I feel like I am going to eat that pie that is sitting on my desk. I feel like I am going to take that fork and start shoveling pie into my face faster than you can say, "fat ass."

Here's what I am going to do instead of eating a giant pie. I'm going to talk about what's on the front page of People.com. I have no excuse other than I stumbled on their website while literally stumbling. Consequently I have decided that no matter how much I think my life sucks goat balls today, at least I'm not worthy of being talked about on People.


Gary Coleman - Totally sad deal that he passed away, but People felt it wasn't sad enough. Did you know that his wife, Shannon Price, told the 9-1-1 operator that she really couldn't help him? "I've just been kind of sick. I don't want to be traumatized right now." What the hell? I'm gonna do what we're good at in our society and go ahead and find her guilty of some hinky business before I bother with a trial. Lock her up - but give her some echinacea first. We don't want her traumatized until she feels better.


John Travolta and Kelly Preston - He's 56 and she's his 47 year old beard and they're calling her pregnancy a "miracle." As a forty-six year old woman myself, I'm willing to agree with that statement. If my dusty ovaries were to miraculously begin to fire again (with a little help from modern medicine and Scientology money) and I got pregnant by a closeted gay actor who believes he's an alien trapped on planet Earth in a physical body, I would no longer have need of pie. I would kill myself using a rusty spoon and some bailing wire. 


Heidi Montag - She's sad. People has the photo to prove it. I have no idea who the hell she is or why I'm supposed to care. Did she find out she's pregnant with John Travolta's alien spawn, too?

Kim Cattrall - There's a new blunt bob in town, and I don't mean the rude guy at the Safeway. Apparently Kim Cattrall is "sporting" a new, blunt, bob and People is completely shaken up about it. Do we love it or hate it, kids??? People needs to know RIGHT THE HELL NOW! There is a POLL for godsake!


I don't think I feel completely better, but I can find some solace in having seen what's considered highly important at People. Sweet lord. At least I'm if I hit my head and am bleeding out, someone will toss me a towel. At least I'm not pregnant... with alien sperm. And at least my hair is not named after a dim-witted Southern cartoon character.


Praise be and pass the fork. 

Mid-Life Crisis or Gosselin Sperm? You Decide.

I can't effin sleep and I know that mother trucking Jon Gosselin is at the root of it. I'm so sick of him and all his show off sperm.

Actually I was lying here thinking about who I am and who I was and whether or not my eyebrows are level and the next thing you know, I can't sleep and I'm craving a cigarette even though I don't smoke.

So let's see then. I know for sure who I was not - I wasn't the pretty one. My sisters had that pig cornered.


I was the smart one.

The funny one.

The one who threw up moonshine in tenth grade, in a ditch, in the middle of the day, because my sister told me eating 3 Reese's Peanut Butter Cups would cover the smell of the shine so Daddy wouldn't kill me graveyard dead when I got home from school.

Why the good people at Reese's never picked up a tag line like that is beyond me. "Eat Reese's - it'll mask the smell of moonshine AND it's easy to throw up!" I'm saying Nascar fans would up their chocolaty intake post haste.

Yes. For those of you who do math and pay attention and what not, that means I drank moonshine at school. I would say I'm not proud of it, but I'm totally proud of it. Your balls don't come in until you've gotten drunk off something a swollen dead dog likely got scooped off of before it was bottled for your consumption.

Who I was. Hmmm. I was Daddy's moonshine puking daughter who had to pretend I didn't like "elevator music" and books with no pictures.

I was Mark's wife who never smiled even though my hair was perpetually hilarious. See exhibits A & B.


I was the chick that threw the bowling ball backwards almost killing a slow moving bowling alley professional who was no doubt happily on her way to purchase more blue eye shadow and Jovan Musk Oil.

I was the one who couldn't stop laughing at the mentally challenged man in church before anyone had ever heard the phrase "mentally challenged" because he had insanely long fingernails that he used to clean his ears while singing The Old Rugged Cross like his tongue was all tangled up by a gummy worm, which I'm convinced even God found funny.

And believe it or not, I was the last of the sisters to get married but the first to get herself one of them new fangled divorces. I may have started late, but babies, I've damn sure made up for it - thus the many punches in my "Get 9 divorces and the 10th one is FREE" card.

I think I have a good idea of who I was. It's the who I am now that leaves me tilting my head like Tanner the Yorkie when I'm trying to entice him to eat by getting on all fours and pretending the taste of Science Diet Small & Prissy makes me orgasmic.

Not for nothing, but faking a dog food orgasm is not as easy as you might think.

Am I someone's wife? Someone's mother? Someone's partner in crime and hilarity? Am I old? Too old? Happy? Too happy? Smooth? Chunky? Can I be all those things and not wind up in The Matrix with holes drilled in the back of my head and some fake guy with glasses always chasing my ass?

Life is changing, chicken noodles, and so I guess, shall I. I'm morphing.

Oh my god! I'm a fuckin' butterfly! A beautifully happy, Hump Day Hump Huntin', chunky, Jon Gosselin hatin' butterfly.

I hope typing his name three times in the same blog didn't just get me pregnant.





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

I can't. I just can't.

I can't tell the difference between East, West, North & South.

I can't say no to a marriage proposal.

I can't go more than thirty minutes without going potty.

I can't go potty with somebody in the same room.

I can't figure out why I would ever be in a situation where I would need to pee in a room with somebody in it.

I can't stand the sight of blood.

I can't stand up when I see blood because I am too busy passing out.

I can't understand why as much as I madly love monkeys, I do not own one.

I can't get Mr. Man to purchase a monkey for me because he is fixated on the alleged poop throwing associated with monkeys.

I can't stop talking about bathroom habits, mine and monkeys.

I can't remember my wedding anniversary.

I can't hang up the phone with people I love without telling them I love them.

I can't hold a grudge.

I can't hold my liquor.

I can't hold my tongue.

I can't kiss my elbow.

I can't dance if I want to.

I can't believe I still have writer's block.





Copyright © 2004-2007, 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.

Blogroll Me!

Therapists for $100.

I have writer's block. I am blocked like I've never before been blocked and it appears there is nothing I can do but snuggle up with my blockedness and wait for it to pass.

I blame work. I've had to write so many things this past week that I firmly believe I may have actually used all the words I have in stock. There are no more words. At least no funny ones.

It isn't for lack of funny stuff that I can no longer write, that's for sure. Trust me when I tell you a lot of funny crap has happened to me lately and since I am blocked and can't write about it, I guess you really will have to trust me.

One funny thing that happened involved some guy who I thought was going to rape me. See what I mean? That does not sound at all funny when I write it here, and yet it was entirely funny.

He had three or four teeth that were all overlapped into what appeared to be one giant woodchuck tooth. It was yellow. His giant woodchuck tooth, I mean. His hair was slicked to one side with what I assume from the smell wafting off his head was old shortening and he wore a wife beater that was probably once white but the sweat produced from numerous actual wife beatings had turned gray.

This man, this sweaty little man with beady eyes and Velcro tennis shoes, wanted me desperately. I know that sounds like I'm all conceited and everything, but it's true nonetheless. He was giving me the constant "Hey Baby" eye and he tried to woo me with a display of his manliness by putting his foot up on the front bumper of his 1985 Ford four door as we talked.

I was indeed wooed. I think perhaps it was the glimpse of white leg atop his white knee socks that his too short pants uncovered. Yummy.

(Still not funny. Stupid blockage.)

Long story short, he was all up in my personal space and I thought for sure he was going to rape me so I packed up my crazy and left. When I called Deputy Pretty to report my near rape, he said he would "do some checking" which is cop code for "I'm just saying words now so you will go away". He didn't even offer to extend his asp and beat my almost raper senseless.

So I called the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou who it so happens is a 9-1-1 dispatcher. She sent no police cars screaming my way. No burly trigger happy boys in blue were dispatched to my aid. Nope. The best she could do was tell me, "don't marry him". Good advice to be sure, but not what I was hoping for.

Of course, when finally I told Mr. Man, I was absolutely certain that he would kill my sort of wanna be woodchuck rapist and for his crime, spend many years in maximum security where I would visit him every third Sunday and smuggle in his favorite M&M's hidden in a secret baggie. (Not a rectal baggie though. Nobody is worth a rectal baggie.)

Instead of murderous rage however, all I got from the Mister was, "You were not almost raped. You are being dramatic."

To recap, three of the people I love most think I am entirely un-rape-able.

Wait a minute. That's really not funny, is it? See what I mean? Blocked. I'm blocked so bad it's gonna take a huge mental prune danish to unblock me.

What am I going to do? Where do I go? What will become of me?

Woe is me. Woe, I tell you. Flat out serious woe.


Copyright © 2004-2007, 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.

Blogroll Me!