1. I don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy, so maybe one of you who does can explain it to me, where do you get a tub large enough to fit two people in and do they come with that dude in them?
2. Why does going to Chicago fill me with the need to sing Liz Phair to myself as I’m driving in my car?
3. Is it okay to eat cookies for dinner? I think it is.
4. Is it stupider for the Butcher to teach the orange cat to fight the dog or for him to fight the orange cat himself?
I am going to marry Wendy’s Fix & Mix Frostys with M&Ms. I love everything about them. There’s chocolate. There’s cold creamy goodness on your tongue. There’s hunks of M&Ms. It’s soft, it’s lovely, it’s delicious.
I would write it a little love poem like this:
Oh Fix & Mix Frosty, you’re for me.
I love you more than a cat loves a tree.
I love you more than men like to pee.
Oh, Fix & Mix Frosty, you’re for me.
And I would set that poem to music and sing it for Fix & Mix Frosty every night just before it drifted off to sleep.
I have a question, since we’re talking about unnatural urges and food, and I’m guessing that between Coble, NM, and Bridgett, one of you is going to know.
You know Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater (Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater. Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her very well.)? Is it true that this is a nursery rhyme about a man who enjoys oral sex, but eventually finds that knocking his wife up is the only way to keep her from running around on him?
Newscoma brings us news on the state of women in the world in honor of International Women’s Day. It’d be nice to believe that we are shaking the tree, but ‘coma’s post shows it’s more likely that the tree still shakes us.
Still, we should do something in honor of the day. We can start small. Let’s all promise to not rape or kill any women today. See how that goes.
I’d like for us to be working on the idea that women are legal persons, but, as Bitch PhD reports, that’s a tough concept for us to wrap our heads around.
Would it be easier if women just belonged to the state, in quasi-indentured servitude where we were free to do as we liked until we got pregnant and then, bam, we are magically the property of the government, and thus reducible to evidence that a man (a legal “person”) has commited a crime or thus reducible to brood mare for that legal person or, in the event of that person being unlocatable, for the state?
Yes, I suppose it would be.
I give up.
I’m headed downtown to live at the state capitol. After all, if I belong to the State, I assume the State has an obligation to feed and clothe me.
I hope they don’t mind if I bring my dog. Oops. I mean, the State’s dog. I get lonely without her.
There’s this big stick about two blocks from home, enormously long but thin. Every day Mrs. Wigglebottom looks at it and I say, “no.” because it’s clear she’s going to hurt me or her with it. There’s no other purpose for a stick twice as long as she is.
But today, I was like, fine, idiot, pick up the stick, which she did, and promptly managed to get the stick caught in her leash so that it was smacking her on the butt as she circled away from it, thus somehow wrapping her leash around her tail sending her into more of a spinning yelping panic.
I spoke soothingly to her and worked to untangle her as our neighbor, in his car, waited for us to get out of the road so that he could get to work.
And, of course, two things happened the second I freed her: 1. I got a fucking splinter under my fingernail from the stick I told her was going to end up hurting us both and 2. she thought we were now playing with the stick that had so cruelly beat her and humiliated her not two seconds before and wanted to yank it out of my hand and run off with it, as if her trying to run off with the stick isn’t what caused this in the first place.
I love that girl, but damn she cracks me up.