And By Hostage I Mean He's In The Basement Watching TV

When the mister and I were at lunch today we overheard a news story about someone being held hostage for 18 years. And he was all, "how can you be held hostage for 18 years"?

And that's when I said, "Easy, I've held you hostage for the last five. You call it marriage, I call it "hostage negotiation."

He laughed so he didn't believe me, but I have terms if anyone wants to hear them. My "husband" is being held hostage until at least one of the following things happens:

This man gets his own show:



or


They bring this show back with Sam still traveling:



or finally:



That's right, somebody needs to reanimate at least half of this picture and put a zombie ass Airwolf on the air. Mostly because there is nothing wrong with a reanimated Ernest Borgnine that I can figure out.

I feel the way you are looking at me and I don't know WHAT your problem is.

Oh and he's not REALLY being held hostage. I think he likes it here and the idea of these shows being on the air.

Also? There are not enough shows with eye patches these days.


***

I kind of think they missed the real opportunity with the movie Roadhouse, because Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliot wearing tight pants and kicking beer bottles out of ruffians hands was legendary.

If they just added a bearded Kenny Loggins to the crime fighting team we would have had the BEST action hero trio in history.



PS: Evidently I have to clarify, just because Ernest Borgnine is alive doesn't mean he doesn't need to be reanimated. Plus? Who wants to spell out Jan Micheal Vincent all the time? I have to use this joke more than once, you know.

Is There Such A Thing As Zombie Slop, You Know, Like PIg Food?

Mr. Booms and I have always been "anti-gun" when it comes to keeping one in the house. I have many reasons including a kid accidentally killing himself when I was in school with his father's gun, and my brother finding my dad's and shooting a hole in their box springs.

Jason and I have been on the same page until yesterday:

Jason: I'm thinking maybe we should a gun for the house and keep it someplace like the attic.

Me: What? No, absolutely not.

Jason: What if we need to protect ourselves?

Me: We can get one after the kids have moved out.

Jason: Pssshaw. Why get one then? The only person left to protect would be you.

Me: True, I see your loving point. You know, now that I think about it, we should have one in case of zombie infiltration.

Jason: A handgun is going to nothing in case of zombies, honey.

Me: So not true. You aim for the head. Always aim for the head.

Jason: Yeah right, totally not going to work.

Me: Seriously? You're going to tell me how to kill zombies? I think I'm just a little more educated in this area.

Jason: Whatever.

Me: That's it, when they come you are toast. Zombie toast. I'm tossing you in while I aim for their heads.

Chances are I probably won't, but let's not tell him that just yet.

Also? I had a conversation with my 9 year old who asked me questions regarding "the period" and "the puberty".

Sigh.

Because Sometimes My Email Is As Freaky A Place As My Mind

I'm all frisky this morning just like my five pound Yorkie Poo after she gets groomed. Probably because my hair is nearly the lightest shade of platinum I could muster without turning it blue (actually it was blue for a moment), and I'm back to my awesome bangs. I couldn't handle that side swept, get a hair cut already, bullshit I was sporting.

What I'm saying is my ass is wagging around like I just found a ball I totally forgot about under the couch and it's the coolest shit EVER!

Also, I came into some fantastic email love from Miss Yvonne and sometimes you realize you can touch someone's life even if the entire state of Oklahoma separates you from them. Check it:

Depeche Mode came on XM this morning on my way to work and it made me think of you, and then right after that Billie Idol's Dancing with Myself came on. For reals. I was air punching the shit out of my drive today. It was like you were there, except you weren't and I was by myself shoving my fist into the air and curling my lip and then the lawn guys at my office saw me and started laughing and I was all "fuck you, lawn guys! You don't even know how cool I am...I'm Miss Yvonne, assholes!" and then I did a double air punch just to spite them.

And, you know that touches me in a special place I call my heart. It's like feeding little hungry children and shaking hands with lepers. Only the kids are still hungry and there isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to make me touch those zombie freaks.

It's okay, lepers don't have feelings so don't get all crazy on me.

Inside of the little oasis that is known as my email is also an email exchange I had with the Dirty Pirate Hooker, in which I offer up some fantastic parenting advice she in no way actually asked for:

DPH: Omg, my kid is Hitler this morning. I refuse to sieg heil.

Me: Well you should, or she's probably going to rape you and throw you in the gas chamber and that would be all kinds of wrong.

DPH: I'd take a violent rape and gas chamber over her attitude today.

Me: Holy shit. What the fuck is the matter with you?

DPH: I don't know. I haven't had enough coffee yet.

Me: Well apparently. You're kid is a tool of the devil. Pretend like you don't even notice.

DPH: I wish I could video her rants in the morning and show her why I'm a drunk in 10 years.

Me: Can't you just get her up from bed at like 10:00 at night and show her that you're a drunk now?

Oh you said show her WHY! My bad.

And that is why I'm watching episodes of In Treatment lately. I need to brush up on listening/advice giving skills.

The moral of today's story. If you send me an email, it might just make it to my blog. Actually, more than likely it will. My life is a little on the slow side. And, if we're all not careful, our kids are going to get video of us looking like David Hasselhoff with a cheeseburger.

I Did That Thing Where You Tell Someone About Your Blog And Then They Have To Read It

I do this thing when I get drunk and tell people about my blog. And then I always regret it the next day. The good news is THIS TIME, I don't regret it at all. My friend Tiffany is going to be reading and I'm sure SHE will regret that shit soon.

But I know her husband and I know that she has a lot more to regret in life than this.

However, she's probably going to be confused about a few things.

Let me provide a little key to reading my blog. I write about a few things a lot.

Zombies - I have a weird fascination with zombies. She'll understand, she knows Mr. Boom's when he's been drinking.

Robots - They are crazy cool and when they take over the world I want to be on their good side.

Shivs - When robots take over the world, or I end up in prison because of something Jason has done, I will want to be as schooled on shivs as possible. So I talk about those a lot. I'm still not down with how to keister stash one though.

Joaquin Phoenix - I don't know. He's just really weird and cool. That's all.

Teen Wolf - Teen Wolf will be saving the world when the robots take over. It's the only explanation for why Teen Wolf has had a resurgence and this is the Year of Teen Wolf.

Air-punching - It's the universal signal for kicking fucking ass. Who doesn't get this?

Being a rail riding, breakdancing hobo who is a master of skullfuckery - Wow, that's kind of a long story.

Billy Idol - The king of air-punching.

Saying things about Jesus that are bad.

Other random things:

Kenny Rogers
Foreigner
Journey
Wolf Nuggets
Monster Squad
Nards
Mr. T

You know, looking over this list I now realize there is no real help for me. My mind is a strange and dark place. Which is mostly okay by me, but if you're reading my blog and enjoying it, you are screwed.

Nefarious Acts Committed Under The Cover of Darkness

I now present you with a dramatically drawn hypothetical reenactment of alleged activities, supposedly committed under the cover of darkness, theoretically.



[Close Scene]

I Crushing Your Head Because Lassos and Invisible Jets Are Played Out

I lay in bed, working and stretching out all of the kinks that always work themselves up overnight and hang around until my medicine kicks in about an hour later. So I stretched and did the very same thing I've done every morning since I was a little girl.

I reached my arm out and took my fingers and did the "I crushing your head" move to something across the room.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, well... You need to check your freaking life. You've fucked up somewhere along the way.

So I lay there and I do things like pull my drawers open from across the room. And I pick up things that are on the shelf, way over in the bathroom. I even do it with my foot and kick imaginary holes in the wall. I can actually see the sheet rock crumbling.

And that's when I realized that this? THIS? Would be the most awesome super power EVER!

I just don't know what to call it when I finally get asked what super power I'd liked to be assigned. I kind of think I just made it up.

I am, however, absolutely positive that if a hipster was going to have a super power, this would be the one, because you haven't seen this before. And if you say that you have? You are a fucking liar. Or you spent a lot of time in Europe, whatever.

So This Good Friday Thing Is Overrated

There are a lot of really hard pills to swallow along the way when it comes to being a Royals fan. I blame almost all of them on the Yankees, who have solidly ruined baseball. I cannot blame all of it on them though. I have to place a lot of the blame with fickle, fair weather fans as well as a baseball club that knows how to blow a lead most of the time. Oh and that baseball strike thing. Like hockey - strikes ruin things.

I am not easily deterred in my fanaticalness though.

When my boss announced that a good portion of our office would be out this Friday in our Monday morning meeting, I excitedly bounced around in my chair...

Me: "For opening day, right? Freaking awesome!"

I was met with blank stares from all but two of my co-workers.

Me: "Whut?"

Boss: "Uh, it's Good Friday."

My turn to meet them all with a blank stare.

Me: "Whut? Seriously? Does Good Friday have beer?"

Boss: "Betsey..."

Me: "No! Does. Good. Friday. HAVE BEER?"

Boss (patting me): "I'll explain it later."

And then? Then! They all started in on the jokes about the Royals and how they LOSE!

Me: "No! Stop! They are on top this is their year! They are picked to win!"

Co-worker "Win what?"

Other Boss who is a Royals fan: "Betsey, give it up, it's not worth it. They don't get it"

Me: "Seriously? Good Friday? Good Friday doesn't have beer and signs. Good Friday doesn't have hot dogs and cheering. There are no peanuts and camaraderie for Good Friday! Good Friday doesn't have the crack of the bat and the sense of belonging and brotherhood with thousands of other stadium dwellers! I'll wait until Sunday!"

Co-worker: "Why wait until Sunday if you don't care about Friday?"

Me: "Seriously? You don't know me! Because I'm a fucking fan man! Besides, Sunday is way better! It's Jesus was a zombie day! There HAS to beer involved with that, right?"

***

And this is where I tell you that I didn't say that last part about the zombie.

Because I'm a puss.

And Then Just Like That, 22 Years Vanished

As I turned to look into our dining room, I saw him sitting there. The radio on. Like a little old man he listened.

Slightly hunched over, his pen went to work, scribbling stats and scores. I laughed as I looked and I saw what he would be in 30 years.

Then? Then he tipped the bill of his hat back and scratched the top of his head in that way. That way that makes my heart melt. The way that is only second to the move where he rubs his eyes when he's tired.

In that moment, 22 years shed away and my heart nearly split in two as I saw him as a little boy. A little boy listening to baseball. A little boy writing down swings and hits. A little boy doing what he loved.

And then he picked up his beer and took a drink and I was propelled back to the here and now.

With that? I turned back to my zombie movie and my own beer.

Time travel wreaks havoc on my heart.

And So It Was Decided That We Will Just Be Naked For A Week And Then I'll Totally Have This Thing Covered

The result of the case study that involved only myself is that I have determined that the Zombie Virus' worst side effect was the lack of drive to do anything other than drink beer and eat Mexican food.

There was the small issue of hacking up hairballs that looked like tiny alien spawn and the nose irritation from the constant blowing, but more than that, there was the unexpected wall of laundry that didn't even take the initiative to wash, dry and fold itself while I was suffering through the worst of the infection.

And because the Zombie Virus finally decided to release it's grip on me, and also because at about 6:15 yesterday I realized that half my household was naked and the other half were only wearing wrinkled t-shirts and mismatched socks, I decided it was high time to get my diseased ass in gear.

Imagine the horror on the faces of the CDC crew that is inevitably going to show up, when all they find are our zombified remains wandering around the house with red, raw noses, hacking coughs and our ass cheeks hanging out of stained, wrinkled, ill-fitting free alcoholic beverage t-shirts.

Finding sick ass zombies is one thing.

Finding naked, sick ass zombies, peddling Jameson and Moosehead Beer is another.

Jason and I have an agreement. I do the laundry. That's it. I do the laundry. There really isn't much else to the agreement. I mean he does all the yard work and I do the one chore that unless you are naked when you do it, it is never done.

He made the agreement. With himself. I think I nodded and said okay.

I also think I was drunk.

And possibly naked.

After an hour and a half that consisted of me doing absolutely nothing that was not folding and hanging laundry (and eating a bowl of cereal), I finally came up for air and asked him to please put his drawers in the drawers. He complied and I also think that he sighed when he realized I had washed only one pair of khaki's but not the "comfy" pair of khaki's.

I say that I think he sighed because, brilliantly, he didn't say a word. He just put the other pair into the laundry room instead of wherever it was, that was not the laundry pile, that they were hiding in the first place. Mr. Booms was alive and able to tell the story this morning because he was so wise.

Unfortunately, as he stepped out of the shower, he stepped around yet another pile of dirty clothes. Wrapping the towel around his freshly showered body he said, "How is it that you did all that laundry yesterday and we still have a pile of dirty clothes sitting here?"

With that, I moaned "GRAAGH", ate his brain and then ripped off his arm and ran, half naked, in a stained, XXL Carlsberg t- shirt over to the neighbors and beat them with Jason's still twitching arm.

I'm pretty sure he forgives me though.

He had clean boxers in his drawer.

You Know How You Do Someone A Favor And Then They Turn Around And Treat You Like An Asshole?

Sure you do. If not, then meet Rassles.

So yeah, I should have learned my lesson when I guest posted last week. Click on over and read the last guest post I'm ever going to write.

Sometimes you just have to know when to Never Say Die* and other times you just have to know when to fold them**.

I'm totally shanking her when she gets back to the mid-west.




*Teen Wolf
**Mr. Kenny Rogers.

Please Joaquin, Don't Hurt 'Em!

Sometimes people don't listen when you warn through awesome artwork.


But I said it and he ignored it:



And then this happened.

All I can say is that I'm a little psychic. Also? Where was his shiv?

How To Feel Like The Walking Dead In Two Easy Steps, And Not The Awesome Zombie Dead, Just The Dead Dead

"With Fervor!" is how I would describe the way I bit into a piece of moldy bread this weekend. In my defense, I didn't notice the giant, green pond of mold until after I had thoughtfully chewed and swallowed. (It was so not thoughtful at all. It was a feeding frenzy, if you could have a feeding frenzy on one piece of bread.)

That first bite? Delicious, yet nearly vomit inducing. I noticed I had a fraction of an inch between my teeth marks and the penicillin packed punch of moldy fantastic that I had somehow failed to notice.

None of this is the point though, so I should really move on. The reason I was shoving whole grain bread down my gullet like it was something ten times more awesome than bread (like Cool Ranch Doritos, Mutha) is because after my pants declared that I'm an asshole and that they couldn't stand to be around anymore, I put myself on this crazy, no bitch ass calories, fuck you processed foods diet that has made me reclaim my prized Calorie Nazi title.

I'm not going to get into details. Mostly because I know I'm not alone in finding it annoying when bloggahs go on and on about their awesome fat fighting wars.

What I'm trying to tell you, in a really wordy and less than intelligent way, is that if you are going to go on a mad crazy detox diet, don't start on Daylight Saving Suck Ass Weekend (DSSAW - which I'm also going to refrain from rattling on about because everyone on the net is pissed, we get it).

Otherwise? You might find yourself, standing in your office on a Sunday, devoid of all life sustaining energy, shoving moldy carbs down your throat just so you can muster the energy to scrub a toilet that may or may not have other people's short and curlies thrown about it like confetti (seriously? These people lose underhairs like mad, wolfen freaks).

Really, I think the only way to end this is with an illustration. You are most freaking welcome, my little Love Cats:



Also? I'd give away someone else's left testicle for some cheese right now. This? Is going to piss "someone else" off and I don't care.

Suck it, someone else, suck it.

PS - I watched Gangland - Aryan Brotherhood this weekend, rather listlessly but still I watched. Oh the shivs I saw. It was shiv heaven. You know, if shivs were in anyway at all heavenly and not creatively crafted mechanisms of death.

My fascination with shivs has got to end but I'm just all amazed at the inventiveness of it. There is no place on Earth that the phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" is more relevant than in prison.

I didn't know I could write disappearing messages in my own urine.

Now? You are excited for tomorrow's blog post, I know. Boss Urine Messages!

Milking It

And I know you were wondering what has sent me flipping and flopping over the deep end.

I'm not ready!

I'M NOT FREAKING READY!!!!

I'm officially a half-armed zombie

Slowly they moved, seemingly without a thought in their heads. It seemed they had no real direction or destination.

Listlessly they groaned, bumping into one another. Even if I made a noise, would they notice me? Suddenly, I got my answer when the group, walking 5-wide in front of me stopped without notice. The mouse, the messiah had caught their flat, dead eyes. The grouping shifted direction, with a low, guttural moan they wandered away. I said, "Excuse me" as I veered around them. They paid me no mind.

They had no mind to pay.

Theme-park zombies care not for others.

After we hit the theme restaurant with the moving gorillas and leopards, the rodent and princess store with all their "sale" items and the mega store of all that is hot and of the musical variety we had virtually left 1/2 an arm behind.

I quickly bought myself a mouse backscratcher, mouse toothbrush and mouse flash drive and fashioned them into a shiv like I was a fairytale McGuyver. I grabbed a fluorescent pink mouse bandana and tied it around my head like I was John Rambo. With the one full arm I had left I fought my way to the parking lot, shanking and slashing mindless, money dropping zombies left and right. Somehow I managed to hold on to my precious purchases, still in their brightly colored bags.

As I climbed into my American-made rental car, screaming child in tow, I looked in the mirror at my own flat, dead eyes. In the backseat my kids screamed, blood-curdling again. Suddenly, a stuffed mouse smacks me in the head and whines, "Dreams really do come truuuuuuuue."

Mother fucker.

Tomorrow, we hit the kingdom that boasts of all it's awesome magicalness.

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.

Have you ever tried to name a company? Well, have you?

In the always exciting, rarely disappointing land of Booms, big happenings are going on. My ever-driven, hates working for The Man, wants to be The Man-husband is possibly launching his own company.

I, personally, think he's just sick of working with ass-faced whores.

In this endeavor he has acquired a partner and one of the first hang-ups they've run into is naming the company, so you know who they've turned to. Ahem.

With my offering of Zombie with a Shiv, LLC turned down, I came back with Teen Wolf Town and was again shot down. The hell? So obviously I'm dealing with some finicky mofo's here. That was my best stuff! I thought about busting out OLLCJ, LLC but that seemed kind of confusing.

Obviously, I was going to have to stretch my creative legs and get a little more, uncreative. In a moment of greatness I came up with Monarch Property Solutions.

Bitchin', right?

Wrong, so bitchin' it's taken. Well not the solutions part, but you know, the rest of it.

So this crap is keeping us awake at night and no one, I mean no one or thing keeps me from sleeping. Last night I tossed and turned, names spinning around inside my mind. Suddenly, I jolted awake and sat up in a flash of genius, I had it!

SugarPapas!

Wait, what? What the fuck is that about? SugarPapas? They are accountants not pimps.

Hmmm, I don't think I can convince them to start a pimp business, and Jason looks horrible in big hats with feathers, back to the drawing board. So back to sleep I went. I tossed and I turned, I flipped and I flopped and suddenly there it was!

Mo-Narch.

Man, that's just stupid. Maybe they could take up drug sniffing and be Mo-Narcs. Missouri's best drug finding freaks.

As it turns out, I really suck at this. I suck hardcore at this. Especially? When I'm trying to sleep.

On my drive in to work today, I thought of another one that just might work. However, despite how uncreative I am, I know that quite a few ultra-creative people read this.

If you have a bitchin' name for a property management company, throw it out there. And it has to be better than:

Radd Property Solutions. Which I thought of already, mostly because I just wanted to answer the phone that way.

But if you offer up a name and we end up using it or some version of it, we'll send you something reaaaaal niiiiiiice, Clark.

So, any thoughts?

I Feel Weird...

Recently I've realized that I've been feeling really strange. Some of you might call it "manic" and still some of you may have referred to the fact that I might be "cracking the fuck up."

Whatever. You guys can be so mean.

But truly, I have been feeling weird and suddenly as I was driving back to my office from lunch with Jason today, it hit me.

I was sitting behind the wheel and I was all, "Wait, what is that? Is that what I think it is? Is that happiness? Yes, Yes, I think it is."

When I laugh, I'm feeling it on the inside rather than just laughing because it's what I'm supposed to do.

Suddenly it feels like there is life inside of me again. I don't feel like the soft underbelly of a raw nerve ending.

I feel alive.

And, I haven't felt this way in nearly 4 years. Not since Jadon died.

Much to my husband's chagrin, we suddenly remembered why everyone used to say that I reminded them of Dharma or Dharma reminded them of me, and let it be said that Jason is definitely the Greg to my Dharma.

So what appears to be me cracking up, is actually the first time I've been "normal" in so very long.

To celebrate this feeling, I have put together the BEST DRAWING EVER!

That's right, I went there.



Say it with me now! TADOW!

Rosebetsey's Baby

Lately you may have noticed that I've been going off on tangents that involve zombies, shivs, Teen Wolf, air-punching, air-punching while watching Teen Wolf and so on.

For those of you who have read Rosemary's Baby or at least seen the movie, then you will understand why I've gone insane and have almost, just almost started eating raw, red meat and drinking a "shake" every morning.

Because when you give birth to the most adorable version of Satan's seed you go ape shit crazy.

And if you don't believe that Satan's seed part, I beg of you to lay your eyes on this grandiosity of magnificently, adorable freaking ornery:



Yeah! That tore it's way out of me like the Alien! And no, Peter Coyote was no where around when it happened.

Yeah, I'm having THAT day

So you know how you lay there in bed and you think about the day ahead of you and it becomes increasingly more difficult to get your ass in gear because as you lay there you realize that you are probably the LEAST creative person you will encounter in the entire day?

You realize that some run-on sentence that probably makes very little sense just might be the very best thing you do today and it's only 8:45. Wait, 8:46?

Then you realize that you really need to start working on doodles of conversion vans because if you are ever going to be able to pull-off a 1/2 arm zombie road surfing on top of a van in aviator sunglasses to the smooth sounds of Kenny Loggins while wearing a Teen Wolf t-shirt you are really going to need the practice. And by practice you really mean 4 years of art school. But because 2009 is the Year of Teen Wolf and you've already committed so strongly to 1/2 arm zombies you better get to work on making the two jive. And I mean a rockin' Teen Wolf Zombie/Kenny Loggins jive to make the world know you mean bidness.

Yeah, I'm totally having one of those days. I'm sure they have a book I can read to get through this though.

The only thing getting me through this situation is that I'm pretty sure with just minor effort I can top this:



Because if I can't top the beaver on a stick that my almost 2 year old brought home yesterday, I should just end it now, people.

And now I have to go write sentences that make sense and don't embarrass everyone who has ever known me. Although they wouldn't admit it now.

From The Legal Department

While checking my blog stats and referrals recently, I noticed this very nice lady gave me a ringing endorsement. And because "crazy" is not synonymous with uncaring, I instantly became worried for her and then for myself. Because sometimes crazy is a tad selfish.

I mean, here she is telling the world to read me all willy nilly. Has she thought about the implications of this? The potential law suits. The corruption and mayhem that could ensue?

So, because I was all wrought with worry for anyone linking to me, I consulted my legal team (me and a Sharpie) and we put together this warning or disclaimer, if you will. I encourage anyone who sends readers this way to think about posting this warning. If not for me then for the children. I'm not exactly sure which children I'm referring to, but children seem to need a lot of attention. And causes. People like causes for children. Especially hungry ones.

I get off on a little bit of a tangent about air-punching, which seems sort of extravagant AND I use the word twat and maybe even incorporate a zombie, but I'm pretty sure this will cover your ass in any court of law. And it's two pages because legal documents are supposed to be long. It makes them seem more important.




Notice the few places that I edited as well. Because editing happens in legal documents all the time. I even "borrowed" some language from those I consider to be brighter than me.

Oh and the "her" mentioned at the end is me. My husband calls me that.

Do you know what it is I'd like to say?

Because I'm not entirely sure that I do. I mean, I'd like to say that yesterday was the most offensive day that I've ever had.

Um, but that would be a complete lie. I mean there was the day that I told my best friend that it was time to tweeze because she looked like she had two dead cats glued to her forehead. Or the time I told her that if she ever went bald that she could just grow out those brows and brush them up over the top of her head and look like the Italian guy that's in all the movies like Goodfellas. (Who is Frank Sivero but there is not one good picture of him to be found).

See? Totally offensive right?

I mean I wasn't taking on the whole Jesus loving, anti-hip hop world, but it is really so few days that I do that anyway. Usually I just do that on Sunday. It's just me on the opposite side of the Fred Phelps camp, I'm annoying people in an awesome way and he's getting spit on. Usually by Jason.

Yesterday may have just been the most offensive day in my blogging history but given the mood I've been in for the past couple of months, I can give you a money back-guarantee right now that it won't be my last. Except that you don't pay for this shit, but you should start.

I'm on a mission to prove that words are just words and it's the heart behind them that is important. And trust me, peeps, there's a good heart here behind this saline.

My 'might just be an Atheist/Science is King' husband warned me I would be deemed offensive yesterday. And while I'm not an Atheist I just think that Jesus is truly my b-boy and he'd want me to think he was awesome. Because he was and is and we know he didn't drink Folgers too ;)

But it was this warning that my husband had in mind when I came upstairs laughing this morning and said "Can you freaking believe, I had a rude ass comment on my blog this morning?" I knew I was seconds away from a big fat told you so and possibly a replay of the UFC smackdown in the Booms' house. So I blurted out. "Uh yeah and can you believe it was on the posting about Crazyman getting slapped in the face? Have I done nothing right?"

So I've decided that I can't even get trolls to respond appropriately. I have utterly failed at being a good blogger.

So for that I apologize, but I will not apologize for zombies with 1/2 arms and shivs or for even saying that my son's baby-sitter has a meticulous house and bakes cookies, because how the fuck did I even DARE to tread on that ground, I ask you?

I was also unfollowed on Twitter yesterday too. By a person who JUST started following me that very day. If I knew how to get a hold of her I'd say "well obviously, you didn't even KNOW me!"

Because she didn't, so meh.

And would you look at this picture? I totally missed what I was trying to achieve:

Now that? Is totally offensive. I look like a blow-up doll that just figured out what her complete and total purpose in life is.

And for those of you that can view the Dirty Pirate Hooker's blog, you should scoot right on over there because there is a totally AWESOME cartoon by yours truly posted.

PS! I just got my new mini-laptop. My kick-ass husband left work early and came home with it to surprise me!