Sleeping.

Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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Actual conversation that I actually had and I’m not even kidding.

“I need more money.”

“I just gave you money yesterday, Mr. Man! Why do you need more?”

“Because that is gone, thus my need for more to replace it.”

“What could you possibly have done with it between yesterday and today?”

“Umm. I lost it.”

“Lost it? You mean like you dropped it somewhere or something?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I don’t want to tell you. You’ll be mad.”

“No I won’t. I promise.”

“Well, you know how hard I work, right? I mean twelve hour shifts of protecting our country against terrorism is hard.”

“Honey, you know how much I appreciate what you do.”

“Well, some nights, it can get so boring…what with no terrorists showing up or anything. It can be tough trying to stay awake, so some of the guys found a way to pass the time.”

“OK.”

“Spider races.”

“Spider races?”

“Yeah. Remember how I told you we have a lot of big spiders at the nuclear power plant? Well, we race them.”

Long silence.

“You expect me to believe you actually race spiders? How is that even possible?”

“Well, you pick one up by his hind legs and set him at the start line with the other spiders and then you watch to see which one will make it to the finish line first.”

Another long silence.

“So I guess my question is this: what in the world does racing spiders have to do with needing more money today?”

“To make it more interesting, we bet on our spiders. Last night, I lost.”

“Let me get this straight. You lost our money by betting on a spider in a spider race? Is that what you are seriously telling me?”

“In my defense, I think he would have won because he was bigger than the others.”

“OK. I’ll bite. Why didn’t he win?”

“He broke his leg. I had to put him down.”

“Had to put him down, huh?”

“Yeah. I squished him.”

“Here’s twenty bucks. Pick a winner next time.”

Wrapping your kids in newspaper at bedtime seems like a good idea... but guess what? That junk's flammable.

Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



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Sometimes I have a hard time saying what I'm really feeling.

Dear Person Who Made Me Cry,

It’s at moments like this one that I hate myself for not going to Voo Doo Tech when I had the chance back in the 80’s. Even though I have never seen your penis, I am reasonably certain that petite though it must be, it could only be enhanced by the presence of some gargantuan genital warts.

Hence my need for some vocational Black Magic skills.

Whether you are in the same room with me, on the phone, or sending me another of your agonizingly tedious emails, you have a way of letting me know that you know how very much I want you.

While it’s true that I can hardly keep myself from throwing you to the ground and making sweet monkey love to you while begging that you regale me with another of your completely unfunny stories you think are worthy of David Letterman, it is only for the sake of my marriage that I somehow resist you.

You with your thinning hair and tall forehead, how could I, or any female for that matter, resist your swarthy charm? The way your shorts rest just underneath your nipples. The way the giant Abercrombie t-shirt you are hoping hides your Santa-like physique doesn’t. Oh to be your lover so that I might while away my days feeding you grapes and vats of gravy.

Although I try to reserve my use of the word hate for the truly wicked of this world, like the brutality of war and Angelina Jolie, I can say without reservation that if you were fully engulfed in a raging fire, no doubt started from the Fry Daddy in which you certainly prepare everything you eat…

and you were begging for the sweet relief only death could bring…

and I had consumed 32 Big Gulps in under an hour…

I would sweetly wave good-bye to you and do the pee-pee dance as I set out walking in search of a dirty service station bathroom.

So I guess what I’m saying is this. I don’t like you. I don’t like anything about you. If my thumb and pointer finger were magical, I would squish your head. You are a mean person and whether your Horned Master explained this to you or not when you sold him your soul for a case of Snickers, mean people burn in Hell for all eternity.

Not my rules. Shoulda read the fine print.

And one more thing, you sorry pig nut licking piece of snake excrement, here’s a little something you would do well to cross stitch and hang above the sofa in your lair. Every time the OCD Chick cries, an angel gets her jollies by removing one more hair off your cone-shaped head and putting it on your humped back.

I’m done crying now.



Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



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You are getting very sleepy.

10 Things I’d Rather Do Than Do What I’m Supposed To Be Doing ‘Cause I’m Lazy Like That

10. Iron Michael Buble’s pants.

9. Write a song about the yummy goodness that is spaghetti utilizing lots of rhyming words like…Serengeti and pigeon-toed Betty.

8. Execute an elaborate gum stealing plan with the evil red-headed Berta Lou and break into the Willie Wonka gum manufacturing plant in Boise where we will chew our weight in Super Big Ass Bubble Gum before we are inevitably caught by the Oompa Loompa’s and held without bond in their tiny little jail where I will have no choice but to force the evil BL to offer them freaky Oompa Loompa sexual favors in return for our freedom.

(Don't feel bad for her. It's not like she hasn't had to do it before.)

7. Convert my fire batons from gas to propane and choreograph a routine as homage to Hank Hill.

6. Figure out ways to make my boobs look bigger without actually having surgery. Perhaps a little duct tape, some carefully applied blush or a small-busted actress who I will pay to stand next to me wherever I go.

5. Teach the dogs to stop being so cliché. There is no reason they have to say, “bark” all the freaking time.

4. Make a rum cake.

3. Convince Mr. Man I’m baking a cake even though I only have one ingredient. (And a straw.)

2. Rewire the house so that every time someone flips a light switch, Angelina Jolie gets an oozing canker sore on them big ole lips of hers. Remember kids, I have OCD and frequently feel like I have to flip lights on and off 21 times. You’re welcome Jennifer.

1. Call some local & national organizations and offer my services as a motivational speaker and hypnotist who specializes in past life regressions and rebirth. Of course, Rain Man was an excellent driver and I’m an excellent motivational speaker and hypnotist. Gotta go now. Wapner in five minutes.


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

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Metamorphosis of the Southern Stepford Blogger

I'm a forty-two year old woman smack dab in the middle of menopause. That means that very often I am a danger to myself and to society.

Today is such a day.

At this very moment, I am filled with both crazy, psychotic rage and an overwhelming need to weep uncontrollably. I feel myself entirely capable of pulling the wings off a butterfly. Of course, afterward I’d feel really bad about it and try to super glue them back on, but let’s face it. That butterfly would forever after fly with a limp.

On low estrogen days like this one, what you don’t want is to give me any reason at all to become more upset than I already am. My son and Mr. Man speak in low tones, they don’t make any sudden movements and they only come within striking distance of me if they first hand me a fudge popsicle and tell me I’m pretty.

However, despite their careful monitoring of my environment today, something has happened which has pushed my hormonal imbalance into a Code Red situation.

I’ll explain.

I have been writing my entire life, but I’ve only been publishing to the web since 2004. I’m not sure why I do it really. It probably has something to do with improper potty training on the part of my Mother or the fact that my Father once gave me a pet duck for Easter and then later whacked its head off with a shovel because it coughed.

Either way, I’m sure it’s my parents’ fault.

Even though I publish my thoughts, feelings and body of lies on the internet where anyone with a computer can read what I have to say, I am always shocked when someone actually does. People who read this blog are super nice to me and often send me super nice emails which make me cocky and full of myself. Lots of them ask me fun, bizarre questions… like how to determine the sex of a gold fish. Whichever the case, it’s obviously the ego boost I need in my sad little life or else I’d stop doing it.

But thanks to a little piece of hidden big-brother technology in the html of my blog, I found out someone in or near my hometown in North Carolina was reading my blog today. I am beside myself with fear, embarrassment and a need to pull the wings off my Mother…who I am sure is at the bottom of this as she is currently vacationing at my brother’s house in the great state of cigarettes and racism.

No doubt she was bragging about her daughter and fired up some relative’s Commodore 64 at a big family function to show them how fabulously talented I am. I can only imagine the awkward silence that fell over the casserole filled room as someone read my words aloud.

“Lions and tigers and bitches and ho’s? Umm, is she talking about a Wizard of Oz garden tool there?”

I’m freaking out, kids. Freaking out to the point of just hitting the nuclear blog button and deleting every word I’ve ever written. The thing is, to even half way appreciate what I write, you really have to be a certain kind of person. There is a very particular demographic who enjoy Wiping the Crazy off My Face and none of that demographic are related to me.

I left the South about ten seconds after I graduated high school and I’ve only been back for short visits since that time. Although I love many things about the South, I never really fit there. I was sort of a pre-op Trans-North Carolinian who after much drama and therapy, changed my name and had that part of me lopped off.

To know that someone who knew me back when is reading all about who I am now is just dang near too much to handle.

When last anyone there knew the OCD Chick, I had big hair, wore a ton of make-up and was going to marry a very unattractive car salesman/preacher who no one knew used to hide drugs in the hubcaps of his yellow Mazda RX-7.

Now I have big hair, wear a ton of make-up and about the only person I haven’t married was the unattractive car salesman/preacher who dealt drugs in between selling used cars and singing in a gospel quartet. I’m a totally different person!

If you come back to this blog tomorrow and all you find is Sher’s recipe for Ritz Crackers & Cheez Whiz Mock Apple Pie Casserole and my list of Top Ten Things I Love about Sweet Tea and Jerry Falwell, you’ll know what happened.


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

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Shhh. I'm talking.

At least several times a day I am asked for my opinion about something. Whether it's how much a house is worth, or what my take is on this whole North Korea fiasco, or how satisfied I am with my current phone service, people want to know what I'm thinking.

Who can blame them? I'm a writer with literally tens of people who read what I write. Is it any wonder my opinion is highly sought after?

Before I go off to do all the things an opinionated person does on a Saturday, I thought I'd freely share some of my opinions and deep thoughts with my new favorite reader ~ Drew.

"Hey Sher, I love your humor and look forward to your next list. Don"t wipe the crazy off your pretty face, its great!--- Drew"

The rest of you can read them, too.

10. Underwood Deviled Ham is good stuff and anyone that thinks otherwise does not love America and should have their civil rights trampled upon under the umbrella of the Patriot Act.

9. The Beta Fish cartel is one of the wealthiest criminal organizations in the world as Beta Fish can live no longer than 3 to 7 hours... just long enough to cause a small child to name them and become emotionally attached to them so that parent's keep buying replacement models.

8. Bill Gates is hot.

7. It's Always Sunny in Philadelpia is the funniest thing on TV right now. The only way it could be better is if they could somehow work Stewie in the gang.

6. Tom Cruise is the anti-christ and Katie Holmes a succubus.

5. I would rather eat a stew made of Mr. Man's old socks and broken glass than to listen to anyone with the last name Simpson, Hilton or Spears do, sing or say anything.

4. Michael Buble is the most perfect voice ever... to include the Chairman of the Board. If you don't agree with me, the same punishment should befall you as those who do not love meat in a can.

3. This question should be on the SAT's: Pie is to cake what Michael Buble is to Ashley Simpson.

2. The domestic monkey market is not nearly what it should be. Everyone should own at least one monkey. Perhaps a public awareness campaign of the benefits of monkey ownership is in order.

1. I should be a multimillionaire writer who frequently hangs out with the Oprah & the Dali Lama, not giving my milk away here for free.

Unattractive? Sure. Great song, anyway? Oh yeah.


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



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Guns N' Roses

Mr. Man, in his infinite wisdom, has determined that I, the OCD Chick, should jump willingly through the proper legal, instuctional and governmental hoops so that I can conceal a firearm somewhere on my person whenever I’m in a weapons concealing kind of mood.

I don’t know your stand on gun control and there’s a good reason for that.

I don’t care.

Why should I care where you stand on guns when I can’t figure out where I stand? Some days I am absolutely for gun control and others (mostly after I watch the news), I ask myself how in the world I could ever be against something even Moses endorses?

But I digress. This post isn’t about debating the pros and cons of gun control. It’s about me… and who I would shoot if I had a Glock tucked between my boobs.

Since the Mister first approached me about his desire to have me tote a gun, my mind has been running wild. Suddenly I feel like a cross between Miss Kitty and the Terminator. Everyone in my path unknowingly sits in my crosshairs and I alone make the decision as to whether they should live or live with a hole somewhere on their person.

I’m drunk with imaginary power.

Although Mr. Man heads back to work tonight, for the past several days he’s been off and we’ve been road tripping here, there and everywhere. That’s given me plenty of opportunity to play my new favorite game.

“Who Would I Go All Bonnie Parker On?”

I would definitely go all Bonnie Parker on a guy we saw tooling around outside a store in his Little Rascal. He weighed… no joke here… right about 600 pounds and was a Pig Pen kind of dirty. It wasn’t his size or lack of cleanliness that made me want to shoot him, however.

He found on the ground a shopping bag which he picked up using what I would guess is his designated “pick stuff up I can’t bend over to pick up” stick. The bag was filled entirely with panties. I know this because he proclaimed it loudly to his much smaller, but equally dirty friend. On and on this guy went about the panties, as he rooted around the plastic bag and held each pair up to examine… as if there were any chance in cross dressing hell he could wear them.

I shot him with my pretend gun right in his panty hand.

I also wanted to go all Bonnie Parker on the check out guy at Barnes & Noble. “Would you like a Snickers bar to take home with you today?”

In the history of retail, that is the single dumbest thing I’ve ever been asked. I thought about telling him I’d love a Snickers bar, but I wanted no part of taking it home with me. Perhaps if I could eat it right there in the check out line, I would be more inclined to purchase one.

Sensing he was about to get shot by a woman with a gun in her bra, he hung his head and said, “They make me say that. I’ve been written up three times because I think it’s stupid and I don’t ask when I’m supposed to.”

That’s when I took him off my Bonnie Parker hit list. In his place now stands the Barnes & Noble marketing executive who is in bed with the Mars people. When I find him, he will suffer a gun blast to his Snickers, but only after I force him to ask me something embarrassing… like whether I would like him to Piourette and cluck like a chicken today.

And finally, there was the hostess at Carrabba's Italian Grill. She was Kelly Rippa perky, which of course put her on my list immediately. But when she seated us and bubbled, “My name is Cindy. Now that I’ve told you mine, I realize I don’t know your names,” I knew she served no useful purpose on the planet and my shoot would be justified.

“We are Egor and Sipsie. Please turn around and put your hands in the air.”

Now that I’m considering becoming a gun slinger, I realize for the first time how many people there are in any given day that need to be shot. That’s probably one of the first questions they’ll ask me on my test actually.

“How many people do you think cross your path each day that might cause you to want to whip out your pistol and shoot them?

I believe the answer is 83. Yeah. At least eighty-three people a day.

I’m gonna ace this test. Sweet.

You were expecting an Guns n' Roses song here weren't you? Sorry... I'm more in a Billy & the Beaters kind of place today. Deal with it. (Or I might shoot you.)


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

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Just beating the deceased equine.

Dear Sher,
I do think you ought to be published. You post often what I tend to hold back. Kudos to you for your fearlessness, freshness, and great wit.

I hit your site at least twice a week and enjoy your offerings.

Dear Kudos,
I agree with you 100%. I'm fearless, fresh and have a wit like no other. Just the other day I was telling Mr. Man how lucky he is to be living with someone who is as fearless, fresh and with such a great wit as me. I also told the cashier at Wal-Mart how lucky she was, the waiter at Tasso's how lucky he was and both the Yorkies have heard about my fearlessness, freshness and great wit.

Kudos back at ya for telling it like it is. You complete me.

Dear Sher,
Having just found your web site and read a lot of it, you definitely get my vote as the next Erma Bombeck. Love your work.

Dear Guy whose real name is Bill,
Thank you so much. That's quite a compliment. It would have been much nicer though to hear you think I'm the next Madonna or Brittney Spears or Orlando Bloom.

Not for nothing, but I noticed you didn't mention how fearless I am. Nothing about my freshness or great wit either. If you want, I will allow you to write a re-do email for extra credit.

Dear Deputy Pretty
I have grapes....lets talk!

Dear Confused,
Sher is spelled S-h-e-r. But thanks for sending me a list of fresh fruit that you personally own. I'm sure that's one of the things Deputy Pretty looks for in a mate.

Know what else is fresh? Me. It has also been said that I am fearless and I have a great wit. Pass it on.

Dear Sher,
You know, back in Topeka they would have given us much better clues.

Dear Guiness Book's tallest cop ever built,
Maybe. But I'll bet they weren't fearless and fresh, nor did they posess a great wit. Not just any wit either. A great wit.

You are so lucky to know me.

Dear Sher,
I just found your website and 'blog' thing, don't ask how I found it cause I have no idea! Anyway, thanks for the laughs, I've been in a sorry state for some time now and I needed to laugh! Keep writing, you have a neat talent and there are a lot of other stay at home, stuck in my house with five small children and not enough chocolate or Coke ( I mean the drink) to get through the day women out here who need a good laugh. Thank you!!!

Dear Mom who drinks Coke through a straw...not her nose,
How'd you find my website & blog thing?

Are any of those kids girls? I have a girl you know. Whenever she and I are sitting around sipping an International Coffee and having a mother-daughter moment and she asks, "Hey Mom, have you ever had that not-so-fresh feeling?", I have to tell her that in fact, I have not.

I'm fresh. It's also been said my wit is great and I am fearless. She is lucky to have me as a Mom.


Does it for me six ways from Sunday.

Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.



Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online