Archive for May, 2008
… What number could then be assigned to those of us that hold in high worship Ben and Jerry’s “Chunky Monkey” ice cream? 421? I haven’t used recreational drugs for more years than I can remember, but the high I get from this stuff is scary good. Perhaps my memory gap is caused by that early substance usage, but that’s another story for another day.
Ah, but I’ve digressed once again, so let’s get back to our exhibit “A”, the ice cream treat that should be available by prescription only, and the exact name of which I shall not mention again, lest I am forced to make a run for the freezer section of the local stop and rob.
Full disclosure, I have severe lactose intolerance. So there will be no spontaneous treats for me that come from a cow, pizza included. Sadly, all my dairy based consumables must be preceded by some sort of drug (Lactaid, for example) to prevent me from becoming even more unwelcome than usual as I move into the gaseous state. And, don’t ask about my “solid” state unless you’re prepared to give up pizza forever.
If you should happen to see me walking along holding a cup with the last remains of a (usually chocolate) milkshake held firmly in my hand, don’t make the mistake of following behind me into an elevator.
This should be considered a very strong safety warning if you’re vertically challenged. And it’s an especially important rule to follow if you’re that short and are smoking, and wish to keep your eyebrows.
Oh yeah, about finding that number…… Well, I’m open to any suggestions other than 31 as Baskin Robbins seems to have a copyright locked that one up. And, don’t bother to suggest 13, the pot heads probably have that one sewn up too, you know that the 13th letter is “M”, and what with all that prison look tattoo nonsense…..
N.B., The ownership of any and all photos, opinions, and/ or quotes above (including those of my own) belong to the material’s creator(s). Credit is given when it’s known, but as everyone knows, success usually has a million parents and failure is an orphan.
Feel free to ignore any ads that are shown below, I don’t get to choose them and (sadly) I don’t make a penny off any of them, so in the holy name of capitalism I rebuke and don’t endorse or support any of them, unless of course they’re made of funny stuff…..
P.S., check back for occasional updates and rewrites….
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I’m giving my “economic stimulus” check to the Barack Obama election campaign.
When I get a receipt for the donation, I’ll send a copy of it to Mr. George W. Bush.
I think that he should know he’s finally done something right for America.
This will be proof a Republican can do a good thing once in a while.
Sure, it’s a rare event, but it could happen again.
But, don’t bother waiting up for the next one.
My mission here is accomplished
…. a time when if I heard a police officer had been shot, I’d hope that they caught the shooter. Now, my first response would be to ask if it was a real cop or just a wanna be meter maid.
If it was a “Lovely Rita” meter maid, I’d be hard pressed to feel too much sympathy, and that has nothing to do with the jive ass ticket I got in Venice a month ago where I was cited for parking for more than two hours. It seems that even though you keep feeding the meter, you have to move your car out of the spot a few feet, and then it’s o.k. to return and park again and feed the meter more quarters.
That was sure topped this morning while I was driving around endless blocks in Hollywood trying to find a spot to park. At that time, I saw a woman enter her car and start it up, I waited one car back in the traffic lane and waved cars around me while I waited for her to leave. A traffic control office pulled in behind me, and after I waved for her to go around, she pulled along side and said I couldn’t double park. I pointed out that “I’m not double parking, I’m not parking at all, I’m only waiting for that car to leave so I could get this parking space”.
Miss paragon of warmth informed me that there was a maximum 18 inches from the curb to tire requirement, so I was double parking. Again, I said that I’m not parking, I’m just waiting for the space to open up.
Because there’s always the chance that some parking ticket from my distant past might have fallen off my windshield (windscreen in Brit talk), this means that there’s always a distant possibility that a warrant is out there somewhere waiting for me, so rather than take that risk I chose to move on.
It’s a good thing that she didn’t get out of her little gas saving mobile headquarters of parking control, and bend over to check on my front license plate. You know those accidents where your car accelerates by itself, or your foot slips off the brake and floors the gas?
I’m not saying that I’d do anything like that, or recommend anyone else to do this.
I’m only saying……
That’s my prediction for the duration of the marriage of Jenna Bush and that idiot Henry Hager. Picture someone running at full speed down the pier trying to jump on the Titanic as it’s leaving its mooring, is that a clear enough image of Henry?
It will probably take even less time for the new groom to sweep himself clean out of the love nest he’ll try to make for the lesser of the two first daughters, too bad he got the one that looks like her commander in chimp father, instead of the (i.m.h.o.) cuter one that looks like her mother.
Mmmm, bragging rights to being married to the daughter of the worst ever president of the U.S.A. will quickly drop even further in value once the love birds lose their access to the white house, especially if “W” leaves office wearing tar and feathers as so many of us expect.
Perhaps at the wedding reception they’ll have a frog march procession in place of a conga line?
Gotta wonder about the pre-nup, were there stipulations regarding non-disclosure of stupid things said off camera by the papa-in-law?