I Almost Had a Stroke Today

I am a ridiculous freak for any number of reasons, but one of my more idiotic characteristics is my pathological aversion to certain words. There are many that occupy prominent places on my list of words that I cannot hear without cringing; succulent, nestle, and juicy come to mind. But at the top of the forbidden words list is "fixins," which isn't really a word at all and is just stupid. Unfortunately for me that "word" is essentially unavoidable this time of year. "Turkey with all the fixins," or "I'm bringing the salad, they're bringing the fixins." Oh my god I feel queasy just typing it.

Anyway, another thing that will make me nauseous and generally pissed off is the use of superfluous apostrophes. I freely admit that I'm not perfect when it comes to punctuation. I have a tendency to throw in commas where they don't belong and I often use hyphens or semicolons when I feel something is necessary but I can't figure out what the hell it is. I have been known to split the occasional infinitive, and don't even get me started on dangling participles. Don't get me started because I don't know what the fuck one is. I majored in biochemistry. I spent my time mixing shit up (oooh, split infinitive!) in beakers and cutting up dead animals while other people were conjugating verbs and discussing the finer points of gerund usage. But I did manage to pay enough attention to know what a fucking apostrophe is used for. Not long ago I saw a sign that said "Shoe's for sale" and it was all I could do not to find the person responsible and kick them in the shins.

Today I was sitting in the waiting room at the dentist's office thumbing through a magazine when I saw an article titled "The Best Turkey and Fixin's!" Oh my sweet lord. I sat there muttering to myself, feeling dizzy and doing my best to stave off an apoplectic fit and ensuing stroke.

You non-word-using, apostrophe-loving bastards are going to kill me.

I'm No Sissy, and "Titanic" Was On Television By Accident

Despite all appearances to the contrary, I have not been consumed by a fiery pit of hell due to my salacious and scandalous lifestyle. Yet. My employer foolishly expected to get some work out of me after two weeks off, and the Thanksgiving holiday provided a much-needed break after a few days of backbreaking labor. I should probably note here that I get paid to sit in an office all day and order people around. But don't let that diminish your sympathy for my horrendous plight.

The Mister and I managed to emerge from our cocoon of leftover poultry and casseroles to attend a football game today, where we were able to witness the Tennessee Titans thump Eli Manning like the little bitch he is. The highlight of the experience had to be that we were fortunate enough to sit next to an inebriated gentleman who took great pleasure in proclaiming the opposing team members' proclivity for sissyhood. Throughout the game we were delighted by his cries of "Hey there number 41... You're a SISSY! Don't let the bench bruise your little SISSY ass!" When the defense took the field we were regaled with cries of "Look at the little SISSY boys out there, trying to find a ball to intercept!" After the referree announced a penalty for an ineligible receiver we heard "Ten yards for having an illegal SISSY on the team!!!"

Initially I thought his taunting was rather sophomoric and unoriginal, but by halftime I decided that he was the most hysterical fucker I'd ever had the good fortune to encounter. The skeptics among you may say that was because I was well on the way to inebriation myself, but I will maintain that it just took me half a game to appreciate his genius.

Anyway, I promise to try to do better with this whole posting nonsense. I'm slowly digging my way out from the work, the laundry, and the leftovers. In the meantime, I'll leave you with one of my favorite pictures from our Australia trip, taken in Fitzroy Gardens in Melbourne.

Peace out, bitches!

This Drink's For You, Betting Australian Public

The good people of Australia are breathing a little easier today, as The Mister and I evacuated their country yesterday and left them to their happy, beer-drinking devices. About twenty-four hours after leaving Melbourne we landed in Nashville, tired and cranky, but none the worse for wear. As an added bonus, we didn't leave the great country of Oz any worse off than it was when we arrived, either. Just a little drier.

I took approximately eight frillion pictures, many of which I will be sharing with you lucky bastards in the next few days. Because there's really nothing more thrilling than viewing the vacation photos of a total stranger. I know, I know; you can thank me later.

On a rather exciting note, I am well on my way to making my living as a professional gambler. Shortly after arriving I tried my luck at the slot machines, or "pokeys" as they are known locally, and within ten minutes I had managed to win about $25. Not bad considering the fact that my high-rolling ass was sequestered in the $.02 section and had invested less than twenty cents in the whole endeavor.

A couple days later, The Mister informed me that I had to place a bet on the Melbourne Cup, Australia's equivalent of the Kentucky Derby. I hemmed and hawed, reviewed the racing form, and made my expert pick: Tawqeet. Since I was only betting $2, I decided to live dangerously and place a throwaway bet, too. I saw a horse named Delta Blues and figured I owed it to my homeland to toss some dinero this loser's way. He didn't have a chance at winning, but I was a proud American Southern girl and it was the least I could do. I considered it a form of patriotic charity.

One of my picks won the Melbourne Cup, and if I need to tell you which one it was, you have grossly overestimated my abilities. Somehow I managed to earn money by sitting on my fat ass playing games and picking ponies, all while drinking some nice, healthy cocktails.

Working is for suckers, bitches.