Nothing says Tuesday morning like waking up early to see the sun rise, have some good coffee, and watch a giant snake try to swallow Jennifer Lopez's ass.
In retrospect, if only I'd continued my education and joined a sorority, maybe I could have unleashed my potential to be a closeted latent lesbian by that time-tested route of pillowfighting in my underwear with like-minded young women.
I mean, I had the undies and the pillows... what was I thinking?
Hindsight is so 20/20.
It's been a "Coupling" weekend for me. And I finally understand the male point of view.....
thanks to Steve, defending his porn movie choices in answer to the female question "How could you possibly enjoy a film like that?"
"Because it's got naked women in it! Look, I like naked women. I'm a bloke. I'm supposed to like them. We're born like that. We like naked women as soon as we're pulled out of one. Halfway down the birth canal, we're already enjoying the view. Look, it is the four pillars of the male heterosexual psyche: We like naked women, stockings, lesbians, and Sean Connery best as James Bond. Because that is what being a boy is, and if you don't like it, darling, join a lesbian film collective. I want to spend the rest of my life with the woman at the end of this table, but that does not stop me wanting to see several thousand more naked bottoms before I die. Because that's what being a bloke is. When man invented fire, he didn't say "Let's cook!" He said "Great! Now we can see naked bottoms in the dark!". As soon as Caxton invented the printing press, we were using it to make pictures of naked bottoms. We've turned the internet into an enormous international database of naked bottoms. So, you see, the story of male achievement through the ages, feeble though it may have been, has been the story of our struggle to get a better look at your bottoms. Frankly, girls, I'm not sure how insulted you really ought to be."
...to my eternally sweet and forgiving nature: the GM1 has been allowed to keep his testicles, despite the fact that he only just this morning remembered my birthday, which was this past Monday.
Yeah, I'm the darlin' of the West, I am.
Anyone who tells you to "just be yourself" has no idea about the general public, especially snotty assistant managers gone all giddy with power during a job interview.
I'm just sayin'.
Apparently I have found that small demographic that has never seen a band-aid, and they were all at my YMCA tonight.
1st Fellow YMCA-er: Wow, what's that on your forehead?
Me: A band-aid... I have a bee sting.
2nd Fellow YMCA-er: Hurt your head, huh? Is that a band-aid?
Me: Yes... bee sting.
3rd Fellow YMCA-er: Whatever have you got on your head?
Me: It's a band-aid, on my bee sting.
4th Fellow YMCA-er: You've got a... huh, a band-aid... what'd you do?
Me: The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club.
4th Fellow YMCA-er: What?
Me: *stepping closer* The second rule of Fight Club is, YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB.
4th Fellow YMCA-er: Um... gotta go see... uh... yeah...
Sometimes the oblique approach is the most satisfying.
Naturally, we here at Maison Fromage cannot approve of the use of the holy substance in this manner, but we do sincerely recommend the use of Spray Cheez as a good substitute for Silly String.
There must be some kind of phallic undertone symbolism in yard maintenance.
The landscaping guy is out there with his leaf blower, as per usual for a Friday. The fact that the tree trimming crew is also out there seems not to deter him. Rather, he views it as a challenge, a throwing down the gauntlet of leafy masculinity.
He blows.
They whack.
He blows more.
They whack harder.
So far it's a standoff.
My money is on the leaf blower guy. Everyone knows guys are better at putting out a lot of hot air rather than going out on a limb.
My apologies to ye of the testicle-bearing variety of reader. You know I adore you all, no matter how big your roots are.