Actually, meet Josh and Katie, who sometimes leaves comments on my blog.
I just wanted you to have the appropriate image in your mind for this story.
Picture Josh at age 8. Curlier hair, less acne, same smile, and a heck of a lot cuter.
Now picture me at 18. Curlier hair, more acne, less wit, but a heck of a lot less fat, thus cuter.
I had a 1997 Ford Escort, “The Scort.” I had tricked it out with under carriage neon, three 10″ speakers in a custom Superman box, a fancy gearshift, and a license plate on the front with “Travy G” in Olde English style lettering. It was, and you can ask my ex-girlfriends about this, THE BALLS. Never got laid in it though. So lame.
One day I needed to change the oil in The Scort, and Josh was hangin around, being annoying and lookin cute and stuff.
The car was parked in the driveway, about a foot and a half from the concrete slab I needed it parked on.
I’m going to interrupt this story to talk about my bad decision track record.
I’ve dropped out of college, twice.
I quit a job I’d been on 2 years to sell vacuums.
I’ve eaten a hot sauce called “Mega Death,” several times.
The list could go on, but you get the general idea. I’ve made and I continue to make very bad decisions, almost on a daily basis. Every once in a great while, I will make a good decision, and the absolue shock of it will ultimately drive me to make a bad decsion. The one good decision I’ve made is stickin with The Missus, and yeah, in case you’re wondering, I manage to almost screw that up daily.
It’s a gift, really.
So when I got the idea in my head to let my 8 year old brother move my car a foot and a half onto a concrete slab, you probably already know that it was a bad one.
I didn’t. Heck, I thought it would be cute.
It was not.
I got him in the car, didn’t bother to buckle him, it’s only a foot and a half, right? Right. I tell him, “Listen. Start the car. Okay, now put your foot on the brake, and don’t take it off. Okay? You got that? DON’T TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BRAKE. Okay. Now, put it in gear. That’s good. Now. VERY SLOWLY, take your foot off the brake. Okay.”
The car rolled forward about a foot, and stopped on the side of the concrete slab. The slab was raised off the ground about an inch.
The car wouldn’t move. It was stuck. And actually, just sitting here now, I don’t know why I didn’t just have him lightly press the brake, and me just push it over the hump. Things might have gone better…
Instead, I tell him to goose the gas peddle a bit. Just a bit, I say, just a bit.
He gooses it.
It was not just a bit.
He floored it. By floored it, I mean he wound that little four cylinder engine up to its max, and then applied all one hundred some odd horses to the tires, which then gripped the gravel, found purchase, and RAMPED up on the concrete slab, where we had a picnic table and…just on the other side, a swimming pool.
I’ve talked on here before about my reflexes.
Well, really, we can thank the picnic table for slowing the car down some. He pushed it all the way across the slab, scratching The Scort very badly.
I dove headfirst into the vehicle and applied the brakes in a hasty fashion, bringing The Scort to a halt and dang near sending The Youngest straight through the window, where I’m sure he would have landed in the swimming pool, all smiles. I say that, because once we got the car in gear and untangled him from the steering wheel, he looked up with that same smile you saw on top there and said…
“That was fun, Travis! Can we try again?”
I love my brothers.
Other “Taps On The Gas” Down Memory Lane: (GO READ THEM!)
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: Courage and Roll!
Lee’s Memoir Monday: I Drank The Koolaid.
Jeff’s Musical Memoir Monday!In the past week alone, I’ve made fun of some people.
The Jews, the American Indians, Emos, Tyler Hansborough, and idiots, just to name a few.
Somewhere in all that mess, I lost a follower.
I gained two back, but folks, I’m a little heartbroken over here.
So heartbroken, in fact, that I’ve made a video apologizing.
Please come back, lost follower. I don’t know your name, and I’m sorry for that. But I love you, and I miss you, and I’ve gone all emo without you.
Without anymore excuses, here you go, Lost Follower.
I just wanted to be the first to tell everyone Happy Thanksgiving!
So, I don’t know what number I am, but it looks like I’m currently in somewhere around last place.
So. I will be the first to say this!
Hey. Indians? We’re real sorry about everything. That’s our bad.
Maybe free cheese and Twilight making y’all look good will make up for it?
I’M GOING TO BE AN UNCLE!!!!
Yep, you heard right. I’ve known for a while now, but I’ve not been able to blog about it, because my sis in law respects the fact that my blogs are read by the entire WORLD and she didn’t want a lot of people finding out. She released the gag order yesterday, and also found out what the baby will be! You ready???
It’s going to be a GIRL!!!
I gotta be honest with you though, this changes my whole philosophy as an uncle. I feel so sorry for the poor bastard that comes to my brothers door 18 years from now with dating that girl on his mind. If he makes it out the door with clean pants and no broken appendages, shit will be a miracle.
I’m guest posting today at Stir Fry Awesomeness! It’s a repeat post, but many of you may not have read it. Shoot, it’s already picked me up 3 new followers! Love you guys!
Alright, I’ll let you go.
Have a very happy Thanksgiving, and once again, I would just like to say that I am very thankful for each and every one of y’all!
What I’m NOT thankful for?
The University of North Carolina, it’s mens basketball program, the coach, and all the evil that they stand for.
I felt like I should be funny today too.
I’m jumping on this Post-It bandwagon, well, because I don’t have anything else to do today.
It’s hosted by that SupahMommy chick, click on the top post it to go see her.
Anyway, here are mine.
For the record, I will NEVER EVER be a Colts fan.
That’s just the worst insult I could think of for Mr. Romocoaster.
Hope you enjoyed, I might do this again.
I’m not a funeral guy.
Also, if you want something funny here today, go away. Yeah, I know that I’m a funny guy, at least funny looking, but the truth is, sometimes I need to be serious.
The Missus’ best friends grandfather passed away a few days ago, and the funeral was yesterday.
The man was 87 years old.
He was a pilot in the Air Force, and he loved flying. As they listed his accolades and honors, I felt something stirring inside me. It took me a moment to figure out what it was, and then I identified it. It was pride.
This man served his country, and he lived to tell about it.
They told a story about how in his final days, when his mental facilities were failing him, he sat up in his hospital bed, and pretended he was flying an airplane. He told one of the grandkids to “move the table” in the hospital room, so he could land the plane. He loved flying so much, it became his escape from his sickness.
The Air National Guard was at the funeral, and they gave him military honors. I was enraptured by the precision of it all, and the genuine respect in those young mens eyes as they folded the flag and gave it to the widow of an American Soldier.
Towards the end of it all, I was surprised to find not only a lump in my throat, but a lump in my calf as well. As I wondered why my leg was cramping, it hit me. I had been standing at attention the entire time. Without even realizing it.
Now, I am the last person you’d expect to do anything military. The concept of me at attention is probably baffling you. But there I was, back straight, hands to sides, knees locked, eyes straight ahead.
As the gun shots went off in salute, I experienced a moment of total and unadulterated pride. Pride in being a part of this country. Pride in the men and women who daily get up and help keep safe my life and my freedoms.
I guess you could say that the reality of Veterans Day really hit me yesterday. I realized that these people SHOULD have a day where they are honored. To be truthful, it should be more than one day. Each one of us should spend a little bit every day just being appreciative of the sacrifice that is made. Not just the sacrifice of life, but with time, with body, and with mind.
I try not to repeat myself too much here on this blog, but today I want to say a real thank you to our country’s service personnel. As Thanksgiving approaches, you can be sure that they will be mentioned in my prayers, and they will be thought of often.
The Missus is wicked sick and couldn’t participate.
Sorry about that.
Also, I think if each of you knew what I have to go through to get these damn videos up, you’d probably all cry.
Anyway, Monday Mingle is brought to you by 80 MPH Mom, and you should really go check her shiz, yo.
Without further ado, I give you, me.
I used to be a youth minister for my local church. I did it for about 3 years, and I loved every second of it. I quit because I’m an idiot. That’s all you need to know for now. The Missus will confirm this though.
One day, we had a guy come to the church that was a couple years younger than me, and he needed some help. You see, the person who was giving him a place to live had said that he couldn’t live there anymore, and he didn’t have a job of his own.
What he did have, surprisingly enough, was a lot of power tools in his car. Tools that he could use, he said, for any kind of work anyone needed for some cash.
You seeing it yet? Cause I didn’t.
I am a very trusting person. I also pride myself on being somewhat of a dirt poor philanthropist. I took him to my house, and got him fixed up with some clothes and such, and the church put him up in a hotel in a nearby town for a week.
While we were at the house, he looked at me and said, “Is that yours?”
The item in reference was a 13 foot long surf rod, for catching really big fish.
“Yes.” I replied, because it was indeed mine.
“Do you just leave it out like that?” he asked.
“Yeah, its a small town and we really don’t have to worry about theft. Besides I just paid 35 bucks for it. It’s not a very nice rig.”
His response? “So you just leave it out?”
You seeing it yet? Cause I didn’t.
One day later that week, I was down the street at a friend’s house. We were outside doing something, and our wives were inside the house. As we stood there talking, a little black Pontiac Sunfire comes down the street. The car looked vaguely familiar to me.
This Sunfire has a fishing pole sticking out of it. A big fishing pole. About 13 feet, if I had to guess it. The fishing pole was not vaguely familiar. In fact, I recognized immediately as my own.
So what went through my mind? “Oh! Ol boy probably wants to borrow my pole, and I wasn’t there to ask! I’ll just head for the road and give him permission.”
I am nothing if not naive.
So I head down to the road to give this guy permission to use something he’s already borrowed. The second I put my hand up to flag him down, he stomps on the gas and flies around the corner.
|Yes, that bus was there. Also, the streets of Okay used to be much better.|
You seeing it yet? Cause I finally did.
Acting quickly was of the utmost importance, I knew that. What I didn’t know was that making smart “car chase” decisions was also of the utmost importance.
You see, at that point in our lives, The Missus and I owned a Ford Mustang. It wasn’t a GT, but still, by all means, a fairly quick car, with one important feature that I neglected to recognize. The other vehicle we owned was my trusty 1995 Chevy half ton with a 4.3 liter VorTec engine. It really was a great truck, but it had one major fault.
Of course I neglected to realize the nature of the fault until I was accelerating down the highway, playing catch up to a little black four cylinder Pontiac Sunfire, made drastically less aerodynamic by the presence of my fishing pole jutting out of the passenger side window.
My trusty truck hit 90, and I was gaining a little bit of ground. 95 came and went, and I was cruising. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I caught up to him, but my first thought was to try one of those fancy police moves where you hit their back tire and spin them out. Thank God for what happened next, because the good Lord probably knew I’d kill us both.
My governor kicked in.
Soon, the “high-speed chase” sounded something like this.
“Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa click raaaaaaRAAAAAAAAA click raaaaaaaaaRAAAAAA click.”
Every time I got to 99, it kicked me back down to 90.
I don’t want to short General Motors here. To its credit, that Sunfire weaved in and out of traffic like a nimble ballerina in a graceful production of the “Nutcracker.” My truck was huffing and puffing like an old football coach whose just been challenged to run a sprint by the entire team.
He got away, but I knew where his hotel room was. He wasn’t there. I talked to the manager of the hotel, and he was nice enough to let me into the room, to see if I could find any clues. “Clues” turned up in abundance.
What did we find? Around 764 beer cans, a half naked young lady who claimed to be his girlfriend, and one wicked pissed off pit bull.
|It looked just like this…only less classy, if you can imagine that.|
We also found a bang ton of power tools. I guess he dumped those so his car would run lighter if he encountered any trouble on his getaway. The hotel manager kicked the girl and the dog out, and I didn’t hear from the guy until later that evening, when he called me crying like a baby.
Pole Stealer: “Travis?”Me: “Yeah, man.”PS: “I’m so sorry I stole your pole. I’m gonna give it back. I just want you to forgive me first”
Ahem. What? I’m as Christian as the next fella, but I’m almost positive that the Lord himself would have needed a minute after what had just happened. So I gave him my most “Christian” response.
Me: “Really? Cause that was pretty stupid, and you could have gotten both of us killed.”PS: “I know, I know. I’m so sorry. Do you forgive me?”
Whatever, if I can get my pole back.
Me: “Yeah man, I forgive you.”PS: “Meet me at Albertson’s tonight, and I’ll have your pole.”Me: “Alright, I’ll see you there.”
You see it? Cause I didn’t.
He never showed. Where is my pole now? It’s on sale at a pawn shop in Muskogee for $15. I refuse to go buy it back. It’s a matter of principle. I thought about filing a police report, but geez. It’s $15.
I did learn something worth a lot more than 15 bucks though. People are not always what they seem to be. And no matter how nice you are to someone, they still might bite you smooth in the teat.
Where do I keep my fishing poles now? Right out in the open, in plain view of everyone.
Let a man borrow your fishing pole, he catches fish for a day. Let a man steal your fishing pole, and he can get a couple of Big Macs, and maybe more “quality time” with the hooker staying in his hotel room.
*This post has been edited from its original version. The links have been removed, and the images have been added by Lauren. I also touched it up for brevity’s sake. TS
Some people in blogland don’t know what an “emo” person is. I figured I would take it upon myself give the best description of “emo” that I can. I’m going to do that, and attempt to be humorous at the same time. I fully expect to have a bunch of emo kids at my door with mascara and razor blades, lookin to cry a bit. Goes with the territory I guess.
Anycutter, here goes.
Lets start with a pic.
Sorry for the language on that.
I’m not gonna give you a Wiki definition here, folks.
Emo’s are pretty much gay. Makeup and shiz. Horrible music about pain and teenage angst and how hard it is to be alive in a world that won’t accept them for being sad all the time. Really, emo kids are one step removed from country music stars. The only real difference is, country music stars drink, and emo kids cut themselves.
They prefer to be individualistic, but only if they can do it in groups. “Do you wanna hang out this weekend and be non-conforming together? We’re all gonna be there. Do you have any makeup?”
The world is tougher for them than it is for you, because, well, they wear makeup, and they are sad. “I steal this makeup from my sister and that makes me sad. My parents should buy me makeup. But they don’t.”
They cut themselves because they like pain. But not too much pain, because that would be conformity. “I like to cut myself while I’m cutting myself. It just makes the pain in the pain that much more painful and sad. So it’s beautiful.”
Most of them are vegetarians, because that’s how they stick it to the man. “Oh yeah? You want me to eat meat? Well. I’ll just have a salad. F you, establishment.”
They use about 654 bottles of glue a year. For their hair. “Glue makes it do that thing. You know. That thing were it all looks shitty. Yeah.”
They all hate their parents. Parents are totally not cool, man. Parents are lame. Parents try to get them to use hair gel like normal kids instead of glue. Parents try to get them to listen to music wherein the lead vocals DON’T sound like a guy named Anthony getting nailed by some dude named Tiny in the prison shower. “I love that one part where the guys just screams for the entire song. It’s so beautiful. It really gets me in the mood to cut the initials of the girl I like into my upper thigh.”
The music has a name. Wanna know what it’s called? Screamo. Yeah…
They will almost never look into a camera directly. Fatty up there in the picture was most likely tricked by someone saying “Cheese” as they took the picture, and he thought there might be actual cheese, which isn’t meat, but it’s still dairy, and dairy is kind of just as bad because they make all those poor cows be conformists and do the same thing all the time and they won’t let them use glue on their hair, and that’s just wrong, so he was going to say something about how he hated cheese and was sad about it, but there wasn’t any cheese and the picture got snapped before he could look away again. Usually they are always looking down and away, as if they’ve just been touched by the gym teacher, and are being made to lie about it at the parent teacher conference. “We took school pictures the other day. I refused to look in the camera. They gave me detention. I cut myself in detention. It was beautiful.”
They like to hang out and skateboard. Why? Because skateboarding is the most inconvenient way of traveling known to man, besides those little scooter things they sold at Wal-Mart a while back. If it is difficult to do, emo’s will do it that way first. “You wanna go down to the mall and skateboard? It’ll really be a statement about how we don’t like cars or ourselves.”
Tight pants. Oh my word. Tight pants. These kids will wear pants so tight that in order to get them on, you need butter, two shoehorns, and a crane operator with at least 23 years of experience. It’s ridiculous, really. Like, they aren’t the sexy kind of tight pants. Not the kind of tight pants that you spend a good portion of your teenage years dreaming about. These are shapeless tight pants, that somehow have the ability to make even MY legs look like they are about the size of dowel rods. “Can I borrow your jeans? Yeah, the ones that look gay. Gay is okay, right? I mean, I’m totally not gay, but I like my pants to be. If they are tight enough, you can see my cutting scars.”
They will cry. It could be about anything. There is no reason at all for the crying. It could be because someone in Laos trapped a dolphin in a tuna net and then ate the dolphin instead of the tuna, or it could be because they got a vanilla milkshake instead of a chocolate milkshake at the food court while they were riding their skateboards. However, if the situation actually CALLS for crying, like say, the funeral of a lame parent, or a lame grandmother, they will not cry at all, because that’s conforming. “I lost my entire family in a car crash last week. Yeah, I didn’t cry at the funeral. That story about the dolphin is Laos really got me going though.”
Anyway, I hope this kind of clears things up for you. Like I said, this is MY definition of emo. It’s not an official definition, and if you don’t like it, well, come see me, and I’ll get you some razor blades, and we can cry about the fact that I don’t keep glue in the house.
I am guest posting today at Batcrap Crazy, which is the blog of Mrs. Daffy! I won her “asshat” definition contest. If you want to read it, click here! I have also been featured in a a blog by Tamara over at Cheapskate Mom. If you want to check that out, click here!!
The Missus called me yesterday.
“Carmike has a midnight showing of New Moon!”
“I’ll go get the tickets.”
So yeah, I went 4 hours early to get tickets, and the place wasn’t even open yet. Kid Funk tried to introduce me to Fandango, but it didn’t like me too much.
I went back, stood in line, and got the tickets.
As I got the tickets and was leaving, I did the funniest thing that never got laughed at. There were about 100 people in line, and the theater guy came out waving his little arms and said, “Does anyone here want to see something that is starting NOW?” And I piped up above the crowd and said, “I want to see A Christmas Carol!”
Finally, from the very back, I hear a guy.
Yeah. I was pissed. But, it proved why I’m not a stand up comedian. Actually, I don’t think it was the right venue, what with little teeny boppin emo retards worrying about whether or not they’d get a ticket and whether or not they’d pop a boner at the sight of Edward without a shirt on.
By the way, I’m totally Team Edward. That’s real. Vampires are so much cooler.
I won’t post anything about the movie, other than it was great. I really think it was much better than the first one.
Be jealous, I saw it before you.
However, as we were waiting in line to get into the theater, shit got crazy. First of all, I met a fellow blogger whilst standing in line. I looked at The Missus and said, “I’m totally blogging about this.” And this lady behind us said, “Oh, I am too.” So of course I demanded asked her the name of her blog, and of course started braggin on you guys being the best followers in the world. And guess what? She only has 19. Why don’t y’all go show her some love! She lives in my town!!! Click here to go visit her. I haven’t really read through the blog, so I take no responsibility for what is on there!
I really am running on like 3 hours sleep here, so I’m not funny today. I may come back later for more, but I just don’t know. I need sleep. Go read the guest post! Then go check the post of Cheapskates, and then go give Ruby some lovin. Not literally though. Her husband looked like a pretty solid dude.
Oh. And I should mention, there is something big headed your way. And no, it’s not me on a bike. I’ve collaborated with a certain blogger named Lauren, and let me tell you, great things are afoot. It’s still in development, but we’ll let you know something soon.
(Ladies and Gents, once again, I’ve picked up some newbies. I’d like to welcome them all aboard! All of them should know about TMI Thursday, invented by the ever popular “cool chick” LiLu. For those of you who don’t know about it, well, now is your chance to leave. It’s where I tell a very embarrassing or personal story about myself. If you aren’t thoroughly disgusted, click on the picture of those two old people having more fun than you did last night. She’s got more. Don’t say you weren’t warned!)
The penis wasn’t out.
I really feel like I should say that in opening. Somehow, it seemed very important that I should clear that up.
I also think I should say that I don’t have a problem with gay people.
Yeah, that’s not how I was raised, but the way I see it, there are a lot of other things we need to clear up in this country before we go hitting the gays in the head and tell em they’re all headed straight to hell. That ain’t cool.
Also, I’m not one of those guys who thinks that every gay man wants my junk. I know that I am not an especially attractive sight for the FEMALES, much less a gay man.
That being said, I have had a gay man who has wanted to have a 3 way with me and The Missus, only he wanted her to “just watch.”
Thanks. Really. Thank you. But…no thanks.
However, this story involves a hair cut.
I was in Oklahoma City, and I had a work party that evening. The Missus decided I needed to look a little more like a respectable employee, and a little less like a “guy who just touched a wiener in the bathroom for a line of coke.”
I love her.
So I sat down in the chair, and this rather…gay…black man stands next to me, and starts cutting my hair.
Right away, I’m kind of weirded out, because he starts scissoring it. Well, scissors and my hair don’t like each other much. It’s a clipper kind of hair. You know, buzz buzz, I pay them 10 bucks, come again. Right?
This guy scissors the whole thing. And, I have to say, he did a damn fine job. Damn fine. Except for the end.
On the very last snip, he leans in.
When he leans in, I feel something.
Something on my arm.
I move my arm.
IT POKES MY ARM AGAIN.
I look up, directly into the eyes of a man who is boldly poking me in the arm with a semi-erect penis, and eyebrows kind of up in a “Eh? Eh? What do ya think? You want some of this silky smooth chocolate, husky boy? Just the tip. Just for a minute, just to see how it feels. Eh?”
Oh. My. God.
I don’t remember specifically how I expressed my distaste, but I know I did it quietly, and quickly. My arms went straight down to my sides, and I just stared straight ahead like someone who had just been raped. I really felt like I had.
I came up with a new rule that day.
If I get a tip, you don’t.
(I totally googled “gay man touches arm with penis,” Moog style, just to see if a funny picture would come up that I could use. I’m very sorry I did that.)
You have until 11:59 PM of November 18th to get to 46 comments. I don’t really know why I’m even doing this, because it’s obvious you won’t make it!!! Suck it, bloggy readers!
So I’m gonna be pretty lame today.
“Hey. Isn’t he always pretty lame?”
Shut your whore mouth.
Anyway, I’ve had a busy Novemeber, and I just thought you might want to hear about it.
Novemeber 1st was my birthday. I turned 27. Since most of the men in my family die at 40, this means I have 13 years left to live. A lot of people get upset when I talk like that. I still don’t understand why. I guess maybe they want my fat ass around a little bit longer, and I’m okay with that. Thanks.
Anyway, November 1st also started something called “No Shave November.” It’s something that one of the colleges in Oklahoma claims to have started. Either way, I decided to participate in it. The Missus, being the lady that she is, decided she didn’t want to walk around with a husband that looked as if he had pubic hairs glued to his face. Which is what my “beard” happens to look like. So she started a new tradition in our home called, “No Sex November.” I made it to the 12th. I don’t really even remember why I held out that long. I’m an idiot.
I’ve been busy on my novel. Last count, I was at 25k and some change. I made it to that by the halfway deadline, so I was proud of myself. I haven’t written in two days though. I’ve just been contemplating the ending and how I want to wrap things up. I’ll start again soon.
My Duke Blue Devils started their season. They are 2-0, and I’m excited. We have a bunch of tall skinny white boys on the team that look as if at some point during the season, I might be able to call them monsters. I don’t think it’s a National Championship team yet, but I do know that Ed over at Ed’s Funny Pages will be wearing a Duke cap come March.
I broke up two fights here at the school last Friday morning. The first one between two boys, the second between two girls. In the boys fight, the one I grabbed looked down at me and said, “Get your fuckin hand off my chest.” Then he saw who I was. His temporary moment of insanity cleared up, and just in time. That was the extent of my injuries. The girls fight? Oh, I’m glad you asked. We just said, “Hey, gals? Can we break this up? And they stopped and hugged and cried and had popcorn and watched Twilight together. It was so sweet. Yeah… I’m lying. You know how I’m always talking about punching someone in the throat or neck? That happened to me. Upon restraining one of the girls in the fight, the other one got loose FROM TWO FREAKIN TEACHERS, and punched me twice in the neck and once in the throat. Yeah. Do you have any idea how hard it is to not punch someone who has just punched you in the throat?!? I do.
I learned yesterday that no matter how funny that you think racism in the state of Kentucky is, not everyone is going to find it as funny as you. I guess we’ve not yet reached a point in this great country where pointing out someones backwards way of thinking is funny, but we can damn sure make fun of Jesus all the time. Talk about a comment killer. Hell, I had to double check my following to see if they were still there. But then, everyone showed up and loved my video blog, but hated Nic Cage. Note to self. Nic Cage and racism are bad blogging topics.
Speaking of followers, I picked up 3 new ones yesterday with that vlog! That’s exciting stuff! I’d like to welcome you all to the fold, and I just want you to know that any Kool-Aid offered to you is sure to be poison free. That ain’t how I roll.
I’m wicked ready for New Moon. Yeah, I know that makes me gay. But guess what? I totally have the chance to have sex with a woman tonight. So does that make me gay? Yeah, chances are, I’ll say something to ruin it, but that’s just because I’m a man.
I guess I’ll leave you alone. Told you it wouldn’t be funny today, but I have a challenge for you. Let’s rise to it! I asked the question a while back “What song would you want stuck in your head for the rest of your life?” I asked you not to answer that in the comments, but in an email to me to be part of something that may or may not go down as the biggest fail since Palin hooked up with that grizzly bear that told her “he had connections, so she would win for sure.” Anybeastiality, I now want you to answer that question in the comments! Let’s see how many people respond! If you came over from Facebook, you can leave one anonymously! Lets set a goal, shall we? 93 followers on blogger, 61 on Facebook, taking into account that Facebook people never comment, 93 and 61 is 154, lets say, 30% of that. That’s 46 comments!
I want 46 comments, people. You can do it. Show me you can! The question is, “What song would you want stuck in your head the rest of your life?”
P.S. I love you guys, I really do. If I get 46 comments on this blog, all by different people, I promise you this. I will take suggestions on something humiliating for me to do on film, and post it here on this blog. That is my oath to my readers. Let’s see if you can do it.
Wow. Who knew that posting a blog about racism in Kentucky would be a comment killer?
Lesson learned, I guess, and I now bring you Monday blog # 2.
The Monday Mingle.
Lauren over at (Mis)Adventures in Theatre has been after me to do this up. My face rarely appears in internet videos, and I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe I need to get this glorious mug out there.” Well, the only person besides The Missus that can fully understand what I went through to get this video edited and uploaded is Lauren. It was a bitch. Windows Movie Maker is quite possibly the stupidest thing in the world. That’s real.
Anyway, the whole thing is brought to you by 80 MPH Mom, which I think is a cool blog name. She’s got a shit ton of followers, so maybe I can convince a few of em to stick around by posting this video. I’m sorry you can’t see my face real well, but I can give you an idea of what I look like. Think George Clooney in Batman, with Brad Pitt body in Snatch. That should give you a rough estimate.
“But Travis, in the video it looks like you’re a husky fellow.”
The camera adds a lot of weight, person who ruins fun.
Enjoy! I’ll probably be doing it again!
P.S. If you’re new here, and you maybe like what you see, feel free to look around a bit. Hit that follow button over there to the side. I need to bust 100 on this bish. Thanks!
(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!)
Today’s Memoir Monday could not have been possible without The Missus.
So beware, if you are easily offended by The Missus, Kentucky, and/or racism, you might want to just go read something else.
When she and I were dating, her family decided to go visit their family in Kentucky. That’s where they’re all from.
Yep. Those people.
So anyway, we’d been dating awhile, and I didn’t really have anything else going that week, so what the heck, lets go East, shall we?
I get told we’re staying with “Uncle Willie and Aunt Margaret.” I chuckled, but only briefly.
We packed up, and headed that way.
When we arrived at my wifes dear aunt and uncle’s house, I immediately noticed some things. Uncle Willie was not a particularly tall man, and he had some…ahem…tendencies.
He was a nervous fella. Twitches and what not. Like maybe his nostrils had seen or were currently seeing large quantities of cocaine.
We get the pleasantries out of the way and get settled. It wasn’t too long before I heard some bass coming from the road by their house. Uncle Willie looks at me and says,
“Those are those…negroes. They like their music up loud. Get’s on my nerves.”
Yeah. Willie didn’t like black people, but he spoke his racism quietly, almost at a whisper. I really don’t know if it still counts or not. I think it does.
I would like to point out at this juncture, that I am not a racist. I know several black people, and they all seem to like me okay, with the exception of one or two, who wouldn’t like me no matter what. I once was the recipient of a bear hug from a black man. Let me tell ya, when this guy hugs you, you stay hugged. Anyway, just wanted to clear that up.
Willie, however, was not so enlightened.
The next day, I noticed Willie walking out to his lawn quite frequently. Like, every 15 minutes or so. He’d just wander out the back door, look around the yard, and then go into the front yard, then amble back into the house. I thought this was weird, and I asked him about it.
“Well, sometimes, the darkies, you know, the black people, will take your lawn ornaments and stuff, and then go pawn them. ‘They’ like to steal stuff.”
Darkies? Wow. I will say this though, I didn’t once hear the “N” word, and I’d have probably drawn the line there and said something, after I was done laughing at his ignorance. For the record, yeah, there are a lot of black people in Kentucky, but for the most part, it was the white people that scared me.
I didn’t really talk to Willie much after that, and I don’t think I can be blamed. I found out later on in the week that they also Scotchguarded their towels, which kind of made drying off after a shower a difficult thing. It was like using a shammy.
That was also the week I became allergic to pork chops. By allergic, I mean that every time after that for about 4 years, I’d get a mean set of the hot poops if I so much as looked at a pork chop.
Then there was the ol covered bridge, which saw a lot more of me than it probably wanted to, and was easily the best part of the trip.
Oh, and I can also tell you that it takes approximately 2.5 seconds to get out of your girlfriends bed and onto the ground where you are supposed to be sleeping if you hear a noise.
Other “Non-Racial” Trips To Somewhere Besides Kentucky This Week: (GO READ THEM!)
Daffy’s Memoir Monday – Date FAIL.
K’s Does This Taste Sour To You?
Kys’ Memoir Monday: Grandma Bill
We all know Mooooooooooooog over at Mental Poo, right?
Come on now, I know we might all be a bit embarrassed about it. But we do. And we love him.
Sometimes, we even dream about him. His short, powerful body as he squeezes it into a child’s size karate outfit…
He’ll get that. You won’t.
Anyway, I am totally using his idea for Motivational Poster Friday. He apparently made this thing up, and I guess there is someone else using the idea named Mike, and he is not giving our boy any credit. This guy Mike is a doucher. Someone should find his site and go tell him he’s gay.
“Yes Mr. Sloat?”
“I have the site right here.”
“You do? Would you share it with the class please?”
“I sure will. Just click HERE!”
Anyway, here’s my first one.
In Mooooooog’s words, click to enlarge. (twss)
Don’t you like it? I think I did good. I made it over at Big Huge Labs, just like our boy.
In case you don’t get it, I’ll tell ya.
(It’s cause if you knew Spanish, you could totally tell them to touch your wiener. But you don’t know Spanish, because you spent those two years of classes totally trying to see down your cousins shirt. Wait. That was French. Either way, really.)
I may or may not make a habit of this.
I’m out like a hymen on prom night.
Ever since I’ve started this bish, there has been an award floating around out there that I’ve wanted. It is the Superior Scribbler Award.
Don’t ask me why I’ve wanted it, I just always have. Maybe it appeals to the 4 year old in me.
Yeah, I ate a 4 year old. It was hamburger day in the cafeteria, and I got mad cause he cut in line.
My blood sugar is way off track.
4 year olds are sugary and hell on blood sugar levels. Everyone knows that.
I’ve taken a shot. I should be okay.
Somewhere in there, I’ve really digressed.
Anyway, I finally got the award!
Jeanette over at Bombshell Bliss gave it to me! Click on that link before I give my acceptance speech. Go check her out! She’s a lady!
Anyway, here it is.
That’s right. Suck it.
I’d really like to thank all my fans, and….wait….hang on…who’s coming up here??? Is that? Is that Ed?
Aww… Dammit Ed!
Anyway, this sumbitch came with some rules. I’m gonna follow them, but only because I promised. The people that I give it to, however, are hereby released from these rules. Sorry about that, Jeanette. You know I love ya.
I’ve gotta give it to five of you glorious bastards. (I’m doing six, on account of Ed being a good sport AND a funny guy)
I’ve gotta link the wonderful lady that gave it to me!
I’ve gotta display it on my blog.
I’ve gotta post the rules on my blog.
and, I’ve gotta post a naked picture of myself on here as well.
I’m sorry folks. I don’t make these rules up.
Actually, I kinda made one of them up. The one about giving it to five people. The rest are true. Scouts honor.
I’m not showing you my penis. I make you people laugh enough as it is.
The six I’m giving it to, in no particular order, is…………….
First I’m going to give it to Ed over at Ed’s Funny Pages for being a good sport and letting me use his picture. He’s a great guy, and you should go check him out. I know our following is practically the same, but yeah. Go do it!
Lily over at Tapdancing in the Dark. I don’t know if y’all have been over there or not, but that lady makes it rain. Word style. She is the only person I know of besides me that will post conversations her animals have. She keeps it real. Check that shiz out.
Daffy over at Batcrap Crazy. What can I say about her that hasn’t been said in a really terrible rap song. Ya know? She’s a funny chick, and she talks to me lots.
Lauren over at (Mis)Adventures in Theatre. Yeah, that’s right. She spells that shit the classy way. You gotta problem with it? Go see her. She lives in Montana. Long ass drive.
Jeff over at This Is Why Your Hold Time Is So Long. Jeff is remodeling his bathroom right now, and he needs all the support he can get. He’s also a fellow NaNo participant, and for sure, he’s strugglin more than me trying to fit into emo pants. That’s real. Go send him some lovin.
Erin over at The Mother Load. She’s a jew, and I’m German. I really feel it’s the least I can do, ya know? Erin, I really didn’t mean any hard feelings. I wasn’t really even thought of yet, so I can’t take all the blame, but hey, we’re apologizing to the Indians, right?
So yeah, there ya have it.
Thank you Jeanette!!!
P.S. I fully expect to be the recipient of an ass chewing over me not giving it to someone. I just want to say in advance that I’m sorry, and I love you. Seriously. I do. Like, a lot. If you didn’t get it, it’s because I tried to give it to people who I didn’t think had gotten this particular award yet. Now, I may not have been correct in that. So listen. I love you. The Missus loves you. My gay ass emo dog Poo loves you. My fish, Brookly, Fatty, Doc, Irwin Linker, Luke and Anakin love you. My two snails love you. The birds that I sometimes set out seed for love you. I’ve talked to them all, and it’s the truth.
Welcome one and all to a World Premier!
Yeah. Not really, because I posted it on the NaNo site. Yeah. You know that button I talked about that links you to my page there and my progress so you could cheer me on? Yeah… One of us is a douchebag and didn’t go look, huh?
Anyway, no worries, because I’m going to let my blog readers see the entire Chapter 4 of my as of yet untitled masterpiece!
Without further ado…
Dreams. That’s really all she knew. Her world consisted of bright patterns, lucid colors, and geometric shapes that would make any humans mind explode with new knowledge. The clarity of these visions sometimes suffered, and she knew that at those points she was close to death, but they always sharpened up, and in that she knew that she was healing. Slowly, but surely, she was healing.
At the very tip of her mind, she heard a noise. She summoned all the strength she had, which wasn’t much, and she opened her eyes. Not the eyes on her suit, for those stayed open constantly. She opened the eyes inside her suit. She couldn’t tell who or what it was, but she thought it looked human. He was reaching for her. She gave every last bit of power she had left into making some sort of gesture or word to acknowledge the stranger. She made no sound, no movement.
There you have it! Feel free to tell me what you think of this incredibly in-depth look of my book I gave you!
Love you guys, even when I blow up.
I’m giving a big shout out to the veterans today!
Thank you all so much for the service you do for this country, and for giving me the opportunity to muck about the internet saying whatever I want to.
Your sacrifice is great, your courage deep, you pride is beyond reproach.
This past Saturday I had to help my brother and my sis-in-law with an elementary basketball tournament at our hometown gym.
And really, it would have been. But some things went wrong. First, I was told it would be lasting till about 3. I left at 8. Second, I had about $1000 change through my hands. Some of you are going, “Damn. Must be nice.” Well, I need to tell you that I saw none of that money. What I did see was a Sunday of being sicker than a dog, because people must wipe themselves with their money before using it to buy nachos and a diet Coke at the ballgame.
I also had the opportunity to meet some characters. I’ve taken the liberty of writing some letters to these characters. I’ve done this before, but to people at the mall. You can read that here. Seriously. Go read it, grab a beer, and come back. I’ll wait.
Back? What kind of beer did you grab? Are you drinking on the job? You probably shouldn’t be. Anyway, on with the letters.
Dear Ex Teacher,
I know that no one likes you. I know that we fired you because, in fact, no one really liked you. I know that no one wanted you at the tourney, and I know that probably even your own granddaughter didn’t really want you to be there. I know you probably also have a very small….ego, and I know that you feel the need to compensate for it by acting like a badass, even though you’re 4 feet tall. But did you really have to tell the school board president that you were going to punch him in the face if he said one more word? I don’t think that was necessary. Nor did I enjoy leaving my post in the concession stand to come out and get between two grown ass men who know better than to set that kind of example in front of FREAKING 5th and 6th graders. Congratulations, doucher. You’ve successfully reached asshat status.
Dear Lady Who Came To The Fight To Get Her Two Cents In,
Yeah, we know you flashed the baseball team a few years back, and that got you fired. In hindsight, you probably realize this was a bad idea. So do you make up for it by jumping in the fight between ex teacher and school board member? One would think no, but you proved otherwise. I have to say, you fully deserved it when ex teacher said, “Why don’t you just go coach the baseball team! HA!” and pointed at you like you’d just given him an assist. Which I guess in a way, you kinda did. Seriously. No one wanted to see those, and no one wants to see you. Nuff said.
Dear People Who Yell “OVER THE BACK!” Constantly,
We all know that you don’t know what “over the back” means. Matter of fact, most of us know that about 89% of the population doesn’t know what it means. We know that you heard it yelled in a high school game one time, and you thought it sounded cool, so you thought you’d adopt it as your own personal catch phrase and scream it at the ref’s every single time your team has the ball. I don’t think you fully realize how hard it is for an elementary ball player to go over the back on someone. They simply don’t have that kind of athleticism, unless one of them gets on their knees first, and let’s be honest, then they’re just playing leapfrog, and that shit is cute. THEY’RE 5TH AND 6TH GRADERS. Save the yelling at the ref bit for high school, eh stupid parent?
Dear Coach Of The School That Thinks They’re Better Than Everyone Else,
It honestly would not bother me at all if you just up and got the swine flu. You were up by 35 points in the 4th quarter, and you were yelling at the referees because you thought you were getting an unfairly called game. You should consider yourself very lucky, sir, that I was not wearing the striped shirt of a referee. You would have been ejected faster than Princess Diana. Wow. Too soon? Anyway, all I’m sayin is, stop letting these kids think that anytime something goes wrong, it’s the ref’s fault. You’re doing nothing but raising a generation of kids that will look at the referee every time a ball clangs off the rim, or they miss a wide open layup. I know you were a shitty player in high school, and I know you make up for that now by your “I have a HUGE penis” coaching style. Your penis is small. Probably. I don’t really know. But yeah. Doucher.
Dear Coach Whose Teams Won Both The Girls And Boys Championship,
You sir, are a classy guy. It’s a rarity these days to find someone with a desire to win, and a sense of mercy and compassion for programs that don’t have the skill level that yours does. The way you played the game was fundamentally sound, and the scores reflected it. You deserved those wins, and your players did too. When you had our team down 22 to 0 and you told your girls that not one more point they scored was going to be put on the scoreboard, I didn’t hear a single complaint. They almost seemed to understand why you were doing it. I’m proud of you, and I’m proud of your kids. Congratulations.
Dear Kids Who Double Dribbled, Shot At The Wrong Goal, Took 8 Steps Before They Shot, And Those Who Just Generally Aren’t Very Good,
Never give up. Never put down the ball. The dream will keep you up nights, the desire will burn in your heart to play the game. I too, was once like you. I was terrible. I shot at the wrong goal. I had bad shoes. I was pigeon toed and awkward. I had very little talent. What I did have, was determination. I eventually got smarter, grew out of my awkwardness, and was able to have better shoes. Don’t quit this game. It will let you down more than you can possibly imagine, and then it will give you an opportunity to play in a game at the state championships when you’re a freshman. For some of you, like me, those will be the greatest 30 seconds you ever spend on a court. Others will know what it means to win that game, and to have played every single minute with a ferocity and dedication that can only be known by someone WHO NEVER QUITS. I know some of you have shitty parents, and I thank God every day that I didn’t have that to deal with. I know they might yell about fouls, cuss, and get in fights at the game, but don’t let it deter you, don’t let it sway you, and don’t let it beat you. You should always play with sportsmanship, honesty, and integrity, and you should always keep you head held high.
That being said, I’ve got to say this.
This douchebag totally deserved this, and I have never been so happy as when I saw it happen. I’ve watched the replay over and over, and it touches my heart each time.
I hate that bastard.
I will leave you know with a quote from a friend of mine:
When it is played the way it is supposed to be played, basketball happens in the air, flying, floating, elevated above the floor, levitating the way oppressed people of this earth imagine themselves in their dreams. – Ashley Keim
(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!)
Some of you are new here. You may not have any idea what a Memoir Monday is. First of all, I want to welcome you to my little slice of the internets. It’s not much, but with 89 followers now, it’s proof that I am a hero.
I’m also very very sick. I have been all weekend. I apologize for not being around to leave my little doses of smart assiness on your blog posts, but I think I am dying. It’s ridiculous.
So those are my excuses. On with the memoirs!
I have worked a lot of jobs.
I’ve been a cart pusher, an electronics guy, a cashier, a shoe salesman, a jailer, a sub/lackey, a cell phone guy, a vacuum salesman, and a delivery driver for a carpet supply place, just to name a few.
The following story is what can happen when you underestimate the strength of good old fashioned plywood. You know the stuff. You’ve probably had something made out of it before, and it broke, and you got wicked pissed and swore you’d never buy/use it again.
It almost killed me.
I was driving to our head offices in OKC from Tulsa. I was driving a delivery truck that looked almost exactly like this:
In case you’ve never driven one of these, let me give you some details about them.
1. The cab weighs however much you weigh, plus 8 pounds.
2. If you don’t stack weight in the back properly, you can essentially hit a good bump and ride a wheelie for 2 or 3 miles before you either go over backwards, or put the front tires down right again.
3. They have a governor that kicks in at 80 MPH.
4. The get up and go on these vehicles is comparable to a turtle that has just had an all he can eat lettuce and carrot buffet.
5. Plywood can totally kick its ass.
I was tooling along on I-35 at about 70 MPH when I noticed someone pulling into my lane. They had a trailer on the back of their truck, and a sticker on the back windshield that said something about Jesus and Mary in the Espanol. Yeah. Mexicans.
I am not a racist person. But it has always been my opinion that if you cannot read the road signs, or the instructions on a box of tie downs, you should not be allowed to pull a trailer full of construction materials on a crowded interstate. That’s just me though. I don’t know about y’all.
I-35 is a 3 lane road.
They pulled into my lane, and I notice something in the back of the trailer flopping around. I paid little attention. I should have paid much.
As I was talking on the phone with The Missus, a piece of plywood comes shooting out of the back of the trailer, and flies about 35 feet up in the air. It went out of my range of viewing, that’s how high. I had to lean forward to get a look at it, just hanging up in the air.
I looked in my left mirror. I looked in my right. Cars in both lanes.
I had to make a decision. I could cut into either lane, cause a wreck, and maybe cost someone their life; or I could take one for the team.
I took one for the team. And geez…it was a doozy.
I had time to brake a little bit, but I still hit this thing going about 65 MPH.
If it had hit me flat, it might not have even been that big of a deal. But no.
It hit me corner on, right through the windshield. The point came about 3 inches from my eye, and I was immediately sprayed with safety glass. It cut up my arms, and it would have probably gotten my eyes too if I hadn’t been wearing sunglasses.
My phone flew out of my hand, or maybe I threw it. Maybe I shouldn’t have been talking on it. All I know is, The Missus was pretty much halfway to OKC in the 35 seconds that all this took place.
It’s a 150 mile trip.
Have I mentioned before that I love my wife?
I don’t know how I managed to make it to the side of the road without killing someone else, but I did.
It was pretty much the worst time that I’ve ever had in a delivery truck. The wood hit it so hard that it actually TWISTED the frame of the truck. They had to total it.
So the next time you think, “Damn plywood, it’s not worth anything.” Remember this.
Chapas de madera va a destruir su camión.
Or, in English, “Plywood will destroy your truck.”
Oh yeah. Did they stop to see if I was okay, or did they just drive on like they hadn’t noticed a 6×10 piece of wood chips glued together fly out of their trailer and almost kill a man?
I’ll let you guess.
For those of you that are new, welcome to Memoir Monday.
Other “Plywood Free” walks down the Memory I-35 today: (Go Read Them!)
Daffy’s Memoir Monday – That’s Smart.
AG’s Memoir Monday – The Light Is On.
Ed’s Memoir Monday – My Sweet New Shorts.
Yeah, Kid Funk was supposed to be all over this, but his computer broke. HOW his computer broke is quite lame, but also quite hilarious, and I’ll let him tell you about it if he so chooses. Suffice it to say, HD antennas are stupid.
So anyway, I’m sitting here wondering what I can post about. I’ve been trying to work on that novel, and I’m about 6500 words into it. So far, it’s longer than anything I’ve ever written, which technically makes it a novel already. Who needs 50k words?
I have a short Conversation with Kid Funk though, and I think you might like it. For those of you who are new here, and who may or may not have time to read all these archives, Kid Funk is my bestie. We’re together in all kinds of weather, and we’re not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. (Ed. What is that? Is that a soapbox? I swear to all that is holy and pure I will leave you in the car next time! Put it away!) Anygay…way. Anyway. Anyway, he and I frequently have these incredibly funny conversations. Most of the time funny to us. Sometimes they are funny to others. I guess that’s up to you. Here goes:
KF: I told him yesterday that I might do something Friday, and he said, “Cool, what are you doing tonight?” I say, “Nothing, I have a meeting.” He says, “What about after that?” I say, “Nothing.” He says, “So you want to kick it?” I said, “Nope, I’m tired, worked a 10 hour today.” He says, “You don’t have to open.” It’s like he’s trying to have sex with me or something.
Me: I’d watch out.
KF: He bribed me up with dinner last night. But on the real, he asked for your number and I gave it to him.
Me: What in the world would make him think I would ever want to do anything with him? And yeah, I’ve got his number from back when he was cool for those 2 Sundays.
KF: Oh I don’t know why he wants it. That was the first text I got from him this morning. “What’s Travis’ number?”
KF: Yep. BFF4E&2
Me: You know how I know you’re gay?
KF: Because I’m trying to get the guy that wants to do it with me to do it with you instead?
Me: Because you typed BFF4E&E, and probably knew what it meant.
KF: Hey, I typed BFF4E&2. One, I got it wrong, twice. Two, you understood it and it was wrong. It’s best friend for ever and ever.
Me: Are we gonna have sex or what?
KF: You wanna know how I know you’re gay?
So yeah, just a brief little peek into our world of chatting. Speaking of, I’ve started chatting with a few of you on various messengers, and it’s quite fun. If any of you have a BlackBerry with a data plan, or have a GChat handle, be sure to look me up. You can ask anyone, I’m always pretty quick to reply. Ed and Adrienzgirl both have had some times where I didn’t reply right away and it almost caused some problems, but it’s all good.
Which brings me to another tangent. YOU CANNOT OFFEND ME. In all seriousness, folks, I am just about unoffendable. Hell yes I just made that word up. And hell yes, you can use it. But yeah, if you say something to me that you think is funny but might hit me below my profusely sagging belt, and I don’t reply to you right away, I’m either asleep or busy. Never just real busy. But busy. I don’t want anyone to worry about me getting mad and throwing a hissy fit because you said most fat people are ugly and can’t read good. I really would prefer it if you didn’t make fun of Jesus so much, because, well, my hypocrisy can extend only so far. But yeah.
Also, what’s up with kids having bad family lives? I’d like to seriously address that for a moment. I work at a school, and I see some things. Some of the things I see are frickin funny, and some of them make me want to find a parent, no matter where they are, and shake them until their brains leak out of their freaking nose. Do they realize the problems that they are giving their kids? No, I don’t think they do, because they’re more worried about what channel Springer got moved to, and whether or not adding a half cup more Draino will produce a cut of meth that’s worth a little more. These kinds of parents make me sick. Why the hell do my wife and I try for 5 years to have a kid, and we can’t, but Donna and Earl Crackpipe up the road can have 43 at a time to send to child services? Pisses me smooth the hell off.
Can you tell I’m just typing stuff that comes to mind? Hell, you’re probably almost through with you lunch break, and you’ve got other blogs to read. That’s my bad. I guess I can let you all go now. This is the kind of thing that happens when I’ve got my mind in about a billion and a half places, my phone is going off, The Missus is asking me if we can please start watching The Office yet, and I’ve left my GD flash drive that has my novel on it at the school stuck in a laptop that anyone can get a hold of and write 2 chapters with nothing but the word “The” in it.
I should probably quit this. It’s Thursday night, not even Friday. You know what? I’m gonna commit the bloggers biggest comment killing mistake. I think I’m just gonna post this now, and give you guys a better blog tomorrow. Something you deserve. I’m not even gonna change the title. This is it, just going up like this. I’m not even gonna finish i….