You can't choose your friends

A.V.E. over at Lower Level 30 mentioned a few of the stupid things that we did/happened to us over that one weekend in this post.

But it's a pretty partial list, no where near comprehensive for A.V.E. let alone the rest of us. And I'm not going to be the one to catalogue all that stuff. Talk to Babbles or something. But I will respond to this line item:

Seeing that K-Fed didn't get sent up on some charges of the statutory kind.

Look. None of you fucks 'saved' me. I wanted to do one sleazy immoral thing and A.V.E. kicked her out of my bed. Much like he kicked in Ankram's windshield in 10th grade. With his boot.

Anyway. Stay tuned for more about what awful friends we are. (We should probably just have a whole blog about that.)

And credit where credit is due--A.V.E.'s Golfweek post borders on funny.

Actions speak louder than nerds

I complain. A lot. About most things. And usually I don't do anything about it, but I finally decided to take action.

The crossword puzzles in the paper have been fucking lame lately, and since completing the damn thing is a big part of my daily routine, this really annoys me.

So now I make crossword puzzles.

I've got some software to assist (re: do most of the work) in the process, but in order for anyone to be able to view the thing, I've got to upload the finished product to the software distributor's site so some old bag can approve of it.

So far I've got two cleared.

Just try and complete my torturous (or, depending on the laws of your particular state, tortious) grid of pain.

And don't cheat, bastards.

little black boxes

I know some people out there, and one blogger in particular who harrassed me into using one, who think that the little magnet boxes that hold spare keys are a great invention. While I don't generally like public opinion, and nearly always distrust the advice of my friends - I went along with the flow on this one. Never again.

at six fucking thirty this morning, as I am lying in the six inches of snow on the street next to my car, in the dark, blindly patting down the underside of my car in a vain attempt to recover that miniscule, dare I say near-invisible box with the spare key inside of it, trying not to inhale exhaust and fervently hoping that I wouldn't get hit by some suburban Joe on his way to work, I cursed anyone who ever recommended that damn box.

I am logical enough to understand that I bear some responsibility for managing to lock my keys in my car while it was running to begin the whole debacle. But it makes me feel much better to vent my spleen elsewhere. Especially at ungodly hours of the morning.
My spare key is going back in my extra bag in up in my bedroom, and that box is getting returned to the fiery pit from whence it came.

I accidentally bought girl deodorant again

And the scent isn't just slightly feminine, it's fucking girlie. Like Lisa Frank girlie. And delicious. I smell like a million bucks.

Here's the thing, it took me a while to figure out where this beautiful aroma was coming from. I kept wondering why my dirty shirts smelled like a prom dress. And then one night while laying in bed I realized "oh my god, it's me!" I did some Veronica Mars-ing and traced the scent back to my "fresh scent" SURE invisible solid.

If you see me, I'll happily oblige if you ask for a sniff. And it's worth it, believe me.

Sorry for the absence, I lost my submit button

Listen, when you only leave the house once every three or four days it's hard to make a blarg about anything (unless our readership really wants to hear about the installation of a coffee maker in my bedroom, or the new cat toy kiki's ignoring). But in the interest of sportsmanship, I'll give it the ole' college try...

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seriously guys, I've got nothing.

check back in later, maybe something noteworthy will have happend.


same bat-time, same bat-channel.

Every little thing I do is tragic

Especially this blog.

But seriously. I was supposed to meet up with some people last night and when I got to where I was going I thought "It's cold. I'll leave the car running so it's all nice and toasty." As I was getting out all I was thinking was, "Hit the unlock button. Unlock. Unlock. Unlock." So I hit the lock button. And because I'm driving this car I like to call the Black Shadow (which doesn't belong to me), I don't have any extra keys in Hays. So that took for fucking ever.

And school is always crazytoberfest. I actually had to have a serious conversation with a kindergartner who insisted that his "butt itched" and that he needed "butt cream and we should call Mom to get some."

And then this pretty sharp middle-schooler tells me that the cops gave some kind of presentation at her school today that included the photos from my sweet Subaru's death. Tasteless. Let the dead rest in peace.