She's standing in front of the living room liquour cabinet, with the haunted village on top. It lights up, makes noise, and creatures move! It's terrifying!
ÜberYounger, on the attack!
She ate the cat for breakfast.
My dining room sideboard, decorated for the Halloween feast:
ÜberElder's photos to follow; she comes home to change at lunchtime. Also, I'll take photos of the outside decorations. You will be shocked and amazed! Okay, probably not.
Everyone has his or her favorite candy to receive on Halloween, and everyone has his or her detestable "treat" to receive.
Solid arguments could be made for hating those orange and black wrapped peanut butter kisses; they are difficult to unwrap, dangerous to eat, and the reward not worth the effort. But they look festive.
People also complain about the "healthy" treats -- the raisins, apples and toothbrushes. But I LIKE raisins and apples, and the toothbrushes are useful.
My entry, licorice snaps, are pure evil. I don't know if you can even buy them in earthly stores anymore. I think you need to order them from Satan himself. I believe, although I cannot prove, that they are candy-coated demon turds.
They, and Southern Comfort, are the only two substances on earth that the mere thought of them make my stomach churn in distress. Burn in hell, Snaps, BURN IN HELL!
You are 55 %monstrous and are filled with 70 %Evil!
You're not like your poof of a western cousin. You don't go for the effeminate seductive crap. You are a monster and DAMN proud of it. You are as hideous on the outside as you are on the inside. Where your prettier cousins want to plot and sit in their castle wruiting horrible poetry and mincing around, you are direct. You want blood. You want death. And you want it now. Some might call you mindless or animalistic. You prefer "Driven" or "single-minded." You may be ugly, but in the end, you're far more powerful than the vampires of Le Fanu, Rice, Stoker, and the other Victorian vamps.
My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
Because of you... other parents' cars were spilled out onto 59th Street when you did not pull all the way to the end of drop-off at preschool today. Your vehicle already takes up more space than to which it should be entitled; the least you can do is pull up, per YMCA rules, to make room for your fellow human beings. Yes, we DO exist.
Because of you... everyone behind you was late when you chose to yak with the teacher for four full minutes on everyone else's time, instead of calling the teacher with your questions and concerns at another (your) time. I realize your child's preschool education is more important than the other children's, because, as the fruit of your perfect loins, she is, herself, exceptional. But please, allow our putrid waifs an opportunity to huddle in the shadows cast by your daughter's magnificent light.
Because of you... not handing your daughter her backpack during the aforementioned four-minute gabfest, causing another delay as you rummaged around in the vast front passenger seat area of your gas-guzzling environmental hazard, I wanted to hurl a javelin through your back window, piercing your skull.
Because of you... and your daughter exchanging "I love you" in sign language as she stood on the sidewalk (yes, some of us peasants are able to pick up some things normally reserved for you royals), instead of you pulling away and letting other people disembark and get into the school, my brain nearly exploded. I was so impressed to see this exchange, I almost forgot that you were now wasting a FULL SIX FUCKING MINUTES on your self-centered nonsense, you selfish, vapid sea cow!
Because of you... I needed to rush home to vent off my hostility before a harmed an innocent bystander with my misplaced rage.
I hope you have a nice day. I'm sure you will. No matter how many other people you inconvenience along the way.
Bad Music Thursday: Monkey's Embarrassing Cousin Lip Synchs to Ethel Merman Disco
We all have embarrassing relatives, and Monkey has one named Pickles. He was so named due to his tendency to become "pickled." Here he is, too drunk to stand on his own, lip synching to Ethel Merman's disco hits.
(Updated)Wear Whatever You Damn Well Feel Like. I Don't Care Today.
Actually, that's not entirely true. Originally, I had intended to showcase some hilarious costumes in this post, but I found none.
I did find a Fart-O-Meter costume, a variety of sperm costumes, and a "Free Mammogram" booth costume, a condom and a condom dispenser. I found a giant vagina and a giant penis. I don't know how old the people are who would double over in laughter at the sight of these costumes, but I know they'd go over well at my nephew's junior high, at least until the principal sent them home.
I also found a plethora of "fat suit" costumes -- fat stripper, fat Hooter's girl, fat Hula dancer, fat mother-in-law, fat granny looking for her lost puppy. He he. Fat chicks are funny. And no one lets me wear my "No Fat Chicks" t-shirt anymore, so what's a guy to do?
There were far fewer "fat guy" costumes. Sumo wrestler, of course. Fat Elvis. Fat blue collar workers like plumber and tow truck guy and trailer park owner. Ha ha. Obesity. They have high cholesterol. That's hilarious.
I wasn't expecting high-brow humor from the costume merchants. I was just expecting low-brow humor that actually made me laugh.
He he. Doody. Doody doody doody doody doody. He he. Poop.
Newsday Tuesday: EXTRA!!EXTRA!!Read all about it! BREAD CAUSES CANCER!!
Last Friday, after watching Numb3rs, Dilf and I were assaulted with this blaring announcement: "Coming up next on Channel 2 News: Bread Causes Cancer. Stay tuned for details."
I didn't stay tuned because the whole thing is stupid. It reminded me of my dad's old joke, "99.8 percent of heroin users started out drinking milk. Drinking milk leads to heroin abuse!"
Bread is a cultural universal, in one form or another. Grains are ground, made into meal, mixed with some sort of binder, formed into a shape and baked throughout the world. Hippies used it to symbolize money for life's necessities, and it has been called "The Staff of Life." Jesus even used it as "a word that describes all those physical, human and spiritual gifts we need to live" in The Lord's Prayer.
Of course cancer can be "linked" to bread consumption; everyone eats it. Corn, barley, rye, wheat, rice ... whatever.
More stunning to me is the following:
"The findings show renal cell carcinoma patients were more likely than those without kidney cancer to have the highest intake of bread, and, to a lesser extent, pasta and rice. People without renal cell carcinoma were more likely to eat the greatest amount of vegetables, poultry, and processed meats."
Processed meats? Salami wards off cancer, people! THAT should've been the headline; THAT'S news!
The last paragraph of the story contains the one grain (get it? grain? hee hee) of truth in the whole story:
"However, the study doesn't prove any particular dietary pattern causes or prevents renal cell carcinoma.
Doctors are often unable to explain exactly why one person gets cancer and another doesn't. The researchers speculate that "a diet rich in refined cereals and poor in vegetables may have an unfavorable role on RCC [renal cell carcinoma]." (emphasis mine)
That was the lead story that night. A vague, inconclusive story about food. Thanks, CBS News. You're a peach. Peaches cause cancer, right?
In other news, Dilf found an interesting story. We're 53! We're 53! USA! USA!
I Have a Solution to the North Korea Nuclear Tensions
I have a way to diffuse the current nuclear crisis with North Korea with minimal cost to U.S. taxpayers, while allowing midget madman Kim Jong II to save face.
Tell him we'll let him poke our "national giant", Todd, with a stick in exchange for giving up his nukes. He can broadcast it on North Korean TV if he wants. True, he'll need a ladder, but I'm sure they could use camera angles to obscure that fact.
Todd says he will charge between 1 and 10 million dollars to allow Kim Jong II to poke him with a stick. I think that's actually a bargain, don't you?
My Chicago Tribune broke with tradition and actually informed me last week: Diwali was coming up and the local temples were gearing up to celebrate.
I was so excited for them as I read about their fireworks and their sweet cakes and their communal dinners -- it sounded like fun! It warmed my heart to think of the families celebrating, and the people coming together, and that's when it hit me: that's why I get mad at people hatin' on Christmas.
I don't think everyone should have to be a Christian. I don't think non-Christians go to hell (unless they so choose.) But when someone gets offended by Christmas and wants to squelch its public celebration -- well, I find it petty and mean-spirited.
Just as I don't believe in the Hindu gods, yet rejoice in my neighbor's happiness and awesome-sounding party, I think non-Christians can do the same. Why not? Because George Bush dupes Evangelical Christians into supporting his cause? Because Pat Robertson's a jerk? What does that have to do with the millions of people around the world having a good time? Don't you like the twinkly lights and music?
I'm all for a party, whether I'm invited or not. And, incidentally, if someone wants to invite me over for Seder or Ramadan or Diwali, I'll be happy to come. I'll be respectful and polite and bring the appropriate beverage and/or dessert.
Halloween is nine days away and I can't believe we don't have our pumpkins yet. We've got to do it today; Dilf is gone again next week, Monday through Thursday. This is serious, people. I can't do it without Dilf because I need his brawny shoulders to hoist the largest pumpkins we can find. The very largest. This is important, people.
Anyways, we've already kicked off our celebrations on Friday. If you are ÜberElder's teacher and you are reading this, Elder was home with a cold that day and I stayed by her bedside the whole time mopping her fevered brow.
If you are anyone else reading this, we took the train downtown and went to Pumpkin Plaza to see Midnight Circus, then we went to Navy Fear. Elder announced, "This is the best day of my life. Until I get married."
Yesterday evening we discovered a phenomenon that thrilled me to no end. Apparently there's a society of regular Joes who turn their personal homes into haunted houses for the season and open them to the public. For free. Well, they have donation boxes up... anyways, there was one of these things near Grandma and Grandpa's house, so our entire clan went to see it. We shall have to visit more of them; you can find listings here. There's at least one in Carol Stream, SYSM!
Our celebratory pace will only quicken as the big day draws near. We have several parties to attend, and I am Elder's room mom for her party. I'm so happy I could cry pumpkin seeds.
Can Everybody Hear Me? You, in the Back... Yes? Okay.
I'm glad I have your attention, because what I have to say is important.
From now on, I will continue to perform the following communal tasks:
Laundry Cooking (includes meal planning) Loading and unloading the dishwasher Cleaning the toilet; wiping down counters Paying bills
Übers Elder and Younger, you will perform the following communal tasks: Dusting Swiffering Setting the table for dinner
Dilf, you will perform the following communal tasks: Garbage Managing the yardwork (we will pitch in, but you organize) Earning income
Otherwise, everyone is to pick up after his or herself. Everyone will transport his or her dishes to the sink or dishwasher. Personal papers are now YOUR responsibility. Your messes are now YOUR responsibility. If visitors come over and see a mess, YOU will answer why.
If I get upset at the level of mess, I will throw things away. If the items were that important to you, you would've safeguarded them by putting them away.
Second, stream of consciousness writing -- no edits, no looking back, just 10 minutes of typing and hitting the "publish post" button. Begin:
Why has ÜberYounger taken to a largely all-cheese diet? And it's Kraft Singles. No other will do. She did have a piece of turkey, lined with mayo and rolled up for lunch. But cereal is barely touched every morning. Dinner is mostly an opportunity to try out her newest comedy routines. What will this do to her system? I know -- nothing. For now.
Also, I like order. Why doesn't anyone else? Dilf likes order, but he kind of expects it to be created for him. Chaos is around the corner at all moments. Is it storage? Is it the layout of my basement? Whatever it is, I am agitated every time I go down the stairs. And the laundry room is one bottomless pit of wasted space. Unfinished, spider webs, an old unused water softener from the hillbillies.
And, the wood floor beneath the upstairs bathroom is rotting away. The ceiling in the downstairs bathroom (beneath the upstairs one, of course) is trashed. Will I get a new bathroom? What will happen? My brother-in-law the carpenter is coming over tomorrow evening to render his verdict.
I want to take a leaf-blower and simplify my life. Just blow everything out the window. I want to just throw everything away. I want freedom.
My grandma and Auntie Julie used to have simple lives. They didn't have much stuff. They didn't drive cars. They took public transportation everywhere, and that was their entertainment. They'd get on the bus to go to the el to walk around downtown Chicago. All the time. They were always walking, going places. They didn't have to load up the back of an SUV with crates of food and supplies from Costco or Sam's Club. I remember Auntie Julie buying her daily piece of fruit from a street fruit vendor.
Keep voting. Early and often. Preliminary results tomorrow.
I have been pondering how to describe my political leanings, since everything seems topsy-turvy these days. I have decided, today at least, to dub myself an "anti-elitist." I'm starting my own political party of one.
I support the needs and desires of the everyday joes and janes. The people who pay their own bills. Who mow their own lawns, if they're lucky enough to have one. Who pay taxes. Who don't cheat the system, from either end.
I have to start my own party, because Republicans don't stand for the common man. That party is run by people like this:
They sit around in leather chairs in private clubs, smoking cigars and deciding how to divvy up our nation's assets among themselves. Fighting wars and paying taxes are for "the little people." They just reap the benefits. Whenever the filthy masses creep uncomfortably close to joining their monied enclave, they start a recession, and make things like education and health care cost-prohibitive. Also, they are sexual deviants who use their power to coerce impressionable youth for their own personal pleasures.
On the other hand, I can't be a Democrat, because they are led by people like this:
They stand around at wine and cheese parties, discussing how much they hate America and Christians. They want to drain any extra money earned by hard-working families to fund social programs that thwart the progress and ambition of the poor. Ethics and morality are all relative to them; they care more about the rights of a serial killer than those of decent working folks. Also, they are sexual deviants who use their prestige to coerce impressionable youth for their own personal pleasures.
So there you have it. You can side with sexual deviants, or you can side with me. The choice is yours.
Also
The FDA wants to approve the sale of cloned animal flesh and milk. I oppose this; ever time we screw around with nature we screw it up. If you agree with me, you can contact the agency here. If not, good luck not mutating.
I'm thinking I'll hit a thousand sometime this week.
That's a lot, isn't it?
Maybe I should plan a special celebration. If anyone is so bored as to peruse my archives, please let me know if you have a favorite post. Either e-mail me or leave a comment on this entry to let me know. I'll re-publish the winner, if there is one.
Or, maybe I'll get up to 999 and quit blogging altogether.
Flash Fiction Friday: What's the Matter with Kids These Days?
“Is this blood? Did you get blood on my new satin coffin lining? You’re in big trouble, mister!” she bellowed, tapping her toe impatiently and glaring at her son, hands on hips.
He shrugged noncommittally and continued playing his Xbox 360.
“You know you’re not supposed to eat in the crypt! What’s that in the corner?” She narrowed her eyes and stared past his oily black scalp. “How many times have I told you to dump your corpses OUTSIDE when you’re done with them? Listen to me when I’m talking to you!” She slapped the controller out of her son’s hands and stood in front of him.
“Would you chill out, mom? I was going to do it later,” he mumbled sullenly.
“Later? LATER?“ she shrilled. “It’s nearly sunrise, you have school tomorrow and you haven’t even STARTED your homework. Do you think you’re going to live with your father and me forever? Do you think we’re going to keep bringing you fresh kills when you’re grown? You’ve got another think coming, young man! Don’t you walk away from me!”
She followed him through the underground tunnel up to the mausoleum. “How do you think you’re going to feed yourself if you don’t learn to shapeshift into a bat? Do you suppose people will throw themselves in your path, offer you their jugulars and wait to be drained?”
He rolled his sickly red eyes at her, then slammed the massive stone door in her face. “You just wait until your father gets home!”
She received no response from inside the mausoleum, but she heard his coffin door creak shut.
“You’re not going out Friday night until you pick up all of those empty bodies and bury them in Potter’s Field. Do you hear me?” She shrieked.
“That boy is driving me crazy,” she muttered to herself. “Sometimes I could just stake him through the heart.”
Try Flash Fiction! It tastes good -- and it's good FOR you, too!
Freak Friday's Freak of the Week: Miracle Mike the Headless Chicken
Dilf and I were watching "The Office" tonight, and the topic of decapitation came up. Specifically, life after decapitation. I brought up Miracle Mike, the Headless Chicken.
Dilf scoffed at me! At ME!
Well, feast your eyes on this, Scoffy McScofferpants!
"In the 18 MONTHS that Mike lived as "The Headless Wonder Chicken" he grew from a mere 2 1/2 lbs. to nearly 8 lbs. In a Gayle Meyer interview Olsen said Mike was a "robust chicken - a fine specimen of a chicken except for not having a head." Some longtime Fruita residents, gathered at the Monument Cafe for coffee, also remember Mike - "he was a big fat chicken who didn't know he didn't have a head" - "he seemed as happy as any other chicken." Mike's excellent state of health made it difficult for animal-rights activists to garner much of a following. Even now the town of Fruita celebrates Mike's impressive will to live, not the nature of his handicap. Miracle Mike took on a manager, and with the Olsens in tow, set out on a national tour. Curious sideshow patrons in New York , Atlantic City , Los Angeles , and San Diego lined up to pay 25 cents to see Mike. The "Wonder Chicken" was valued at $10,000.00 and insured for the same. His fame and fortune would earn him recognition in Life and Time Magazines. It goes without saying there was a Guinness World Record in all this. While returning from one of these road trips the Olsens stopped at a motel in the Arizona desert. In the middle of the night Mike began to choke. Unable to find the eyedropper used to clear Mike's open esophagus Miracle Mike passed on.
I demand an apology from Dilf, preferably in the form of a foot massage. I'm waiting.
Bad Music Thursday: Dilf's Vote for Worst Song Ever
When Dilf and I went on our honeymoon, it seemed all of Europe was agog over this song. The radio stations played it non-stop. We dubbed it "techno-Polka" and laughed about it.
At first.
Then, we grew uneasy. Why was it being played everywhere we went? Were there secret messages being transmitted into our brains? Were they trying to drive us insane? Get us to renounce our U.S. citizenship to help strengthen the Euro, then in its infancy? Why? The question torments us still to this day.
Then, when Dilf returned to work and his sadistic co-workers heard about it, they tortured the poor man with the song. Over and over and over...
And then Six Flags adopted it as its theme song. Dilf still curls into the fetal position whenever he hears the opening strains...
Don't Wear Wednesday: Sexy Costumes of Non-Sexy Professions
We see them every Halloween: the naughty nurse, the French maid, the sexy cop, the schoolgirl. Hookers, of course. Hot librarians, waitresses, beer wenches -- I understand all of those. I roll my eyes at their tired clichés, but I understand them.
But this year a new crop of sexy costumes has arisen. While I cringe at the erotic versions of Raggedy Ann, Holly Hobbie, and (egads!) Care Bears, today I'd like to address the issue of the unmistakably non-erotic being transformed into the ludicrously erotic. I know costumes are meant to be fantasy, but these stretch the realm of possibility to ridiculous extremes. Observe:
fast food worker
computer geek
taxicab driver
Judge Judy. Yes, you read that correctly.
Even my chosen profession is not immune:
In case you're wondering, her spatula says "My husband's not home."
I'm waiting for next year's scantily-clad truck driver, ditch digger and lunch lady costumes. I've always thought hair nets were sexy.
Newsday NEWSDAY NEWSDAY: Towel Boy Exceeds Expectations; Remains Clothed Throughout Entire Ceremony
The wedding was predictably and reliably beautiful. Towel Boy wed the lovely and delightful ... she needs a nickname. Crock Pot Girl? Towel GIRL? Princess Pretty Toes? We'll have to work on that one. Anyway, he got hitched without a hitch.
The wedding day itself was long and arduous and fraught with suspenseful moments. Most notably for me personally, the dress I had purchased from Ann Taylor online for the event had a zipper that just WOULD NOT lie straight. There was an Ann Taylor nearby to help with my dilemma, but the mall did not open until 11 a.m. since it was Sunday.
I had to be at the church by 1 p.m. in all my wedding glory. It was crunch time, people. It turns out Ann Taylor herself couldn't have helped me; there was a material defect in the dress. I had to return it and find a new one. I had to be en route to the church by 12:30, and since we were transporting the groom, there was no margin of error. I ran into Macy's and prayed. My faith paid off in the form of a gorgeous black floor-length dress (on SALE!) and I was out the door by 11:50. In a half hour, I showered, make-upped and hair-doed. God and I are awesome when we work together.
We pick up the groom and arrive at the church in plenty of time to sit around and wait while picture after picture after picture were taken. Dilf helped entertain the little ones by reading books before the ceremony:
Then the tear-jerkingly beautiful ceremony, where I brought down the house with my reading from Corinthians,
and onto the reception. After more pictu....zzzz.
Neither Dilf nor I felt like drinking. I had a gin and tonic, and instead of inducing euphoria, it made me sleepy. Dilf stopped because he was trying and trying to achieve a buzz and nothing was working. This turned out to be a very big blessing in disguise, because after our frenzied dancing, we all went...
bowling.
In our full wedding regalia. Dilf and I were able to be designated drivers, me with the bride and groom in our car, Dilf in a Chevy Suburban full of drunken Minnesotans.
See how lovely I look in my bowling shoes? I was trying to show you but Towel Boy was slobbering drunkenly on me and grossed me out.
It was insanely fun. ÜberYounger fell madly in love with her escort:
to the point that she sobbed miserably when the photographer had him kiss the bride on the cheek for a photo op. ÜberElder is more choosy.
She liked her guy well enough, but he's no Jimmy Neutron.
NOTE: This was the original picture, titled "What's Happening Here?", which prompted the first six comments:
Of course, Mr. Robertson's claim to being a forgiving sort could soften the effect of his big flaming finger of blame... if you forget his chuckle about a potential Clinton assassination back in 1998 -- due to Clinton's "philandering."
Apparently, Towel Boy doesn't know when I'm kidding. He's getting married this weekend. Of course I was joking! The nail gun is just a gag! Really. Trust me. He he.
This means a tux for Dilf, two more adorable flower girl dresses for ÜberGirls and a swanky new outfit for me (my shoes have cha-cha heels! How fun is that?) I also get to read from the Bible during the ceremony in front of a teeming throng of wedding guests. I promise to behave.
I will return with pictures. Since we have a room in the hotel attached to the reception hall and Girlies are staying with relatives that night, they may be drunken and debauched. Especially if they are of Dilf.
Recent news events have depressed me greatly, so I cheered myself up the best way I know how: searching for the vilest, most foul recipe I could find. And I found one, my friends. Oh, yes, I found one.
Put bologna through food chopper; add chili sauce and lemon juice; mix to a smooth paste. Mash live sausage; add pickle celery onion juice Worcestershire sauce and remaining mayonnaise; mix to a smooth paste. Cut crust from bread slice in 3 lengthwise slices. Place one slice on baking sheet and spread with bologna paste; top with second slice of bread; spread with liver sausage paste. Top with remaining slice of bread. Spread entire loaf with butter. Arrange alternate slices of sausage/bologna on top. Bake in moderate oven (350~) 30 mins. Garnish with tomatoes and stuffed olives.
I often wonder why so many truly atrocious songs have "magic" as a thematic element. Consider the following: Magic by Olivia Newton John You Can Do Magic by America Magic by Pilot
Yet even among all of these abominations, Steve Miller's Abracadabra stands out.
So many bad lyrics. A horrifyingly repetitive tune. Steve Miller singing "black panties with an angel's face" creeps me out.
Yes, I feel this song truly qualifies as bad music.
If you are not my sister Double Post, you are probably asking, "What in the world are 'Salmon Pants?'"
To that I would reply, "They're a variation on Uncle Ray pants!"
To which you'd answer, "Huh? Off your meds again, I see."
But of course I have an explanation, much longer than the subject warrants, I assure you. Uncle Ray pants are basically Grandpa Pants but because we didn't have a grandpa, we had to substitute Uncle Ray as the oldest rotund male relative in our family, see?
Now that we've cleared that up, what on earth is the salmon pants variation? I will tell you! Double Post's in-laws own a house in swanky Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where Chicago's wealthy have always "summered." We were sitting on a bench near "the club" (the same club where Dilf learned his patented "leg guitar to AC/DC's Shook Me All Night Long" dance move, but that's another story) when we saw a man walk by. We were playing one of our people-watching games, where we judge passers-by by whether or not they look like we'd face a dire emergency with them -- like, end of the world kinda stuff. Anyways. Double Post saw this guy walk by and she said, "No way am I getting stuck with Salmon Pants!"
See, he was wearing salmon-colored golf pants, with a white braided leather belt anchoring them up midway between his navel and his clavicle. He was probably in his late 40's, nowhere NEAR old enough to be wearing Uncle Ray pants. Thus, the Salmon Pants variation was born. Now we use it all the time. "Do these look like Salmon Pants?" "I don't care if these are Salmon Pants; they're comfortable." "Take those off! They're Salmon Pants!"
I had a hard time finding a suitable example of Salmon Pants to illustrate my point; apparently most people don't like to be photographed in their Salmon Pants. However, the sadistic bastards have no problem abusing their children thusly:
We all have things we irrationally hate. I will compile at least a partial list of things that I don't like, that other people seem to enjoy. Don't take offense if you disagree with my choices; I can't defend my dislike of these things. They are what they are.
In no particular order, I hate the following things:
Will & Grace Nutmeg The English Patient Maya Angelou Debbie Travis Dean Koontz Sex in the City Louis Vitton purses Rosemary Sweet potatoes Soccer Journey Hair metal Ron Jeremy Dane Cook The entire SNL Cast The entire Mad TV cast Country music Biscuits and gravy Queen (music) Sam Kinison Southwestern Décor Thomas Kinkade Precious Moments Pugs Yorkies Miniature poodles rodents Earl Grey tea Stuffing Jimmy Buffet Titanic Brazilian waxing CSI: Miami David Caruso
Elder announced, "This is the best day of my life. Until I get married."
We all have things we irrationally hate. I will compile at least a partial list of things that I don't like, that other people seem to enjoy. Don't take offense if you disagree with my choices; I can't defend my dislike of these things. They are what they are.
