Saturday, December 28, 2013

Camouflage

Vivian's brain may be smaller than a peanut, but she is no dummy. Who would want to be the inspiration for Poodle flavor Kitten Chow?

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Not Dead, Just Stupid


Holy shit.  It has been so long since I've been here I don't know how to blog anymore.
(I know you're thinking that I never really knew how to blog in the first place, and you are correct.  Mean, but correct.)

Anyway, I posted this lovely office picture just to see if I could.  If you are admiring my lovely office picture, (Which I cannot give proper credit for) then good for me.

Good for me, dammit.

Out-
T

Monday, November 1, 2010

Welcome to the Road Kill Cafe


My name is Luann, I'll be your server.

Today's special is a tasty little dish I like to call-- "The last Bitch that stiffed me..."

Except I'm 10, I'm not allowed to say "Bitch".

 So, what say we just keep that little tidbit between us, shall we?
Now then, what'll you have?
 I hear the Frito Pie  is to die for!


Out-T

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Almost Sad


I hope to God that you were really selling candy bars. 

You were small and almost sad.     
I was one of the people in the crowd.  I almost didn’t notice, except, I did.

Notice.

Where the hell is a Cop when you need one?
Not there.  Not then.  I know because I looked.    

We both know you shouldn’t talk to strangers.
I was a stranger, someone else’s mom, not yours.
You said you were not alone, that your aunt was inside the restaurant. You were all right you said, you were selling candy bars, you said.
We both know you shouldn’t talk to strangers, don’t we?

I hope to God you were really selling candy bars.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

We Need to Talk

There is something I think I should tell you. (Don’t you just hate when people say that? Me too, it makes me want to impale myself with the sharp end of a Snickers Bar). Here’s the deal. I cannot, do you hear me, CANNOT! Keep a secret. If you are knocked up, or you tattooed Speedy Gonzalez on your ass, and you want to confide in someone, tell your Priest, or your Doctor, or the guy in line behind you at the DMV, but whatever you do, do not tell me. I blab.

I can’t help it.

I am the girl who announced to my whole Earth Science class on our ninth grade overnight field trip, that while I found the constellations of the Milky Way Galaxy mildly interesting, the pot plants the neighbors were cultivating in the back of their barn were fucking amazing. Sorry Neighbors.

And sorry too, to my friend Anita because I told your mother that it was actually a fox, not the family cat that bit your finger, (Yes, we captured a fox and held it hostage for several days when we were ten years old. Don’t ask.), but I was afraid you would die of Rabies. Terrified actually, can you even imagine how long I would have been grounded if Big Judes (My Mom) found out you were foaming at the mouth and it was my fault?  Forever, that’s how long.

I would like to be able to report that I am more trustworthy now that I am almost one hundred years old, but, alas, that is not the case. Just last year my friend L. ask me to keep my big trap shut about an insanely cool project she started, The Secret Agent L Project, perhaps you have heard of it?

Anyway, L ask me what I wanted for my birthday (Because she is swell that way), and I told her that I was so ridiculously old that a gift would just remind me that my days were numbered, so really it would be better to skip the gift, unless of course the gift was a prescription for Prozac, because that is really the only thing that would have made me happy thought that she should do something nice, like anonymously nice, for someone else and then send me pictures, because that would make me happy, and then I would probably forget, at least for a little while, that I was practically as old as Dick Clark.

So, in typical L fashion, L knocked that sucker out of the park by doing this. (I told you she was swell).
But then, she told me not to tell, so of course the first thing I did was tell Karey M, then I may have mentioned it to Big Judes, and also, now that I think about it, it may have come up in conversation with Mr. Fussy Pants (My Boss), but I am pretty sure I only told him to prove that I really do have friends, and he probably told me to shut up anyway, so really I only told a couple people, which is really pretty good, all things considered.

That was a year ago, I just had another Birthday, now I am pretty sure I am older than Dick Clark. I am also pretty sure that I have one of the most amazing friends in the world, and I want to blab, so go here, and here, and here too.

Then go do something nice for someone.
Please.

Out-
T

image:http://www.rimabean.com/?p=463

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Show Your Molars

I can't decide if I want to join her, or slap her, but I admire the effort.
Have a great weekend!

Out-
T

image:http://www.threadbombing.com/data/media/3/happy.jpg

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Question

Question: How many oil company execs would it take to stop an oil spill?
Answer: I guess it depends on what size chunks you cut them in to.


Fuck you, you fucking  fucks (Very Ashley Morris/Treme/John Goodman of me, yes?).

Anyway, Facebook is invading my privacy.  Congress is trying to put me out of business. British Petroleum is poisoning my gulf coast.

And I?

I am busy looking at pretty pictures of over designed Dining Rooms, while contemplating the best way to organize my shoe closet.

Perhaps, I am the fucking  fuck.

Out-
T