Blasphemy.

I keep laughing at this picture, and I KNOW it is so loaded with blasphemy. But I just keep laughing. Just one of many reasons I'm going to hell. I want to send it to my uncle Bob. He doesn't have my number, so it'll be anonymous text. Just that picture. (My uncle apparently thinks God talks to him personally, and tells him if he tells everyone what we're all doing wrong, he gets do be as big of a dickwad as he wants and still maintain his sainthood.) 

Also, I'm inspired to go buy googly eyes. I could googly eye the crap out of things. Visit every establishment in town, googly eyeing one thing. Then, whoever finds the secret googly eye in each place, wins a package of googly eyes. My googly eye contest. 

A thought about thoughts

There are so many things I want to say. So many things I want to write about. All day long, my brain is on. When I finally get to sit down and think and write, my brain has either checked out for the night or it's throwing things like a one direction fans who want an autograph and I can't get away. It's like a fight of thoughts. It's worse when it won't work. Then, I try and start a thought fight, but all my thoughts are suddenly pacifists. All I'll remember is a couple words. Lazy eyes? What the hell was I thinking about lazy eyes for? Back to blank. And sometimes, believe it it not, my thoughts are too intense, too deep, too dark, that I'm not real sure I WANT to write down. That could be trouble. 

Anyway, my point is, I really want to write, at times when I couldn't possibly sit down and write. Give me the opportunity to sit down and write? I can't think of anything to say. The solution to my problem, is just to have someone follow me around all day and write down every word I say. Then I scare the shit out of myself when I read it. I could probably cut out the human contact part of it, and just strap a tape recorder to the dogs collar. She's always following me around. Which is actually pretty damn annoying. Seeing the shadow of her paws from underneath the bathroom door is pretty annoying. Tripping over her because I moved two feet and turned back around. Yeah. The dog would capture it all. Problem is, I'd have to think out loud. Talk, when there are no other people around. Which is talking to myself. And I would look like a fucking lunatic, sitting on my couch having a full conversation with air. But I'd actually be talking to my dog. Which is way fucking worse than just talking to myself. She hasn't even been trained to roll over OR transcribe a conversation and type at 150 words a minute. Bad plan. 

To my fellow weirdos.

Had some self discovery. And the main point is, that the shit that I like, most people either have no idea what it is, or they do and just think I'm weird. AND the things that most people DO like, I don't. Pink Floyd is my perfect example. I HATE Pink Floyd. To me, it is just a series of sound effects. If I turn in the radio, and the actual singing part of wish you were here is on, I won't turn it off. Mostly because it reminds me if my friend, Gregor. But whatever. The movie-stand by me.  I hate that movie. I can't make it five minutes with that shit on. I've never seen Heathers or Fast Times at Ridgemont High. So when people mention it, I'm oblivious. Even though that's my age group. I was busy watching the three stooges, the Marx brothers, and Monty Python at that time. On VHS. 

So I can basically only really relate to other weirdos. Or people who I made weirdos by hanging out with me. Would Amis have ever learned about Mystery Science Theater 3000 without me?? Maybe. Her dad had a lot of tapes. If you've never seen Malibu express, I can't say I recommend it. Unless you're twelve and want to see some boobies. 

Hair on the face

If you are a woman under the age of thirty, you won't know what I'm talking about. Most of you, anyway. But you should keep reading, cuz I'm about to tell you about your future. One day, you'll be looking in the mirror, or driving in the car, and notice, for the first time ever, that you have a mustache that would make a 14 year old boy green with envy. You had convinced yourself it was just a shadow, and now you see it. You realize you have been in direct sunlight while in front of other people. Now you're sure they were never laughing at your jokes, or listening to a word you say for that matter, but just staring at the hair on your upper lip blowing in the wind. There's bleach for this problem, but I'm afraid it just makes it worse. The hair is still there, but because it's not bleach blond to clear, it glistens in the sunlight. Plus, then you have to touch up the roots. Soooo there's also hair burning cream. If you're blond, this is a good choice. It'll burn right off. If you are very dark brunette, not so much. You will have to also burn your skin. It says maximum time is 4 minutes or something. Yeah. Try 10. Burned skin, no stache.  Sacrifices. Even then, there will still be a few hairs, and let's be honest, it's fairer to call them whiskers, that will not be phased by the burning. Waxing is the best choice, just don't have anywhere to go for two hours after. Cuz your upper lip will be bright red and shiny. A few years later, you'll discover your first chin hair. Whisker. Sorry. You will touch your face one day, and find that you just tore your finger open on a piece of wire that is growing out of your face. You will focus on little else until you can get to a mirror. You could be walking the tight rope at the circus, feel that whisker, and it'll be the only thing on your mind. You'll probably die. So don't touch your face when tight rope walking. When you get to your mirror, tweezers in hand, you'll be ready for battle. Thing is, you an only feel it. You can't see it. So you keep feeling, trying to grab it with the tweezers, but mostly pinching bits of skin no where near the whisker. When you do find it, you'll be surprised to find out that it's root is in your mandible. You'll know this because A-it's going to take awhile. That fucker isn't coming out in one pull. Noooo. It's gonna fight you all the way. Then, when you win(and sometimes your chin is bleeding, so it's more like losing), this thing you could barely get a grip on, not even visible, turns out to be eyelash length, and jet fucking black. You push on it to try and bend it, and stab your finger. It has the tensile strength of two hundred captain America shields. It will be horrifying. And it's only the beginning. Men don't have to deal with unnatural hair. They say they do, because if ear hair. Ear hair? Are you fucking kidding me. They can have hair in their pits, hairy fucking legs, hairy bodies. They can look like someone tarred his crotch, then dumped a whole garbage bag of hair clippings from a black barber shop, and it's not unnatural.  Unattractive? Yes. But they're men. 

Just thought I'd share....

I forgot to talk about vagina hats....remind me.

So many thoughts I had to hit down to remember...my sister came over yesterday, and kid 3's Hulk fists were on the couch. She told us we shouldn't leave our sex toys laying around. An then all I could think was, if I were a gyno, I could use these. With only certain patients, though. The ones who don't suck. Walk Into the room with the Hulk fists on. With rubber gloves over them. Say hi, open two five gallon buckets of KY, and dunk em in. Ready for your exam?? 

I would think that was awesome. 

Then. I remembered I have a paper mâché mold of my belly when I was pregnant with kid 3. Boobs and all. And I had plans for it, but now it's just in the closet collecting dust. So, I feel like I need to do something with it. Like make a chip and dip bowl. Two dips, one big ass chip bowl. OR I would paint it, anatomically correct, and wear it at his graduation. The ultimate embarrassment. And then, on his 21st birthday, we could make it into a piñata. I don't know. What the hell else am j supposed to do with it?!

Then! A book. I don't know if it's more for stoners, or more for kids. A book, about stoner problems, written in a kid book format. You can teach kids to read, OR entertain high people. Dual purpose book. Kid format. See Dwayne? Dwayne runs slow. See Dwayne look for his keys. His keys are on the table in front of him. Dwayne does not see his keys. Dwayne get upset. Dwayne lost his keys. Sally sees Dwayne's keys. Sally laughs at Dwayne. Dwayne sees his keys. Dwayne laughs at Dwayne. 

Good book. 

There is a very real experiment going on in my house, and when I have the results, you will be alerted. 

Questions questions questions!

I miss the posts that had all the questions. I like answering questions. If you hated them, stop reading, and move along. I found a list of 150 questions, and I'm going to answer them. Not all at once, ain't nobody got time for that. Like 25 at a time. And I urge you to give me YOUR answers, because sometimes they're better than mine. Which kinda makes me mad, but I'll get over it.  Soooooo here it goes. 

P.S. If you're seeing THIS post, I require that you be absolutely shit faced, or baked out if your gourd, before you answer. 

1. Say something good that happened to you today. 

I ordered seasons 1 and 2 of MXC on DVD. They have already shipped, and I am over the moon. 

2. What is your general philosophy of life?

It is what it is. 

3.  What is the worst thing you have lived through?

Buzzkill question. So I'll say having to bury my son. No elaboration. 

4. How old is your inner child?

I'd say a solid 15 1/2. 16 seems a bit mature to appreciate drawing dicks on things, and laughing every time I hear the word "balls". 

5. Do you believe in a higher power, and if so, what name do you give it?

Yes. What name? Like, so I call God "Bill"? I usually just call Him God. Goofy question. 

6. Are you allergic to anything? If so, what?

Bites from gigundous, hideous, hairy, black spiders. Got bit behind the ear, once, while I was sleeping. My whole head was a hive. The worst part was knowing that in order to bite me, it was crawling ON MY FACE. Which is why I spaz out if a piece of hair touches my face when I'm sleeping. 

7. Write a haiku on the spot (5-7-5). 

Obama talks

Biden checks his phone for pics

Boehner is mad tan

8. Favorite animal?

Meerkats are pretty neat. They look shocked all the time. Otters are awesome, too. They never look stressed out, just chill all the time. 

9. Favorite USMB forum?

I don't understand the question, and I won't respond to it. 

10. Coffee, tea, or soda-how do you get your caffeine fix?

Coffee. Gallons of coffee. 

11. Idealist or realist?

Realist. Paint a pretty picture, and I'll say-hey, that's a pretty picture. A real pretty picture of bullshit. 

12. Are you lucky or unlucky?

Lucky. I should have a couple baby daddy's, and scads of DUIs. I've been lucky as hell. 

13. How much do you normally tip?

It's not tipping I believe in, it's over tipping. 

14. Last time you got sick?

I'm currently getting over a sinus infection. 

15. Favorite word or phrase to use when cussing someone out?

Fuck. Of course. Stupid fuck. Fucking fuck. Stupid fucking fuck. Can't go wrong with fuck. 

16. Best movie made before 1970?

Toss up between Monkey Business and Duck Soup. 

17. After 1970?

Unbelievably hard question. I might be able to limit myself to 5. Spaceballs, Airplane!, Tombstone, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and...Super Troopers. But the list could go on....

18. Within the past 5 years?

Even harder. How old is Anchorman? Who cares. Anchorman. 

19. What is your quest?

I seek the grail. 

20. Favorite TV drama? 

The Blackhawks recent string of sucking ass. 

21. Favorite sitcom?

Arrested Development. Hands down. If The Three Stooges would be second, if that's considered a sitcom. 

22. Favorite reality show?

Which ever one they decide to make about me. 

23. Favorite game show?

Most Extreme Elimination Challenge! 

24. Favorite talk show?

Ehhhhhh, not so much. 

25. A quote that sticks in your head?

Ha! Where do I begin?! 

Shirley, you can't be serious?

Bleeding hearts of the world unite! 

Because good is dumb. 

You go in the box, you feel shame. 

Great Odin's raven!

Your mother was hamster, and your father smelled of elderberries! 

Smoke if ya got em! 

Mother of God. 

I don't want a large Farva, I want a goddamn liter o cola!

Who you calling scruffy lookin?

I better stop. 

High TV

High tv. I must give the little Indian credit, this is our love child. TV, a whole channel, for high people. Game shows, reality shows, high vs. not high contests, movie night featuring awesome high movies with commentary from high people during commercial breaks. And we would have NO problem finding people to advertise on our channel. Doritos could make a commercial just for us, and all it is, is a picture of a chip. For fifteen seconds, a high def look at a Dorito. They'd sell so many Doritos. I have so many ideas for this channel. And I wouldn't just be the president, I'd also be a client. You could get high by yourself, but not really be by yourself! All your high tv friends would be there to entertain you! In the corner, as the channel logo, would be a little icon of Seth Rogan laughing. Naturally, him and James Franco would have to be part of this channel. If anyone ever develops this channel without me, I will use this post as evidence that I had the idea first. 

Bacon bowls. Yum.

Just saw an infomercial for the bacon bowl. And wow. That's fucking ingenious. I wanted to devour it. They should probably ditch their advertising point that it serves the perfect portion of Mac n cheese, tho. Like if you're trying to count calories. Don't eat too much Mac n cheese, bacon bowl is the perfect serving size! But it's fucking in a bowl of bacon. Sounds delicious, but if I'm eating things out of bowls made of bacon, clearly I'm not concerned with calories. Or hardened arteries. 

My New Years resolution is to buy a bacon bowl maker. Also, to eat more bacon. And bacon makes me happy. 

Someone I know resolved to not yell at her kids for an entire year. And I kind of feel like I need to report her to a child labor task force, because she has obviously leased them to a foreign country for the year. I could not yell at my kids if I never saw them. No problem.  That resolution would last an hour for me. No one hears me unless I'm yelling and flailing like one of those dancing wind socks they put in front of car dealerships. Even those look more controlled than I do. 

It's really only a matter of time before I have a psychotic episode. Families are fun. In my defense, I did not go crazy willingly. I was driven to the front door of crazy, and I have been sitting on the curb waiting for my ride home for years. I don't think anyone is coming. 

The armpit of the U.S.

First point: why don't beer makers ALWAYS use 16 ounce cans? Are they afraid I might waste the extra 4 ounces?? I won't. The big cans mean I have to get up less. I don't know why a 12 oz. can feels like a tablespoon of beer, compared with a 12 oz. bottle. But it does. Cans sound WAY better on recycling day, but I swear I take one drink out of a can and think, where did my beer go?? I love the 16 oz can. Just love it. I'm Irish, if this explains anything. 

My second point: I have become convinced, that all the history about the white man pushing the native Americans out of northwest Indiana are FALSE. The white man did no such thing. The native Americans that didn't die from exposure, or weren't buried alive in a snow drift, said-you want it? Fucking take it. Good luck. 

This place is hell. It's not just the armpit if Indiana, it's the armpit of the country. Parts of it smell. Bad. It's always got some kind of moisture of one kind or another. Frozen or vaporized. There is no in between. It's a moist, smelly place. I can deal with summer moist. I actually like walking outside and being punched in the face by ten pounds of 90 degree air. Because the alternative is walking outside and being bitch slapped by a stiff north wind carrying millions of little  moisture swords. I like going outside when it's 92 degrees, with 90% humidity, to pull weeds. When night comes, I stink, I'm covered in salt, there's dirt in every wrinkle on my body, and it's awesome. Take a shower, grab a beer, sit on the deck. Exhausted bliss. There's no bliss with the alternative.  Yes, snow looks pretty when it's glistening in the trees. But it's white. If snow were rainbow colored, I might have a different opinion. But it's not. It's white. Until the road salt comes out, and then everything just looks filthy and skid row like. Dirty ick. There's no way the Indians wanted this place. First couple rounds with lake effect snow, and they said fuck. Fuck the evil spirits breath. We gotta go west. Now they try and make us feel bad. Psh. Scammers. 

Facebook stupid friends.

A two post night. Ok! We all have a few friends on Facebook who infuriate us with everything they post. But we keep them to remind ourselves how retarded  people are. But they make you crazy! The people who complain about their life, that it's unfair and sad, but they don't have custody of their kids and every other post is about how drunk they were. Or boob shots. You want to punch their profile picture. Then...THEN! There are the activists. Fuck. Me. I have this one Facebook friend, a sister of a friend. She is awful. Imagine every progressive, earth loving, fight picking, feminist, entitled, holier than thou comment you've ever heard, wrapped up in one pretentious pompous liberal fucktard package. She frequently posts how her kids are victims of mean teachers. I want to find her house, and throw a brick through the window. With a note that says-fucking. Stop. Grow a pair! 

I can respect that she's opinionated. I'm opinionated. But dammit. 500 posts about how guns are the devil, women should be free to kill babies, republicans want to kill women, republicans like shooting dogs, republicans hope you get cancer, Hitler was a republican, etc. And then BAM! She puts up a post telling everyone to keep their opinions to themselves. She doesn't want to hear it. She makes me nuts. I want to delete her, but I'll miss all her ignorance. Facebook is more about making fun of people, than it is connecting. But dammit, she sucks. 

Autocorrect. Ugh.

At this moment, I am horribly annoyed with my autocorrect. It has gotten smart enough to always change duck to fuck. It just did three times. My phone is smart enough to have learned that I mostly mean to type fuck. It CAN'T, however stop interchanging words like if and of, not and bit, so and do, etc. And those are words that completely change the sentence, or just make you sound like retard. And reading my old blog posts makes me angry. Because of all the autocorrecting bullshit. I AM typing this in my little phone. That's my defense. Another example! I meant on! So this is my public apology. I'm really not an idiot. 

Fantasy Celebrity Family Tree

Translation:

Step grandparents 1: Jessica Walters & Coach Q

Mother's parents: Betty White & Da Coach

Step grandparents 2: Anne Meara & James Earl Jones

Father's parents: Oprah & Morgan Freeman

Mother: Julie Louis-Dreyfus 

Father: Tom Hanks

Step father: The Rock

Step mother : Tina Fey

My husband: Tom Hiddleston

Tim's wife: Jennifer Lawrence

Megan's husband: Chris Evans

Uncles: Samuel L Jackson, Si, Jeff Bridges, Nick Offerman, Ron White, Neal Patrick-Harris 

Aunts: Cathy Bates, Julia Roberts, Lisa Kudrow, Sandra Bollock, Ellen DeGeneres

Step siblings: James Franco, Jason Sudekas, Chris Pratt

Great grandparents: Mel Brooks & Julie Andrews

Cold

Let me elaborate on why cold sucks. Stupid hats. Only 5% of the world population looks good in hats. Not baseball hats, but winter fucking hats. Unless you're a kid. Then tassels with dingle balls looks totally acceptable. Beanie caps?? They need a rubber lining to keep them on your fucking head, so you don't end up looking like a used condom every five fucking minutes. And NO ONE looks good in a ski mask. No one.  We've all seen cops. I have a pink camouflage fleece hat, with ear flaps. Given to me by a guy, who I love, but I also want to tear his still beating heart out of his chest most of the time. It's warm as hell. But everyone calls it my seizure helmet. Cuz it looks fucking ridiculous. Sooo hats. 

Cold. My hands and feet are shockingly cold in the summer, but when it's cold?! Oh man. I could give usain bolt a cardiac arrest. Husband says it's because I have ice in my veins. Nonsense. 

Dressing children to go outside. Summer? Easy. Winter? It's an exposition. So many clothes. And whoever thought it was a good idea to make kid sized gloves must've never put a fucking glove on a tiny hand that's nerves have obviously not developed enough to make them spread their fingers, 5 of them, into the 5 damn holes. It's worse than trying to dress a Polly pocket. Mittens. Mittens until they're 16. Or they figure out how to put it on with zippo help from me. Plus, the giant winter coat makes it so they can no longer put their seat belt on themselves, because they can barely move. Which means I have to stay outside longer, because he won't put his butt in the seat because he thinks he saw a gobstopper roll under the passenger seat. This is annoying. 

Ice. Ice comes from cold. Ice was fun when I was little. When I ran to slip on it ON PURPOSE. Ice is not fun now. Walking into a store, a little slip, and you pull a groin trying to regain your footing. Kids have he right idea. They just fall. Then we say-quit foolin around! Get up! That's gotta be better than a pulled groin. But if grown people fall, most of the time I'll laugh. And I know someone would laugh at me, so I make every effort to NOT fall, and carry on like nothing happened. Being a grown up sucks. But not as bad as ice. Ice also sucks because it happens on roads. Where I drive. And that is just an ass puckering moment when you go to stop, and you're not fucking stopping. You have no control over when that damn car stops. Then it does stop, and it's such a freaking relief. You feel silly. Until the next stop sign, when you remember too late that it's icy. I hit our mailbox once, just slid right into the damn thing. Knocked it a little off its base, only needed a little fixin. I told husband, and he said "what did you do that for?" Yeah. Well, It flipped me off, and I didn't like it! Fuck that mailbox! Fuck the cold! 

I don't do positive well.

I suppose I should try to be more positive in these posts. It's hard when people are so stupid. But it's hard to be negative when you spent all day in bed, drinking mimosas, smoking pot, and watching that 70s show. In a bikini. During severely cold weather. Because fuck you, winter. 

So positive didn't last that long...

But I can tell you things I love.  My family, house, etc. Of course. 

I love the smell of my dad's old baseball mitt, especially if I can smell fresh cut grass at the same time. Ahh. The outfield. I love finding a song I just fucking love, and playing the hell out of it. Being in the car alone, and jamming the fuck out. I love having my hair played with, and getting my back scratched. If I ever won the lotto, I'd pay someone to play with my hair til I fell asleep every night. I love feeling little gas bubbles in my stomach, they remind me of the first time you feel your baby move. I love the sounds of a wooden bat on a baseball, the sound helmets make when they slam into each other, the sound of a slap shot, bowling pins falling down, and slow piano songs.  I love my toes in the sand, and that awesome relaxed exhaustion you feel after finally taking a shower, after spending all day in the sun and water. It's like being high without smoking a thing. 

That was a lot of positive. Now it just seems like one of those fucktard Facebook posts. Like if you also like liking things! I keep certain "friends" on there, because I would miss so much stupidity if I delete them. The horrible spelling and grammar, the millions of selfies that make it obvious there begging for a donation of plastic surgery. Their sob stories. They're entertaining. And that's about it. 

A lot of things.

Infomercials will most definitely be shown on high tv. The really ridiculous ones. Billy Mayes shit. The one for the hand held sewing machine, that shows a woman trying to hold up a real sewing machine to fix her curtains. While they're still hanging. Doh! Or for the pot with the lid that has holes in it. Her family is all seated at the table waiting for dinner, and she goes to drain the pasta and dumps it all in the sink. Her family disapproves. She's the worst woman ever UNTIL she gets the holey pot. Then her family loves and appreciated her. A miracle! They should call it the holy pot. 

Speaking of holy pot, husband read that 37 people died of marijuana overdose on the first day of sale in Colorado. Which means the anti-pot community is just getting desperate with their advertising. No one dies from pot. You may have to remind yourself to breath from time to time, but that's only because you are hyper aware of the fact that you are already breathing! They need to get the reefer madness production team out of the drawing room. The only reason they don't like pot is because they've never tried it. Or because they did once, but it was laced with pcp, then they flipped a Volkswagen upside down and punched a cop. While I can definitely see why that would suck, no one is trying to legalize pcp. That would be retarded. 

Which brings me to my final topic: snow. White, glorious, devil in disguise, fucking snow. I hate snow. I hate cold. I need to live somewhere that I can have as little clothes on as possible. And fuck shoes. I couldn't leave the house, today. And I won't be able to leave for two days because our culdesac  has a drift in it that could sink the titanic. And then there's the wind chill. Go outside for 15 minutes, and they'll have to amputate your face. If husband had a heart attack right now, an ambulance wouldn't be able to get to our house. Wait a minute.....

No. No! I would totally shove a bottle of aspirin down his throat until they arrived. Two days from now. Juuuuuust trying to help. 

Anyway, I fucking hate snow. I love sledding, for the 5 seconds you're going down the hill. It's awesome! Unless it's super powdery snow, and you're in the front of the sled. Then you look like Santa Claus when you finally stop. Hope it's not because of a tree, or patch of bushes, because sleds have a mind of their own. I don't think they like us sitting on their backs and smashing them in snow. So they try to kill us, by suddenly turning towards the giant pile of dead tree limbs. Or at least poke our eye in. After all that fun, you have to go back UP. Carrying an awkward sled. And mother fuck if it slips out of your hand when you're halfway up the goddamn hill. Weeeeeeee all the way down it goes. Fucking great. Like my thighs weren't burning enough from mountain climbing in Herman Munster boots. And then there's the snot. The never ending snot. Shoot all the snot rockets you want, do the best cleanup job you can with your glove, you're still going to look like a snail in heat molested your face. AND sledding is dangerous. Me and Amis stole someone's old fashioned metal and wood sled , and took it to the biggest hill on the golf course. We didn't see that there was a little golf cart road going thru the middle of the hill...until right before the iron runners of the sled hit it. Sled stopped dead. Not us. We went much further. I thought I broke my arm, I was stuck in an orange green protecting fence. We were both fine. But I laughed so hard I pissed myself. You have too many clothes on for that nonsense. My pants could've frozen, and then I'd have to have a frostbit labia removed. Then people would start calling me one lip slick or something. And my feelings would be hurt. So people, please, don't allow yourself to be pulled in by the cool image of sledding. Fight that peer pressure! Sledding is dangerous, and it kills. 

(This message brought to you by the Anti-Marijuana Coalition of America) (who also now is against snow, specifically enjoying snow) (AMCA-ASSES) (.com)

Bacon bowls. Yum.

Just saw an infomercial loft the bacon bowl. And wow. That's fucking ingenious. I wanted to devour it. They should probably ditch their advertising point that it serves the perfect portion of Mac n cheese, tho. Like if you're trying to count calories. Don't eat too much Mac n cheese, bacon bowl is the perfect serving size! But it's fucking in a bowl if bacon. Sounds delicious, but if I'm eating things out of bowls made of bacon, clearly I'm not concerned with calories. Or hardened arteries. 

My New Years resolution is to buy a bacon bowl maker. Also, to eat more bacon. And bacon makes me happy. 

Someone I know resolved to not yell at her kids for an entire year. And I kind of feel like I need to report her to a child labor task force, because she has obviously leased them to a foreign country for the year. I could not yell at my kids if I never saw them. No problem.  That resolution would last an hour for me. No one hears me unless I'm yelling and flailing like one of those dancing wind socks they put in front of car dealerships. Even those look more controlled than I do. 

It's really only a matter of time before I have a psychotic episode. Families are fun. In my defense, I did not go crazy willingly. I was driven to the front door of crazy, and I have been sitting on the curb waiting for my ride home for years. I don't think anyone is coming. 

High TV

High tv. I must give the little Indian credit, this is our love child. TV, a whole channel, for high people. Game shows, reality shows, high vs. not high contests, movie night featuring awesome high movies with commentary from high people during commercial breaks. And we would have NO problem finding people to advertise on our channel. Doritos could make a commercial just for us, and all it is, is a picture of a chip. For fifteen seconds, a high def look at a Dorito. They'd sell so many Doritos. I have so many ideas for this channel. And I wouldn't just be the president, I'd also be a client. You could get high by yourself, but not really be by yourself! All your high tv friends would be there to entertain you! In the corner, as the channel logo, would be a little icon of Seth Rogan laughing. Naturally, him and James Franco would have to be part of this channel. If anyone ever develops this channel without me, I will use this post as evidence that I had the idea first.