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  • It's my party

    Mister and I have been married for 14 years now.

    And we still like each other. Pretty good for my family.


    It's a love thang.

    So I'm trolling on Fark the other day and found this little gem: a gingerbread ghetto. I think I'm going to try to make one of my own, maybe a college frat house or something. Check out the other pics--they're awesome!

    What's all this?

    All right. Enough with the sobbery. Time for some funny.

    Was patrolling the Obscure Store as I do during my weekday, and there was this lovely little story about a firecracker nun who got tired of hearing the daily swearfest on the playground. She decided to implement a zero tolerance code for swearing, and just to make sure everyone knew of which words she had banned, she read from a prepared list. There was some panty-bunching among the parents, to be sure, but most approved. How modern!

    Wait... Modern, at a Catholic school? Yup. The world has gone mad.

    So on the OS, we were tossing about some of our favorite naughty words that would slip under our parents' radars, mostly because they were Britishisms. Well, at least in my house--my parents had no idea what we were saying.

    Thanks to the many wonders of the internet, you no longer have to wonder whether you should belt someone upside the chops for calling you a "ginger tosser" or a "watery tart." Click here for a lovely list of my favorite Britishisms, as provided by The Zoo.

    Reality Check

    I was driving to lunch today, singing along with Mama Cass, contemplating our upcoming move to who-knows-where and the injustice of it all when I passed by a local cemetery. I always try to pause my thoughts and mouth for a few seconds when I pass a cemetery. I don't know why; it just always seemed like the right thing to do.

    My eyes were drawn to a small group of people huddled against a bitter wind paying their last respects to a departed loved one. I offered a mental salute and silent wish for better tidings as I continued on my way.

    About 45 minutes later I passed by the same place again. As I was slowing for the traffic lights, I noticed the crowd had left, all except for a lone woman seated very close to the smallest casket I've ever seen, her hand resting on the lid and her eyes looking off into the distance.


    It's only a bunny

    You know you're having a rough day when your loaf of bread and the neighbor's blacktop rake don't quite do the job, forcing your neighbor to use his Lincoln Continental to kill the rabid fox in your trailer park.

    Click this link.

    I am so easily amused. What's funnier is that this isn't Florida, but New York. Priceless!