Cleaning my house in a compulsive frenzy complete with my spray bottle of bleach water and an old toothbrush for those hard-to-obsessively-scour areas fails to offer the same neurosis-releasing/suppressing satisfaction that once made me love it so. I often start with a shaman-size smudging of the whole house with white sage, smoking off the bad juju I've attracted into my life in the forms of insurance adjusters and dateless men who think declaring, "Ima git me some of that" in my direction will inspire me to fall to my knees and presumably provide some of that. You should totally try it -- the smudging, I mean. But like I said, my cleaning therapy no longer helps me. In fact, it hurts me -- physically. My shoulder/arm injury affects my life much more than I would like to admit.
For those of you who don't already know, my ten year career as a massage therapist and all-around hip healer chick ended abruptly when I pulled, tweaked, impinged and/or irritated the bejesus out of my right arm and shoulder. It's been several months now, and I still can't massage worth a damn. In fact, the orthopaedic surgeon recently said that my days of rubbing flesh for money are over permanently. I will save the boo-hooing about the loss of my career for another post. Watch for it under the title: Out-to-Pasture Spa Whore. For now I'd like to share what I've learned as a new member to the permanently partially disabled club.
First, it sucks. Sure, there was the initial infatuation with my pain medication. And being hypersensitive to drugs of any kind does have its benefits. I'm here to tell you that The Lord of the Rings (plus the DVD commentary!) is fabulous viewing every night of the week when you've taken tramadol. So is staring at your cat. So is listening to the radio for 25 minutes before you realize you failed to turn it on. I had no idea that pill-popping is just so awesome! I totally get the whole but-I-have-a-bad-back thing now. Fortunately, I fear addiction. Also, I don't want to have anything in common with Rush Limbaugh.
Second, it sucks. Who knew that pumping gas could be so damn difficult? Try pulling open a door. My new favorite thing? Those big square push buttons that cause the door to open for me. Seriously, those things are arm-savers. Granted, it takes the better part of a minute for the door to open enough for me to slug on through, but since I've become a worthless work comp-sucking scumbag who has nothing better to do with her fat checks than take muscle relaxants and shovel snow in plain view of the cameraman tailing me, who gives a crap? Point is, I'm appreciating things that I never thought I'd ever need. Like help pulling my wet clothes out of the washing machine. Like an attorney. And, um, that website that instructs gimps like me in learning how to give a left-handed handjob.
Third, it sucks less when you find out that you have options. For example, right now I am using a speech recognition software program that allows me to speak into the computer instead of typing by hand. As a writer, this has been a real afterschool special happy ending kind of alternative for me. I mean, I am just not temperamentally-suited to transform into one of those chicks that paints pictures of Jesus by teaching herself how to paint with a stick in her mouth. Plus, I get to wear this badass headset that is just so Madonna! I'm wearing it right now with a black bra, if you're interested. And if you really are interested, than you'll be happy to hear that I am seriously considering starting a porn site of me wearing my headset and little else. I might also pet my cat. I bet five million bucks that petmykitty.com is already taken.
Well, I didn't mean to get all Lifetime Television on you. Blame it on the fact that I cleaned my house today and almost cried afterward because my shoulder hurt so badly. Blame it on the fact that I still don't know how I'm going to make a living without doing massage. Anyone want to be my manservant? I'm totally nice. You know, in that smug and sardonic way that drives men toward me in flocks.
I gotta go pet my kitty.
(Thanks to my cousin for the website name suggestion!)
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Operation Enduring Anxiety
So, my brother's over there. Over there being Iraq -- Fallujah to be smart bomb specific. He's been there just about a month, and I just received my first email from him today. Prior to that I heard mini updates via my father and my sister-in-law. "He's not dead yet. He hasn't had to kill anyone's kid." That type of thing. Odd reassurances that change instantly when I accidentally hear a snippet of CNN. I never noticed until now how many times the words "bloodiest day yet" get thrown across the radio waves.
The food is apparently terrific. This is an effort to give the troops something non-crazy making to focus on. Instead of the maggots. Instead of the smell. There is strained optimism in my father's voice as I hear his stomach lining eating itself when he tells me that my little brother has been assigned to some investigative crime force. He makes jokes about how my brother's time in the fraternity was great training for putting women's underwear on prisoners' heads. I laugh because I need to. I laugh because my father needs me to. And neither one of us thinks it's funny. Well, actually I just wrote that because it soudned kind of poignant. My Dad thinks it's funny as hell. I think.
I write my brother stupid letters full of dumb details about my life. I try to be funny to take his mind off the fact that he's got a two year old at home smelling his cologne and saying repeatedly,"I'm getting closer to Daddy..."
I tell him all about my crosseyed cat and her latest amazing feats (I swear, she totally said "Le Mew" just like Pepe LePew's faux skunk kitty love interest!)
I retell him the stories about my short and embittering experiment with online dating. (Am I a kiddie porn trafficker if a 17-year-old sends me an unsolicited naked photo?)
I include advice that is joking-but-actually-totally-serious like: "No, for real, I think they stopped making it illegal for troops to run away." And: "Desserter is such an ugly word. I think decliner is more approriate. As in, 'Oh, no, no, I couldn't possibly stay; what with my crazy schedule... the kid, the wife... but thank you so much for asking!'" Yeah, well, I didn't say it was that funny.
So, am I going to alienate anyone by saying that I still can't belive that the US got people to support a war that's supposedly being waged against a feeling? It's still terror, right? (As opposed to lethargy? Or bloatedness? ) I'm still terrifed, for the record. Aren't you? No, for real, I think they just made it illegal for people to express their opinions. And my illegal opinion is that no amount of shopping, flag waving, ribbon displaying, or in my case, snipping is going to dilute the fact that I am just not okay about my brother being gone. I wish I were able to write about something else today. Something important. There are children in China who've yet to see an episode of American Idol, for God's sake!
Note to Young J: This probably wasn't what you had in mind when you told me to put you in my blog. But, hopefully, you feel the love. Plus, I get lots of money for doing this. I'll send you your cut with that batch of heroin brownies. (Note to the FBI: Totally kidding.)
The food is apparently terrific. This is an effort to give the troops something non-crazy making to focus on. Instead of the maggots. Instead of the smell. There is strained optimism in my father's voice as I hear his stomach lining eating itself when he tells me that my little brother has been assigned to some investigative crime force. He makes jokes about how my brother's time in the fraternity was great training for putting women's underwear on prisoners' heads. I laugh because I need to. I laugh because my father needs me to. And neither one of us thinks it's funny. Well, actually I just wrote that because it soudned kind of poignant. My Dad thinks it's funny as hell. I think.
I write my brother stupid letters full of dumb details about my life. I try to be funny to take his mind off the fact that he's got a two year old at home smelling his cologne and saying repeatedly,"I'm getting closer to Daddy..."
I tell him all about my crosseyed cat and her latest amazing feats (I swear, she totally said "Le Mew" just like Pepe LePew's faux skunk kitty love interest!)
I retell him the stories about my short and embittering experiment with online dating. (Am I a kiddie porn trafficker if a 17-year-old sends me an unsolicited naked photo?)
I include advice that is joking-but-actually-totally-serious like: "No, for real, I think they stopped making it illegal for troops to run away." And: "Desserter is such an ugly word. I think decliner is more approriate. As in, 'Oh, no, no, I couldn't possibly stay; what with my crazy schedule... the kid, the wife... but thank you so much for asking!'" Yeah, well, I didn't say it was that funny.
So, am I going to alienate anyone by saying that I still can't belive that the US got people to support a war that's supposedly being waged against a feeling? It's still terror, right? (As opposed to lethargy? Or bloatedness? ) I'm still terrifed, for the record. Aren't you? No, for real, I think they just made it illegal for people to express their opinions. And my illegal opinion is that no amount of shopping, flag waving, ribbon displaying, or in my case, snipping is going to dilute the fact that I am just not okay about my brother being gone. I wish I were able to write about something else today. Something important. There are children in China who've yet to see an episode of American Idol, for God's sake!
Note to Young J: This probably wasn't what you had in mind when you told me to put you in my blog. But, hopefully, you feel the love. Plus, I get lots of money for doing this. I'll send you your cut with that batch of heroin brownies. (Note to the FBI: Totally kidding.)
Friday, October 20, 2006
Miss Me?
Howdy, loyal readers and stalkers. Sorry I've been remiss in my writerly duties, but I've been chaotically busy starting my new job, which is really my old job on modified duty. (For details tune into this week's episode of Judge Judy Garland in which I am actually the plaintiff (or am I the defendant? Hard to tell.) But whatever, what's a little loving litigation between friends? When my boss hired me she said it was a "real family environment," and to my thinking, this means there must be at least one restraining order in the offing. And so far, these folks are way behind in the pill-popping department, so I don't really feel family in the way that I am accustomed. But there really is no place like home, so what can I expect?
So, I am checking in to say that you have absolutely not seen the last of me. But wow, am I busy! Between making sure I floss, remembering to eat something besides Cheerios and picking out which chunky black shoes to wear to work, my remaining time usually goes toward laying down on tennis balls placed at the back of my neck in an attempt to force the tension and bad vibes out of my head. (It totally works, by the way, especially if you take a tramadol with a sip of zinfandel.)
You so have the wrong idea about me. But I'll leave that for another time. Ciao!
So, I am checking in to say that you have absolutely not seen the last of me. But wow, am I busy! Between making sure I floss, remembering to eat something besides Cheerios and picking out which chunky black shoes to wear to work, my remaining time usually goes toward laying down on tennis balls placed at the back of my neck in an attempt to force the tension and bad vibes out of my head. (It totally works, by the way, especially if you take a tramadol with a sip of zinfandel.)
You so have the wrong idea about me. But I'll leave that for another time. Ciao!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Thanks for Killing Me, Smokers
Wow, do I have a grudge against smokers. If there is any population that might actually drive me to start a killing spree, it's that one. Nothing against their rights to enjoy the pleasures of black lung and emphysema, it's just that I sort of like being able to breathe myself. It's one of the few pleasures I still have after swearing off dating, lattes and Lucky Charms. And I'm bringing it up now because this man who looked like a chicken wing in a flannel shirt ( I swear, you had to be there...) just stood near me smoking and reeking like a buttload of butts. And I wanted to go off. I wanted to offer to rip him a tracheotomy/stoma hole with my housekey. But I didn't because privately seething is much more mature.
Am I wrong to believe that there is, in fact, a time and place for public shaming? Not stonings or draggings behind monster trucks driven by in-breds. But what about a little diplomatic consciousness-raising done in the form of say, a swift smack to the back of the head? It should be accompanied by the question: "Did you know that you just shaved several minutes off my very important life?" Followed by, "No, of course you didn't, you're too busy sucking down Mentos in an attempt to cover up the stench of yourself." Having an asthma attack on the spot could also drive the point home fairly well. I usually do.
I do actually go into an uncontrollable coughing fit quite often, which used to cause me lots of public embarrassment. Now however, I film these fits with my cell phone. One day I'll go to the police station and turn in all these public offenders. I mean, shouldn't people with those kinds of values have to register when they move into my neighborhood? Hello? They are killing me in slow motion, over time.
Maybe I'm being overly harsh because both my grandmothers and my great aunt all had emphysema. My grandfather, father and stepfather all smoked as well. (My inheritance will be the gold-plated oxygen tank.) With all that huffing and puffing going on no wonder my immune system was too scared to grow properly -- it couldn't see through the smoke. And now I cough, unleashing a phlegm vengeance that prompts strangers to try to Hiemlich me against my will. I tell you, someone's going to pay. And I for one, am happy to see it be every other smoker I encounter who doesn't have the courtesy to apologize profusely for their toxic emissions. Or offer me a tissue to help me deal with the all the snot suddenly flying out of my eyes, nose and throat.
Of course, sending me lots of money via Paypal is always helpful. Funny how far a well-placed check can go toward making that throat-searing pain seem just not so important afterall. So, that's my suggestion to the smokers: send me money or be publicly humiliated. Think about it. I'll be back (said in my best imitation of the Governator.)
Am I wrong to believe that there is, in fact, a time and place for public shaming? Not stonings or draggings behind monster trucks driven by in-breds. But what about a little diplomatic consciousness-raising done in the form of say, a swift smack to the back of the head? It should be accompanied by the question: "Did you know that you just shaved several minutes off my very important life?" Followed by, "No, of course you didn't, you're too busy sucking down Mentos in an attempt to cover up the stench of yourself." Having an asthma attack on the spot could also drive the point home fairly well. I usually do.
I do actually go into an uncontrollable coughing fit quite often, which used to cause me lots of public embarrassment. Now however, I film these fits with my cell phone. One day I'll go to the police station and turn in all these public offenders. I mean, shouldn't people with those kinds of values have to register when they move into my neighborhood? Hello? They are killing me in slow motion, over time.
Maybe I'm being overly harsh because both my grandmothers and my great aunt all had emphysema. My grandfather, father and stepfather all smoked as well. (My inheritance will be the gold-plated oxygen tank.) With all that huffing and puffing going on no wonder my immune system was too scared to grow properly -- it couldn't see through the smoke. And now I cough, unleashing a phlegm vengeance that prompts strangers to try to Hiemlich me against my will. I tell you, someone's going to pay. And I for one, am happy to see it be every other smoker I encounter who doesn't have the courtesy to apologize profusely for their toxic emissions. Or offer me a tissue to help me deal with the all the snot suddenly flying out of my eyes, nose and throat.
Of course, sending me lots of money via Paypal is always helpful. Funny how far a well-placed check can go toward making that throat-searing pain seem just not so important afterall. So, that's my suggestion to the smokers: send me money or be publicly humiliated. Think about it. I'll be back (said in my best imitation of the Governator.)
Monday, October 09, 2006
Whaddya Mean Hiding My Contempt for Authority Isn't a Transferable Skill?
So, I have to find a new job. Like now. And I'm really more than a little pissed off about that. Not that I don't want to be a productive member of a consumer-driven society in which the shuffling of papers and the taking of any number of pharmaceuticals by each of us is the only thing keeping us from descending into a full-on Lord of the Flies state of affairs. It's just that I kind of value my individuality. And working for the man (as opposed to working for myself) has always seemed to crush my spirit, render me slug-like and cause me to start stealing office supplies that I don't even like (Who uses notebook ring hole reinforcers?) And it's a sick world when I'm forced to consider wearing pantyhose. (Only if they're black, and not actually pantyhose, but tights and I can wear my zip-up pleather boots that look oh-so Bewitched and That Girl.) Okay, I'm rambling. My lunch was cheese puffs and a Snapple ice tea, what can I say?
Point is, I hate being micromanaged and whipped into submission. I get enough of that when I try to date. How's a free spirit like me supposed to cram her free-thinking sensibilities into a cubicle (or a paper hat with a chicken on it) and suck it up already? I seem to be way more sensitive to soul-crushing domination than the average person. And that is essentially my problem. So, this is an all-out call for prayers of good juju to be sent my way so that I too may know the joys of a steady paycheck and the weekends off for doing yardwork and drinking heavily to blot out the pain of being a sell-out. Visualize me surrounded by green light (for money, duh) and a chorusline of angels high-kicking my inertia to the curb so that I can figure out how to keep myself in coffee and hair conditioner (my two highest priorities, next to the Lord, of course.)
Oh, and if anyone wants to hire me, here are my skills:
making popcorn with nutritional yeast on it
looking super cute in a variety of ways (tailored, shabby chic, groovy, librarian/vixen)
good laugher (excellent for team morale)
good speller
good with cats
hypersensitive (though this sometimes requires that I take time off work)
afraid of guns (no risk of office massacre)
Well, I don't mean to brag, but you know what they say about hiding your light under a bushel and all that.... In the interim, I've started a psychic/sex hotline. Call now to hear me uncover your soul's purpose, fluff your aura and spank your bitch ass while emitting a high frequency healing you won't soon forget. Wish me luck!
Point is, I hate being micromanaged and whipped into submission. I get enough of that when I try to date. How's a free spirit like me supposed to cram her free-thinking sensibilities into a cubicle (or a paper hat with a chicken on it) and suck it up already? I seem to be way more sensitive to soul-crushing domination than the average person. And that is essentially my problem. So, this is an all-out call for prayers of good juju to be sent my way so that I too may know the joys of a steady paycheck and the weekends off for doing yardwork and drinking heavily to blot out the pain of being a sell-out. Visualize me surrounded by green light (for money, duh) and a chorusline of angels high-kicking my inertia to the curb so that I can figure out how to keep myself in coffee and hair conditioner (my two highest priorities, next to the Lord, of course.)
Oh, and if anyone wants to hire me, here are my skills:
making popcorn with nutritional yeast on it
looking super cute in a variety of ways (tailored, shabby chic, groovy, librarian/vixen)
good laugher (excellent for team morale)
good speller
good with cats
hypersensitive (though this sometimes requires that I take time off work)
afraid of guns (no risk of office massacre)
Well, I don't mean to brag, but you know what they say about hiding your light under a bushel and all that.... In the interim, I've started a psychic/sex hotline. Call now to hear me uncover your soul's purpose, fluff your aura and spank your bitch ass while emitting a high frequency healing you won't soon forget. Wish me luck!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Food that is Way Better Back East
Us east coast transplants have been bitching for years about some of the whack crap that passes for food and culture out here in Calley-for-nigh-ay. While the eastern seaboard, New England and the mid-Atlantic states have their own set of problems (men with scarily-big necks, the predominance of iceberg lettuce and the horror of temperatures in the teens), California has gotten it way wrong on a few things I've decided to list. When I have found an appropriate solution, I have listed this as well.
The first thing should be pretty obvious: The reason we east coasters, especially of the Philly-NYC variety are ALWAYS saying that New York pizza is the best is because it is. I don't know what kind of mattress with pizza sauce and soy cheese psychosis has spawned what I can only call EasyBake-Oven quality cuisine. But, holy Mother of God, the pizza out here sucks! California, there is nothing you can do about it, so just deal with it and move on to what you do so well -- mescalin salad mix and avocadoes.
The best pizza I have had out here has been Mombo's Pizza in Santa Rosa on Mendocino Ave. (Not the one in Sebastopol. Sorry, too many hippies spoil the sauce.) The owner of Mombo's is from New York. (Nuff said.) Second runner up would be Mary's, but don't get too excited because in New York it would be crap pizza.
Another sucky food item out here is hummus. What in the hell do you call that pasty, sun-bleached looking half pint of crust? Christ, considering that Californians consider olive oil to be one of the major food groups, you'd think one of you could spare a little in your hummus. (And I will not even discuss tabouli, except to say that sometimes the Moosewood-era hippies should leave well enough alone. I think we'd all like to forget Bulgur Brownies.)
But I only bring it up because last night I ate the best hummus I've had in twelve years. No, I didn't stumble across a fabulous, but unknown Greek eatery as I was still shopping for non-crap pizza. I found Mediterranean, Creamy Style Hummus from Trader Joe's! And creamy style it is, with olive oil on top (okay, maybe it was canola) and pine nuts -- just like a real Mediterranean (read: east coast) cook would prepare it. Note: I am aware that Berkeley and San Francisco probably have pitaloads of excellent hummus, but I'm writing this from medical marijuana territory -- people here bring Clif Bars to potlucks.
Bagels? Fuh-gettaboutit! Bagels schmagels. Not worth my schmear.
Well, I've got to go now because I have to eat my lunch -- water and Snapea Crisps (taste like fluffy green potato chips.) Stay tuned for more things I need to complain about.
The first thing should be pretty obvious: The reason we east coasters, especially of the Philly-NYC variety are ALWAYS saying that New York pizza is the best is because it is. I don't know what kind of mattress with pizza sauce and soy cheese psychosis has spawned what I can only call EasyBake-Oven quality cuisine. But, holy Mother of God, the pizza out here sucks! California, there is nothing you can do about it, so just deal with it and move on to what you do so well -- mescalin salad mix and avocadoes.
The best pizza I have had out here has been Mombo's Pizza in Santa Rosa on Mendocino Ave. (Not the one in Sebastopol. Sorry, too many hippies spoil the sauce.) The owner of Mombo's is from New York. (Nuff said.) Second runner up would be Mary's, but don't get too excited because in New York it would be crap pizza.
Another sucky food item out here is hummus. What in the hell do you call that pasty, sun-bleached looking half pint of crust? Christ, considering that Californians consider olive oil to be one of the major food groups, you'd think one of you could spare a little in your hummus. (And I will not even discuss tabouli, except to say that sometimes the Moosewood-era hippies should leave well enough alone. I think we'd all like to forget Bulgur Brownies.)
But I only bring it up because last night I ate the best hummus I've had in twelve years. No, I didn't stumble across a fabulous, but unknown Greek eatery as I was still shopping for non-crap pizza. I found Mediterranean, Creamy Style Hummus from Trader Joe's! And creamy style it is, with olive oil on top (okay, maybe it was canola) and pine nuts -- just like a real Mediterranean (read: east coast) cook would prepare it. Note: I am aware that Berkeley and San Francisco probably have pitaloads of excellent hummus, but I'm writing this from medical marijuana territory -- people here bring Clif Bars to potlucks.
Bagels? Fuh-gettaboutit! Bagels schmagels. Not worth my schmear.
Well, I've got to go now because I have to eat my lunch -- water and Snapea Crisps (taste like fluffy green potato chips.) Stay tuned for more things I need to complain about.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Random Ideas that Should Make Me Some Money
My cousin and I are both desperately underemployed. We have quick minds that generate sick ideas at an unhealthy pace. One day we will have a lot of money to show for it. This is what my last fortune cookie told me. The exact words were: "The wise man knows that refusing to find a healthier channel for your energy shows rare stamina and stubbornness. Peace be with you." Or something like that.
So, all of the listed ideas have patents pending, so don't try to beat us to the punch. But if you want to invest, here are a variety of options.
Paxil Puffs: A crunchy and nutritious maple-flavored breakfast cereal sprinkled therapeutically with a healthy dose of Paxil for all your anti-depressant needs. Also available: Cannabis Crunch, Rice Ritalins and Zoloft Zippers. Dopamine Bites are on back order. Sorry!
Did you love Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus? Well, then you're sure to go ga-ga over our latest releases: Men are Pigs, Women are Whores and Men are Clueless, Women are Psychotic. Be the first in your consciousness-raising circle to own these sure-to-be self-help classsics. We're hard at work on the third in this timeless trilogy.
Don't forget to tune into our TV shows!!! Current listings include:
The Real Old World -- See sexually frustrated seniors battle it out with aging alcoholic homophobes in a different convalescent facility every other week. In one of our favorite reality TV moments, Mary (the slut with OCD and Alzheimer's disease) fights with Perry (the gay Republican with Tourette's Syndrome) over exactly who pooped in the shower. Don't miss! (Soon available on DVD.)
Judge Judy Garland -- Holy Valium and vodka before 10 a.m.!!! See small claims court like you've never seen it before when Judy Garland takes the bench. Forget your troubles, come on and get happy already as justice is served up sloppy drunk with show tunes. Fighting over cell phone bills has never been so enthralling. Special guest star: Toto the Bailiff.
Holy crap, that damn Ron Popeil is calling me again! I have to go. He totally tried to steal my idea for the Toilet Sofa, a handy couch/commode contraption that I invented like fifteen years ago. Because you know, sometimes it really is just too much to stand up and walk to the bathroom, especially if you've had either too little or too much of your Cannabis Crunch. My Dad bought the prototype and he won't give it back, so that project is on hold.
So, unfortunately, I have to go now. More to come! In the meantime, call now! Operators are standing by!
So, all of the listed ideas have patents pending, so don't try to beat us to the punch. But if you want to invest, here are a variety of options.
Paxil Puffs: A crunchy and nutritious maple-flavored breakfast cereal sprinkled therapeutically with a healthy dose of Paxil for all your anti-depressant needs. Also available: Cannabis Crunch, Rice Ritalins and Zoloft Zippers. Dopamine Bites are on back order. Sorry!
Did you love Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus? Well, then you're sure to go ga-ga over our latest releases: Men are Pigs, Women are Whores and Men are Clueless, Women are Psychotic. Be the first in your consciousness-raising circle to own these sure-to-be self-help classsics. We're hard at work on the third in this timeless trilogy.
Don't forget to tune into our TV shows!!! Current listings include:
The Real Old World -- See sexually frustrated seniors battle it out with aging alcoholic homophobes in a different convalescent facility every other week. In one of our favorite reality TV moments, Mary (the slut with OCD and Alzheimer's disease) fights with Perry (the gay Republican with Tourette's Syndrome) over exactly who pooped in the shower. Don't miss! (Soon available on DVD.)
Judge Judy Garland -- Holy Valium and vodka before 10 a.m.!!! See small claims court like you've never seen it before when Judy Garland takes the bench. Forget your troubles, come on and get happy already as justice is served up sloppy drunk with show tunes. Fighting over cell phone bills has never been so enthralling. Special guest star: Toto the Bailiff.
Holy crap, that damn Ron Popeil is calling me again! I have to go. He totally tried to steal my idea for the Toilet Sofa, a handy couch/commode contraption that I invented like fifteen years ago. Because you know, sometimes it really is just too much to stand up and walk to the bathroom, especially if you've had either too little or too much of your Cannabis Crunch. My Dad bought the prototype and he won't give it back, so that project is on hold.
So, unfortunately, I have to go now. More to come! In the meantime, call now! Operators are standing by!
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