It can't be killed. It is some type of genetic freaky mutant thing that is resistant to anything and everything. It's the herpes of weeds. It's just there, it's always there. And it can't be killed.
I've tried. I've tried everything. I sprayed pesticide on it and it just burped and asked for some crackers. I have tried pulling it out by the roots but it just cracks it's knuckles and spits on me. It's very humiliating.
I have even trained the dog to pee on it every single day, twice a day, for the last year. His urine kills everything, it kills middle east peace plans. But not the weed, it's just there. It's always there. It's there in my dreams.
I've never seen anything like this before. They don't have weeds like this where I'm from. It's Twilight Zone weird. I expect it any minute to start producing gremlins that like to tear apart planes and drive old guys insane.
If I couldn't just kill it, that would be one thing. I could learn to live in peace with it. Neighbors, not by choice. It won't leave. I can accept that. But it's not just a superweed that won't die. It grows. It grows like you have never seen before. It "Drink Me" grows. It's almost immediate. What I thought was just a simple weed is actually a vine.
It's a beast of a vine. And it grows up and over everything like it is on steroids or like it just got shocked by Gamma Radiation and I have made it mad, so very very mad.
It does not flower. It does not bear fruit that I can make wine out of it. It just has very broad leaves that look like they are constantly trying to smack me in the face each time I pass so that I don't forget my place.
I started this fight a year ago. It had wrapped itself around my evergreen bush in the backyard. It was slowly killing it. The only thing it does fast is grow. When it kills, it likes to do it slowly so it can look into your eyes and call you a pussy.
I went under the bush and found the roots. I pulled them. I pulled out the leaves, I pulled out the little grabby tentacles. I pulled until my hands were chapped, torn while fighting for the life of my bush.
But I missed something, somewhere and next week it was back. I pulled again, and again it came back. I got a front loader and said "GET AWAY FROM HER YOU BITCH!" and then I threw it out the airlock.
It came back. It always comes back. Now there are several of them under the deck. A little army of angry weed vines. Have you ever seen that movie the Ruins? Go rent it and you will know what I'm dealing with.
I even called in the heavy hitters. The same people that Chicago brings in when they need someone "taken care" of. I called in Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss. You have not seen destruction until you have seen them in action.
Give them a hammer and by the time you come back your house would be in ruins and your cat would be smacked around. Give them a paperclip and your car would be stolen, stripped for parts, and a dirty diaper would be left in your mailbox.
They showed up bright and early. They like there ass wrecking to begin promptly at 7:30.
I gave them a blow torch, a pack of Pal Malls and a box of wipes.
Take that you fucker.
An hour later I went back outside. The vine weed was still there and if possible, had grown another 10 feet and was now creeping up the side of my deck. Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss were petting it.
I am out of ideas. I have nothing left to try. I have brainstormed and keep coming up empty. Should I start talking bad to it now? They say that talking to plants helps, so what if I tell the vine that it is a piece of shit who's own mother didn't want it. Would that work. If I told it that I have seen better foliage on the underside of a bridge, would it cry and shrivel up?
Maybe I'll just go the bad neighbor route. Make it so unbearable to live next to me that it will move on it's own. Do things like play my music to loud, party all night, light bags of poo in front of it and then run away.
I'm out of options and I have a feeling that time is working against me. Death will take one of us and I'm not liking my chances.
7/19/09
Playgroup through the Eyes of a Toddler
Insanity. But always in a good way.
Kids running, running, gotta get there, gotta play hard, gotta play fast. Oh, look there is the trampoline, gotta jump, gotta jump high and gotta jump hard. Ouch, I busted my lip. I don't want to get down, you can't make me get down. Ok, I'll get down and you take me to my dad and I'll show him my bloody lip. Look dad, I have a bloody lip, I'm a real man now, gotta get back.
The swing set, that's cool, gotta sing on it, gotta swing high and hard. Let's climb to the top because that's really high. Now down the slide, WEEEEEEEE, that was cool, let's do that again. But I want to climb up the slide and I can't with my flip flops on. Here dad take these, they are a pain, stupid shoes, let me go shoeless like Tom Sawyer, he was cool, I'm cool, I want to go rafting. Where did my shoes go?
Oh, what's that over there? That's rabbits. Hey dad, hey dad, hey dad, hey dad. HEY DAD! LOOOK!!!! There are rabbits over here!!! Hey DAD! RABBITS! RIGHT HERE! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!
Gotta go potty, where is the potty, hey someone take me potty. I gotta go over here! You there, tall guy, you look like a dad, take me to the potty before I ruin this carpet. Ya know, I don't really care one way or another. But I gotta go, now are you going to take me?
Now I'm dancing, because dancing is cool. Look Dad, I'm doing the Charleston. See dad, see dad, see dad, PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I'm dancing. Hey, now everyone dance, see we're all dancing. And we're next to the kiddie pool. Can I get in? Please dad? Can I please get in? I'm going to get in. What you mean no! That's not right, I want to get in the pool, let me in the pool, I don't need my dress on, here, let me take it off. Let go of ME! NO! I WANT TO GO IN THE POOL! Put me down. I swear I'll kick you in the junk! Put me down! I don't want to get in the car, I don't want to go home.
I'm tired.
Daddy, have you seen where my underwear is?
Kids running, running, gotta get there, gotta play hard, gotta play fast. Oh, look there is the trampoline, gotta jump, gotta jump high and gotta jump hard. Ouch, I busted my lip. I don't want to get down, you can't make me get down. Ok, I'll get down and you take me to my dad and I'll show him my bloody lip. Look dad, I have a bloody lip, I'm a real man now, gotta get back.
The swing set, that's cool, gotta sing on it, gotta swing high and hard. Let's climb to the top because that's really high. Now down the slide, WEEEEEEEE, that was cool, let's do that again. But I want to climb up the slide and I can't with my flip flops on. Here dad take these, they are a pain, stupid shoes, let me go shoeless like Tom Sawyer, he was cool, I'm cool, I want to go rafting. Where did my shoes go?
Oh, what's that over there? That's rabbits. Hey dad, hey dad, hey dad, hey dad. HEY DAD! LOOOK!!!! There are rabbits over here!!! Hey DAD! RABBITS! RIGHT HERE! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!
Gotta go potty, where is the potty, hey someone take me potty. I gotta go over here! You there, tall guy, you look like a dad, take me to the potty before I ruin this carpet. Ya know, I don't really care one way or another. But I gotta go, now are you going to take me?
Now I'm dancing, because dancing is cool. Look Dad, I'm doing the Charleston. See dad, see dad, see dad, PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I'm dancing. Hey, now everyone dance, see we're all dancing. And we're next to the kiddie pool. Can I get in? Please dad? Can I please get in? I'm going to get in. What you mean no! That's not right, I want to get in the pool, let me in the pool, I don't need my dress on, here, let me take it off. Let go of ME! NO! I WANT TO GO IN THE POOL! Put me down. I swear I'll kick you in the junk! Put me down! I don't want to get in the car, I don't want to go home.
I'm tired.
Daddy, have you seen where my underwear is?
7/16/09
The Friday Five
5 reasons why I wish I was Harry Potter.
5: Chicks dig scars and magic and my "find your card in my pants" trick just isn't working anymore. Technically, it's an illusion. Yes, I mean everything in my pants.
4. So I could be just like Jesus, but not in a sacrilegious way
3. So I could banish the Delores Umbridge's of my life.
2. I hurt myself a lot and it would really cut down on the medical bills if I could just point my wand and say "reparo". I've tried it and still nothing works.
1. Invisibility cloak + sorority slumber party. Do I really need to explain this one?
5: Chicks dig scars and magic and my "find your card in my pants" trick just isn't working anymore. Technically, it's an illusion. Yes, I mean everything in my pants.
4. So I could be just like Jesus, but not in a sacrilegious way
3. So I could banish the Delores Umbridge's of my life.
2. I hurt myself a lot and it would really cut down on the medical bills if I could just point my wand and say "reparo". I've tried it and still nothing works.
1. Invisibility cloak + sorority slumber party. Do I really need to explain this one?
7/12/09
Bad Ideas
She has on her little face something between a smirk and a sneer. At 3 years old she has a thousand yard stare as she looks down the paintball gun sight.
I will be the first to admit that I have made some mistakes as a father. And when I make them, they usually don't seem like mistakes at the time. It comes back to me much later when I'm telling the story and the person I'm telling it to has a wide eyed expression that seems to say "I can't believe you don't need a license to have kids." They then laugh politely while looking for any excuse to run away. Their head starts darting from side to side trying to find someone to rescue them from the conversation and they begin to act like they have forgotten about an important appointment that they just now made. That's when I know that perhaps I have made a mistake with my children.
For example: I was recently telling Papa Scrum that I taught Little Hoss how to do boxing on the Wii. She grabs the controllers and just goes crazy. And when she knocks the computer animated person down, she says "Get up punk!" which I also thought was funny. Papa Scrum asked me if this was really a good idea, considering my daughter's mongoness. In hindsight, probably not. On the other hand, she has a really good jab/uppercut combo. You should see her.
This last week I also thought it was a good idea to take both my children to a graveyard. It's a working graveyard but also a very old historic one. We were looking for the grave of Cole Younger and his family. They are famous outlaws that used to ride with Jessie James. I thought the kids would have a blast and I would enjoy the history. On those two qualifications the trip was a major success. However, if not desecrating graves were on the list, then this would have been a failure. Oh, we found the right graves all right. My children where so excited that they started climbing over every headstone they could find. How to explain respect for the dead to a 3 and 2 year old? We topped the outing off with both of them eating some fresh gravedirt. I know that it's just like regular dirt, but I got the feeling that this was worse somehow. Indian burial ground kind of worse and I've been waiting for it to come back to me all week.
But both of those mistakes might not compare to letting my daughter handle a fully loaded, semi-automatic paint gun. I am chock full of good parenting decisions. Are you taking notes? This is how you parent.
It was over the 4th of July weekend. Yes, we had a great time thank you. Papa Scrum invited us over for some barbecue and fireworks because that's also what you do. You get some meat and cook it just south of burnt and call it a day. We let the kids go swimming and run around outside while the adults constantly tried to push off the supervision on which ever parent was closest.
4 beers into the evening the paint gun came out. Sleek, black, full of misspent youth. Oh yes, you are Rambo my friend. You could jump out from behind a waterfall and dispense justice to those wishing to not have justice dispensed.
Father Hitman brought it out. Yes, Father Hitman. You bring a paintball gun to the 4th of July, you get stuck with a name like Father Hitman.
"You want to try it?" Father Hitman asks.
Yes. Yes I do.
But we have to be quick before the children realize that we have mechanized awesome in our hands.
Jinx.
They come running over. Should we let them try it? He says let them try it. Will Hossmom give me a look once she finds out that says "I'm to polite now to say anything but on the car ride home I'm going to rip your ass once we are away from all the people." Probably. But by then my plan is to be to tanked to notice anyway. Besides, HE let HIS kids do it! That is always a well reasoned argument.
Slowly the kids line up and take their turn. Little Hoss is giddy. This is better than Christmas. This is better than Popsicles in the bathtub. This is better than stealing her little brother's cookie while dad is asleep.
She caresses it, more delicate than her favorite toy. The steel feels like family to her touch, the smell of oil the scent of a thousand roses. The weight somewhere between perfect and deadly perfect. Yes, she is home. This is where she is meant to be. All she is missing now is a combat boots and a helmet with a sarcastic peace symbol on it.
Father Hitman squats down to help her aim, which is a good idea. She does not believe in aiming. Aiming, in short, is for pussies.
She places her hand on the trigger and the connection is made. Pure, sweet and simple. So simple that a 3 year old could do this.
She pushes the trigger and the gun makes a little "pop" sound and she shudders with satisfaction. Her fingers tingle, again, she wants to shoot something again! Where are you at greasy Easter Bunny. You giant polyester freak! Come to me! Let's see you try to make me sit on your lap now. And you too mall Santa, I got something for you!
Hossmom comes over with the rest of the wives.
Crap.
They all sit there watching. I start to try to explain. My mind is working as rapidly as the semi automatic gun that my daughter now holds. Terroists, there in the woods, are trying to ruin our July 4th. A bear terroist. A Bear terroist who did not bring any guacomole dip. Right there, in the woods.
And then all the wives smile. They smile and continue making small talk. They hug thier kids and drink thier drinks. They talk about wife stuff. Like how to not leave bruises when they beat thier husbands for letting thier precious little babies play with paintball guns.
But no, that's not what they are talking about. They are talking about potty training and work and what they are doing the next weekend. They are laughing at the kids shooting a tree. They barely seem to notice us but instead notice that they are having uninterupted conversations.
One of two things have happened here. 1. They are all so desperate for some adult conversation without either a husband or a child pulling on thier boobs, or 2. They are terrified that thier children are now armed. Yes, yes, it's the perfect scenerio.
We are all stay at home dads. We interact with the children. We have trained them like Mr. Miyagi, they know the flying crane and the drum punch. And they are our minions.
I have created the perfect soldier. Bring on Wii boxing.
I will be the first to admit that I have made some mistakes as a father. And when I make them, they usually don't seem like mistakes at the time. It comes back to me much later when I'm telling the story and the person I'm telling it to has a wide eyed expression that seems to say "I can't believe you don't need a license to have kids." They then laugh politely while looking for any excuse to run away. Their head starts darting from side to side trying to find someone to rescue them from the conversation and they begin to act like they have forgotten about an important appointment that they just now made. That's when I know that perhaps I have made a mistake with my children.
For example: I was recently telling Papa Scrum that I taught Little Hoss how to do boxing on the Wii. She grabs the controllers and just goes crazy. And when she knocks the computer animated person down, she says "Get up punk!" which I also thought was funny. Papa Scrum asked me if this was really a good idea, considering my daughter's mongoness. In hindsight, probably not. On the other hand, she has a really good jab/uppercut combo. You should see her.
This last week I also thought it was a good idea to take both my children to a graveyard. It's a working graveyard but also a very old historic one. We were looking for the grave of Cole Younger and his family. They are famous outlaws that used to ride with Jessie James. I thought the kids would have a blast and I would enjoy the history. On those two qualifications the trip was a major success. However, if not desecrating graves were on the list, then this would have been a failure. Oh, we found the right graves all right. My children where so excited that they started climbing over every headstone they could find. How to explain respect for the dead to a 3 and 2 year old? We topped the outing off with both of them eating some fresh gravedirt. I know that it's just like regular dirt, but I got the feeling that this was worse somehow. Indian burial ground kind of worse and I've been waiting for it to come back to me all week.
But both of those mistakes might not compare to letting my daughter handle a fully loaded, semi-automatic paint gun. I am chock full of good parenting decisions. Are you taking notes? This is how you parent.
It was over the 4th of July weekend. Yes, we had a great time thank you. Papa Scrum invited us over for some barbecue and fireworks because that's also what you do. You get some meat and cook it just south of burnt and call it a day. We let the kids go swimming and run around outside while the adults constantly tried to push off the supervision on which ever parent was closest.
4 beers into the evening the paint gun came out. Sleek, black, full of misspent youth. Oh yes, you are Rambo my friend. You could jump out from behind a waterfall and dispense justice to those wishing to not have justice dispensed.
Father Hitman brought it out. Yes, Father Hitman. You bring a paintball gun to the 4th of July, you get stuck with a name like Father Hitman.
"You want to try it?" Father Hitman asks.
Yes. Yes I do.
But we have to be quick before the children realize that we have mechanized awesome in our hands.
Jinx.
They come running over. Should we let them try it? He says let them try it. Will Hossmom give me a look once she finds out that says "I'm to polite now to say anything but on the car ride home I'm going to rip your ass once we are away from all the people." Probably. But by then my plan is to be to tanked to notice anyway. Besides, HE let HIS kids do it! That is always a well reasoned argument.
Slowly the kids line up and take their turn. Little Hoss is giddy. This is better than Christmas. This is better than Popsicles in the bathtub. This is better than stealing her little brother's cookie while dad is asleep.
She caresses it, more delicate than her favorite toy. The steel feels like family to her touch, the smell of oil the scent of a thousand roses. The weight somewhere between perfect and deadly perfect. Yes, she is home. This is where she is meant to be. All she is missing now is a combat boots and a helmet with a sarcastic peace symbol on it.
Father Hitman squats down to help her aim, which is a good idea. She does not believe in aiming. Aiming, in short, is for pussies.
She places her hand on the trigger and the connection is made. Pure, sweet and simple. So simple that a 3 year old could do this.
She pushes the trigger and the gun makes a little "pop" sound and she shudders with satisfaction. Her fingers tingle, again, she wants to shoot something again! Where are you at greasy Easter Bunny. You giant polyester freak! Come to me! Let's see you try to make me sit on your lap now. And you too mall Santa, I got something for you!
Hossmom comes over with the rest of the wives.
Crap.
They all sit there watching. I start to try to explain. My mind is working as rapidly as the semi automatic gun that my daughter now holds. Terroists, there in the woods, are trying to ruin our July 4th. A bear terroist. A Bear terroist who did not bring any guacomole dip. Right there, in the woods.
And then all the wives smile. They smile and continue making small talk. They hug thier kids and drink thier drinks. They talk about wife stuff. Like how to not leave bruises when they beat thier husbands for letting thier precious little babies play with paintball guns.
But no, that's not what they are talking about. They are talking about potty training and work and what they are doing the next weekend. They are laughing at the kids shooting a tree. They barely seem to notice us but instead notice that they are having uninterupted conversations.
One of two things have happened here. 1. They are all so desperate for some adult conversation without either a husband or a child pulling on thier boobs, or 2. They are terrified that thier children are now armed. Yes, yes, it's the perfect scenerio.
We are all stay at home dads. We interact with the children. We have trained them like Mr. Miyagi, they know the flying crane and the drum punch. And they are our minions.
I have created the perfect soldier. Bring on Wii boxing.
7/9/09
The Friday Five
5 Greatest Things Ever Said.
5. It's not yours. Oh thank god.
4. Can I buy you a drink? Yes, you can always buy me a drink.
3. The test results came back negative. I don't care what the test is or what it is for, if it's negative thats always a good thing.
2. Here's my hotel key, don't keep me waiting. Does this ever happen? Surely it's had to happen to someone, somewhere.
1. You want fries with that. I always want fries with that.
5. It's not yours. Oh thank god.
4. Can I buy you a drink? Yes, you can always buy me a drink.
3. The test results came back negative. I don't care what the test is or what it is for, if it's negative thats always a good thing.
2. Here's my hotel key, don't keep me waiting. Does this ever happen? Surely it's had to happen to someone, somewhere.
1. You want fries with that. I always want fries with that.
7/7/09
Say it. Say it all.
I don't want to talk about it.
You have to talk about it.
Shut-up. I don't even want to mention it.
You have to.
I don't have to do shit.
This you have to do.
Quiet! Get out of my head! Get Out!
Say it.
No!
Say it.
No!
Say it, you have no choice.
But I can't.
Yes you can.
It's to hard, I can't.
It's not hard.
But....
No but. Say it.
My Niece beat me in Wii bowling.
And?
She's 4 years old.
Keep going.
No more. Please.
All of it.
My wife beat me in Wii bowling. Several times. A lot of times.
More.
I have never beaten my wife in Wii bowling.
When was the last time your wife even played a video game.
20 years ago, maybe? Nothing have the original Nintendo and maybe then only one game on one single day.
And now she beat you.
Yes, she beat me like a rented mule.
Like a rented mule?
Yes, like a rented mule.
Like a whipped and beaten rented mule.
Yes.
Say it.
Like a whipped and beaten rented mule.
Now say the rest of it.
Do I have to?
You will never have peace until you do.
Please, let me stop.
No, you have to keep going.
All of it?
Yes, all of it.
My mother in law...
What about your mother in law.
She.....
Yes?
I can't!
You have to.
She beat me in the Wii too! Dear god help me, she beat me too!
How many times.
All the time. All the time.
Did you enjoy it?
Of course I didn't enjoy it! It was humiliating!
Why?
Because she didn't even know how to turn it on! She didn't know what a Wii was! She calls the controllers the "thingies!"
And she beat you.
Yes, yes, she beat me. Are you happy now. My 4 year old niece, my wife, and my mother in law all beat me in Wii bowling!
That's pretty terrible.
I know, I know. It's almost treasonous.
How long have you been playing?
I have been playing video games since I was 5.
And what happened?
A bunch of rank amateurs beat me. One can't read yet. One can't stand video games. And one says "so I swing this thingie and hit that thingie?"
And how did they beat you?
Like a rented mule.
Yes, like a rented mule. Now go practice and let us never speak of this again.
You have to talk about it.
Shut-up. I don't even want to mention it.
You have to.
I don't have to do shit.
This you have to do.
Quiet! Get out of my head! Get Out!
Say it.
No!
Say it.
No!
Say it, you have no choice.
But I can't.
Yes you can.
It's to hard, I can't.
It's not hard.
But....
No but. Say it.
My Niece beat me in Wii bowling.
And?
She's 4 years old.
Keep going.
No more. Please.
All of it.
My wife beat me in Wii bowling. Several times. A lot of times.
More.
I have never beaten my wife in Wii bowling.
When was the last time your wife even played a video game.
20 years ago, maybe? Nothing have the original Nintendo and maybe then only one game on one single day.
And now she beat you.
Yes, she beat me like a rented mule.
Like a rented mule?
Yes, like a rented mule.
Like a whipped and beaten rented mule.
Yes.
Say it.
Like a whipped and beaten rented mule.
Now say the rest of it.
Do I have to?
You will never have peace until you do.
Please, let me stop.
No, you have to keep going.
All of it?
Yes, all of it.
My mother in law...
What about your mother in law.
She.....
Yes?
I can't!
You have to.
She beat me in the Wii too! Dear god help me, she beat me too!
How many times.
All the time. All the time.
Did you enjoy it?
Of course I didn't enjoy it! It was humiliating!
Why?
Because she didn't even know how to turn it on! She didn't know what a Wii was! She calls the controllers the "thingies!"
And she beat you.
Yes, yes, she beat me. Are you happy now. My 4 year old niece, my wife, and my mother in law all beat me in Wii bowling!
That's pretty terrible.
I know, I know. It's almost treasonous.
How long have you been playing?
I have been playing video games since I was 5.
And what happened?
A bunch of rank amateurs beat me. One can't read yet. One can't stand video games. And one says "so I swing this thingie and hit that thingie?"
And how did they beat you?
Like a rented mule.
Yes, like a rented mule. Now go practice and let us never speak of this again.
7/2/09
The Friday Five
5 things that I can write because no one will read this shit anyway since its the day before July 4. I can pretty much pop off all I want here and it won't matter because you'll either be watching fireworks or drunk while naked, either way, be careful where you point that thing.
5. If those fucking teenagers catch my house on fire from the fireworks they are popping in the street, I will go to their house, kick them in the balls, take a shit in their closet, punch their mother for letting them, and then happily jerk off on every pillow they own. Seriously dude, I'm not fucking around here. And if you wake up my kid, then I'm making you come over until she goes back to bed. But before I do I'm feeding her soda and cocaine. Good luck with that buttholes.
4. Slut Bungwalla.
3. I look at my poop after I take a dump.
2. When I was a kid, my brother sister and I were riding in the back of a truck. We were on the tailgate. We hit a bump and my sister went flying. She was 5 years old. My brother grabbed her in midair and was barely holding on to her. I couldn't help because I was laughing to hard. For some reason, it was the funniest thing that I had ever seen. To this day, she won't let me live it down. It was like 25 years ago.
1. I'm not sorry that Micheal Jackson is dead. That's right, I don't much care. Musical genius, sure. Great dancer, ok if you say so. Liked to touch young boys, looks like it. That's right, I said it. He liked to dilly with their junk and I refuse to feel any remorse that someone like that is dead. Suck it. I used to investigate shit like this. I've seen what this does. So fuck him. And he named his kid Blanket. Who the fuck does that, what kind of parent is that? I've also read that 12 people of his fan club committed suicide. World's better off without you, please tell me you didn't reproduce first Sure, I know it's harsh. But I don't much care. We are ripping the governor that got a piece on the side but celebrated the life of a dude who liked them young and hairless. That makes no sense to me. Don't get me wrong, the governor is a douchebag too but doesn't compare to a pedophile. Need to get your priorities straight, that's all I'm saying.
Ah, now I feel better.
5. If those fucking teenagers catch my house on fire from the fireworks they are popping in the street, I will go to their house, kick them in the balls, take a shit in their closet, punch their mother for letting them, and then happily jerk off on every pillow they own. Seriously dude, I'm not fucking around here. And if you wake up my kid, then I'm making you come over until she goes back to bed. But before I do I'm feeding her soda and cocaine. Good luck with that buttholes.
4. Slut Bungwalla.
3. I look at my poop after I take a dump.
2. When I was a kid, my brother sister and I were riding in the back of a truck. We were on the tailgate. We hit a bump and my sister went flying. She was 5 years old. My brother grabbed her in midair and was barely holding on to her. I couldn't help because I was laughing to hard. For some reason, it was the funniest thing that I had ever seen. To this day, she won't let me live it down. It was like 25 years ago.
1. I'm not sorry that Micheal Jackson is dead. That's right, I don't much care. Musical genius, sure. Great dancer, ok if you say so. Liked to touch young boys, looks like it. That's right, I said it. He liked to dilly with their junk and I refuse to feel any remorse that someone like that is dead. Suck it. I used to investigate shit like this. I've seen what this does. So fuck him. And he named his kid Blanket. Who the fuck does that, what kind of parent is that? I've also read that 12 people of his fan club committed suicide. World's better off without you, please tell me you didn't reproduce first Sure, I know it's harsh. But I don't much care. We are ripping the governor that got a piece on the side but celebrated the life of a dude who liked them young and hairless. That makes no sense to me. Don't get me wrong, the governor is a douchebag too but doesn't compare to a pedophile. Need to get your priorities straight, that's all I'm saying.
Ah, now I feel better.
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