do not read this, stainless steel amazon. i love you. have a nice day.

Fat Sparrow: Fire in the hole: A true story

Go read this now. This cracked me up so bad it was PITIFUL!

Kind of ties in nicely, what with my recent tales of oven- toasted horror, and the immanent arrival of the latest boyfriend for dinner. We are serving roast beef, dinner rolls, sauce, mashed, and salad. The guy hasn't seen a piece of beef since he met my daughter so I figured I'd do it up 'flyover state' stylee.
This (poor bastard) young man comes from a family of judges and attorneys, heavily Democrat by the sound of it. While I applaud the Stainless Steel Amazons' choice, I cannot help but wonder what kind of bizarre political notions she's going to whip up for herself, just to be difficult. This is why I worry for the future of this relationship because she does this, oh my God, she does it and nobody knows why, least of all her.

Eighty times out of a hundred she is the soul of reason. Then there's that last twenty percent when she's just batshit off her rocker. And I don't mean anything as simple as 'I say black, she says white, 'contrariness either, no no no. It's a case of 'I say black, she accuses me of being racist. Or argues that there is no such thing as black because black is the absence of light and nobody can see without light so black doesn't exist and even to say the word black means you are hatefully ignorant and not worthy of breathing the same air.' Or she'll go completely off the deep end, give you the stinkeye and snarl 'what's wrong with my shoes?' So in a couple of weeks I expect to hear she's become a Workers' Party revised orthodox whig or something; a position she will argue to the death until the hormones wear off.
Poor fucker has his work cut out for him.

Anyway, here I sit, braless and blogging instead of rushing around like Mary Tyler Moore on amphetamines like I usually do the day we officially 'meet the boyfriend'. There's a bag of boughten (it is too a word) rolls on the counter. I might skin the potatoes before I mash them. I am a rebel, dammit!
I've reached the point that I just don't give a rusty rats' ass whether the guys she drags in think we're weird or not. What good has it done me in the past? None whatsoever. I've fed these dinks, I've been June Cleaver nice, I haven't worn the 'fuck off and die' t-shirt, I've boiled the entire house and so far it's turned out to be wasted sweat. So fine. He comes over, the titty mags are staying in the bathroom and devil take the fuckin hindmost if he can't hang with it. Judges son? Meet the hippie-ass biker mofos who raised your girlfriend. We listen to Vivaldi and we say FUCK* whenever we want because that's just how we roll.

And that smell is EXACTLY what you think it is.



*Actually the Yummy Biker was roaming around the house yesterday chirping 'Nipples!' randomly because it was cracking me up. I dared him to go out on the back porch and do it and he did, and there were kids riding bikes past on the sidewalk, and it was ugly. Behold the dire badness of our ruthless G !