously on our lives and when I compared them, I realized:

1) Neither of my two albums ever won a Grammy.
2) I don't have a soulful command of jazz music even though I'm white and Jewish.
3) The gigantic pile of mess on my head isn't an original, eccentric beehive hairdo. I just need to brush my hair.
4) When I stumble out of a bar with my bra showing, TMZ doesn't show up and no one is fascinated by my lifestyle, it's just sad.
5) Your tattoos scream "Bad Ass Hellcat," mine say "I got this little shamrock with my sister..."
6) When I went to rehab, there were no incredibly catchy songs about it on the radio.
7) When you died, millions of people mourned talent gone too soon. When I die, tens of people will hope they can get the funeral over with soon.

So thanks again for rubbing your post-mortem superiority in my face, and if you see Heath Ledger, tell him I'm still pretty pissed about that whole "Overdose/Dark Knight" thing. That was just tasteless grandstanding, in my opinion.

This Would be Upsetting if I Didn't Write It

http://lascruces.en.craigslist.org/cto/2506932616.html

Reality TV Star Laments People not Knowing Her "For Reals"

7.20.11

Hollywood, CA -- During filming of her Lifetime Television reality series, Paris Hilton complained to some other skinny blond girl about people not knowing the real her, in what can only be described as the most annoyingly nasal voice ever caught on digital media.

"It's like, people don't know who I really am, and stuff" Hilton said, "They don't even know what I do," she continued after a day of acupuncture, driving around in a really expensive pink car, eating at restaurants with tiny tables and doing voice-overs to narrate aforementioned actions.

The two thin blond girls talked some more about not being understood by the public after being offended by another blond girl who mentioned the infamous sex tape Hilton was seen in several years ago.

"I can't believe she even brought that up," Hilton told the skinny blond girl who was still her friend, right before Hilton's voice over changed topic to her current pregnancy scare.

The rest of the episode Paris Hilton spent laying in her bed, telling her current boyfriend how angry it makes her when the media says she looks fat and how that made her think she was pregnant. "I'm a business woman" Hilton concluded, "I'm just not sure that a big stomach really matches my brand, so I don't know what I would do if I was pregnant."

The episode ended with the star taking the pregnancy test, since "looking fat, according to bloggers and paparazzi" and "that outfit not fitting in Spain" are two of the top symptoms of pregnancy. The new boyfriend mistakenly proposes marriage before the results are revealed, but then takes the offer back and suggests they go for a jog instead, once it is discovered she has only gained a few pounds, rather than become pregnant.

In the end, our heroine learned that if she wants people to know the real her, she must listen to her own instincts and stay true to... Wait, no. She doesn't learn anything.

Today Was a Good Day

Spending hours mindlessly reading Craigslist adds has finally paid off.

http://lascruces.en.craigslist.org/rnr/2443391920.html

Are You from the Future?

If you answer "yes" to any of these questions, you might be from the future.

1. Do you drive a DeLorean?
2. Do you constantly find yourself trying to return to October 26, 1985?
3. Are you half naked, riding in Bruce Willis' taxi right now?
4. Is your Soylent Green made of people?
5. Are you currently hunting genetically engineered humanoid robots through dystopian Los Angeles?
6. Are you the founder of the Army of the Twelve Monkeys?
7. Is Big Brother watching you?
8. Are these the droids you are looking for?
9. Is it your duty, as a fireman, to burn all the books in your society?
10. Have apes replaced humans as the dominant life form on your planet?
11. Is your palm flower / lifeclock blinking, hence indicating your time for voluntary execution?
12. Do your mashed potatoes "mean something"?
13. Ewww, did an alien just burst from your chest?
14. Are you a software engineer digitally transported into the mainframe of your employer's computer?
15. Is Drew Barrymore your little sister and are you hiding a deformed midget from the government?
16. Did you intend to travel through time but accidentally become a fly?
17. Are you Will Smith? Because Will Smith is from the future, a lot.
18. Did your on-board computer just alert you of danger, Will Robinson?
19. Is there an asteroid headed toward you, right now?
20. Did Keanu Reeves just tell you he "knows kung fu"?

Keep in mind that this is simply an evaluation tool to help you determine if you have future-like symptoms. If you think you are futuristic or may be going back to the future, contact Doc Brown immediately.

When I say Harry,

You say:

For Your Reacting Convenience:

A brand new element had been added to my blog beneath each post. There are three choices after the phrase "I was all" and they are: "Ahahaha!", "What?!?" and "Sad Face". Please feel free to react to my posts using these highly simple responses by clicking on the boxes next to each reaction. It is far easier than formulating an opinion and actually writing a response. It lets me know that my, shall I call it an organized readership? is still out there. No pressure.

I Tol' You I was Fancy

What did I tell you? What. Did. I. Teeeellllllll you? I said I was high class, well now there is proof. Do you see what this is? It's a chan-do-lier. Yeah I know it's in a box. Mmmm-mmm. But not for long. Soon, that shining, 16-bulb, mirrored, sparkling spectacle will be hanging over my head while I eat dinner. Every night. Right now the light fixture above our kitchen table only has five bulbs. Five. How can I be expected to eat my deluxe macaroni and cheese dinner beneath only five bulbs? That's right. I said deluxe mac and cheese. I don't buy that plain old three-for-a-dollar boxed kind any more. No way. I buy the mac that already has the cheese made for me in the shiny silver package. See? I've advanced my lifestyle in every way.

I am telling you, what they say is true. More is never enough. I used to nay say those lifestyles of the rich and famous people on the TV, you now, like on MTV Cribs? Who needs all that? I used to say. They have packed refrigerators with Cristal and garages full of cars. I'm just like those people now, shoot. Our garage is packed with our truck and Honda. You open my fridge and all you can see is shelves full of two bottles of juice. Orange AND apple. I'm telling you. Maybe this whole luxury thing is getting too big for me...

I Don't Wanna Sound Like a Bitch or Nuthin'...

...but I think you should know that I've moved up in the world. That's right, as of last week, I am an Upper Class Citizen. Did I marry a millionaire? Not exactly. Did I win the lottery? Please, I don't play that fool game. Did I inherit a butt load of cash after my dad's tragic pirate attack? No sir.

Then why am I acting better than the rest of ya'll? Because I just became the owner of the finest sets of towels and bedsheets that Target, that's right, I said TARGET, sells.  I didn't say Wal-Mart or K-Mart or Factory-2-U, or any other discount retail market. Do you see a hyphen on the Target sign? No. That means high quality.

I'm a changed woman. Since I got these new sheets and towels I say things like "thread count." From now on, I demand that the two towels on our towel rack be the same color and that our pillow cases actually match the sheets. Want some more? I've even started making the bed and folding over the top sheet, which happens to be the same color as the fitted sheet, when I do it. Things are going to be a whole lot different around here, I tell you what! I have tasted luxury baby, and I like the flavor. I've even considered getting a matching set of drinking glasses and using them all at the same time when I fix dinner. That do anything for you? Just don't get all butt hurt if I roll my eyes or turn up my nose when I have to stay at your house and suffer through a night of mismatched poly/cotton blended hell.

What a Relief!

Now I can utilize my precious, precious time worrying about things that are actually dangerous.

 Like urinating on electric fences and getting mercury poisoning from eating too much canned tuna.



Despite what Coach Used to Say...

You are not all winners. In fact, in a bizarre woman's blog-based photo caption contest (with only two entries) I think we have just proven that we are all losers. I suppose the only real winners in this whole situation are the homeless, tweakers and horny teenagers that utilize the mattress in the aforementioned photo. I really do appreciate the two brave (or Ambien induced) posts. They were both clever and well thought out, unllike most of my day-to-day decisions.

Oh well. I tried. I tried something new and it didn't work. Do you see why I never do anything nice for you? Do you see why we can never have anything nice?!? It only gets ruined!

Pardon Me, Ma'am?

On behalf of all of the other patrons at Hobby Lobby, I'm going to have to ask you to never wear that tangerine silk one piece jumpsuit again. I know you thought you were making a festive, Summery choice when you put that on this morning, before you headed out to purchase more DIY jewelry makins', but I don't think you understand the detriment you have caused to your own appearance.

Perhaps you were under the impression that the multiple beaded bracelets and necklaces would add a bit of flair to the belted ensemble you concocted this morning, but really they just caused me to have a flashback to the times I spent belly dancing in drum circles back in college. The tinkling of handmade bell-adorned jewelry and clickity-clack of bedazzled sandals on Hobby Lobby's floor was so distracting, I almost forgot to buy half of the useless crap I went in there with the intention of purchasing.

So please, let's never see you in all that get-up again. The cashier and I nearly had to say an unkind word about you after you left, and we know that wouldn't be up to the family friendly standards of America's Favorite Craft Store.

Oh My God, Really?

One Entry? Really? No one has anything funny or inappropriate to say about a dirty old mattress laying across the street from the park I took my sister's kids to so that we could play volleyball? C'mon! I have like twenty nasty things to say about that mattress, most of them are about my sister but according to the official photo caption contest rules, I. Can't. Enter.

So, I'll make you a deal. You have one more day. I'm going to go run errands: get a new social security card, buy toilet paper, wash some undies... that sort of thing. The next twenty four hours I expect you to dedicate to captioning the hell out of that photo.

Ready? Go!

Photo Caption Contest!

OK, boys and girls. I'm going to be gone for a while so, to keep you busy, I thought I'd post a little activity. The rules are simple, just post the best caption you can for the photo and I will announce the winner upon my return. You may post as many times as you like and there is no word limit for the captions. Dry Martini, take it easy on the foul language, this is a family blog. Fuck.

Ready? Set. Go!

Call Dr. 90210

It turns out the sausage casing situation is a little more desperate than originally anticipated. This morning my cousin and I thought we'd try the wedding dress on (together in the sense that we were in the same room, though not in the same dress) to re-assess the ill-fitting situation. Once zipped in, she noted that the dress was not tight at all in any area other than where my ribcage was trying desperately to expand in an effort to provide oxygen to the rest of my body.

"The good news is," she said,"that you will be able to eat at the reception, but the bad news is that we are going to have to remove your bottom ribs."

Does anyone have the contact information to an inexpensive plastic surgeon in the borderland area?

Cult is Such a Strong Word

I noticed there are a lot of you out there anonymously reading my blog, which I really appreciate. But I think it would make our blog relationship stronger if you became not just readers, but followers as well.

I know, I know. "Follower" sounds so Jesus-and-discipley, but hear me out.

Commitment can be scary, I understand that. However, there are a great deal of benefits to becoming one of my followers.
1. The satisfaction of that group "belonging" feeling. When you are a part of something, you feel a certain amount of comfort knowing that there are others out there like you. Once you join the group of my followers you'll know you aren't the only one in the world who reads my blog and thinks "Why would she write that?" and "Why would she write that and then put it on the internets?"
2. Instant e-mail updates. As a follower, you have the option to receive an e-mail every time I post a new entry. Isn't that great? This way, you'll know exactly when I have my most recent, inappropriate thoughts. Imagine getting an e-mail during work hours with one of my blog entries that contains some really bizarre comment about my work environment. You'd know I was blogging on my employer's time! Not that I would do that, but still.
3. Guaranteed access to your afterlife of choice once you die. What other blog author can promise you that? I don't want to go into details in this post because they are lengthy and very technical. But, seriously. It's totally legit.

So, just sign up to be my follower. You don't even have to put your real name or comment on my posts. Just let me know that you are out there. I promise, you will not regret this, especially later, when you die. And hey, after we get to know each other a little better we can talk about you moving to the compound and becoming a member of the inner group.

Hey Guys, About the Other Day...

So um, yeah. About that whole thing where I said all that stuff about all you guys who I hadn't talked to in a while that showed up to my dad's funeral a few weeks ago... Right. I pretty much called you all bastards, well, just so you know, there's like an addendum to that. So, whatever. In case you're interested... Wow. This. Is. Awkward. But, hey, right? I mean, ugh!

Oh, then, I like e-mailed some pretty weird stuff too. I don't know, I think I was sober. It was morning, right? I was probably sober. I mean, I was supposed to be sober, ha ha, anyway...

Cool, so, um. Great thing on FB the other day, by the way. Totally hilarious. Well, yeah. No, yeah... Er. Yeah. Cool. See ya, yeah...

Thank God for Well Made Sausage Casings

I nearly just crapped all over my bathrobe. And by "nearly" I mean "totally". So the first two days I was worried none of these "cleanse and detox" pills were working. But judging by the commotion I just made in the bathroom, I'd say that they are. All I need is a little breathing room, and I mean that literally, in my dress. If I have it hooked in and zipped up, the best I can do is pant in shallow little breaths, like a puppy, and I'm pretty sure it will only take about 10 minutes of that before I pass out.

The good news is that even though I will be crammed in that thing like some kind of hot and spicy ground Italian meat, thanks to the high quality construction of the dress, the unknowing onlooker will have no idea that I am in the worst kind of pain and probably beginning to bleed internally. Not a single bulge or roll can be seen. I can only pray that the structural integrity of the garment holds up for the few short hours I need it to. After that, I can walk around for the rest of my life, eating turkey legs and funnel cakes at state and county fairs, packing on pounds and saying things like "I was so thin when I got married." God, I hate people who say that.

This Time, Lil' Miss Check-Out, It's Exactly What it Looks Like

Unlike all of the other times I feel like the items in my cart or hand basket or in a disorganized jumble in my arms are an unfair representation of my lifestyle when I go through the check out line, today you are welcome to judge me based on my purchases. The pair of Spanx, two boxes of Jillian Michaels Detox and Fat Cleanse, bulk sized tub of spinach and fat free yogurt are all products intended for exactly what you assume.

There is a wedding gown in my closet that I purchased 5 weeks ago that was only a little snug when I got it, but I was way too cheap to buy the next size up and pay $100 to have it altered to fit me properly. Unfortunately, the same pirates who killed my daddy are apparently allies with the Ambien Walrus, who fed me fried chicken and brownies against my knowledge. So, here I stand at the check out, ten days before I'm about to get married, in a last-ditch effort to lose enough post-funeral bloating so that when they zip that bad boy up I don't pass out from hyperventilation caused by the inability to breathe enough oxygen to remain conscious.

Don't worry. I have plenty of time. The disastrous gastrointestinal side effects of this plan should wear off at least 48 hours before I have to wear the very expensive, and obviously stainable dress. And if this doesn't work, you can expect to see me around that same time frame purchasing water pills, laxatives and ace bandages (for binding reasons.) I appreciate your nonchalance, I suppose this is nothing really, compared to last week when I came in here buying a pregnancy test and a bottle of tequila.

I'm Going to Pistol Whip the Next Person Who Says 'Bitter Sweet'

What an insightful comment. How very sensitive and original of you to recognize that my wedding will be both sad and happy, what with my dad dying like a month before I am getting married. You should be a counselor or something, with thoughtful things like that to say. You know exactly what to say during difficult and emotionally trying situations. And you are not at all the fiftieth person to say that to me either. Oh, and reminding me that my dead father will be there in spirit is a great way to help me feel extra shitty for attempting to feel some happiness that day while everyone else in my family will be feeling extra alone.

At Least the Sluts Didn't Leave Town!

Living in a college town means a few things: always being able to buy an Alma mater sweatshirt at any gas station, having an endless supply of foam "we're #1" fingers and looking forward the mass exodus of flip-flopped, pop-collared, cocked-hatted frat boys at the end of every May. Once commencement commences, I sigh in relief knowing that for the next two months, I won't have to listen to any more "Abercrombie and Fitch on Parade" conversations about how many beer bongs and keg stands that dude did last night as I wait in the check out line at the super market behind a pack of young men pushing a cart full of Doritos, red solo cups and cases of Miller High Life. I am equally thrilled that I don't have to watch eighteen year old girls at target pick our which furry throw rug to buy for their dorm room that will most likely get them a date with whichever aforementioned upperclassman-purchasing-beer they have their eye on.

But last night, I waltzed into a bar frequented by the college crowd and was shocked to see it almost empty. I don't mean a noticeable decrease in attendance, I mean it was damn near ghostly. I felt bad for the band. Then were good too. I didn't know who they were or anything, didn't really care, I mean, I went there to get a little tore up and then verbally abuse strangers. It was sad though, a couple or two would periodically get up and dance to their Texas-themed rhythms, the small crowd would clap at the end of songs, but that was it. I was saddened to witness this lack of drunken participation. But just before last call, I was relieved to see a flock of mildly overweight young ladies in excessively thin summer dresses and spike-heeled shoes march in. "Thank goodness" I thought, as the last one, in Daisy Dukes, a camouflage tank top and cowboy boots stomped up to the bar, "I was worried the drummer wouldn't get any head in the bathroom tonight!"

Dear Friends from High School and College,

Holy crap! Since you heard my dad died, that was like so awesome of you to friend me on Facebook and then show up to my dad's funeral after you totally blew me off for like three years. I'm totally going to forget about how you didn't call or text me or email me back after I got divorced. I know, my ex-husband was for sure the one to side with, even though I didn't cheat on him or spend all our money on hookers and blow, he was obviously the victim because he was way better at looking pitiful. So you were absolutely in the right to take his side and ignore me and act like we were never friends in the first place.

No, seriously, I get it. It's absolutely the grown up thing to do, to decide which of us you were loyal to and then completely shun the other. I loved how you made up for it though, by looking ashamed and telling my mom, a grieving widow, how you felt really bad and wish you had called me or something. That was classy.  But do you know what my all-time-favorite part was? How you hand delivered some letter from my ex-husband to my mother. That was awesome! No I didn't actually read the letter, but I bet whatever it said was something a grown up that was too embarrassed to show up to his ex-father-in-law's funeral would say.

Cool, well, it was really great seeing you. Thanks for the hug, I enjoyed comforting you while you cried during my time of loss. And, you know, if you ever feel guilty enough to awkwardly contact me again, go for it! I'll probably be halfways polite and not introduce you to my new husband again!

ADDENDUM: Okay, so it's like three weeks later and I'm a total bitch. But you can't fault me for it. Or, you probably can. Agreed: it's my fault I'm an absolute bitch. I'm going to play the "My Dad Just Died" card, and I'll see your "I Know You Were Friends With th Ex-Husband Longer" and I'll raise you a "I Suppose I Shouldn't Get So Angry, it's an Awkward Situation All Around."

OK, OK. Now I'm Ready.

Grief does crazy things to crazy people. Now that I'm ready to talk about how my dad's Death-by-Pirates makes me feel, I want to remind you that not everyone handles loss in the same way.

The week before the pirates actually killed my father, my mom, sister, aunt, brother and uncle and I all took turns laying in bed with him, sitting next to him and holding his hand while he struggled to speak, and at last, breathe. The following week I watched as my brother and sister's kids alternated between hysterically sobbing and playing games with one another as if nothing had changed. Watching my 5 youngest nieces and nephews cry and laugh and play and run, I finally understood that loosing my dad meant one thing: I want to trip my brother's kids.

Now, now. Before Brother and Brother's Wife get all upset, let me just say, I want to trip my sister's kids too. Next time any of them run by I want to stick out my foot, or an elderly relative's cane or move a chair leg in their path and I want them to fall. And when the are splayed out on the ground looking around in disbelief, just before they start to cry, I want to throw my arms out to my sides in a "T" formation and yell "Safe!" or point my thumb behind me and yell "Yourrrrr ouuuut!" or do jazz hands and say "Ta-dah!" or just hold up a big card that reads "9.6."

Why? Why would I do that? Because I'm mad as hell. Not at them, not at my siblings, and not because I will never have my daddy back. I am angry because this isn't fricken fair. All these kids got to know what it is like to have the best PawPaw in the world and my kids never will. My kids will never know how perfect a person he was, and they will  have to settle for learning his hand-me-down lessons from a highly imperfect daughter. My unborn kids will have to trust their father and I and all the rest of us who are left when we tell them the tales of this larger than life man, this giant, this demigod. And honestly, if I ever heard the stories we tell about how genius and unbelievably selfless my dad was, I would assume they were mostly exaggeration and hero worship.

For the record, I did not clothesline any children at my dad's memorial service last night. Though I badly wanted to. And there were plenty of kids running about, just askin' for it. I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't have tripped a child if he were upset about something, but I know he would have laughed about it. Indeed.

Why Can't Homosexuals Just Let us Take the Damn Picture?

I know, I know. Pirates killed my father. But you know what? I'm just not ready to discuss it.

Do you know what I am ready to talk about? Why gay men can't just take a regular picture like the rest of us. Cheeks sucked in, one eyebrow raised like they are asking a provocative question, their heads tilted, one shoulder slightly forward, as if prompted by an invisible Glamour Shots photographer. Even more disturbing are the hundreds and hundreds of these photos that are stored in the memory cards of the Droids and iPhones these men carry, not only of themselves but of other men. They snap pictures of themselves constantly, while driving especially, and then swap them like electronic trading cards.

In group photos the gay can always be spotted sitting up the straightest (how ironic) perfectly posed and making best use of the available lighting. The rest of us are slouched and shoving a sandwich in our faces, with half-closed eyes that make us appear as though we have been drinking since nine o'clock that morning. Which, in my case, is probably true.

I suppose my title was a bit misleading, because upon reflection, these men don't make us stop so they can get in perfect picture mode, they just somehow always are when the flash goes off. Which makes me wonder, are they perpetually prepared for photographic opportunities, more photogenic than heterosexuals, and females in general or are they just superhuman picture ninjas?

Happy Hospice Day!

Yesterday was Mother's Day, I know. But my family celebrated another holiday as well. This is a lesser known holiday. And like Easter, it doesn't always fall on the same day. Some years it falls on your birthday, sometimes on Christmas and sometimes on a regular old Tuesday. But this year, Hospice Day came on Mother's Day!

Never heard of it you say? Well, maybe that's because you have never had a terminally ill person or three living in your home. It works like this: the Hospice Fairies come to your house and deliver all sorts of goodies. Pamphlets, medical equipment and emergency morphine death kits. Lots and lots of family members and friends come over in rotating shifts and whisper nice and sometimes awkward things about the person you are celebrating for.

Then, everyone stays up real late at night and tells stories about the Hospice King or Queen laying in the special bed in the quiet room in the back of the house. Different families have different traditions when it comes to this part of Hospice week. Our family gets real drunk every night starting at about four in the afternoon. Then we start making up songs about everything we are doing at the moment. This year, we started a new tradition where the youngest daughter of the family shows the oldest daughter her vajazzle first thing in the morning. Happy Hospice Morning Sister!

If you have never celebrated this holiday, I hope you get to someday, because geeze, it's about the best one there is!

Hey, Federal Government, While You're at It...

I know you are really busy with this whole Osama DNA testing thing, but I was wondering. I have had like, no luck on the Maury show finding out who my baby daddy is, and I was hoping you could maybe check that Osama DNA for me?

It's probably a long shot, I know. But I've already had those guys at Maury's check Darnell, Leon, Frankie, Paulie, Stevie, Angel, Paco, Lalo, Lupe and Eddie. I was gonna see if they could look for Juanito, but I think he was locked up at the time I got pregnant with Junior, so it's probably not him anyway.

I guess what I'm saying is that you guys are checking that dead Bin Laden guy's DNA anyway, so it wouldn't be much extra work to see if maybe he's my baby daddy. If he is maybe his cave family has oil money or something that I could get for child support, you know? I mean, Junior's got brothers and sisters who have daddys that never send their checks neither, and they need pampers and whatnot too. So, you know, just let me know.

Sorry Fellas and Hispanic Lesbians...

I'm officially off the market. My amazing man asked to make an honest woman outta me and I took him up on the offer. Too bad, crusty old barflies, you had your chance. And all you overweight, spiral-permed mamis, this chica is taken.

You probably thought you had a lifetime of opportunities to snag a slice of this Amazonian delicacy, but you were wrong. So hitch your wagons to some other moderately attractive, severely hilarious and entertaining woman in another gay bar, dance club or bowling alley, because this one is spoken for. And don't expect me to be showing back up, ever!

Fellow Employees, You Are Welcome.

I bet you all think Walter's retirement party is going to be pretty lame. I am here to make sure that doesn't happen. Now, I'm not the kind of public school employee that shows up to a retirement party looking to get wasted and fall on the sheet cake. I'm a little classier than that. Don't be ridiculous, I'm not going to pull a "young new science teacher" and rip off all my clothes and jump into the pool in my tiny lacy undies. But, what I will do is get just drunk enough to say things like "No, I can totally drive home, I just need to chill in the parking lot for a while and remember where I live." When Paul's wife says to me "When are you going to stop loosing weight?" I will reply "As soon as my dad is done dying from brain cancer." And when Walter opens the gag gifts, I will lick my finger and insert it into the rear orifice of the blow up sheep.

I know it's not much, it isn't as cool as having sex in the bathroom with one of your wives or sisters, but it's what I am willing to do to make sure that you go home with some memorable moments from this party.

I Didn't Realize Being Judgemental Was a Job Qualification For Albertsons Employees

Oh, OK. I see how it is. I can see by the look on your face as you are ringing up my purchases that you think you are better than me. What you don't understand Miss Alberstsons Courtesy Clerk, is that this collection of items that I am purchasing from right now is not a fair representation of my lifestyle.

You see, I stopped on my way home from work to pick up a few necessities for my upcoming weekend. I can understand how eight Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, a bag of cat food and two packages of chocolate chips may come across as rations for a very sad and lonely woman. But what you don't know is that I only picked up these meals on a whim. They are on sale at more than a 60% savings. I don't eat them for dinner, as their title suggests. I take them to lunch. At my job. That requires a college degree. Something you obviously know nothing about.

And the cat food is a merely a favor I am doing for my boyfriend. You see, I don't even own a cat. In fact, I plan to use these chocolate chips to make muffins for the aforementioned boyfriend tomorrow morning, after we spend a very sensuous and romantic night together.

So there. My life isn't as sad and depressive as you believe. Some people. They have such bizarre imaginations. They just make these crazy stories up in their heads about people that aren't even true! They just assume things about people without even talking to them. God. I can't believe some people, like you, Little Miss High-and-Mighty Check Out Girl.

Let's Be a Little More Sensitive, Please?

Kids are so insensitive! They are always calling each other faggots and saying how things are gay. It's so cruel. I can't stand it. Don't they know it's wrong? When they say that it makes me want to walk up to them and scream in their stupid faces "Stop calling each other faggots, you idiots!"

I mean, don't they know how inappropriate it is to say that something they don't like is gay? They are so retarded for doing that. I can't believe that they don't realize that they are degrading homosexual individuals every time they say that. I can't believe kids can be such retards.

And I hate how boys and girls alike call each other fag, faggots, queer, joto and lesbo all the time. I'm like, hey Charlie Gordon, what are you, special? Don't you know you can't use words that describe members of the homosexual community as slurs? Even a sped kid would know that. Seriously, remember that "Tell me about the rabbits again George" guy from the Steinbeck novel? Yeah, even that guy would know it's not OK.

I'm just saying, apparently these kids missed the day at Special Olympics Summer Camp where they discussed that gay and lesbian themed insults just aren't acceptable in today's culture. I wish someone would help me get it though their giant foreheads.

So It's True What They Say, About First Impressions

Lately I've been trying to subtly convince my boyfriend that I would make a good wife and mother. I think this would be a lot less difficult if our "How We Met" story was a little different.

The night I first set eyes on my boyfriend, he had already set eyes on me from across the dance floor. My heavy eye make-up, high heeled dancing shoes and tight jeans were a beacon of hope for any single man wanting to get all up on a tall, leggy, childless woman. I didn't leave my apartment that night with the intention to make out with the first automobile mechanic that bought me a vodka tonic. Alas, there I was, licking the inside of the mouth of this man who paid for my drink and told me that he "worked on cars." Much to the enjoyment/embarrassment of the other club patrons, we worked the dance floor in the most erotic way two white people can. As a matter of fact, The only reason I didn't follow this mechanic home that very night was because I had carpooled with my roommate.

It only took a couple more awkward movie and or bowling dates for me to prove just what type of girl I was. The exact opposite type of girl you'd like to marry and make the mother of your children. Let's face it. This early on, men want an enthusiastic gymnast, not Betty Crocker.

That was more than a year ago and I'm beginning to worry that I may have not behaved in the most appropriate way possible. In an effort to adjust the dynamic of our situation, I just bought a recipe book so I could figure out how to make muffins. I hope my efforts aren't totally obvious or pathetic. Hey... Maybe I'll just bake the muffins with nothing but a g-string and my new oven mitts. Who wouldn't want to marry that?

My Eating Disorder is Just as Grotesque as Yours

You know, telling me to eat a sandwich is just as rude as me knocking yours out of your hand, mid-bite. Every time you say "put some meat on them bones" and then shove a handfull of walnuts into your chubby squirrel cheeks, I feel offended, not flattered. You are not giving me a compliment when you remind me that my collar bones protrude disgustingly from my chest or that my usually round face looks gaunt and skeletal.

I know you thought it was kind of nice to have a conversation with other people, in front of me, about how I would be pretty if I were one of those "cracked-out heroin models" but I really don't look pretty at all this thin.

I remember how it used to be cool in the 80's to have anorexia. It was the designer eating disorder. Then came bulimia. You weren't cool if you weren't barfing up all the food you had just gorged yourself on. Then in the 90's diet pills and laxatives were all the rage. Shitting your pants in public was almost cool, as long as you could still shop at 5-7-9. But now, someone decided that being an overeater is a disease too. Jillian Michaels and the Biggest Losers made that possible. Now society doesn't feel the same way about skinny bitches, now they are just bitches. The newest fad in eating disorders is the comfort eater. The over eater who eats to take control of their environment. Now we all cry with joy when someone looses enough weight to make a whole other person.

So, please, let's just ignore when I take my belt off at the airport, my pants fall down, and I won't draw attention to the fact that while you read this, you ate an entire loaf of banana bread. I hate my body just as much as you hate yours. The only difference is that I don't ridicule you about it.

Dear Skank at the Old Wal-Mart,

I noticed you at the old Wal-Mart the other night. Not the new one, the old one that they remodeled a couple of years ago. I guess you must have watched Pretty Woman earlier that day before you got dressed to go do your shopping at the Wal-Mart because girl, you were dressed to the 80's nines. Those thigh-high boots were something else. I didn't even know they still made those in periwinkle suede. Or maybe you got them at the Goodwill, because they did look pretty worn out, and you weren't older than maybe twenty two, so I know you haven't owned them since Pretty Woman came out in theaters.

I also saw how your pimp, or baby-daddy or whatever, was kind of helping you push the cart. Although, he had to stop a lot and touch his chin with his thumb and nod at other skanks passing by. And he could really only push with one hand because his other hand was otherwise occupied with holding up his pants.

It was of some concern to my boyfriend how your butt cheeks came out of the bottom of your lycra skirt when you bent over to make your selection from the bottom shelf of vodkas in the Wal-Mart liquor aisle. And I noticed how the little boy riding in the cart looked really sleepy. It's probably because it was about eleven at night, or maybe it was just the FAS-like face he was making. It's hard to tell.

Anyways, it was cool seeing you. Stay real.

And the Award Goes To...

I know my sister thinks that I think she is an A-hole, just because she doesn't pick up trash she drops on the floor or wear clean socks that match. But she isn't an A-hole. She is A-mazing.

We just got back from a terrible battle with Brain Tumor Pirates (Please refer to "Pirates Are Holding My Father Hostage") and I have to say, that if my sister had not been one of my shipmates on this voyage, we may never have made it home at all.

Despite what you may have heard about her, during this battle, never once did my sister: Shoplift, wipe up a spill with a sock, take a crap in anything that was not a toilet, leave broken glassware and a pile of wine soaked towels on the bathroom floor for me to clean up the next morning, barf in the bathtub, barf on me, barf on my mom, barf in a Whataburger parking lot, threaten bodily harm to strangers, loose her shoes, loose my shoes or get arrested.

So I don't know if Vikings gave awards to each other back in the day, but this family of Vikings does. And I will have you know, that Best Supporting Sister will be going to my sister.

Maybe Unconditional Motherly Love is a Myth

When I was a child my mom used to volunteer for the Right to Life organization in a booth at the state fair. She would sit proudly and distribute literature and pencils to cowboy-booted and mustachioed passers by about the miracle of life and how that miracle begins at conception. "Every life is precious" she would announce. Her deep rooted belief that every child has the right to be born was evident in the fierce, blue eye shadowed stare she would shoot at the Right to Choosers across the way.

Until recently, I have always felt that my mother loved my brother, sister and I, no matter how many times we annoyed her or made her so angry that most moms would have wished they had exercised their right to choose. A few months ago I drove up to my mom's house for a visit and we were out running errands. We drove past a billboard that featured several middle aged women with somber looks on their faces and a slogan that read "We had abortions and we regret it." My mother looked at me and I expected to hear her agree with the anti-abortion message. Instead she just said. "I regret not having three abortions."

So There's That.

There is some order to the universe, or I used to believe there was. Like, if you are driving a minivan, you have no business wearing a cowboy hat. If you are wearing a cowboy hat, then you may not wear flip flops. If you are wearing flip flops, then you have no grounds to be intimidating. If you have a reputation of being intimidating, then your reputation is ruined the minute you say "my grama, who goes to church, says the world won't end in 2012."

This Universal Order is totally fucked. Sorry boys and girls. I usually try to keep the language content reasonable, for all 4 of my readers. But it's true. It turns out that whatever entity was keeping cosmic order went to fucking lunch.

What downer this post has turned out to be, but you know what? Usually I'm quirky and fun, but now I guess  I don't have to be. Since the rest of creation doesn't have to follow the rules, why should I? Since everyone else can go out in public in tube tops and yell as loudly as possible at the prescription window at Walgreens about their ailments, why can't I write a depressing post?

My dad, a previously invincible man, is dying of brain cancer. We found out three months ago, and he's not going to last much longer. This is lame. This is out of order. This is not OK. My dad used to be able to kick the top of the door jam, now he can't even talk. So many other people need to be dying of brain cancer instead of him. I know that's not a nice thing to say, and I don't care. I don't have anything inspiring or intelligent to say about it. I don't think it's part of a bigger plan. I think it's fucked.

So there's that.

Is There a Disease Where You Get Addicted to Discovery Health and TLC?

I think I'm coming down with something. I have all these weird symptoms. It started with congestion, fatigue and the chills. Then it progressed into depression-like symptoms. Then all of a sudden I realized that I can't stop watching reality shows on Direct TV that are based around other people's mental illnesses or unusual lifestyles. First it was the shows about people with bad wardrobes, then the wedding dress shows. Then those spoiled little brats who compete in beauty pageants. After that, it all started snowballing into people who hoard and eat toilet paper and laundry detergent. Now it's pregnant women who have their babies while they are in prison and Mormon fundamentalist polygamists with 4 wives and question and answer shows with some "sex doctor" who tells me that it's possible to get herpes from the stagnant pools of water around public hot tubs! Great, now everybody will be using that as an excuse!

I can't seem to shake it. I try to change the channel, get interested in a cop drama or family film, but my hand always finds the remote and suddenly I'm watching someones life that is almost as screwed up as mine. Granted, their father isn't being held hostage by pirates, but their situation is still pretty bad. I mean, did you see the outfits that woman was wearing in public? Ugh! I'm just thankful no one has been secretly following me around with a camera for two weeks. Although the $5000 shopping spree in New York might just be the cure...

Dear Single Dads,

I am not interested in your:
Hobby, lifestyle, means of employment, exotic pet, socioeconomic status.

I already have a boyfriend with more:
Money, hair, attractive features, charisma, teeth, height, grooming habits.

I don't like your:
Birkenstocks, angry teenager, Jeep, teeth, jokes, face.

Kids Don't Know How to Work for Anything Anymore

Well, it's Mardi Gras again. Time for all the semi-attractive females to let lose their sweater puppets for an onslaught of drunken college boys and desperate, lonely men. In New Orleans there are actual cultural festivities associated with this pre-Lent observance, but for the rest of the country, it is just an excuse to come to work with a hangover on a Wednesday.

This year I am most offended because Mardi Gras beads are being sold at lunches to our students. Not because they represent a celebration marked by drunkenness and debauchery, but because in my day, we had to work for our beads! There was no way we could pay fifty cents a strand and walk around campus as if we had actually done something to earn those beads. We had to bear all in the freezing winter temperatures to greasy creepers. We wore those beads as a badge of honor, not a hip accessory.

So shame on you, society, for taking away the opportunity for our girls to learn the value of good, honest, hard work!

In My Day, We Didn't Call Our Teachers "Pirate Hookers"

I've sat through all the PowerPoint presentations developed by Human Resources about how kids are part of a more advanced society than we were. I understand they see and hear things that are more adult-themed than I ever did when I was a child, but in my day, we never called our teachers "Pirate Hookers." To their faces. Especially as a compliment.

Alright, alright. I may have made hurtful comments about a teacher's outfit, face, limp, accent, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status or apparent gender identity crisis. But never to their face. OK, there was that time I called Sister Sue "Mister Sue", but it was totally an accident. And you can't tell me that in all her 76 years of teaching she'd never heard that one before.

Here's my point. When I'm taking attendance and a kid yells "Hey Miss, you like a pirate hooker, in a good way." I'm thinking maybe there is something wrong with our society. Have we taken away the fear and respect kids should have for adults? Or should I have rethought the knickers, puffy sleeved blouse and 4 inch spike heel ensemble?

Attention Frat Boys and Pizzaria Owners:

Vintage 1995
55" Curtis Mathes projection screen television has just been let out into the public market!
Because of the extremely high demand for such rare and collectible items, this piece will be available for viewing by appointment only. Buyers may request a ticket to view and place a bid on this valuable piece of historic and profitable equipment by contacting the seller directly. Since this is most likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for most people to even see such a piece of entertainment spectaularity, a special public viewing will be announced Friday at midnight.

Pirates are Holding My Father Hostage

And when I say "pirates" I mean brain tumors.

About 5 years ago the news channels began airing stories about actual pirates. There are still sea pirates who take boats hostage and rob them. Real live pirates who live on ships and survive off the plunder they steal from other ships they catch whilst sailing around in the ocean. More recently on the news, there was a story about these four people who had a boat full of bibles, pirates attacked and killed all of them. They weren't just robbed by pirates, but killed by them too! The pirates' rage is escalating!

So when these brain tumors finally take my dad, I'm just going to tell people that it was pirates. You know why? Because then I won't have to listen to people tell me about their own aunt who personally struggled with liver/breast/colorectal cancer but ultimately survived. Because I don't want to know that your great uncle had lung cancer from smoking! That doesn't make me feel better! When you ask me how my dad died and I say "Pirates killed him." I want you to look at me in disbelief and not know what to say, then walk away or change the subject or give me something expensive or delicious. Because honestly, how many people have a response to "Pirates killed him."? I mean besides the families of those four people.

You Might Have Herpes, I'm sorry to Say.

Hey, how's it going? I really appreciate you driving all the way up to pick me up from my sister's house. It was a really long drive, huh? I mean, especially after you worked all day. Was it too windy? No? Well, that's good.

So, um, I was meaning to tell you that while I stayed at my sister's house something happened. I didn't really mean for it to happen, but it just, you know, kind of, happened. You know how my sister's kids are like, crazy, right? And the little one likes to eat on the couch a lot? And the other ones wrestle and put their dirty shoes on the couch and stuff? Well, like when I was there, they like, you know drank a bunch of soda and ate a whole mess of pudding and cookies and stuff and then like, well... they gang-raped the couch.

It all happened so fast. There were cushions everywhere and everything got stained and I was so tired and I had a couple of glasses of wine and things were so crazy and you weren't there, you know? I like, I didn't know what to do and I just... I sat on the couch. I know! I know I shouldn't have, but everyone else was sitting down in the chairs and on the cushions on the floor and on the arms of the messed up couch and I was tired and I had some wine, like I said. I was confused, and sad. Those kids are crazy! It wasn't my fault!

I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. It's all a blur in my mind and I know I should have told you sooner, but I was ashamed. How do you tell someone that your sister's kids are couch-rapists?

So like, I think maybe you and your couch should maybe go get tested?

Welcome Home, Tumors

I brought my dad's brain tumors home! They were totally done hanging out in Houston. The humidity was making their tumor hair frizzy and they were NOT impressed with the Mexican food in Houston at all. After a serious patting down by a TSA official and some wings in the airport, my dad, my mom, my brother, the tumors and I arrived in Albuquerque to a warm reception by my many rowdy nieces and nephews.

My dad ate a shit-load of peanuts while we gathered the shit-load of luggage from the baggage claim. The tumors are at home resting now, until my parents take them back to Houston in March for Spring Break. Wooooo! Tuuuumooorrrr! Sprriiing Breaakk!!!

Remember, All Inappropriate Comments Will Be Taken Seriously.

While in an airport in a foreign land, it is important to abide by all safety rules, including those specific to not making "inappropriate comments."

I arrived in the United Republic of Texas yesterday to visit my dad's brain tumors. My friend and I drove all night to get there, singing show tunes and reliving the latest season of Glee. We had to pick my sister up at the Bush Intersexualbiracialsupercontinental Airport. After a harrowing jet pack flight and tandem canoe paddling adventure to get to the proper terminal, we had to ride a train to return to the skyscraper where our rented vehicle was parked.

My sister invited a stranger from the platform to ride in our car of the "sex wagon." That man should have paid closer attention to the constant inter-terminal announcements: "All inappropriate comments will be taken seriously."

Hide Your Kids, Hide Your Wives...

Obviously, we have a bad influence in our public school system! I'm sitting in parent-teacher conferences and I keep wanting to tell all my students' parents to go to the school board and complain because our curriculum is terrible and our district is failing all of our standardized tests! "34% of our students pass the state math exam with a C- average, why are you smiling?!?"

Then I just met a mom and dad who, all I could do was stare at the mom's gigantic bosoms and false eyelashes.

I'd blame my inappropriate behavior on my lack of concentration due to my dad's gigantic brain tumors, but I do this every semester during parent-teacher conferences.