Happy Howlidays

So what started as a fabulous holiday evening of raucous merriment and mirth complete with classic movie quotes done in the vocal stylings of Mr. Rogers ("say hello to my little neighbor". "Ask yourself, do i feel lucky? well do ya neighbor?" "frankly my neighbor, i don't give a damn") has deteriorated into quiet uncomfortable giggling as a senile old dog tried to drink everyone's cocktails.   We thought she was doing it because she was just seriously thirsty.... But her water dish is full.  She's just, in fact, a senile old dog trying to drink everyone's cocktails!  How do you do an intervention for a dog?

Parental Guidance

I feel obliged to impart some of my unsolicited folksy homespun wisdom from time to time.  Luckily for me I keep a filter around so that I don't impart in public.  I call this filter MyPoolBoy, because if it wasn't for him, there are times that I honestly would probably land in jail.  Or get shot.  Or both.    It is often a blessing and / or a downright miracle if I encounter situations that I consider blogworthy and can be quieted long enough to get it typed in without commenting out loud or falling in the floor in fitful snorts of laughter and a puddle of urine.  

So. 

I sat at dinner tonight and in walked two people with their kid.   Said kid had a mohawk. I have nothing against self-expression through hairstyles or even mohawks.  BUT Here's the thing, people.... Mohawks "open up" and "frame" your face.  If your little Oompa Loompa  is ugly, we do not want to see any more than we absolutely have to.  Please, please fortheloveofgawd  do us all a favor and encourage him to grow his hair long and do one of those beatnik/social outcast type hairstyles that hangs down over his eyes and covers his homeliness.  

Denied

The alternate title to this post is: Sh1t-MyPoolBoy-won't-buy-me-no-matter-how-much-I-beg-or-what-sexual-favors-I-offer.

Granted, he bought me a pulpit that I turned into a bar thereby securing my spot in H3ll, he built me a beach in the backyard, and he got me a piece of crap convertible BMW that I subsequently painted pink and covered with glitter, rendering it hopelessly undrivable by any male of the species.  But still, a girls has wants and needs....

Of course, he always tries to deflect the little thoughts I get in my head about purchasing something new with the dreaded question:  "What the h3ll would you do with a XYZ.?"  (Where XYZ is the latest pretty that my heart fancies -- did you see how I made that all algebraic and sh1t?). 

First.  A small steamroller that I saw at a pawn shop..  So it was a USED steamroller.  Plus it was a SMALL steamroller.  Like, kid-sized.  Which meant it couldn't have been very expensive.  I got "the question."  I offered the answer that I could use it for playing the home version of the game "pave the roads and sh1t."  I was promptly told NO.  

Also.  I would like to have a cannon.  Not even a BIG cannon, mind you.  And, again with "the question."  Honestly I couldn't come up with a quick snappy comeback and sheepishly shrugged my shoulders and offered up that I just think it would be cool to be able to say that I am the first person on my block to have a cannon in the yard.  I won't even put glitter on it or anything!  His reply:  "You'll put your eye out, kid!"

He is NO FUN.  

Driven to Drink

To Chunk and other teenage boys:  If you are, in fact, so desperate for Drivers' Ed that you will blindly allow your parents to sign you up online using their credit card and their merlot-dulled wits, be assured that you will NOT like he login password they select for you.  

Please also note that the acquisition of said drivers' license may give you a false sense of freedom, because you now can be considered a DD and are therefore now at my beck and call!

Written Warning to All That Cross My Path

If you don't want a "blog name" you'd better behave yourself!

Joyful Noise

You know what's worse than a van full of teenagers singing along to blaring rock music in the parking lot of Walmart?

A van full of teenagers singing along to Christian rock music in the parking lot of Walmart.

Gifted

My students have to endure much of the same relentless sarcasm and offbeat witticisms that y'all do, except they get the G rated versions. When they leave pencils and paper on the floor, I tell them that they can trash a room like rock,stars. If somebody just guesses at an answer and gets it right I tell them that even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. And when I have to put up with the little cherubs misbehaving beyond all limits of human patience I have a phrase that is a conglomeration of Banned. Camp similes to describe the overtly hyperactive: like a band of howler monkeys hopped up on Pixie Stix and Mountain Dew. So today, for Teacher Appreciation Week I received what is hands-down the BEST FREAKIN' TEACHER GIFT I have EVER received. I laughed to the point of nearly urinating myself. Of course it is hard to tell if the almost-urination episode is truly due to the hysterics from the gift or merely your everyday middle-age incontinence, but I am pretty sure it was the gift.

What Happens When We Die

All erroneous speculation as to my whereabouts can now cease.  I have NOT fallen off the planet, nor have I been in prison. The REAL explanation for my lengthy absence from blogdom is that I have been taking care of MonsterInLaw in hospice care for the past few months. Luckily, Blogger didn't mistake my lack of posts for disinterest or disappearance due to alien abduction and I still have an account.

MonsterInLaw was able to peacefully pass on, and in addition to the assets left to us in the will and an elderly Weimeraner, I also inherited this fabulous taxidermied armadillo to enhance my home decor.... please contain your envy and try not to covet it too intensely.  If we all had one, it would be less special.

It took us longer to get back home than expected, due to a typically unbelievable chain of events that some day will go into a book titled "Sh1t That Only Happens to Me" 

1) She passed away on Easter weekend and we were working around the holiday to make funeral arrangements.

2) The truck stop where I usually acquired my fix of the absolutely most decadent and comforting millionaire pie on the entire planet has STOPPED SELLING PIE!!!! 

3) We all got some sort of allergy attack or backwoods influenza or some sh1t and we were sick for half the week. 

4)  There is NO cell phone service and only DIAL-UP internet in the particular subdivsion of BFE where her house is. 

5) The will was not in the safe where she said it would be, thereby necessitating a sh1tstorm of overturned baskets, ransacked cabinets, and dumped out drawers which did not yield the will, but DID give MyPoolBoy the disturbing discovery that his sweet little mother kept a Smith & Wesson in her nightstand with her VIBRATOR.  (He commented that both of these items made sense since his father has been dead for over 5 years and she kept insisting that she didn't need a man..) 

6) The will WAS in her closet underneath apprximately a BILLION boxes of shoes and 3 empty cigar boxes. 

And the BEST part: 

7) Her attorney that was supposed to handle filing the will was almost as elusive as the will itself.  He was  reportedly depressed because his wife, who was some sort of counselor or therapist left him for one of her mental patients.

Somebunny Stop Me

So.  Trainwreck and BrideOfTrainwreck and the Grandsh1t are visiting this week.  Y'all know I have mercilessly tormented BrideOfTrainwreck  with the warning that my babysitting skills consist of a bottle of vodka (for me) and a rabbit hutch (for the little "angel").
Yesterday we were all hanging out in the backyard, and the Grandsh1t walked over behind the bbq area and proceeded to mess with the latch on the rabbit hutch.  The verbalizations that followed that event were one-sided, yet hysterical.

BrideOfTrainwreck:  Grandsh1t, get out of the rabbit hutch.
This followed by a brief pause where I was mustering an ear-to-ear grin in preparation for an all-out guffaw -- which was interrupted with this:
BrideOfTrainwreck: Shut up, WTP.

Intruder Alert

So  Last month we got this heads-up email from an administrator telling us that the district safety crew was going to conduct a test to see if we would let evildoing strangers into the building. The gist of it was that they were sending in a mock intruder and we were supposed to follow correct procedure and protocol.  Correct procedure and protocol is this: everyone is on red alert for a big ol' effed-up game of "Where's Waldo" except Waldo doesn't have a stripey shirt OR a visitor's badge and we were to immediately accost and then Spanish Inquisition the poor guy until he gets flustered and forgets that he was there to do whattheh3llever evil deed it was that he had originally intended to perform upon unsuspecting helpless schoolchildren.... which only proves that everyone completely underestimate the "helplessness" of the schoolchildren in my homeroom.

Anyway, I was cleaning out my inbox and ran across the email.  And I got to thinking -- hey!  No one ever said how things went.  Did they never send anyone after all?  Did they send someone and they forgot to let us know how it all went down? Was it all a big hoax just to keep us on our toes?

Or here's my REAL suspicion: Someone DID get in and NO ONE caught them and the poor sonofab+ch is still wandering aimlessly around campus.  Guess we'll find out after Spring Break.

Three Little Words

So. The Larva got married tonight.  And The Lucilles showed up and very crassly began to shove tables together so that the reception area would suit OUR needs and who-the-h3ll cares about your effing wedding ettiquette just don't run out of beer and I will sort-of behave.

Seriously,  if the matron-of-honor's speech contains the words "I had too many Jello shots" then it is really too much to ask us to pay attention to a seating chart!

In lieu of a guest book at the door, she had this photo-book that I immediately noticed bore a very close likeness to a high school yearbook.  Luckily, the night was still young and I was still sober, so I was able to contain my urge to sign it with typical yearbook quips such as "stay kewl" or "I want to be the first to sign your crack!"

During the course of the evening however, I failed to restrain myself and I managed to: help DownUnder take her first shot of tequila EVER, danced the first Dollar Dance with the bride and shoved money into her cleavage.  AnD SOMeONE had the brilliant idea of leaving cards and pens for us to contribute Marriage Advice to the happy couple.

Our table(s) had some great ones:  Nothing says I Love You like clean underwear,  No women at the deer lease, There are other things you can do in the kitchen besides cook, and a gem of a quote that only proves that once I have had beer AND tequila, all implements of communication should probably be taken out of my reach:

Condoms Sometimes Fail.

Don't Sweat It

Hand To Gawd just saw a chick in the self checkout a t Walmart scan a container of deodorant, raise her shirt, and apply the deodorant to her underarms before dropping it into her bag.

This even tops the time that Hyphen had us stop at a convenience store to buy a disposable razor so she could shave her armpits in the parking lot before we went out for the evening.
Now I know that some people ARRIVE at Walmart lacking basic personal hygiene, but to have the innovation to conduct your grooming routine while others are just trying to get in, get their milk, bread, lawn chair, and Snickers bars, and get out. . . Whole new level.

Grand Delusion

So.  Felix is now among those of us privileged souls who have been blessed with the arrival of a new baby grandsh1t.    And she informed me tonight that he will be calling her Nanna because she doesn't want him calling her the same thing that everyone else is called like Meemaw or Grammy.  Bless her ever-loving heart.

What an amateur.  Does she not realize what a great opportunity she's missing out on by having him call her something normalish when she could instead have him call her something completely unique and off the wall like, oh I Don't know, Princess  or something, and then not only would no one else would be called by that name, but she can have tons of fun in the process. 

This led me to the totally great idea that I just might steal for myself is she really and truly doesn't want to use it, because it could provide HOURS (if not years) of complete and utter fall-down-wet-your-pants laughter. 

I think he should call her B1tch.

Now before you get completely upset  and freak out and tell me what a horrible person I am, I need you to see this from every possible angle, because it entirely resounds with  almost pseudo yet somewhat inebriated logic that only I can provide.  

First of all there's the aforementioned opportunity for laughter at a small child's expense.  Think of the great stories you will have when your grandchild comes home from his first  day of school and tells everyone that he was sent the office because he was asked what he did over the summer vacation, and he replied,  "I went to go see my B1tch."  Also imagine what fun it would be when you go pick him up from school, and he tells his teacher that he's riding home with "my B1tch." 

If he wants a cookie and you are raising him to be well-mannered, he will ask thusly: "B1tch, please."

And. . . no one would be able to fault the kid if he tells everyone that his daddy is a son of a B1tch. 

Finally (and this is the most important point) how often do you think you're going to be stuck babysitting the little monster if his parents don't want him to pick up any more dirty words from you? 

I call that INSURANCE.