Don't make me smack you with this dictionary - round 2

Girl 1: It's so hot outside. It's, like, SOOOOO hot!
Girl 2: Ya, I tempted going to the store for a pop but it's too hot.

Me: Maybe you should tempt sterilization before you accidentally reproduce. Mmm-kay?

La syphilis

So, Becca and I were watching a movie about a girl who travels to France & meets a guy who invites her to a party. Using this as an opportunity to hammer home an already well-hammered point, I told Becca, "Someone can get an STD in France just as easily as they can in America."

Her response? "But in France, they have fancier names."

Let's test the theory.

English: "I caught syphilis."
French: "J'ai pris la syphilis."

By golly, SHE'S RIGHT! Why, the french version sounds almost fun!

Fact: It's never, EVER boring having a conversation with Becca.

time's up. kiss your ass goodbye.

The end of days has arrived. 2012? Pshaw. 2009, baby. To be very specific, the weekend of July 25-26th, 2009.

This movie was the number one box office draw for this weekend:



If this doesn't convince our alien overlords to come kick our asses off their planet, I don't know what will.

Who invented the atomic wedgie?

The last British veteran of The Big One (that's history geek speak for WWI, pay attention people, don't you know me at all?!) died today.

His name was...Harry Patch. I swear to blog, I'm not making it up.

Harry was 111, thus alive even before Keith Richards and the dinosaurs, so I assume that he was the recipient of the first ever Atomic Wedgie. Little did young Harry know that his was the start of a tradition that would carry on, generation after generation, a tradition of skid marks and buttcrack abrasions.

I'm guessing (hoping) that Harry didn't marry someone named Rash or, say, Mista. Because Harry wouldn't do that to the woman he loved...would he?

And what did he name his kids? Dear lord. Harry wasn't a family NAME, was it?! The atomic wedgie implications for the Patch family alone simply boggle the mind. It's some kind of miracle that they managed to reproduce. I mean, I'm assuming they reproduced. Depending on the...damage...down there.

I'd like to say "rest in peace, Harry Patch", but blog, that doesn't seem quite right.

Maybe, "Goodbye, Harry Patch. We'll think of you often"? Err. No.

Ok. Here it is. I have it. "Bye!"

See? I'm a master of the English language.

Satan, 1. Kelly, 0

Cats. Cats are terrible. They poop in the house but don't flush. They lick their own private triangle. It's called private for a reason, you sick animal. They claw, hiss, and then move too quickly for me to kick. I believe that they come straight from Satan, along with Billy Mays (see what happened to HIM?!) and Donald Trump's hair.

When the ASPCA commercial with the mournful Sarah Mclachlan song playing in the background features cats being rescued from so-called terrible conditions, I feel nothing, and by that I mean a total absence of anything. But show me a dog in those same terrible conditions and I can't get my wallet out fast enough. Show me the cat and I just mute the TV and wait for it to be over.

So imagine my dismay when my alleged daughter brought home a kitten a few weeks ago. Of course, there was a sob story attached to the animal and the alleged daughter implied that if I told her she couldn't keep the animal, the daughter might was well smother herself in her sleep. It was all very dramatic.

I gave her 2 weeks to find a home for the animal. And I told her I didn't want to hear it, smell it, or see it. And also, if it rubbed my leg I would not hesitate to impliment Newton's law of inertia: an object in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force...like, say, a WALL.

Exactly 32 hours later, the alleged daughter left for a friend's house and the animal started meowing. Loud enough for me to hear it. I put on my kickin' boots and went looking for it. It was sitting in front of the door through which the daughter had disappeared.

Now, I was under the impression that cats were dignified animals. The Egyptians thought so and they were smart enough to pull your brain out through your nose, so I figure they might've been on to something. Wrong. This meowing animal sitting in front of the closed door could not have been more pathetic.

I picked it up. I felt the universe shift and for one split second, I shot rainbows out of my ass. True story. It was beautiful.

Now I like the damn thing. I haven't thrown her one single time. Despite the fact that the alleged daughter named her Hosanna. Despite the fact that she gets under my feet and walks across my laptop keyboard. Despite the fact that she throws her leg up over her ear and...does things to her parts right in the middle of the livingroom.



Damn you, Satan.

cholesterol is for sissies!

When it comes to food, Steven has very specific requirements. If it's salad, it better be covered bacon bits and buttery croutons. If it's a vegetable, it better be deep fried and dipped in ranch. His theory is that every food on the planet can be made edible by adding one or more of three things: cheese, ranch, or peanut butter. Cholesterol? Pah.

So. It shouldn't have surprised me when I opened the kitchen cupboard this morning and discovered this:



McDonald's is currently running a promotion: get a free Coca Cola glass with each Super Sized value meal. My cupboard is evidence that Steven believes his arteries are tougher than Chuck Norris, Dirty Harry, and Alaska combined.

At this rate, somehow I think my attempt to fool him by replacing the 1% milk with skim just isn't gonna make that much of a difference.

Don't make me smack you with this dictionary

Conversation overheard at K-Mart (oh, excuse me, BIG K) today:

Teenage Girl 1: "I can't use that shampoo, it makes my head itch."
Teenage Girl 2: "What about this stuff? It's unscented."
Teenage Girl 1: "No. It's gotta be homo-allergenic."

Me: "AAAIEEEEEE."

Douglas county ROCKS.