I told Mario that when he grows up, I would prefer that he give his kids traditional names. He said I can play rock paper scissors with his wife to decide who gets to name them.
A haiku about Frank from Blue Velvet: Hit the fucking road/I’ll fuck anything that moves/Ben’s so fucking suave
Road House haiku: Wade Garrett’s the best/It’s my way or the highway/Who’ll save ’em from you?
Overheard at the Waffle House: “I don’t like white ladies. My daddy didn’t like white ladies. My brother likes white ladies. He even married one. She is Oriental.”
Last night Mario tried to tell me a bedtime story tonight called “Kelly Cooper and the Bad Hair Day” that he apparently made up. I had to leave the room because he wouldn’t stop talking, but I actually would have liked to hear the story. It’s one in a series which also includes “Kelly Cooper Goes to the Ball.”
It is amusing to me that while every child believes himself to be a tactical genius when it comes to the Battle Against Bedtime, they all use the same plan: asking for a glass of water.
How come you never see a Buddhist murderer on the news claiming Buddha wanted the victim dead?
Whenever we go to Joseph’s Restaurant in downtown Jacksonville we see a bar called Doozer’s Pub. I always want to run in and sing “Drink your cares away” *clap clap* “working’s for another daaay” and run back out. But I am afraid. I think the Gorgs drink there.
I just saw a commercial that said I could avoid disappointment and future regret if I call now. Should I call?
The best part about doing aerobics at home to an exercise tape is that when the instructor says, “How’s everybody feeling?!?” I don’t have to say “Woo hoo!” and pretend to be happy that I’m working out.
They need to start a clothing drive for ladies who don’t realize they’ve gone up a jeans size after having children. It will be called Britches For Bitches.
Rejected giallo title: Your Vice is a Locked Bathroom… And I Really Have to Pee!