The other day I was sittin’ in the salon, getting my purple fabulosity put in. I was flipping through a Maxim men’s magazine. Very interesting and funny stuff in there, and as expected, lots of girls.
There was 1 section on a lame-o smelly pirate hooker named Aryanni. She’s a stupid UFC Octagon girl. I would so smack her teeth on the octagon. Anywho, I turned the pages to see her stats (she might as well be 13, like *negative* 5 foot, 4 pounds, ridiculous business) and low and behold that huzzy had the *gumption* to be frolicking in the flippin’ grass, in just a pair of panties by Honeydew.
How, you ask, did I know the designer of the fab little panties? Because. I own them. I may have looked like Ary-puky-anni in the 5th grade, but alas…not now.
I’m dieting now…on Dr. Pepper and lemonheads.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A bunch'a (un)important crap.
I just overheard Gracelyn saying, "I’m gonna tell you for the *last* time, Violet! You don’t say it like “damn it, shoot”, you just say *damn it*"!!!!
Are the cattle driven to have relations when they’re directly in front my glass door? Bunch’a flipping exhibitionists. I don’t drive out in the middle of them in the pasture and have relations where *they* can see. Okay, so maybe I did *one* time, after going to the Jaycee’s Haunted House in Tyler when Byron and I were 19-ish, but they *so* weren’t the same cows!!
There’s an electric fence out away from our house, in the pasture by the pond. We use it when the cows are in the pasture by the pond, so they’re not gator bait. The kids know they’re not allowed to go by the pond outside, and our house alarm even beeps every time a door is open or closed, so we know when they go out. Long story short, the girls were playing out in the yard, in front of the same glass door the cows had relations by. Violet ran towards the pond, with me yelling, “Violet, stop! Do *not* run to the pond! The fence is on! You’re gonna get shocked! Violet!!!!” ZAP. Well, so much for that. Don’t get all huffy with me, it’s not that strong, and didn’t even leave a red mark on her hands. Not even an hour later, Quentin set his gun on it to aim better. ZAP again. Moron. Wasn’t supposed to be shooting *towards* the cows in the first place.
Hmmm….what else.
OH! I got supah-fab’lous new purple hair, and I’m rocking it *all* up in your business. The countdown to September 18th bald-dom is *on* like donkey kong, and if you haven’t signed up to brave the shave and conquer kids cancer, we will *have* words. Go sign up. Now. Or else. http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/easttexas or if you live further away, find another event (they’re world-wide!) at http://www.stbaldricks.org .
One last funny thing to mention. Quentin is 14, and *way* too involved in thinking about girls. He’s been dating a girl for a few months now, and I found out they had their first kiss a few weeks ago. Since then kissing has been in high demand, from what I gather. Quentin told me recently that they were “like, you know, making out”. Hmph. I asked him what the definition of making out was. He was all “Whatever Mom. You are *so* lame. You know!” I’m figuring it’s still the same ol’ business….kissing, hugging, basic making out. A bit later I got a text message that said “consecutive kissing with occasional tongue”. Oh I laughed and laughed. I told Quentin that while I *did* appreciate his use of 2 large words, I’d prefer that he find something more productive to do. Not productive like making trouble, or babies…but productive like reading.
Holy. Piss. I just did the *longest* most *best* burp ever! Guess you’d have to be here.
Are the cattle driven to have relations when they’re directly in front my glass door? Bunch’a flipping exhibitionists. I don’t drive out in the middle of them in the pasture and have relations where *they* can see. Okay, so maybe I did *one* time, after going to the Jaycee’s Haunted House in Tyler when Byron and I were 19-ish, but they *so* weren’t the same cows!!
There’s an electric fence out away from our house, in the pasture by the pond. We use it when the cows are in the pasture by the pond, so they’re not gator bait. The kids know they’re not allowed to go by the pond outside, and our house alarm even beeps every time a door is open or closed, so we know when they go out. Long story short, the girls were playing out in the yard, in front of the same glass door the cows had relations by. Violet ran towards the pond, with me yelling, “Violet, stop! Do *not* run to the pond! The fence is on! You’re gonna get shocked! Violet!!!!” ZAP. Well, so much for that. Don’t get all huffy with me, it’s not that strong, and didn’t even leave a red mark on her hands. Not even an hour later, Quentin set his gun on it to aim better. ZAP again. Moron. Wasn’t supposed to be shooting *towards* the cows in the first place.
Hmmm….what else.
OH! I got supah-fab’lous new purple hair, and I’m rocking it *all* up in your business. The countdown to September 18th bald-dom is *on* like donkey kong, and if you haven’t signed up to brave the shave and conquer kids cancer, we will *have* words. Go sign up. Now. Or else. http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/easttexas or if you live further away, find another event (they’re world-wide!) at http://www.stbaldricks.org .
One last funny thing to mention. Quentin is 14, and *way* too involved in thinking about girls. He’s been dating a girl for a few months now, and I found out they had their first kiss a few weeks ago. Since then kissing has been in high demand, from what I gather. Quentin told me recently that they were “like, you know, making out”. Hmph. I asked him what the definition of making out was. He was all “Whatever Mom. You are *so* lame. You know!” I’m figuring it’s still the same ol’ business….kissing, hugging, basic making out. A bit later I got a text message that said “consecutive kissing with occasional tongue”. Oh I laughed and laughed. I told Quentin that while I *did* appreciate his use of 2 large words, I’d prefer that he find something more productive to do. Not productive like making trouble, or babies…but productive like reading.
Holy. Piss. I just did the *longest* most *best* burp ever! Guess you’d have to be here.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The shovel did it!
I’ve always been a sucker for animals. Like to play with ‘em, eat ‘em…they’re just all around good things to have on hand.
Recently Gracelyn’s school raised baby chicks from wee eggs, and we ended up adopting 2 of ‘em. Did we *have* to adopt them? Puh-leese. The biddies looked at me with big doe chicken eyes, and cheeped, “Pick me! Take me home to be tortured by your heathen spawn, let your dog maul me in a game of chase, and then cut my head off with a shovel, please! Me, me, me!!!!” Okay, so maybe they didn’t say the part about the dog chasing them (who are we kidding, there was never a chase when it started and ended in the dog’s mouth), but you get the vibe. They *had* to live with us.
Fast forward to a week later. Violet decided the biddies needed to stretch their legs, so to speak, and let one down on the ground outside. Next thing I know, Gracelyn busts through the door screaming that a chicken is dying. I go outside to find the biddy by a tree, all lopsided and obviously sporting new body shades...the color purple, ha! It really *was* sad for a few minutes. It was not long for this world, and I didn’t want it to suffer, so I cut his head off. Sucker. Kidding! Sort of. About the sucker part.
Its eyes were closed, but it was still breathing. I thought I’d put it in a small box in a safe place so it could at least die without kids and dogs trying to poke/chew it (Duke tried to bite the biddies heads off the first day…little Ozzy). When I tried to pick it up, it cheeped like “sucka, I would *so* peck you in the eye and flog you in your uvula if I could” and I was all “Piss. This sucks.”
It closed its eyes again, and I waited for it to die for a good 2 minutes. It didn’t happen. I thought maybe I could, um, suffocate it (oh, I feel *so* bad even typing that) if I just held it’s beak-hole shut. It seemed like it was going well, until it’s eyes flew open and it struggled and I just couldn’t do it. It was a flipping baby biddy, suckas!
I asked Byron for a gun, to blow it into oblivion, but he wouldn’t load it for me. I told him to kill it, and he refused to hurt an animal, especially a baby one, and that it was *all* my fault for adopting them in the first place. What a flipping girl.
In the end, it was the flat shovel. I held it above the neck with, asked the good Lord to forgive me, and slammed it down with my foot. Done. And then I remembered (from my childhood), when you cut a chicken’s head off, they run.,,, except this one just turned in circles. He was *slightly* handicapped. Then I laughed.
Obviously God has a sense of humor, because that? Was funny stuff.
On another note... Did you know if you spit on an electric fence and the spit hits the wire, at the same time you realize it's still falling from your lip, you get electrocuted? Well, now you do. But that story's for next time.
Recently Gracelyn’s school raised baby chicks from wee eggs, and we ended up adopting 2 of ‘em. Did we *have* to adopt them? Puh-leese. The biddies looked at me with big doe chicken eyes, and cheeped, “Pick me! Take me home to be tortured by your heathen spawn, let your dog maul me in a game of chase, and then cut my head off with a shovel, please! Me, me, me!!!!” Okay, so maybe they didn’t say the part about the dog chasing them (who are we kidding, there was never a chase when it started and ended in the dog’s mouth), but you get the vibe. They *had* to live with us.
Fast forward to a week later. Violet decided the biddies needed to stretch their legs, so to speak, and let one down on the ground outside. Next thing I know, Gracelyn busts through the door screaming that a chicken is dying. I go outside to find the biddy by a tree, all lopsided and obviously sporting new body shades...the color purple, ha! It really *was* sad for a few minutes. It was not long for this world, and I didn’t want it to suffer, so I cut his head off. Sucker. Kidding! Sort of. About the sucker part.
Its eyes were closed, but it was still breathing. I thought I’d put it in a small box in a safe place so it could at least die without kids and dogs trying to poke/chew it (Duke tried to bite the biddies heads off the first day…little Ozzy). When I tried to pick it up, it cheeped like “sucka, I would *so* peck you in the eye and flog you in your uvula if I could” and I was all “Piss. This sucks.”
It closed its eyes again, and I waited for it to die for a good 2 minutes. It didn’t happen. I thought maybe I could, um, suffocate it (oh, I feel *so* bad even typing that) if I just held it’s beak-hole shut. It seemed like it was going well, until it’s eyes flew open and it struggled and I just couldn’t do it. It was a flipping baby biddy, suckas!
I asked Byron for a gun, to blow it into oblivion, but he wouldn’t load it for me. I told him to kill it, and he refused to hurt an animal, especially a baby one, and that it was *all* my fault for adopting them in the first place. What a flipping girl.
In the end, it was the flat shovel. I held it above the neck with, asked the good Lord to forgive me, and slammed it down with my foot. Done. And then I remembered (from my childhood), when you cut a chicken’s head off, they run.,,, except this one just turned in circles. He was *slightly* handicapped. Then I laughed.
Obviously God has a sense of humor, because that? Was funny stuff.
On another note... Did you know if you spit on an electric fence and the spit hits the wire, at the same time you realize it's still falling from your lip, you get electrocuted? Well, now you do. But that story's for next time.
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