Tag Archives: life

Time flies when you’re an alcoholic.

7 Feb

I’m afraid I might start drinking this french vanilla coffee creamer straight out of the jug. I’m glad there aren’t any straws nearby, or I’d be in some serious trouble. At least this kind is sugar free. Fifteen calories a tablespoon is better than sixty calories a tablespoon I guess. Hopefully I can just get ahold of myself and put the jug back in the fridge where it belongs.



WELL, I apologize to all of you for not writing a single syllable for like 10 weeks. I have not been in this neck of the woods since the Jurassic Period. Contrary to popular theories out there, I have not been murdered, kidnapped, in a brain-damaging accident, or in Madagascar for the past month. I’ve just been drinking. A LOT. So sorry to keep you all biting your nails and staring longingly at your email accounts and mobile devices, waiting for a new fat steaming slice of Sheppard’s Pie to arrive. I’m back in action, boys and girls.

Let’s recap this gap in time:

1) Christmas happened.  I binge ate a holiday feast that would have made an Ameristar Casino buffet look like Tiny Tim’s Christmas dinner. For me, Christmas is about chugging 11 metric tons of gravy, shoveling sweet potatoes into my pie hole with my bare hands, stealing all the good parts of the turkey before anyone else has a chance to get to them, and consuming teeth-rotting amounts of Welch’s sparkling grape juice. I did all of those things and plunged deep into a coma afterward. It was good.



2) New Year’s didn’t happen.  I awoke on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, feeling unwell. At first I thought it was day two of my life-threatening hang over, as I had gotten Lindsay Lohan wasted the Thursday before. After spending all day Friday with a skull-shattering headache and a hurting liver that would have killed me if it had hands and a loaded weapon, I figured my vodka-soda holocaust was just spilling over from Friday into Saturday.

I was wrong. My throat was aflame, I was sore and achey, and had what I like to refer to as “sick breath.”  By high noon, I had full blown strep throat. My fever was extreme. I was flip-flopping back and forth between menopausal hot flashes, bursting into sweat and watching steam rise off of my forehead to becoming frigid, icy cold, shuddering with the chills and freezing half to death. I spent 22 hours laying in my bed or on the couch, with half a dozen blankets stacked on me, shivering my ass off and sobbing like a baby.

I have never had strep throat before. My throat was hurting like a bitch, but I was so ill all day on Saturday that I never bothered to get up and investigate my throat at all until Sunday when I woke up. I busted out the flashlight on my Droid and took a look. “HO-ly f*ck.” I shouted. My throat was DISGUSTING. I have pictures, but I’m afraid to post them on the world wide web in fear of losing readers, and also my readers losing their lunch. It was extremely swollen, bright red and black (BLACK!), and nauseating. I have never seen anything like it. I thought I would die. This lasted for about four or five days, and then I finally kicked it. Anyway, the point is, I couldn’t get drunk on New Year’s, and that was depressing.

3) I went to Cancun, Mexico.  This was a 7-day free company trip that I took with 18 other co-workers from the ol’ roofing outfit. I have been to Mexico twice before on company trips, and let me tell you, it is a trip made for raging alcoholics who like to party. The last two all-inclusive resorts I stayed at had four bottles of liquor on tap INSIDE my hotel room, mounted on the wall for easy access, plus a mini fridge filled with beer, soda, and water that was safe to drink. Room service ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, wherein you could request whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and it would be delivered to your room, stat. Sixteen Sol beers, four plates of nachos del grande, a Scrabble board, and a few extra towels at 4:15 a.m.? No problem. Eduardo would show up with a shiny cart within minutes to suit your drunken desires. It was fantastic.

Everyone was wasted. Beginning at 8 am, Enrique Iglesias and Ke$ha songs would be blaring from the bars, drunken hooligans were playing chicken in the pools, doing shots of flaming Dr. Peppers, dropping beer bongs in the hot tubs, screaming like assholes and speaking Spanglish to the resort staff. This continued well into the night until we would head to the clubs (conveniently located just a couple blocks from the resort) around 11 pm, where we would rage until 3 or 4 am at clubs the size of football arenas. Little Mexican girls would prance around shooting water-guns filled with tequila into your face, free Jello shots came around every few minutes, and music would pound into the night until the wee hours of the morning. It was insane.

Why would I expect anything different from this trip?

We showed up to the resort on Saturday afternoon. After getting settled in, we began strolling around the property to see what kind of mayhem we would encounter. Instead of half-naked hotties doing strike-outs and crazy twenty-somethings being crazy drunken lunatics, we saw a lot of Florida-retirees in Tommy Bahama shirts and socks with sandals. Something was a little off.

After exploring the pools, beach, and restaurants, we realized we were basically at a 55+ retirement resort. Olds everywhere. There were tits on the beach, but the kind that fell below the bellybutton (just ask Trent). A lot of the bars on site closed at 11 pm. There was practically no music.

Mistakes were made.

Instead of spending seven days drunker than David Hasselhoff in 2005, I spent seven days eating my weight in resort food, which was also fine. We made up for the lack of binge drinking with actual activities, including snorkeling,


deep sea fishing,



eating (a lot),



and the highlight of my trip, swimming with dolphins!



Don’t worry, I still got really drunk.



4) I had a baby.

Just kidding.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I will be posting more regularly again now that I’m back in the great state of Colorado and have nothing to do but snowboard and laze around like a bum. Ciao, folks.

Me:   “Do we have any ranch dressing?”
Mom:   “I’m sure there’s some in the fridge.”
Me:   “Let me clarify—ranch dressing that didn’t expire in year 2000.”
Mom:   “I’m sure there is!”
Me:   “Oh here’s some. Let’s see……….great, February 2010.”
Mom:   “That’s not that bad!”



11 Dec

I just scraped a bunch of skin off my knuckles while carrying my laundry basket down the narrow cinder-block walled staircase that leads into the basement. It’s impossible to put bandaids all over these wounds. I feel like I might have to take a rubber glove, fill it with Neosporin, and then just wear it for a few days. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.

Just this morning I said, “It’s about that time of year again….that time of year where I get sick.”  Not three hours later, I find myself sniffling, sneezing, and moaning with the oncoming symptoms of an annoying cold. I am rather stuffed up over here. Also, my noggin is a poundin’, and my energy is at a bare minimum. On top of that, I can’t seem to heat up my body no matter what I do. I just put a sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and I had to stop myself from crawling right on in there to get toasty. I feel like doing nothing but merely existing on my couch in my sweat pants with tissues dangling from my nostrils, watching What Not To Wear.

That show has got me by the balls. I forgot how great it was. Are these people serious? Some of these individuals need electroshock therapy because of the things they’ve been wearing. I just watched an episode where this woman wore nothing but turtle items. Turtle everything. Shirts with turtles on them, giant gaudy turtle necklaces, turtle pants, turtle bracelets—and on top of all this turtle paraphernalia, she wore Crocs and mens cargo shorts. Bad.

I’m glad I avoided living in a generation where people still used folding paper road maps to navigate their way through the world. I have been lucky enough to be blessed in the era of Map Quest, quickly evolving into Google Maps directions, then the invention of the GPS, followed by turn-by-turn navigation on my smart phone. Thank God. Can you imagine having to try to use a map the size of a table cloth whilst driving throughout a busy city trying to locate a Bank of America? Big creases through entire cities, ketchup stains on toll road signs, rips through the legend. What a nightmare. Mapping and driving is more dangerous than texting and driving. I am so happy to be able to just fire up the ol’ cell phone and say, “Send me to Omaha, Phone,” and it does. It just does.

….Droid. Droid does. You get it.

I wish for someone to purchase me Hungry, Hungry Hippos for Christmas. I truly love that game. I also loved that game where the little fish went around the circular “pond” chomping their teeth together, and you had this tiny little fishing rod of sorts to catch them with. Memories. It’d be funny if they replaced the hippos in the game with really hungry people like Nicole Richie and Kate Moss and Mary-Kate Olsen. Except then the balls that the hippos chomp after wouldn’t be balls, they’d be diet pills.

Never mind.

SO, this week I will finally be returning to the glorious Midwest for the holidays. I can’t wait to see my fellow Council Bluffians and be a little irresponsible while donning Christmas sweaters on the reg. WHEW! I trust you all have delightful holiday plans this year. If not, maybe this will brighten your day:

I will be holding the next drawing on Sunday, December 18!

The next prize iiiiiis:


This fantastic invention in which the classic puffy warm mitten meets the windshield ice scraper in a glorious marriage, keeping your extremities toasty while you scrape snow off your car in the frosty mornings this winter. The actual scraper-glove I’m giving away is even cooler than the one pictured above. This is a fantastic invention. To become eligible for prize drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie by email, and 2) leave comments! Every comment you leave puts your name into the drawing. Good luck!

Time to go. Bye now.


B:   When do you think we’ll be hungry enough to eat our dessert?

A:   I hope soon.

Panic room.

29 Oct

Hearing your phone ringing and trying desperately to find it in your purse is such a panicky feeling. You can hear it wailing away, louder, then quieter, then louder again as you dig through the mountain of junk in your purse, getting closer to it, then burying it under sixteen gas receipts and a pair of gloves again. You know time is running out the longer that ringing continues. It’s like trying to get a victim out of a burning building. You’re trying so hard, but the sand is quickly pouring out of that hour glass. Your window of success closing rapidly. And then it stops. 1 missed call. Your victim died of smoke inhalation and is now being swallowed in a fiery blaze in the elevator shaft. And you find that god forsaken phone two seconds after the person hangs up. Tragedy.

I guess you could always do what Lady Gaga does, and secure your phone to your head.


I’m not recommending it though.



So many things accumulate in one’s purse. When you first get a new handbag, you put just the bare necessities in it. You feel so pleased that everything is so neat. You simply have your keys, your wallet, your phone, a camera, chapstick, a pen, and a pair of sunglasses. Then a month later there’s deodorant, compact powder makeup, eleven pens, fourteen dollars in change, dog treats, lip gloss, perfume, a cold french fry, wadded up receipts, lotion, movie ticket stubs, Tylenol, crumbs, candy wrappers, free-floating pieces of gum, plastic silverware, water bottles, multiple pairs of sunglasses, babies, rodents. The list goes on. Really the only solution to this issue is buying a new purse. Cleaning it out is not an option. You simply must purchase a new handbag, and hand-pick the items out of your old purse that you wish to transfer into the new purse. The “necessities.” And so begins the cycle once again.



I woke up today to snow falling. I was ecstatic. Two hours later after I emerged from my office building, the snow had quickly accumulated. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of white, and the snow continued to fall heavily. Out came the Christmas music, immediately. I jovially chimed along with “Sleigh Bells” and “Jingle Bell Rock” in my car, dancing and stuffing Dove milk chocolate into my pie-hole all the while. This is what I typically do in celebration of the coming winter months. It’s really the only way to appropriately ring in the frosty weather.

WELL, I would write about more stuff, except that I can’t locate my phone (ironically), and all my blogging ideas are on it. So…….sorry. Bye.


B:   “What color towels are you going to get?”

A:   “I like the yellow….and I also like the red. I think I’m going to get McDonald’s colors.”

Home is where Taco John’s is.

25 Oct


Only a few more short weeks until I can travel back to the Dirty Bluffs of Iowa and be reunited with the homies and skanks I grew up with. One of the first things I will be doing upon my arrival back in the Midwest is getting Taco John’s. Apparently they don’t believe in Taco John’s in the eastern hemisphere of the country. They don’t believe in a lot of things in this area of the country though. Politeness, courtesy, selling alcohol, using the left lane on the highway, gas pumps that stick so you don’t have to hold them with your hand the entire time you fill up, efficient road systems, Bank of America, pet friendly apartments, kindness, fun. The list goes on. There is really nothing here to miss when I leave. Except Sheetz. Sheetz is the one savior this dismal place has to offer.



It’s like QuikTrip, but better. They have DELICIOUS french fries, fantastic milkshakes and other beverages, nachos, sandwiches galore, free air, perks, hilarious slogans, the cleanest bathrooms you’ve ever seen, AND it’s open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Sigh. This I will miss, and this alone.

Tonight’s going to be a great night. It’s Taco Tuesday, and the X Factor is on. That is unless baseball decides to so rudely stick its ugly head into my television schedule YET again, in which case I will be writing a very harshly worded letter to the MLB, mark my word.

I wish Facebook chat had away messages like AIM did back in the day. AOL had it all figured out. “Stepped out to lunch.”   “On the phone.”  “Be right back.”  They even let you make your own. “Dog just puked on the carpet – be back in 5.”  “Sprinting after the mailman.”   “I ate Peking Garden for lunch, now I’m exploding in the bathroom.”  I don’t like to have to log off of Facebook just because I need to go stir my pasta and I’m afraid someone might chat me up and I won’t be there to answer politely. Can’t I just leave an away message? This is such a simple addition to the already complex chat system they’ve created. What’s one more detail?



It’s the time of year again where my hands are permanent frozen blocks of ice until the weather consistently reaches temperatures above 72 degrees. Shaking hands is super awkward. The person reaches in for a warm firm shake and is met with a deathly cold ice hand. They always jolt back, wide-eyed as if they just reached out and got an electric shock. It’s unavoidable. Someone get me battery operated heater-mittens, would you?

WELL, time to go.


“What’s ‘Ron’s weed room?'”

“It’s a big room full of weed, and it’s Ron’s.”

High life.

24 Oct

Ladies and cross-dressing males, have you noticed the phenomena with high heels recently? Suddenly they went from “hell yeah I can rock this” to “holy shit, I’m wearing circus stilts, someone get me down from here.”

What is the deal? All high heeled shoes went from a comfortable 2 or barely manageable 3 inch height to skyscraping 5 and 5 1/2 inches. It’s extremely unreasonable. I would break both of my ankles just trying to walk from my apartment to my car, assuming I could even make it down the front steps. I’m no circus freak. I can’t walk on stilts, Mr. Madden. I look stupid enough as it is stumbling around at the bars on a Friday night without wearing hazardous shoes that would make me hobble about like a newborn baby foal.

Is this some sort of practical joke the fashion industry is playing on us mortals?  “Lol, watch them try 2 walk in these. They’ll totes think it’s what everyone is doing. Lol.”  Even if I were able to manage taking more than 10 steps in these ridiculously tall pumps, there is no way in hell I could last an entire night in them. IT JUST DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE, YOU GUYS!!!!

Sometimes when I’m in a large room, I like to look around and scope out things I could use to defend myself in case of an unexpected attack. I pan the room and say to myself, what could I wield as a weapon if the need should arise? Lamps, scissors, chairs, etc. You know, just in case. Does anyone else do this? I can’t be the only one.

Today while I was in line at Wal-Mart, I got the displeasure of viewing this fat hag’s glowing white chub and glorious tattoo:



Comic sans font. “Dave.” Nice and classy. Dave is a lucky dude, isn’t he. This is probably one of the worst tattoos I’ve ever seen. Classic Pennsylvanian. This cow isn’t even too fat to walk, yet she chose to buzz around on a motorized cart because just like almost everyone else in Pennsylvania, she’s a worthless piece of crap.

WELL, time to catch up on some Always Sunny. I am two episodes behind. I’m not sure how this happened.



A:   “I wonder what the actors from Hocus Pocus are doing right now.”

B:   “Meth.”

Pillow talk.

19 Oct

I was driving down the road today when I thought of something funny to write about. Being that I was manning a sports utility vehicle at the time, I didn’t have the means, nor the opportunity to jot it down. “I’ll remember it later,” I said.

I didn’t.

Alright, Lauren Conrad. You have sucked at life on your annoying reality tv shows in good old California, and for that, you are on my shit list. However, your Kohl’s clothing line has nearly completely redeemed you. Great threads. Just great. So much lace and chiffon and lovely neutrals and dusty roses and OH the goods. I need six million dollars to spend on trendy clothes. Someone win me the lottery.

It was decided that our pillows were in need of replacing finally. What once were fluffy, springy, puffs of comfort are now flat, lumpy, lifeless sacks of sadness. We needed new ones. After drooling uncontrollably over Lauren Conrad’s clothing line at Kohl’s, I made my way back to the bedding and started looking at the pillows. I didn’t know where to start. Shopping for new pillows is a daunting task. You stand there trying to hunch down and rest your head on the pillow which is enclosed in a plastic bag, then you start squeezing it with your hands in an attempt to gauge the firmness, except that doesn’t work because no one ever squeezes their pillows between their palms. What does this pillow feel like?! You stress. How does it compare to my old faithful?! AHHH!!!!!


I went with a medium and a firm. The medium was a mistake. It swallows my head like an angel food cake made of down. Should have gotten two firms. Good thing Kohl’s has a rockin’ return policy.

Can anybody tell me what the F-CK Nicole Scherzinger was thinking when she put freaking Dexter through on The X Factor? Are you kidding me? Dexter is a kooky old homeless black man that has critters living in his hair. He wears platform shoes, stumbles around like a drunk prostitute with prosthetic legs, lives in an air-brushed denim jacket, and just scowls and screams. The man doesn’t even sing. He’s a crazy bum. What is this, Boiling Points? Also, Nicole, your long, dramatic pauses and unnecessary “build-ups” are really making me want to stop watching. Don’t be so kitsch. You’re just annoying. I’m sorry. You’re mega hot, but you’re being f-cking annoying.

And SIMON? Lay off the liquor. I don’t know if you noticed, but you put stupid f-cking Simone through instead of hot, angelic voiced Caitlin Koch. Simone is an idiot. I hate her. And then MELANIE?! You’re lucky you redeemed yourself and brought her back, because I was enraged and ready to boycott the television show. Little chubby Rachel and Melanie hold it down. Their voices move mountains. Drew Xzyq40wicz is also just incredible.

I’m really glad LA Reid & Rihanna aren’t total morons and got rid of the Vanilla Ice imitating pest named Nick Voss and his hopeless, irritating Elvis persona. His jitter leg? I wanted to fire a cannon at him every time he jitterbugged and Parkinsoned his ass around the stage. Ugh.

Little rapping Brian makes my day. Little niglet really gets me going. He’s great. And then Marcus? Marcus has the voice of a g-ddamn angel.

Well, time to go watch more shows about serial killers. Investigation Discovery Channel has got me by the balls.

….Stop lookin’ at mah mom! Mah mom!

X Factor joke. Whatever. Bye.


“That’s what she got me for my birthday. Like, I know almost everything came from the Dollar Store, because I’ve seen it there.”


9 Sep

Friday is always a bad day to publish a blog post. People are too busy destroying their bodies, minds, and spirits with…well, spirits. Not that I blame them. The right thing to do on a Friday night is to come home all pissed off from work, log onto Facebook, update your status to how drunk you’re about to get, grab a Coors Light, and step into the shower with said Coors Light while you shampoo your hair, blare rap songs about getting hammered, and then go get hammered yourself. What’s a Saturday morning without a pounding post-tequila headache, a missing cell phone, regret, and throw up on your shoes? Well that’s just not a Saturday at all.

I am ready to bludgeon multiple citizens of Jeannette and/or Latrobe, Pennsylvania to death. Can I get in trouble for saying this? I don’t think so. I think I am protected by several amendments. Well, maybe one amendment. Anyway, freedom of speech, blah blah blah. Seriously. People here need to be punished. They all share the same mentality that they deserve everything for nothing. They’re all victims. The world owes them something because they work so hard at being lazy, jobless, bottom-feeding parasites. I was red with rage today. Dealing with these people is going to drive me to drink myself to death, and turn grey in the process.

Helping people with insurance claims here in western PA is like trying to help an injured, famished animal. All I’m trying to do is wrap your bleeding wound and feed you some Apple Jacks, raccoon! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO BITE ME?! DON’T YOU KNOW I’M ON YOUR SIDE?!?!?

People don’t get it.

I am 100% certain that I will be slapping one or more people across the face before I leave this state. I am also delivering some very brutally honest, mean, “you suck so bad” letters when I depart. There are so many people here that need to be told how miserable, ugly, incompetent, disagreeable, and ignorant they are. I am first in line to do so. I’ve already written one. It begins like this:

Dear Toucan Sam,

It’s a nose joke. This woman’s nose is the size of the Great Pyramid of Giza. You could build a gazebo on it. You could install an in-ground pool on her nose. They could move the Iowa State Fair campgrounds to her shnoz. It’s that big.

I can’t wait to deliver it. I am rubbing my palms together with anticipation, snickering all the while. I hope she cries and is too embarrassed to ever show her nose I mean face in public ever again. Perhaps she’ll cut it off. I’ll have to send a follow-up letter to find out what she decided to do.

I’ve really been sucking down the Dr. Pepper today. In the store, I noticed they sold 8-packs of these miniature cans of Dr. Pepper, so I bought them thinking that it would be a good way to satisfy my insatiable craving for DP without drinking a pony keg of it at a time. That didn’t work. Instead I just drink like 3 miniature cans instead of one regular one. It’s too delicious. I have no regrets.

If you need me, I’ll be in a soda-induced coma. Goodbye for now.


“At my grandfather’s funeral and I just sharted bad.”

Suck it.

8 Sep

1:34 pm on Monday, September 5th. I find myself in the living room wearing long pants, a shirt, and covered in a furry, warm blanket. At this exact minute yesterday, had someone tried to coerce me into wearing pants or even showed me a blanket, I would have choked a bitch and fled screaming. The heat would have made me actually explode. The heat has finally vanished. It’s 61 degrees outside and rainy. BOY do I love me some chilly weather. I will be donning a cozy sweatshirt and fuzzy socks soon. I am tickled pink that it is finally feeling like fall.


You might remember that the Dirt Devil I bought for $32 works about as well as dragging a towel around the carpet (it’s a complete piece of shit, and calling it a “vacuum” is really false advertising). I do not wish to continually borrow my next door neighbor’s 100 pound sweeper circa 1980, so I went on an Craigslist search to get myself a new sucker. I came across a woman selling a Eureka bag-less vacuum cleaner for $40, and locked it in. I’ll be picking it up on Wednesday, and then the rest of the day will be spent sucking up dog fur, carpet particles, hair, and Oreo crumbs until the floor is clean enough to coat myself in honey and roll around on without having anything stuck to me afterward.

I hope it works. BOY will I be pissed if it blows.

One day when I am filthy rotten rich and live in a home that I care about and have household items that are worth spending money on because I no longer live the nomadic life of a roofing gypsy, I wish to own an infamous Kirby or Rainbow vacuum cleaner. I will walk around dangling bowling balls from the hose extension just to brag, pour buckets of sand into my Turkish rugs just to clean it up again, and suck the remote control toward me when I am too lazy to get up. It will be fabulous. That vacuum and I will go down into history as the greatest friends that ever lived.

A girl can dream.

My body is currently made up of 45% Dr. Pepper and 55% blood right now. Chik-Fil-A really nailed the syrup-to-carbonation ratio on the head. It’s perfect. I would like to live off of it for the rest of my days. My teeth would fall out. I’d be huge.

You can’t win them all.

WELL, bye.


“I am drinking a Playboy magazine and reading a Bud Light in my friend’s parents’ garage. America.”

The dog days aren’t over.

4 Sep

The temperature outside reads 93 degrees. The heat index because of the inconceivable amount of humidity (96%) is 109. ONE HUNDRED AND NINE DEGREES!

It is September 4th.

I was very close to actually dying today from the heat. I have never experienced such oppressive humidity before in my life. It was so bad. I could see it. It looked like fog settling in over the entire city for miles and miles. I was sweating hand grenades. I held my Droid up to my ear for a few minutes while I spoke on the phone, and my arm was literally dripping with sweat. I am now in my living room sitting on my couch with an ice pack on my lap, and my computer on top of the ice pack, because it is too FACKING hot even to have my computer on my skin.

Good one, Mother Nature. You got us. Now stop being a jackass and drop the temperature by about fifty degrees. I could not possibly be more antsy for fall weather. All I want to do is be comfortable and snuggly in hoodies and jeans and not sweat my ass completely off of my body while riding in my un-air-conditioned vehicle.

A girl recently requested my friendship on Facebook. I clicked on her name to browse her profile before deciding to accept or not. This was her current profile picture:

This was the one after that:

Can you guess what the rest were like? I’ll give you a hint: they made up the Jurassic Park cast.

Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

My phone keeps auto correcting to stupid things. For example, it sends “Baghdad” instead of “hahaha” on a regular basis. Someone says something funny, and I reply, “Baghdad.”  It doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone ever talk about the Middle East more often than they would laugh? I guess unless you’re a POW. Then again, most POWs probably don’t have cell phone privileges, so we’re back to Point A.

Recently I ended one of my posts with a quote from a television show that I found humorous, which was “And that is why you don’t get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club.”  Shortly after, I discovered on my blog info that tells me what search terms lead people to my blog that somebody out there in the world Googled “Why don’t you get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club?”   Baghdad. Someone didn’t get it and wanted to find out.

WELL, time for me to sweat to death. Bye bye.


C:   “I’m drunk and watching Titanic in my bed.”

B:   “I am also watching Titanic. I am getting emotional. Such a sad love story. Leonardo just gets me.”

C:   “My emotions are knocking at the door, too. But when she blows that whistle, BOY is that uplifting. She really wants to go on, you know? Her heart wants to go on.”