I know many of you read Martini Ministry and are fans of the Recovering Baptist. So, I thought you’d get a kick out of the following exchange in my living room this morning.
"Who was that girl who had all those guys hitting on her and trying to get her to go to the strip clubs with them?"
"The Recovering Baptist."
"Damn. There’s just something about her. I don’t know. She was hot as hell. Did she go home with those guys?"
"Well, damn. I’m glad to know someone had a worse night than me. Those poor guys were hitting on her for hours and hours and she didn’t even notice?"
"I don’t know. I don’t think so."
"But she’s hot as hell! I would have hit on her, but I didn’t want to horn in on their action."
Sometimes, when I think about how my nephews live, Tiny Cat Pants seems very futile, like bedtime stories I tell myself as a brief respite.
When the recalcitrant brother wakes up, I’m going to have to ask him if he knows about this shit. If he does, what the fuck? I don’t even know what to say to him.
Those boys deserve better than they’ve gotten.
Anyway, I didn’t want to forget to tell you that sometimes, The Undertaker rents equipment from our Home Depot to fix up his parents’ house. At least, that’s what the guy who works there says.
I hope it’s true.
It’s a nice story and I like nice stories.
When counting reasons you hate your sister-in-law, do the most egregious reasons move to the top? In other words, has this become reason number one I hate my sister-in-law or is this number 512 because it just comes latest on a long line of things that piss me off about her so much I about can’t stand it?
I guess it doesn’t matter.
She beats my four year old nephew with a belt.
I cannot tell you how strong my urge to drive over there and take a belt to her is.
I just hate that woman. I hate her so much that I cannot wait until the moment comes when I’m not hearing this shit second and third hand. Because the second he says that shit to me, I’m calling social services.
Hit a four year old with a belt. What the fuck is wrong with her?
I hope she dies.
You’d think a mentally ill crack whore would only have a life expectancy of twenty-five, but I guess we can’t get that lucky.