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The Fisher of Stories



So the other day it rained hard.

I was stuck in a room with a bunch of bad kids that were in trouble, and I just heard the rain, I didn’t see how hard it was coming down or anything. I was pretty much chasing y’all around blogland. However, when I got out of school, I was pretty surprised to see that most of the land around the school was flooded pretty bad. Since I have not grown up at all, and since I still love to play in puddles, this was cool for me. I like to just drive through them, to see how big of splash I can make. Yeah, yeah, I know I can tear my truck up doing that. But still. It’s fun.

While driving to my madres house, I saw something worthy of shooting in a video. I’ve provided you with said video, and I will give you a warning.

By clicking on play, you completely agree to give me 23 seconds of your life that you will never get back. Travis is in no way liable for the things you could have done in this 23 seconds, such as: read a blog that might mean something, brush your teeth, or completely humiliate yourself in the bedroom. Furthermore, by viewing this video, you accept all risks that come with the viewing which may include, extreme apathy, disappointment, an actual decrease in intelligence, and diarrhea.

Told you it was a waste of time.

Tomorrow will start the writing of NaNo, and I’m wicked excited. I have to place a call to Frannie, WY today to talk to someone about their lovely little town, and get some information on it. Should make for an interesting couple of minutes. I may blog about it. The NaNo pic on the right side of my blog up there is a link to my word count progress. I will probably update it a couple times a week. If you click on it, it will tell you how many words I’ve gotten so far! You can use this information to mock encourage me throughout the month.

Oh yeah, this is not the only video I have posted on YouTube. You can go find the other one if you want. It should give you plenty of reasons to laugh at me.

Enjoy your weekend, and I love you all.

That’s real.

Hey folks, remember when I talked about guest posting? Well, today is the day! I’m not much on introductions, so here goes. Today’s guest blogger is Kate over at Secret Agent K. She has a great little slice of the internets over there, folks. Read this post, show her some bloggy comment lovin, (the clean kind, none of that “Oh, we love you, that’s why we call you fat and ugly” stuff you throw my way) and then go check out her blog and maybe click that little follow button? Eh? Eh? Hint. Hint. Nudge nudge. Here are her questions that she answered, followed by her post!If you could punch one famous person in the face, dead or alive, who would you punch? Why?I know most people will say Paris Hilton or Kanye West or even ex-president Bush but ya know who I’d really like to punch in and about the face and head area?  Jon Gosslin.  Yep, I said it, I’d punch him so hard in the stupid ass face that he wouldn’t know what hit him.  He’s a douche, plain and simple, and he does really douchy things, I really don’t need any more reason than that to wanna punch him.  His face irks me too, why does he always look like he’s thinking, “man I’m one hot piece of man?”  Yea, I would punch him, 2x’s

You are stuck on a desert island with only a compass and your mother in law. Give me your most creative escape plan.
I would practice my dolphin clicks till I had them down just right, and then, I would find a dolphin and speak directly to said dolphin (in clicks of course) and I would tell him, I will give you this super awesome compass if you take me back to civilization. I think it would work nicely as I’m kind of a master linguist and dolphins are supposed to be like, helpers and what not.

Go find the closest person to you, or call someone. Ask them to rank you on a scale of 1 to 10, how funny you are. Give us the relation, and their answer.
I called the boyfriend and when I asked him, he hesitated and than was like, ehmm, so lemme answer for how I KNOW he really feels. *clears throat*  My future wife is the all time funniest person EVER! She makes the world a better place with her humor, why just the other day, God smiled down on her and totally gave her a big “thumbs up”  (I  made that last part up but it could happen ya know?)

What is the worst deal you ever made for sex?
Uhmm not to sound bitter but, yea, spending two years of my life with a low life, assface cause his sex was way better when we first started dating then, say five months in? Deal…Fail

You can have one song stuck in your head the rest of your life. What is it? 
God is gonna cut you down~ Johnny Cash.
Johnny Cash?
Enough said
The Post!

People make stupid faces.  Okay well not ALL people but a good majority of the people I have come into contact with make some really dumb faces.  Case in point.  I happened upon my local Starbucks the other night before heading off to school to get my “learn” on.  Now Starbucks is like a total money whore so the fact that I was trying to use a $50 ( the only one I’ve seen in like six months cause I’m broke ass)  to buy my coffee didn’t strike me as being a “dumb” face moment but I was wrong, so very wrong.  So I hand the lady my fiddy *that’s 50 in gangsta*  and she does this face, like, her lips peel back and her eyes get all squinty and her shoulders get all hunched right? She even sucked her teeth which is such a nasty sound, like all wet and saliva-y. So in my mind I’m like holy JC on a tricycle did I just give this broad a seizure?
She looks at me with the face and says “Ooh I can’t take this, you don’t have anything smaller?”
It takes me a minute to respond cause I’m all focused now on the fact that she made a dumb face and I’m like, wtf, why did she just make that face?   So in my mind I’m workin it out ya know, all John Dorian style and guess what? She CONTINUES to make the face, like until I answer her, her face is stuck in that position.  So I come back to reality after my JD moment and I’m all…
“You GOTTA be shittin me!” Yep, I’m a classy gal like that, forget pretending to be a lady, if and when (or as my lovely host Travis says, iffin)  I get the chance to swear loudly (in public) I will, it’s kinda my thing.
   This whole, ugly face thing that the Starbucks Broad, or SB as I called her to the boyfriend as I recounted the story later that eve (tryina sound all British and what have you, I think it’s workin) and I came to realize that people do make these dumb faces A LOT in just every day conversation.  Take for example, when you ask someone for the time and they either don’t wanna tell you or they don’t have a watch, they make that “My bad” face, ya know the one where they kinda stretched their face down and show you their teeth, and the shoulder shrug almost always follows suit with a slight head to the side added for good measure.
Or better yet, the people that will ask you for a cigarette from across the street or room, they lift their eye brows and hold their fingers in like a V in front of their mouth (Tee hee that made me think of the whole dirty hand gesture that….never mind)  and pretend they are smoking.
I mean what is so hard about actually VERBALIZING what you have to say?  Can’t you just like, say hey, no sorry I don’t have the time.  Or hey can I have a cigarette? (that whole can I borrow a cigarette makes me mad cause when has anyone ever repaid THAT loan hmm?) But I digress…
Making a face at me doesn’t make me wanna help you, and to be honest your dumb face doesn’t make feel like YOU feel my pain either.
In fact, it kinda makes me wanna karate chop you about the face and neck area.  Better yet, I wanna kung fu you WHILE you make a dumb face just so I can truly enjoy it. So maybe a situation that just warrants a “Are you SHITTIN me???” has now escaladed into a “Kung FU spin kick!” And all because you, you Starbucks lady, couldn’t control you face.  You and your “I’m so sorry, see how sorry I am, my teeth are showing and I have my shoulders up” face.

But hey, I did get a free mocha something latte uhm, whatever the hell it was I got so to Starbucks lady, thanks for the free loot…

I still hate yer face J

The past couple of weeks, a new blog buddy of mine, Mr. Jenks, has been doing scary stories instead of TMI Thursdays. Since my TMI well has dried up briefly, I decided to go with what he has been doing and post a scary story. Bear in mind, this is the first time I’ve ever written anything for anyone else to read that resembles a story. It hasn’t been edited except for spelling, and I really don’t know how scary it is. I enjoyed writing it though, and maybe I’ll do it again sometime. So. Without further ado, I give you…


The knock on the door only grew louder. “Bethany! Open up!” screamed her little brother as he was resorting to pounding on the door now. “I have to talk to you! Something is wrong!”

“If I ignore it, he’ll go away,” thought Bethany, as she crouched in the corner of her tiny bedroom. She cranked up the volume on her IPod, and drifted away into her fantasy land. Bethany was only 15 years old, but she knew how quickly her younger brother lost interest when he was ignored. She didn’t need to be interrupted right now. She was making plans. She was going to get married and leave her stupid family behind. She had a new boyfriend, and it was him she was fantasizing about at this moment. Todd was 17. Todd was good looking. Todd drove a motorcycle. Well, maybe it was technically a dirt bike, but she liked to think of it as a motorcycle. Todd was a rebel. He smoked Lucky Strikes and he partied on the weekends with the SENIORS. As she leaned back on her bed with the sound of Silverstein pounding in her eardrums, she imagined giving herself to him for the first time. Todd had been pushing for it for about 2 weeks. She’d declined, but only because she’d never done it before, and she wanted to be sure she pleased him. She’d been watching online videos for the past 2 weeks, and now she felt she was ready.

She never heard the knocking stop abruptly, and she never heard her brother say his last word, which was…


When Todd opened her bedroom door, she was somewhat surprised. She’d never been allowed to have him in her room before. “It’s about time they loosened up a little,” she said as she smiled brightly at Todd. “Yeah babe, you wanna go somewhere?” Todd looked like he’d just got done working out. He was very sweaty, and she had to admit, very attractive. He was wearing a wife beater and a pair of jeans, which was his usual attire for riding his “motorcycle.” She made her decision then. She was going to take their relationship up a notch. Right now. Parents be damned, hell, she’d already gotten them to let him in her room. As she stood up and took her shirt off, she said, “How about we stay here for a while…” “Naw, we have to get going,” he said, and walked across the room, picked her shirt up and handed back to her. “This isn’t how it happens in the videos,” she thought, but she put her shirt back on. Feeling hurt, and just a little bit more in love with him for rejecting her, she followed him out of her room and down the stairs. Why was Todd in such a hurry? “I’ve got to let my parents know we’re leaving,” she said, because she didn’t want this newfound trust in her to go unrewarded. “I’ve talked to them already,” said Todd. “Let’s go. Now.” He grabbed her by the arm and forcefully yanked her towards the front door. She resisted briefly, but not for long. He punched her. As her head lolled back, just before she passed out, she looked back into the kitchen. The table was set for dinner, but no one was seated. As she sank into unconsciousness, her eyes moved towards the stand alone freezer in the kitchen. While darkness settled in her mind, she saw that the head looking through the crack in it was her brothers. And the severed hand on the floor beside it had her mothers wedding ring on. The blood smeared all over belonged to all three of her family members.

When she awoke, she had no idea where she was. Todd was on top of her, grunting. She felt a horrible pain down…there. “Did you kill them?” she asked. He punched her again.

She spent the next few months in a dream state. She never was sure of her surroundings, because they seemed to change constantly. She was vaguely aware that she was getting bigger around her belly, but she never thought anything about it. She ate ravenously. She slept often. She rarely saw Todd, and when she did, it was usually brief, because he usually punched her. She often thought of her family, and how sorry she was for treating her little brother so horribly all the time. If only she had a second chance, she’d fix things.

She awoke one day to a searing pain in her abdomen, and a group of people standing around her. She didn’t recognize any of them, but she thought one of them looked like a clown. Todd stepped into focus. “Don’t worry, babe, this will only take a second,” he laughed. He was holding something. Was that a knife? She put her hands up. They didn’t move. A spasm of pain wracked her body, she felt things tearing. She was crying. She was yelling something, but she couldn’t understand her own words. Todd came back into view. “Don’t take this personal. I just really need this baby,” he said. His voice was crystal clear. The look on his face was one of jubilation and a wickedness she’d never seen before. He brought down the shiny thing in his hand. A new pain, this one just melting in to all the others. Something warm and wet fell into her hand that was strapped down on the table. It felt like a… Like a… Was that her intestine?

As death came for her, and the vision darkened in the corners of her eyes, she saw something sitting in Todd’s arms. Something crying. No, not crying. Screaming. Todd was laughing, and the last thing she saw before her eyes glazed over was the monster. “Not a baby…” she thought. She knew that whatever it was, it couldn’t have come from her. In a moment of clarity just before her death, she remembered everything so clearly. And dying, she vowed her revenge.

6 months later, with the newborn asleep in the crib beside his bed, Todd was woken from a disturbing and fitful sleep. As he opened his eyes, the first and last thought to ever cross his mind was, “No. Ghosts aren’t real. Are they, Betha…?”

So my brother, The Youngest, posted on FB last that he was “In a relationship, but it was complicated.”

So i commented on the post, and I said, “So who’s the whor…ahem…girl this time?” As a joke, right? Because at this point, I had no idea who the chick was. Well, turns out, it’s maybe not an ACTUAL whore, but it IS someone who has crapped all over him several times in the past. Which is unfortunate, ya know? I mean, he’s my brother and everything, and I don’t like to see the boy heart broken.

So anyway, I found out who the chick was, and I typed this into the update: “Well, being the bigger guy here, both literally and figuratively, I’m going to take the high road, and just send texts to The Youngest about her behind her back.”

About an hour later, I get this message on Facebook:

I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish by posting rude comments about my daughter on facebook, but if you were truely attempting to take a high road, you might want to start with refraining from placing ludicrous comments about a seventeen year old on fb. You would think that you might eventually get some kind of life of your own and stop picking on people out of boredom.

I typed that in a UNC blue. Because UNC is cowardly and gay.

So yeah… As soon as I read it, I tried to reply, but she blocked me. At first I thought she had created a FB account purely to send me the message, which I would believe, seeing how stupid she is. But alas, no, I’ve just been blocked. Isn’t anonymity wonderful?

I’m disappointed that she only really gave me one spelling error to make fun of. And that’s “truely.” I like how she uses a lot of “big” words, but then can’t handle that one. The only other thing is that I never called her daughter specifically a whore. To be honest, I don’t think I would say that about a 17 year old girl. 18? Yes I would. Cause that’s legal. 17 though? Naw. That’s not classy. To be specifically honest, I didn’t call anyone a whore. I typed “whor.” That’s a different word. That means, “person who goes and cries to mommy about things.” I think I nailed it, right? I mean, I got that message and all.

But. The Youngest has asked me not to go any further than this blog and I will respect that. So it is here that I will type my reply, and she will more than likely never read it, because she’s holed up in a home with her 45th husband and is busy just hitting the closest thing to a “block” button on anything that has my picture.

Dear Truely,

I would just like to take this opportunity to demand an apology from you. Because I feel like I’ll never get that, I’m very pleased to say that you’ve been selected at random for this letter. It would be great if you could exercise any amount of parenting control over your 17 year old daughter. Really. It would. But, I understand that since the most stable relationship you’ve ever been in took place in a car that was on blocks instead of wheels, you’re going to have some control issues. Your daughter is what people like to call, “bad news.” She’s broken my baby brothers heart several times, and to be quite honest, I’m not sure what the little siren does to get him running back all the time. Before we go any further, “siren” isn’t an insult. Just so I don’t get another message from you on some kind of medium where you can’t manage to block me. Something like a phone call. Or face to face. Not hidden behind the bushes in Facebook. Yeah, Facebook has bushes. They’re in Farm Town. I’m sure you play that game. I’m sure you’re on level 399 and I’m sure you love it to death because it gives you something pretty to look at when the stress of your 34 step children all asking you to sign a permission slip just becomes too much to bear. Don’t get me wrong here, lady. I’m not mad. Not anymore. I was mad last night. Mad that you chose a cowards way out instead of handling it like the grown “has a life of their own” person that you mentioned in your little note. I have a life. It’s called my blog. That’s right, you’re somewhat famous now. At least 100 people are gonna look at this and know that you can spell ludicrous, but you can’t spell truly even though Facebook has a squiggly red line underneath it when you spell it wrong. No, it’s not a decoration for the word. It means you’re stupid. Good luck raising your kids, and good luck on that next note you write someone. Hope you can manage to crank it out in between those permission slips.

Yours Truly,

The High Road

So yeah. There you have my second post for the day, all before noon. I’d welcome your thoughts and comments, and for sure, if my readers deem that too “much,” I will tear it down faster than the Iraqi people tore down that statue of Saddam. But to be truthful, it shouldn’t surprise any of you. You know how I roll.

That’s real.

So I’ve been watching that show on Spike called “1000 Ways To Die.”

I hate it.

I didn’t know why I had a problem with it until last night. It was then I realized what I found so uncomfortable about that 30 minutes of mockery for the stupid ways people manage to promote the phrase, “survival of the fittest.”

I will probably wind up on that show.

How lame is that? I mean, one of the guys on the show last night literally died laughing. Really? Look up at the top of my page. Go on, scroll up. Shouldn’t even be that hard. (TWSS) Did you see that quote? I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t mind dying of laughter, but this poor bahstahd died after laughing for 36 HOURS. Can you even imagine? Eventually his heart just blew up. Why would you not go to the hospital? I would think that between guffaws, you could convey the point that you needed some sleep. Bad. Just as long as you didn’t answer the question, “Why are you laughing?” That could start a massive problem.

However, the show did give me some interesting fodder for a Would You Rather, which is slowly becoming what Wednesdays are all about. Ed does it anyway, and that’s good enough for me. So. Here goes, blog buddies.

Would You Rather…

Be killed while having sex with an electrically charged cows heart,


Be killed by choking to death on a hot dog that you stole from a store in a drunken fit?

There you go. You decide! (Girls, I know that sex with an electrified heart would be hard for you to do, but it still applies. I’m sure you could work something out… You’re always sayin that babies come out of there. Just sayin. Work with me.) Things to consider are: With the heart thing, you totally had sex with a heart. With the hot dog thing, it’s going to be more drawn out, and there may or may not be gay jokes.

How do you, as a living relative, tell someone that their son or daughter has died from having sex with an electrified cows heart? How would you do that?!

“Yeah, Mrs. Applebottom? I have some news for you.”
“Oh goodness. It’s not my boy, is it?”
“Yeah… Yeah it is… You see…Are you sitting down?”
“No. Should I be?”
“Yeah. Listen. You should be. Seriously. Get sat down, please.”
“Okay… What happened?”
“Did your son ever display any…ahem…strange tendencies?”
“Well, I caught him trying to do a cow once…”
“Alright. Alright, let’s run with that.”
“Oh my, did he kill a cow trying to do it?”
“Well. You might say that the cow got it’s revenge…”

And from there it would tail off in to an awkward explanation of how 12 volts is okay, but 110 is really kind of pushing it.

Me? I’m totally going with the hot dog. Yeah, it may look like you died with a penis in your mouth, but it beats the heck out of having “I was so shocked he’d do that!” jokes at your funeral.

Ya know?

So I’m driving down the road the other day, and I am listening to some country music, because that’s what The Missus had on in the car, and lets be honest. Changing the radio station takes movement, unless you’ve got one of those new fancy jobs, and I just didn’t have it in me. (TWSS)

I’d just finished listening to Garth talk about being lonely, drinking some beers, and cheating on his wife with a 650 pound Trisha, (I would still totally do her) and I was looking forward to more wholesome country music, when I heard this:

I got my toes in the water, ass in the sand
Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand
Life is good today. Life is good today.

Well, the plane touched down just about 3 o’clock
And the city’s still on my mind
Bikinis and palm trees danced in my head
I was still in the baggage line
Concrete and cars are their own prison bars like this life I’m living in
But the plane brought me farther.
I’m surrounded by water
And I’m not going back again

I got my toes in the water, ass in the sand
Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand
Life is good today. Life is good today.

Adios en vaya con dios
Yeah I’m leaving GA
And if it weren’t for tequila and pretty senoritas
I’d have no reason to stay
Adios en vaya con dios
Yeah I’m leaving GA
Gonna lay in the hot sun and roll a big fat one
And grab my guitar and play

Four days flew by like a drunk Friday night as the summer drew to an
They can’t believe that I just couldn’t leave
And I bid adieu to my friends
Because my bartender she’s from the islands
Her body’s been kissed by the sun
And coconut replaces the smell of the bar and I don’t know if its her or
the rum

I got my toes in the water, ass in the sand
Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand
Life is good today. Life is good today.

Adios en vaya con dios
A long way from GA
Ay, and all the muchachas they call me “big poppa” when I throw
pesos their way
Adios en vaya con dios
A long way from GA
Hey boss do me a favor and pass me the Jaeger
And I’ll grab my guitar and play

Adios en vaya con dios
Going home now to stay
The senoritas don’t care-o when there’s no dinero
You got no money to stay
Adios en vaya con dios
Going home now to stay

Just gonna kick it by the lake
Put my ass in a lawn chair
Toes in the clay
Not a worry in the world a PBR on the way
Life is good today. Life is good today.

When did country music start being written by Snoop Doggy Da Dizzy Dizog? This song is by a band called The Zac Brown Band, and I’ve never heard of them, but I’m pretty sure it was produced by Death Row Records.
Once again, I’m going to break some things down for you. Because I am nothing if not family oriented and clean mouthed.
1. He says “ass” 4 times in this song. 4 TIMES! The last time I remember hearing the word ass in a country song, it was when Toby Keith took advantage of memorialized 9/11 by telling people we were gonna stick a boot up it. What happened then? Radio went bat shiz crazy. Said it “was just terrible.” I’m sorry, but iffen I have a 5 year old, the first radio lyrics I want him learning are NOT “I’m gonna put my ass in the sand.” And seriously guys, who really wants their ass in the sand? That gets sand in places you don’t want it. And sand is HOT.
2. He’s going to “roll a big fat one.” Sweet Conway Twitty. What did he just say? Roll a big fat one? As in weed??? Geez. Do we need this on the radio? How many times have we heard drug references bleeped out on hip hop or rock songs? ALL THE TIME. “But Zac Brown wants to roll a fat one? Hell yes! Let’s play it on the country stations! Bleep it out? What? This shit is WHOLESOME. Could be a homemade cigarette he wants to roll. Could be a cigar. Hell, it could be a crepe. We don’t know, he doesn’t say! Aww…shucks. It made us giggle, it’ll make America giggle too.”
3. He used the words “Big Poppa” in a country song. I’ve looked at the band, they’re white. The only time white people should ever be allowed to use the words big poppa is when they are alone in their cars singing the ACTUAL song “Big Poppa,” by the Notorious B.I.G. That’s real. And yes, the proper etiquette is to turn the volume down if you pass a black person. Just like in the movie Office Space.
4.  He uses French and Spanish words in the song. Those two languages mix well, don’t they? Let’s start mixing ALL things French and Mexican! We can have Spicy Chicken and Black Bean Crepes, or Snails in Mole Sauce. What about Poached Salmon Cevice? Yeah… That’ll hit the spot… Come on Zac, stick to the Ingles, eh? Plus, he totally doesn’t even say “Via Con Dios” right. Seriously. Listen to it.
5. Why the hell is he getting away from Georgia? What’s wrong with Georgia? Georgia frickin touches an ocean! I wish I was in Georgia right now. Peaches and shit, plus…Paula Frick Frackin Dean. If I’m in Georgia, I’m trackin her southern heiney down, and she’s gonna cook me some lunch. And dinner. And then, I’m gonna become a Mormon, convince The Missus and Paula to become Mormons, then marry both of them. Talk about the best of both worlds. But in all seriousness. Can’t the guy just roll up a fatty and watch a Baywatch episode and pretend he’s at the beach? Isn’t that how that works? I’ve never personally tried the drugs, so I don’t know. I say again, what’s wrong with Georgia? Come to Oklahoma. Put your ass in the sand here, and you’ll get tetanus cut from one of our many broken bottles. That’s real.
I kind of focus grouped this blog yesterday with some teenagers here at the school. The general opinion of this song amongst kids 16 and under? It’s the greatest thing since Miley Cyrus or The Jonas Brothers. Shiz has blown up, y’all. No one seems to care that the dude is promoted drug abuse and cussing like a sailor in what has long been regarded as “the music we can kind of let our kids listen to because it’s not THAT bad…” Well, I have news for you. It’s gotten that bad. No one is gang banging anyone yet, and that’s cool, but still. While I was focus grouping yesterday, I threw out names like Hank Williams, Kenny Rogers, and Tammy Winette. Nothing. Crickets. No idea. This prompted me to make this graph for y’all. Because I’m nothing if not graph minded.

This is so sad…

(Hey guys! It’s Memoir Monday! Everyone should know what to do, just steal my little button code down there, then paste it onto the Edit HTML section on your post. Type up a memoir, spank yourself a little, and call it a win! The only rule? It must be true. So go on! Get you some!)


I’ve never really performed well under pressure.

“No Travis. It goes like this.”

“No, not like that. Like this.”

“You can’t put your hand there. It won’t work right.”


And that’s just trying to take a bra off of The Missus.


I digress.

Anyway, I just don’t perform well. Today we’re going to talk about how this little handicap reared its ugly head in not one, but two spelling bees in my life.

The first takes place when I was in the first grade. I was a smart little bugger, and I wanted to show it off to everyone. We had these books that we had to read to help get us reading the right way, and me and another kid just kind of took off with them. It’s turned into a lifelong love of all things literary, and also a penchant for proper spelling and grammar.

We had our class spelling bee, and I don’t mind tellin ya, I smoked those fools. No one even had a real chance. This lead us to the all school spelling bee, to see who would represent us in the county spelling bee. Being in the first grade, I was the youngest participant, and was also chosen to go first. It was a fine day. My mother was in attendance, and I was gonna strut my stuff.

They called my name. I boldly stepped forward. “Give me my word, bitches.” (I totally didn’t say that, although one time in the first grade I said the “F” word after a kid spelled it when the teacher was out of the room. That’s another blog though.)

“Spell throw.”

“Throw. T-H-O-W. Throw.”

I spelled it so fast, I made their heads spin. That’s what they get for giving me such an easy word. Who are they? Who did they think they were dealing with? That’s right, I’m Travis Sloat. I spell stuff for fun. Throw. Pshaw. Nothin doin.

“I’m sorry, that’s incorrect.”


Turns out, there is an R in throw. Yeah…

Fast forward to my 7th grade year. I have made a comeback of sorts, and I am in the all school spelling bee once again. I don’t remember the word I got to win it, I only know that I won it. This won me a seat on the county spelling bee, and also an afternoon out on the town with my old first grade teacher, who was the coordinator of said bee.

We had our pizza, then we headed to county. I was stoked. I was ready. I was brimming with knowledge, my mind saturated with spellings of veterinarian and guarantee and words of that ilk that could throw you so far for a loop that you had no idea if they were spelled with 32 “A’s” or “E’s.”

I lined up. I wasn’t first. Woo. Good times.

It came down the line. Finally, it was my turn. I was motivated. I was representing my school. My dear mother was there. It was go time.

“Spell tetanus.”

“Tetanus. T-E-T-A-N-U-S




“S. Tetanus.”

“I’m sorry, that’s incorrect.”

WHAT?!?!? I knew. I knew right away that friggin second S didn’t go there. To this day, I have no idea why I added it. The silence in between S’s were the moments that I was looking at the judges faces, hoping I could get some clue as to whether or not I was done. I was very good at reading expressions. They gave me nothing. Nothing at all.

Wait. They gave me humiliation.


Other walks down the Memoir Monday Lane…
Adrienzgirl’s A Sign, A Drunk, And A Po-Po

Daffy’s I Wanna Pet It!

Ed’s I’m Always Gettin The Shaft…

Hey blog buddies.

Just wanted to apologize for skipping out on you yesterday. We had homecoming at the school I aide at, and I was busy all day helping. It pretty much reminded me of why I hated homecoming in high school. Too much drama.

On a more positive note, (or maybe negative to you if you really like me bunches) I’ve decided to write a novel in a month. You can look over there to the right and see the little button I posted. I don’t have any idea what I’m going to write about, and I’ve got to do 50k words in 30 days. That’s over a thousand words a day. That’s brutal.

So listen…

The blog may suffer a bit.

I want to just apologize up front for that. Although I will tell you, there is a good chance I’ll get to chapter 1 in my “novel,” and abandon ship faster than a cowardly captain who has heard a dish fall in the kitchen. So you may get me back after all.

I really hope that’s not the case though. I’d like to accomplish this. I guess we’ll see what happens, and I’ll work on being SUPER funny between now and then, so that you all get your fill and can do without my sweet sexy ass humor for a little while.

I’ve made that commitment to you, and I start right now. Want to hear a dirty joke?

Of course you do. So here it is…

A horse fell in a mud puddle.


(This is it folks. It’s Thursday. And I’m baaaaaaaaack! I took a week off last week, and I’ve gained some followers in that time. So let me warn you here. These are the days where you close the browser on your computer, shake your head a little bit, and say, “What the HELL was I doing reading everything he posted?” That’s right… It’s TMI Thursday, brought to you by a blogging associate of mine named LiLu. If you want more of this garbage trash wonderfulness, click that little button of the old people having more fun than you did last night. That, my friends, is real.)TMI Thursday

I’ve always been a weird pooper.

Sometimes, when I was younger…wait. That can be next weeks.

Anyway, I never had a real schedule for dropping the kids off at the pool until I got older. About 24 or so. Used to be, I’d forget about taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. Wouldn’t even cross my mind. And since I eat a diet rich in cheese and meats and fats and bad things, sometimes, I get the constipation, and it this instance, it was a very bad thing.

Occasionally, I’d go a couple days without chunkin a deuce, and I’d start getting scared. Because I knew it was gonna be big, and I knew it was gonna hurt. I’d eventually go into the bathroom and give it the ol college try, because I knew it would be better than waiting on my body to say, “Hey man, we gotta do this. We’re backed up worse than the plumbing at the Biggest Loser ranch.” You know, the poop where you roll your sleeves a little bit, because it might get ugly.

Well, one day, I realized that I’d gone about 4 days since my last poop. I realized this whilst Kid Funk and I were at a restaurant called Las Fuentes here in my town. We were just about to sit down to a fine Mexican meal, and my body gave me the tap. Not the rumbles tap, or the assplosion tap. But the “Hey man. We want this food as much as you, but something has to go.” So I got up, and I went to the restroom. I dropped trou, and I sat down for a minute or two.

The reason I wasn’t down longer is because folks, I FELT how big this thing was. It lowered itself down to be released, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this wasn’t the sort of thing that could be handled in a small restaurant bathroom. I looked around, and they didn’t even have a plunger. This WAS going to require a plunger. So I rescinded the order, pulled up my pants, and went out there and ate like a condemned man eats his last meal. Slowly.

We got home, and I went into the restroom to duke this battle out. I now had 4 days, and a Mexican lunch on top. I buckled down, and this is essentially what happened. Folks, I know I exaggerate a lot on this blog, but this is the honest to God truth the best approximation of what came out of me.


That is a Wilson TDS 14 and under regulation football. The closest thing I could find. The dimensions of said football? 10 inches by 6 inches. 6 INCHES AROUND. Guys and gals, it was the worst 30 minutes of my life.

I hollered at Kid Funk before I flushed it, just so I could have a witness. This legend has not grown with time, and I swear on it all that it was every bit of that big. He took one look at it, and he said, “How did you not make any noise when that was coming out?” I was defeated. Utterly defeated. I had nothing left. This thing started my hemorrhoids.

I asked Kid Funk to be the first to comment, so that you would all know that I wasn’t lying about it. I also asked him for a quote. The quote:

“Shit was big.”

That really sums it all up. Oh yeah, I mentioned flushing it. I had to use the stick end of the plunger to break it up into flushable pieces. The time for the whole thing to be completed from the birth to the subsequent abortion? One hour.

I took a nap. No shit.
Today is “Would You Rather” day I guess, so I’m going to take a shot at it. Here goes.

Would you rather,

Be put in a box for one hour with a a million pieces of freshly chewed Juicy Fruit gum, chewed by a million different people,


Have to use the restroom on a web cam that broadcasts a live feed from all all angles for a year in which everyone you’ve ever met is forced to watch every time you go?

Things to consider: With the gum thing, SOMEONE is gonna have the swine flu. Probably a lot of other stuff too. Plus, there is the slobber factor. With the bathroom thing, your mother will be watching. Weird people who like that sort of thing will be watching.

On to the conversation…

Me: I’ve gotta come up with questions for a questionnaire for guest guest posting on my blog. It’s kind of lame.
KF: I don’t even know what that means. Doesn’t bother me the slightest.
Me: Yep. Bothers me though, “Guy who wants me to DD for him.” Let’s show some damn sympathy here.
KF: Travis… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you are gay.
Me: Hey. I’m gonna have sex tonight with a chick. Are you?
KF: Naw. Don’t mean I don’t wannna. I bet you cut it short to blog though…
Me: Hell no. Unless blogging now instead of doing it counts.
KF: Yep, you could be doing it, but you are blogging. Blogging is something you do when you have nothing to do. If you have, in fact, IT to do, then you do have something to do.
Me: I’m not really blogging. I’m just making something for the blog. Plus, she’s watching soaps. Hell, that’s foreplay.
KF: That’s even worse. That’s like putting lipstick on your blog. She’ll come back and tell you she’s in love with your evil twin if you’re not careful. Soaps killed my 4th cousin. Mmmmhmmm, that one that lived in Nacadocios. She done ran her car off a bridge so she could see if she had an evil twin, and she could come back and confront her, she didn’t come back, Travis. Then I found out she was my aunt.
Me: Damn. Did you sleep with her before you found out? Shit could get complicated.
KF: Naw.
Me: Thank God for that.

There you have it, folks. Give me your WYR answers, iffen you haven’t had a seizure after reading that conversation. Happy Hump Day! Get you some!

Alright folks, I’ve gotten lazy.

“Isn’t he fat? Isn’t he pretty much always lazy? Isn’t that WHY he’s         fat?”

Hey. Shut up and read, okay?

Here’s the deal. I’ve decided I want to rent some space out here to some other bloggers. Rent’s cheap, too. All you’ve gotta do is answer some questions. There aren’t even any wrong answers. Even if there were, I wouldn’t tell you, because that’s cheating, and cheatin ain’t cool.

In all seriousness, I’ve decided to let some people guest post on my blog. And by people, I mean ANYONE. I won’t be picky. The questionnaire is simply for introduction purposes. I’m going to start doing it on Fridays. I’ll pick one person a week, probably on a first come, first serve basis. I’ll schedule it up, and let you know the week you’ll be posting.

I won’t have any predetermined topic at all. You may blog about whatever you want, for however long you want. As much as it pains me to say this, I won’t edit you in any way. Whatever you type gets posted.* If you want some attention, this is your chance! I’m only gonna post about it this one time, and we’ll see how it goes. Now, if no one wants to participate, I shall be very hurt emotionally, and I might never blog again.

I’m totally jerkin ya. Y’all can’t keep this fatty down. That’s real.

Here are the questions, and please, pretty please, can you just email me the got dang answers? I don’t really wanna hear any complaints about that, people. I mean, it’s for your intro. You don’t want other people seeing your intro, do you?

If you don’t feel like guest posting, hell, just put your answers down in the comment box. It might make for some interesting reading, because I damn sure didn’t put any in this post.

Sorry about that.

[Terms and Conditions: Travis does not take responsibility for your post. Anything you post can be used against you when I throw you under the bus for either not being funny, or bashing your neighbor because you don’t think he reads me. I do not want any guest posting privileges in return, however, I wouldn’t mind an offer, because seriously, no one has asked me yet, and that’s gay. Just sayin. If you have any questions, please email my sexy ass and let me know. I will do my best to get back to you within a completely reasonable 86 to 678 business days.] 

*Within reason. I won’t tolerate any Jesus or Duke bashin. Well, maybe Jesus Duke. Maybe. Woo. I’m totally gonna need to say my prayers this evening.

Now, without further blog ado; The Questions!

If you could punch one famous person in the face, dead or alive, who would you punch? Why?

You are stuck on a desert island with only a compass and your mother in law. Give me your most creative escape plan.

Go find the closest person to you, or call someone. Ask them to rank you on a scale of 1 to 10, how funny you are. Give us the relation, and their answer.

What is the worst deal you ever made for sex?

You can have one song stuck in your head the rest of your life. What is it? 

First off, I saw this commercial on Saturday, during the OU/Texas game.

Watch that. Seriously.

Wow. That shiz is INTENSE. I actually caught myself moving to the edge of my seat during the commercial. Then that voice.


Yeah it did. Did you see that boy with the sucker?

“Daddy, that car came through the glass. How come I got in trouble for throwing my Hot Wheel through the neighbors window?”

“That Hot Wheel wasn’t a Mercedes, son. Plus, you made old man Johnson’s palsy flare up.”

Bravo, Mercedes. Bravo. It’s nice to know that even classy things can break up a party every once and a while, right? You have a friend that does it. You know you do. Just like that car. Everything is going nice and easy, hell, you might even have a sucker, then, BAM! In comes Frank, “Call me Frankie” Tool. Shiz is rude, and no one likes the entrance, but everyone wants to be Frankie.

This is something I saw at a Quik Trip here in Tulsa the other day. For those of you not familiar with QT, well, it’s God’s convenience store. That’s real. I don’t want to hear about how your local 7/11 is the best because one time they had spiced coffee and bear claws for 2 days before Christmas. QT is THE BEST. You need a lottery ticket, a pumpkin cappuccino, a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes and Horchata smoothie mixed with Rooster Booster and sweet milk at 4:30 in the morning? QT has it, baby. Hell, they’d probably sell you the winning ticket. However, this sign disturbed me:


I’ve done some research.

One cinnamon roll (pictured in the sign) has 420 calories, 15 grams of fat, and 66 carbs.


Us diabetics have a name for food like this. They’re called “Land Mines*.” That simply means that if you eat one of those every day, or even maybe just twice in your whole life, you’re gonna lose a leg. That’s real.

A bowl of oatmeal? 97 calories, 1.6 grams of fat, and 17 carbs.

Life’s too short for what, now? Oatmeal? I think life will be too short if you DON’T have a little oatmeal every once and again. Geez.

Both of these things represent how far advertising has come to catch our attention. In both cases, it worked, right? I guess I should be saying, “Job well done, boys.” But to be honest, I can’t do it. Quik Trip? I lost a little respect for you. Even if you put some fine print at the bottom of the sign, it would have been better. Something like, [Quik Trip would like to point out that if you have one of these every day, you may develop a fat ass. You may also develop tits, a spare tire, and have certain difficulties seeing your own penis without the use of several mirrors. QT would like to remind you to have a bowl of oatmeal every once in a while. Seriously. Go have one now. Hell, we sell that shiz inside.]

See? I personally think that’s better. That’s just me though. I’m just one voice in a million, lost in the crowd of bloggers. Maybe one day, we’ll get a happy medium in advertising that will allow companies to speak the truth, AND sell their products well.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go get some mirrors. I want to see my penis.

*I really just made that phrase up. I have consulted no other diabetics in the nicknaming of said product.
(Folks, I am gonna try to start something here with this Memoir Monday business. I made a button, and I want you all to start telling your own Memoir Monday stories. I don’t care if your blog is already a story telling blog. Stick this button on your site on your Monday posts, and make me very happy! Qualifications for Memoir Monday is that it must be true. That’s all. If you use the button, make sure that you send me a message so I can link your post to this one! We’re gonna get this going! Thank you! Just copy this HTML code and paste it into the Edit HTML tab of your blog.) 


I have told you some stories about my younger brother, The Groom. I call him The Groom because he just recently got married. One day, I suppose I’ll make a new name for him. As of now, though, he’s The Groom.

He’s also a doucher.

This is why.

One night, I was outside shooting hoops. It was relatively dark, but we had a street light outside that lit up the court enough for me to see. I was around 18 at the time.

My dear sweet mother was outside gathering laundry from the clothesline. It was a normal night, and all was well.

I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. I have always had pretty good vision. I can’t hear, and I’ve essentially burned all the taste buds out of my mouth with various kinds of hot peppers and sauces, so really, vision is all I have left.

Someone was around the side of the house.

Someone dressed in a lot of black clothing.

Someone in a mask.


I was a real trusting person. I had never experienced crime of any kind, and I thought that this was probably just a friend at first. However, when I saw the gun, I went nuts vajay.

I said, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Who are you?! MOM RUN! RUN! RUN!”

And I proceeded to run all the way around the house, pretty much like the biggest pansy you’ve ever seen in your life.

About this time, I hear laughing. I stop, wondering why anyone would be laughing at a time like this, and turn around. Upon turning around, I see The Groom, sans ski mask, standing there with his BB pistol, laughing like he’d just been told the funniest joke ever.

My mom? She never stopped taking clothes down.

I walked inside, and I grabbed the keys to my truck.My mom had made it back to the porch by then, and I stormed out of the house with my keys, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to kill your son.”

I got in my truck, gunned it, and I chased The Groom down the block. I’m gonna give him credit, he’s pretty agile. After realizing that I couldn’t run him down, I gave up for the time being. I was mad for days. However, it once again proved that I am not any kind of hero at all.

I can only hope that having kids changes all that.

Other Great Memoirs Today:

Adrienzgirl’s Once Upon A Time, I Was An Idiot Teenager

Daffy’s BSlapped By New Kids On The Block

Ed’s Dream Of Becoming Scott Hamilton

Secret Agent K’s Memoir Monday

Jeff’s Musical Memoir Monday
So I got that word in one of my comments, which prompted me to make another award.

Here it is:


This award once again has absolutely no strings attached, other than the fact that I’d like to see it go up on your site at some time so people know you won it!

This award will go to anyone who uses a word NATURALLY on my site that I have to refer to the dictionary to see a meaning.

(This means that if I infer the meaning from the context it’s used in, and I confirm it in a dictionary, you WILL NOT get this award! Also, if I think you’re throwing words out there just to win one of these, I won’t let you have it. It’s mine. Also, if you receive this award, you can spread it around like a 5 year old spreads peanut butter.) 


This award goes to the iNDefatigable mjenks over at A Crown Of Thistles. You should go check out his site. He’s really mean cool to his kids, and he also gives Latin lessons!

Anywords, he gets this award for his use of the word, parsimonious in a comment on my Why I Hate Camping post.

This story is going to have many stories in it, and I’m running on some pretty bad sleep here, and I want to go take a nap. This is not an excuse, it is an explanation.

By the way, if you’re new here, I want to apologize for not burnin down the TMI world yesterday. Normally I do that shiz, but I had the day off, The Missus left town, there was a scrimmage, sushi, and a scary movie with The Funk. I’m very sorry for not posting, and I’m also sorry for not leaving many comments on blogs. I’m still trying to catch up reading them all.

Anywho, I’ve just given you a brief description of my day yesterday.

So we get back from sushi, in which I had just had a “salmon skin” roll, and let me tell you, that doesn’t sit well. I think from here on out, unless it’s a chicken, I’m probably not going to eat skin. Just seems like a bad idea.

“Try something new each time,” I said.

“Bullshit,” was Kid Funks succinct reply.

We get back to his place to watch The Office, which I didn’t find particularly funny, and then he tells me he has this “epic” scary movie from Netflix. It’s called Trick ‘r Treat, and it’s supposed to be wicked.

I don’t do scary movies. I had an experience when I was younger, and it ruined me. I scare easy. I’ve been afraid of the dark for most of my life. I may or may not leave the fish tank light on at night as a night light.

I’m 27.

Anyway, I decline, on the grounds of being a complete vajay.

Kid Funk calls me a bunch of other names, essentially meaning vajay.

I stayed and watched that damn movie.

I won’t ruin it for you, but my word. Pumpkins. Iffen I ever see another pumpkin, I’m going to stab it. Then eat it, so it can’t kill me.

There was also a scene where some hot ass lady werewolves were about to eat this dude, and they started dancin and gyratin and takin clothes off, and before it all got really weird and not sexy, Kid Funk looks at me and says, “If Twilight had been like this, it would have been a lot better.”

So now I’m faced with a choice.

I can go home, where The Missus is not going to be in bed with me because she’s in Branson.

Or I can go to the campsite with a bunch of people including my mommy mother.

I’m not going home.

I get to the campsite, and we hang for a minute, then one of the dudes that’s out there has to go get his daughters. Thing is, he’d had a few beers, by no means drunk, just maybe not legal. So I get to drive his wifes new 2009 bad ass Toyota SUV thingy.

Through deer country.

I made up my mind before we left that I WOULD NOT be hitting any deer.

We made it safely to his kids, and we stopped back at my house to get me some “camping gear.” This consisted of a king size blanket and two pillows.

On the way back to the campsite. I saw something in my peripheral. It was a deer. This deer ran right for the car. Not my car. The other guys car. The one I was driving. But it wasn’t mine.

Cue brakes screeching and thanking God that Toyota has put good brakes on this bish.

It was close. Like maybe 2 or 3 inches.

I didn’t even get a thank you.

So we get back to the campsite, and I decide I’m sleeping in my car. You see, the Mitsubishi Outlander has seats that fold flat, according to the manual, so that you may sleep in the vehicle comfortably.

To get on with that story, I need to tell you this story.

When I walk on a car dealership lot, my mind leaves me. Intelligent questions are, how do you say, out like a hymen on prom night. They elude me. This ensures a fight with The Missus, and our eventual screwing. Oddly enough, this leads to NO screwing for weeks.

When we bought our newest car, we both agreed on it instantly. So instantly, we didn’t get into a fight. We did, however, forget to do one tiny thing. You see, we bought it in May. We didn’t need a heater in May.

It’s October.

We need a heater.

Our heater doesn’t work.

Or, rather, we don’t know if our heater works, because the little knob that adjusts the temperature won’t go to the red. It stays on blue. So yeah.

No heat.

Anycold, The Youngest and I start getting the seats ready for me to sleep in.

I’ve taken the liberty of drawing this up for you:

Those seats don’t fold flat at all.

You’ll notice the happily dreaming no armed Travis on top is a very “happy camper.”

Now notice the nightmare riddled Travis with no arms fitfully passing the night with broken knees and in a car that at some point reached a cold enough temperature to make my entire body go numb. I am still looking for certain “parts.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever used the “F” word here on the blog.


Fuck you, Mitsubishi.

I went to bed at 2. I woke up at 5, shaking like a leaf and with a strange pain that I couldn’t really feel running the length of my body. The reason I couldn’t feel it? I WAS FRACKING NUMB.

I got up, did a slide down that graph of the economy when Bush took office that they tried to pass for a flat seat, and I started my car. I was going home.

I can’t see out the windows, because they are all fogged up.

My defroster won’t work, because, well, I explained that.

I wound up wiping the windows down with my king size blanket. Then I got a text. It’s The Youngest.

TY: You out?
Me: Dippin.
TY: I feel ya, bro. My feet are numb.
Me: There’s absolutely no call for it.
TY: Like, were you cold?
Me: It’s hard to say for certain. It’s all numb.
TY: Bump the heater up one more for me.
Me: Right on.

I made it home, and realized that I hadn’t turned the heater on before I’d left.


I finally got to sleep, and I slept about 3 hours before I woke up. My feet are still kind of numb, but for the most part, I think I’ve reversed the hypothermia. I think I’ve said this before, and I’ll leave you with it again.

Always. ALWAYS go camping within a 10 to 15 mile radius of your house. It makes that 5 AM drive home so much cooler.

In my case, literally.

Fuck you, Mitsubishi.
Really, the title says it all.

I recently acquired, via Statgirl and Met5200. a pair of clown fish named Anakin and Luke. I also acquired with them a 10 gallon tank and some algae. This brings the total amount of fish in my house to 6. You see, I also have a freshwater tank with 3 mollies and a clown loach named Fatty, Brooklyn, Irwin Linker and Doc.

Brooklyn is about to have more little mollies. The Missus says that, and she bases it on the fact that Brooklyn’s “bottom” has gotten bigger. Being a woman, and also being right 98.9% of the time, I didn’t argue with her. One of the mollies had babies the last time, and we managed to rescue two of them from the tank before they were eaten like the rest of them. Those went to The Missus’ 4th grade class, who, upon an intense vote, named them Bubbles and Dynomite.

I’m giving the name of my blog a whole new meaning, eh? I’m sensing a (to take care of) in between some words of the name.

Anyfish, To help with the algae in my saltwater tank, I recently purchased two “Turbo Snails.”

The retard salesperson at the store was very adamant about not letting them fall over on their backs.

“You can’t let them turn over. If they turn over, they just die. You don’t want them to die. You can’t let them turn over. Do you understand that? Because if they turn over, they die. You understand, right? You understand?”


So I’ve been watching snails.

I have the diabetes. I pee a lot. Before I was told I had the diabetes, I would get up about 6 times a night to go shake hands with the president. Wait. The president is black now. Can I still say that? I wish it was black. It’d be HUGE.

I digress.

Anyurine, I get up about once a night now, usually in the 3 to 4 AM range. And EVERY time, I check on these damn snails. They are always doing something stupid. One of them climbed a plant. It fell over. One of them climbed up the side of the tank. It fell over. One of them hung upside down on a boulder. It fell over. Get the picture? These things fall over. ALL THE TIME.

The first time I needed to right one of them, I reached smooth into the tank, whereupon to my shock and surprise, I had the skin between my fingers bitten by one of the damn clown fish. From there on out, I’ve used an implement to take care of it.

However, last night, I saw something both disturbing and funny. You know me, and yes, I’ve taken the liberty:


At first I thought, “ALRIGHT! Hot snail on snail action!”

This is not the case. That is simply one of my snails hitching a ride on the other snail as he climbs up the glass.

Here are more pictures as it progressed:


For your entertainment, I’ve added commentary:

Brown Snail: Hey man, why don’t you get the hell off? I’m tryna climb this glass, so I can escape.
Gray Snail: Listen. I know. And that’s cool and all, but you owe me a hitch.
BS: How do you figure?
GS: The other night, when you climbed that plant, and I told you it was a bad idea, you said, “If I fall over, you can ride on my back. Redeemable at any time.”
BS: Yeah man, I remember, but is this the BEST time? I mean, I’m tryin to escape here.
GS: Rules are rules, man. You agreed to this.
BS: It’s just that…ya know…it’s kind of humiliating. Look. He’s looking at us. Wait. What’s he doing? Is he trying to take a picture? Get off, man! Get off! Seriously. Get off! He’s got his camera! Awwwww! Dammit! He took a picture!
GS: Sorry, man. But you totally agreed to this.
BS: I know, but… Dammit! You’re a total ass.
GS: Hey. Wait a minute, I’m gonna move around you here.
BS: Why?
GS: You’ve got some algae there. Right there. It’s by the mouth of your shell.
BS: Don’t you DARE come around here and get that close to my mouth. He already thinks you’re boning me.
GS: Listen man. It’s just this little bit of algae. I’m hungry. We’re up here on this wall, and I’d have to go all the way back down to get more.
GS: Hang on. Hang on…
GS: Almost…
GS: Yeah man, I’m sorry. That made us look really gay, huh?
BS: That’s it. I’m taking us down. This is humiliating. You’re the biggest snail douche I know. You’d better be still, because if you make me fall over…so help me…I will eat every bit of algae in this tank. Make you starve.
GS: Listen. This may be a bad time. But I love you.
BS: FML… He just took another picture. I was so close to the bottom of the tank.
GS: Hey. Thanks for the ride. I’m gonna go hang upside down on that boulder. Call me.
BS: Kiss my ass.

So yeah…

I told you I’ve been bored.

Welcome to my life…