Many years ago, my father and I would go fishing together. This was never really up my alley, but since it equated to some rare one-on-one time with my dad I was quite happy to participate.
We would drive out to the badlands of middle Tennessee where some pre-stocked fish ponds awaited us with their bounty. Oh, and while I'm thinking of it, I'd like to give a shout out to the poor bastard(s) who opened his or her locker at Franklin High School only to be met with a sunshine yellow bumper sticker reading "I Got Hooked at the Bucksnort Trout Ranch!" Y'all might think it's lame, but there was some serious blood, sweat, and tears that earned the sticker festooning that locker. Respeck!
Anyway, one day during one of these fishing expeditions I suffered a sudden fit of... something. I glanced down at the fish we'd caught. They were laying in the dirt frantically gasping for air. I knelt down and looked at them, eyeball to eyeball. Upon considering the fact that they were laying there slowly dying in front of me, I felt quite guilty. I reached out with my finger and rubbed their cold, twitchy bellies. I wanted them to feel that they were cared for, because in my ten year-old mind that was the best thing I could do for them.
At some point my father must have noticed this, because he asked if I was alright. I looked at him with very wet eyes and a very snotty nose and asked him if the fish were hurting. He tried hard to mask his disgust at the fact that his goofy-ass daughter was so emotionally invested in the feelings of some freaking catfish, then let out a big sigh and sat down, mentally exhausted. Clearly he knew that his little girl was a freak who could not be reasoned with, so he cunningly employed the time-honored parental tactic of interjecting religious dogma where it doesn’t belong, and told me that Jesus used to catch fish so how bad could it be? I reacted as any red-blooded American girl in the South would. I stood up, dried my tears, baited my hook, and proceeded to catch as many of those slimy, smelly bastards as I could. Because I was fishing for Jesus.
Looking back now, I cannot believe that this story has not been made into a very special episode of King of the Hill.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
"Oh, hi baby! I didn't hear you come in. How was your day?"
"No, I haven't been naked all day. Of course the puppies are fine! Baron von Wrinklebumps loves to snuggle, and Sue just kind of lays around, but she's lovable in her own way."
"Why are you looking at me like that? No baby, I'm not drunk again. Why so suspicious? You act like it's unusual for a grown man to lay around naked with dogs. What? Did I learn how to do what in Germany? What do you mean 'Can the dogs still walk right?'"
"Hey baby, howzabout heating up a turkey pot pie for Daddy?!?"
"Why are you throwing shit at my head, baby? Damn."
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Have you ever looked at your footwear and thought, "These shoes are alright, but they sure would be hott if they had some fringe on the heel!" Apparently someone did, only they thought that fringed shoes were still too understated, so they threw some feathers on there too. Exhibit A:
As horrifying as these shoes are, what's even more alarming is that there is at least one person out there who actually owns -- and presumably wears -- them. According to that footwear maverick, not only do these shoes offer excellent arch support, they believe "it is a lady shoe for those who fair for the off beat."
Oh, it's a lady shoe alright. A lady shoe of the evening variety. Because unless your livelihood depends on your ability to attract attention to yourself in order to sell some ass, no one has any right to step out in public with these monstrosities on their feet.
As horrifying as these shoes are, what's even more alarming is that there is at least one person out there who actually owns -- and presumably wears -- them. According to that footwear maverick, not only do these shoes offer excellent arch support, they believe "it is a lady shoe for those who fair for the off beat."
Oh, it's a lady shoe alright. A lady shoe of the evening variety. Because unless your livelihood depends on your ability to attract attention to yourself in order to sell some ass, no one has any right to step out in public with these monstrosities on their feet.
Friday, March 17, 2006
I was on the elevator with a couple young women. Let's call them Chick A and Chick B. (I am usually not fond of women being referred to as "chicks" but in this case I'll make an exception, because if there were ever true chicks, these girls were it.) Anyway, Chick A was regaling Chick B with the story of a recent conversation she had which apparently had become a bit, uh, "spirited." Chick A said, "He got real frustrated and I literally thought he was going to take my head off! I mean, I really did! I thought he was going to literally take my head off!"
Really? Really, Chick A? Because if that's the case, you were talking to some kind of machete-wielding psychopath and you should probably try to limit your interaction with that person in the future. Now maybe it's just me, but if I'm in a situation where my decapitation seems a possible outcome, I'm going to remove myself from said situation toot sweet. But maybe Chick A is just a much braver woman than I. Maybe she knows some sweet kung-fu moves. Or maybe she's a fool who doesn't know what the word "literally" means and as such should shut her piehole lest she aggravate the nice, nice lady on the elevator with her who doesn't want to listen to her stupid ass.
Really? Really, Chick A? Because if that's the case, you were talking to some kind of machete-wielding psychopath and you should probably try to limit your interaction with that person in the future. Now maybe it's just me, but if I'm in a situation where my decapitation seems a possible outcome, I'm going to remove myself from said situation toot sweet. But maybe Chick A is just a much braver woman than I. Maybe she knows some sweet kung-fu moves. Or maybe she's a fool who doesn't know what the word "literally" means and as such should shut her piehole lest she aggravate the nice, nice lady on the elevator with her who doesn't want to listen to her stupid ass.
