I cannot be bought.
Brilliant observation, voiced aloud by me today after a few days of rumination that lead to an instant of uncommon clarity: The reason dogs look awkward in little tennis sweaters is because they clearly prefer racquetball.
Good day, good night, and thank you for the celery. (This is my new closing line, a la the tradition of evening news anchors. Not, of course, that I ever had a closing line, which would then be considered the “old” one.)
Tomorrow is another banana, so make it a good one. (This is the one I will be calling “new” in the future.)
Toodles. (This will never be it. This is just me saying “Later”, but not knowing how to get out of this set-up now that I started it. So yes, Jane, get me off this crazy thing.)
And this was supposed to be less depressing? Telling me that everything I love in life is WRONG, WRONG, WRONG?!?
I suppose I still love the idea of a mentally unstable person shakily threatening my neck with very sharp objects, so I guess I won’t resent you too much, Jodes. I just wish the mentally unstable person wasn’t that other bitch residing in my head.
I would have to agree.
I prefer my ladies sans beard. But if their beards are nicely trimmed, I don’t care if they wear Santa’s hat. If they aren’t trimmed, they can still wear Santa’s hat, I’ll just turn off the lights.
But I do believe in Santa! He’s there in the mall year after year! And, like clockwork, he always comes on Christmas Eve…
…deep inside me while I wear the sheep costume from the nativity scene: Putting his hat on my Furry head, shouting what a good little “ho, ho, ho” I am. He likes the way I bleat off.
And Santa doesn’t like facial hair, or any hair for that matter. He likes me shorn and smooth just like I used to be 30 years ago when I was still a boy and he was still my music teacher.