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Showing posts with label The Evil BL. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Evil BL. Show all posts
Friday, May 15, 2009
Don't Freakin' Tell Me to Be Myself!
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
I think I'm pregnant.
I appreciate the emails begging me to fill the public in on my bowling for birthday celebration. Your concern that I would spend a night in a bowling alley with people named Floyd and Tiny Nipples McGraw moves me.
Of course I'll tell you 'cause telling is what I do.
Here are things that did not happen at my bowling birthday party:
1) Bowling.
That's right, y'all! The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou did not make me bowl!
She did however make me think I was going to bowl.
Inside her secret lair there was a long table decorated with a pink table cloth, because she swears pink is my favorite color even though it is so not... it is HER favorite color. On top of the pink table were bowling trophies.
Chick bowling trophies.
Little known fact: professional women bowlers who are skilled enough to receive trophies always wear cheer leading skirts because all the tiny, silver trophy girls were wearing them. I saw Deputy Pretty trying to find out whether they were wearing panties, but he never said one way or the other.
For more than an hour the people who were there to help me celebrate (and get free food) repeatedly told me we would be leaving for the bowling alley momentarily. In protest, I repeatedly pointed to my red, stiletto BCBG babies. They were unmoved.
Especially since The Evil BL presented me with a birthday gift of handcrafted, one of a kind bowling shoes.
They were covered in glued-on macaroni and spray painted pink.
These rotten people collectively convinced me I had to get in the car immediately or Jimbo the Bowling Alley reservations taker would be angered. I did as they forced me to do...eventually... but not before making a series of offers to perform exotic sexual favors if they would agree to call the whole thing off.
That no one took me up on it should truly make me feel like a troll, now that I think about it.
After Mr. Man got me safely in the car, every last one of those one-eyed jack legs bolted to the front porch of BL's lair, pointed and laughed. They were quite proud of themselves.
Little do they know I will spend my week conjuring up a voo-doo curse which will leave each of them unable to pee from the body part designated to manage that function. (Hint: You shouldn't stand near them when they have a cold.)
It wasn't all hateful and conniving though. The Red-Headed Evil Genius prepared a lovely meal of spaghetti, salad and some crazy dessert involving pretzels and cherries which was surprisingly good even though I hate cherries and only eat pretzels if someone dares me.
While that all might sound pretty sweet, you have to remember who was the preparer of the feast. In good old Evil BL style, guests were not allowed to have plates and utensils. We were each given a bag with items in it that were not created by God for eating spaghetti and warned if we didn't use them, she would hook battery cables from her SUV to our breasts.
Sure, it sounds like fun but it takes too long to stop your teeth from chattering and the next day you can't do a thing with your hair.
Mr. Man had to eat from a martini glass with a corn on the cob holder as a fork. Another manly man had to put his spaghetti in a sippie cup while another had to eat from a giant, plastic tub I can only assume typically holds the kidneys the Evil One steals from the homeless and sells on www.StolenBodyParts.com.
There were friends around to help me celebrate not bowling; some I knew and some I'd never seen before but liked immediately because I was drinking and I am a very friendly drinker.
As I said, Deputy Pretty was in the house...looking up the tiny, plastic skirts of trophy bowlers and Mr. Man was there because Jack Black couldn't drive me home. (Well not from a party full of cops, anyway.)
Also in attendance were Lt. DB, the most poetic man in law enforcement. He's a dear old friend who apparently turned into a flaming homosexual since we last spoke as he makes his young officers refer to him as "The Commander". (Wasn't that one of the Village People?)
There was a pregnant person there as well, which is why I think I may be knocked up. She looked contagious.
A man in uniform dropped by... just long enough to loudly tell my husband I looked better as a blond. Thankfully that was prior to Jack and I sharing special moments or I might have extended his asp right up his ass.
And not in that good way, either.
But the person that wins the coveted Favorite Guest at My Party Award was the beer and waffles guy. Every answer to every question all night was "beer and waffles" and kids, he even used the word "ostentatious" and knew which female Jewish singer with a big nose we were talking about when playing "Taboo". I now officially love him and plan on ordering a t-shirt with his face on it.
Come to think of it, maybe people should be calling him "The Commander".
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
If you don't watch Family Guy and American Dad religiously, I must break up with you. The only way you can salvage our love is to start right away. To get you started, go here. I mean it. I'm not even kidding.
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!
Of course I'll tell you 'cause telling is what I do.
Here are things that did not happen at my bowling birthday party:
1) Bowling.
That's right, y'all! The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou did not make me bowl!
She did however make me think I was going to bowl.
Inside her secret lair there was a long table decorated with a pink table cloth, because she swears pink is my favorite color even though it is so not... it is HER favorite color. On top of the pink table were bowling trophies.
Chick bowling trophies.
Little known fact: professional women bowlers who are skilled enough to receive trophies always wear cheer leading skirts because all the tiny, silver trophy girls were wearing them. I saw Deputy Pretty trying to find out whether they were wearing panties, but he never said one way or the other.
For more than an hour the people who were there to help me celebrate (and get free food) repeatedly told me we would be leaving for the bowling alley momentarily. In protest, I repeatedly pointed to my red, stiletto BCBG babies. They were unmoved.
Especially since The Evil BL presented me with a birthday gift of handcrafted, one of a kind bowling shoes.
They were covered in glued-on macaroni and spray painted pink.
These rotten people collectively convinced me I had to get in the car immediately or Jimbo the Bowling Alley reservations taker would be angered. I did as they forced me to do...eventually... but not before making a series of offers to perform exotic sexual favors if they would agree to call the whole thing off.
That no one took me up on it should truly make me feel like a troll, now that I think about it.
After Mr. Man got me safely in the car, every last one of those one-eyed jack legs bolted to the front porch of BL's lair, pointed and laughed. They were quite proud of themselves.
Little do they know I will spend my week conjuring up a voo-doo curse which will leave each of them unable to pee from the body part designated to manage that function. (Hint: You shouldn't stand near them when they have a cold.)
It wasn't all hateful and conniving though. The Red-Headed Evil Genius prepared a lovely meal of spaghetti, salad and some crazy dessert involving pretzels and cherries which was surprisingly good even though I hate cherries and only eat pretzels if someone dares me.
While that all might sound pretty sweet, you have to remember who was the preparer of the feast. In good old Evil BL style, guests were not allowed to have plates and utensils. We were each given a bag with items in it that were not created by God for eating spaghetti and warned if we didn't use them, she would hook battery cables from her SUV to our breasts.
Sure, it sounds like fun but it takes too long to stop your teeth from chattering and the next day you can't do a thing with your hair.
Mr. Man had to eat from a martini glass with a corn on the cob holder as a fork. Another manly man had to put his spaghetti in a sippie cup while another had to eat from a giant, plastic tub I can only assume typically holds the kidneys the Evil One steals from the homeless and sells on www.StolenBodyParts.com.
There were friends around to help me celebrate not bowling; some I knew and some I'd never seen before but liked immediately because I was drinking and I am a very friendly drinker.
As I said, Deputy Pretty was in the house...looking up the tiny, plastic skirts of trophy bowlers and Mr. Man was there because Jack Black couldn't drive me home. (Well not from a party full of cops, anyway.)
Also in attendance were Lt. DB, the most poetic man in law enforcement. He's a dear old friend who apparently turned into a flaming homosexual since we last spoke as he makes his young officers refer to him as "The Commander". (Wasn't that one of the Village People?)
There was a pregnant person there as well, which is why I think I may be knocked up. She looked contagious.
A man in uniform dropped by... just long enough to loudly tell my husband I looked better as a blond. Thankfully that was prior to Jack and I sharing special moments or I might have extended his asp right up his ass.
And not in that good way, either.
But the person that wins the coveted Favorite Guest at My Party Award was the beer and waffles guy. Every answer to every question all night was "beer and waffles" and kids, he even used the word "ostentatious" and knew which female Jewish singer with a big nose we were talking about when playing "Taboo". I now officially love him and plan on ordering a t-shirt with his face on it.
Come to think of it, maybe people should be calling him "The Commander".
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
If you don't watch Family Guy and American Dad religiously, I must break up with you. The only way you can salvage our love is to start right away. To get you started, go here. I mean it. I'm not even kidding.
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!
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
What fresh birthday hell is this?
The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou is sticking to her bowling guns. While I believe I have been more than clear with regard to how I feel about bowling, she insists that it’s going to be big birthday fun for me and in her own sweet Evil BL way, has basically told me to shut the hell up and deal with it.
I have tried everything I know to get out of actually walking in the door of a bowling alley, but they don’t call her The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou for nothing. She can be quite frightening, terribly intimidating and as she stands somewhere around 9 feet tall and has big sharp horns protruding from her gigantic head, she can physically back it up.
In her job as Evil Queen Communications Officer at the Popo Department, I’ve seen her break a full grown police officer’s spirit using nothing but a stern look and a head tilt. Seriously. They whimper away from her scoldings like small, wet puppies; their penises tucked firmly between their legs. The only reason one of them hasn’t actually pistol whipped her is because they know she can’t be killed.
So if this chick is so supremely wicked, why in the world is she my best friend in the big, wide world?
Funny you should ask.
When I first met the Evil One way back in 1999, I wasn’t looking for a best friend. I was between husbands and looking for the next one... or something fun to play with until he showed up.
Besides, my track record with female best friends had been sort of unimpressive at best. Even though I myself am a card carrying boobie owner, I’ve always found it hard to get close to other club members. I much prefer the ease of boy best friends.
But there was something different about my red-headed supervisor. Our first night of training involved her taking out a large, metal whipping stick and threatening to crack my knuckles with it for no good reason. As I was already freaking out that I might possibly be the worlds worst 9-1-1 dispatcher as well as constantly fearful as to when that cop who always wanted me to “ride with him” was going to kidnap me and hold me captive in his basement/sex slave rumpus room, I felt like I might have made a poor career move.
I contemplated whether to even go back to work. Using her malevolent powers however, the Evil BL must have read my mind. Without realizing the dire consequences of doing so, I ate one of her homemade voodoo cookies and that was pretty much it. She’s been walking around in my head ever since.
If it weren’t enough that she managed to gain control of my immortal soul with chocolate chips, there is also the matter of her knowing every single solitary thing about me. Just like Satan.
And Santa.
She’s got the 4-1-1 on the who, what, when and where and even though she swears she’ll never tell, I know for a fact the National Enquirer is speed dial number 8 on her cell. Don’t start thinking there is some long list of wrongdoings and questionable judgement on my part though. It’s not like that.
Yes it is. It’s exactly like that.
In my defense, when someone has Machiavellian control over your person, they certainly have a degree of responsibility as to your screw ups, do they not? Perhaps a well timed, “Hey Sher, you’re about one Tequila short of full blown stupidity,” or maybe even a little whisper reminding me that unlike Brittney Spears, everyone in the room is not interested in whether or not I am wearing underwear.
Or are they?
So the long and short of it is come Saturday night, I will be sitting in a bowling alley with bowling people talking about whatever it is the bowling folk talk about. I’m guessing it’ll involve a fascinating discussion about what was on the cover of True Story magazine or where one can find big discounts on Virginia Slims.
Don’t you worry about Sher, kids. I have a plan.
Even though I will be in the bowling alley, rest assured that I will be dressed completely inappropriately for actual bowling. The shoes will be nose-bleed high, the shirt will be too low for bending in any fashion, and if that doesn’t fend off the Evil BL’s push for me to partake in this fresh birthday hell, I will also be wearing a garment that should I make any sudden bowling moves, will answer the underwear question once and for all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This is the song that made me fall in love. The only reason I am not Sher Adkins right now is simply because we have not been face to face or else I would have used my wiley ways to trap him.
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!
I have tried everything I know to get out of actually walking in the door of a bowling alley, but they don’t call her The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou for nothing. She can be quite frightening, terribly intimidating and as she stands somewhere around 9 feet tall and has big sharp horns protruding from her gigantic head, she can physically back it up.
In her job as Evil Queen Communications Officer at the Popo Department, I’ve seen her break a full grown police officer’s spirit using nothing but a stern look and a head tilt. Seriously. They whimper away from her scoldings like small, wet puppies; their penises tucked firmly between their legs. The only reason one of them hasn’t actually pistol whipped her is because they know she can’t be killed.
So if this chick is so supremely wicked, why in the world is she my best friend in the big, wide world?
Funny you should ask.
When I first met the Evil One way back in 1999, I wasn’t looking for a best friend. I was between husbands and looking for the next one... or something fun to play with until he showed up.
Besides, my track record with female best friends had been sort of unimpressive at best. Even though I myself am a card carrying boobie owner, I’ve always found it hard to get close to other club members. I much prefer the ease of boy best friends.
But there was something different about my red-headed supervisor. Our first night of training involved her taking out a large, metal whipping stick and threatening to crack my knuckles with it for no good reason. As I was already freaking out that I might possibly be the worlds worst 9-1-1 dispatcher as well as constantly fearful as to when that cop who always wanted me to “ride with him” was going to kidnap me and hold me captive in his basement/sex slave rumpus room, I felt like I might have made a poor career move.
I contemplated whether to even go back to work. Using her malevolent powers however, the Evil BL must have read my mind. Without realizing the dire consequences of doing so, I ate one of her homemade voodoo cookies and that was pretty much it. She’s been walking around in my head ever since.
If it weren’t enough that she managed to gain control of my immortal soul with chocolate chips, there is also the matter of her knowing every single solitary thing about me. Just like Satan.
And Santa.
She’s got the 4-1-1 on the who, what, when and where and even though she swears she’ll never tell, I know for a fact the National Enquirer is speed dial number 8 on her cell. Don’t start thinking there is some long list of wrongdoings and questionable judgement on my part though. It’s not like that.
Yes it is. It’s exactly like that.
In my defense, when someone has Machiavellian control over your person, they certainly have a degree of responsibility as to your screw ups, do they not? Perhaps a well timed, “Hey Sher, you’re about one Tequila short of full blown stupidity,” or maybe even a little whisper reminding me that unlike Brittney Spears, everyone in the room is not interested in whether or not I am wearing underwear.
Or are they?
So the long and short of it is come Saturday night, I will be sitting in a bowling alley with bowling people talking about whatever it is the bowling folk talk about. I’m guessing it’ll involve a fascinating discussion about what was on the cover of True Story magazine or where one can find big discounts on Virginia Slims.
Don’t you worry about Sher, kids. I have a plan.
Even though I will be in the bowling alley, rest assured that I will be dressed completely inappropriately for actual bowling. The shoes will be nose-bleed high, the shirt will be too low for bending in any fashion, and if that doesn’t fend off the Evil BL’s push for me to partake in this fresh birthday hell, I will also be wearing a garment that should I make any sudden bowling moves, will answer the underwear question once and for all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This is the song that made me fall in love. The only reason I am not Sher Adkins right now is simply because we have not been face to face or else I would have used my wiley ways to trap him.
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!
Monday, April 09, 2007
I can't make my toes do that Fred Flintstone thing.
My best friend, the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou, has threatened to make me bowl.
You heard me right. Bowling. In a bowling alley. With bowlers.
That “sport” whereby a seemingly normal person drives to a place that smells like a monkey’s ass; pays someone for the opportunity to wear clown shoes worn by hundreds of people who were no doubt the cause of the lingering monkey ass smell and then spends hours on end lifting something heavy and throwing it down a narrow lane to try and knock some stuff down.
No offense to those of you who were dropped on your head as a baby and as a result willingly take part in this activity, but what human in their right mind would engage in such a pursuit when they could just as easily stay home, boil some cabbage while wearing a stranger’s shoes and hit themselves in the head with a hammer?
First of all, the OCD Chick does not allow herself to become involved in anything that could be considered athletic by even the loosest definition of the word. I am not one of those girls who can do all the things boys do.
I do not jump… unless it is to pretend I am an astronaut enjoying weightlessness.
I do not bend at the waist… unless I have spied a shiny and potentially expensive object lying on the floor and there is no man around to fetch it for me.
I do not run…unless something large and hairy is chasing me. And even then, I slow down a little to be sure it’s not some guy who wants me to marry him, in which case I keep running, but in the direction of an altar.
Secondly, even if I were struck by lightening and miraculously lived through it, (albeit with a noticeable limp, a constant stutter, and a permanent dent in my head area), I can’t imagine I would be so desperate for companionship that I would pack a big, old ball in a tiny suitcase on a Saturday night and head over to the bowling alley where Toad Suck Guy and I would swill beers, smoke Camels and talk about what the National Enquirer uncovered regarding the link between Princess Di’s death and Karl Rove.
Note to angry readers who bowl: Toad Suck Guy is the official Wiping the Crazy off My Face stalker and as such is obliged to beat you up if you send me mean bowling email.
And finally, I do not hate bowling only because I abhor all things athletic and smelly. I also hate bowling because the last time I tried to do it, (there was male cuteness involved) I accidentally threw the ball backwards in the direction of the cashier thereby causing quite a commotion. A hubbub even.
Have you any idea how hard it is to sneak away from a full blown hubbub when dressed in red, white and blue shoes four sizes too big? They make the tip-toeing away in a stealthy manner virtually impossible.
Nope. No bowling for this girl, Evil BL. No way, no how, not gonna do it, I don’t care how great a friend you are or how many of my slightly criminal and definitely secretive secrets you know.
Unless...This doesn’t involve Fire Marshall Perfection, the most beautiful firefighter in the whole, big world, does it? Is he a bowler? Will he be at the bowling alley lifting and throwing heavy things around?
‘Cause you know, I could totally learn to pretend to love it. I’m bringing my own footwear, though. Do they make a red stiletto bowling shoe???
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!
You heard me right. Bowling. In a bowling alley. With bowlers.
That “sport” whereby a seemingly normal person drives to a place that smells like a monkey’s ass; pays someone for the opportunity to wear clown shoes worn by hundreds of people who were no doubt the cause of the lingering monkey ass smell and then spends hours on end lifting something heavy and throwing it down a narrow lane to try and knock some stuff down.
No offense to those of you who were dropped on your head as a baby and as a result willingly take part in this activity, but what human in their right mind would engage in such a pursuit when they could just as easily stay home, boil some cabbage while wearing a stranger’s shoes and hit themselves in the head with a hammer?
First of all, the OCD Chick does not allow herself to become involved in anything that could be considered athletic by even the loosest definition of the word. I am not one of those girls who can do all the things boys do.
I do not jump… unless it is to pretend I am an astronaut enjoying weightlessness.
I do not bend at the waist… unless I have spied a shiny and potentially expensive object lying on the floor and there is no man around to fetch it for me.
I do not run…unless something large and hairy is chasing me. And even then, I slow down a little to be sure it’s not some guy who wants me to marry him, in which case I keep running, but in the direction of an altar.
Secondly, even if I were struck by lightening and miraculously lived through it, (albeit with a noticeable limp, a constant stutter, and a permanent dent in my head area), I can’t imagine I would be so desperate for companionship that I would pack a big, old ball in a tiny suitcase on a Saturday night and head over to the bowling alley where Toad Suck Guy and I would swill beers, smoke Camels and talk about what the National Enquirer uncovered regarding the link between Princess Di’s death and Karl Rove.
Note to angry readers who bowl: Toad Suck Guy is the official Wiping the Crazy off My Face stalker and as such is obliged to beat you up if you send me mean bowling email.
And finally, I do not hate bowling only because I abhor all things athletic and smelly. I also hate bowling because the last time I tried to do it, (there was male cuteness involved) I accidentally threw the ball backwards in the direction of the cashier thereby causing quite a commotion. A hubbub even.
Have you any idea how hard it is to sneak away from a full blown hubbub when dressed in red, white and blue shoes four sizes too big? They make the tip-toeing away in a stealthy manner virtually impossible.
Nope. No bowling for this girl, Evil BL. No way, no how, not gonna do it, I don’t care how great a friend you are or how many of my slightly criminal and definitely secretive secrets you know.
Unless...This doesn’t involve Fire Marshall Perfection, the most beautiful firefighter in the whole, big world, does it? Is he a bowler? Will he be at the bowling alley lifting and throwing heavy things around?
‘Cause you know, I could totally learn to pretend to love it. I’m bringing my own footwear, though. Do they make a red stiletto bowling shoe???
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!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Dead mouse or popcorn? You decide.
My best friend, the Evil red-headed Berta Lou, confessed to me that earlier this week, she watched a soap opera with a dead mouse in her lap.
She denies knowing the mouse was there for awhile, but says once she realized it; she leapt from her chair, held her arms over her head and screamed in a high pitched warble, the way people with boobs are supposed to.
The investigative reporter in me (I had a big lunch), says something is not right here. Two and two do not equal dead mouse.
First of all, the Evil BL and I have been friends for pretty close to seventy-eight years. In all that time she has never in any way indicated she was a soap watcher.
She hasn’t once made mention of her heart break over Adam leaving Tiffany for her retarded, but pretty, half-sister Natalie, only to be killed by a rabid rhino on their honeymoon ski trip in the Swiss Alps.
Nor has she ever spoke of her elation after finding out Adam wasn’t really killed, but was taken in and nursed back to health by a kindly Swiss army knife maker who turned out to in fact be his long, lost brother, (and true heir to the family fortune) Edwardo.
And second of all, what kind of mind altering drugs must my best friend be sniffing if she can sit for more than 0.0 seconds with anything dead near her… much less on her?
Maybe the better question is, how enthralling must those soap opera things be if a rodent can actually lie deceased on top of you and it does not immediately register that something is terribly wrong
The Evil BL blames what will now forever be known as “That One Time Berta Watched TV With a Dead Mouse” on her stealthy dog and on her lack of a good night’s sleep.
I blame it on MTV.
The OCD Chick has a real problem with germs and people who love them so it should come as no surprise that I’ve never before hung out with someone who lets dead mice sit on their lap. I would even go so far as to say one of my big criteria when cruising the bars for a best friend is that they not hang out with mice… most especially mice that have little x’s over their eyes and all their little mouse toes in the air.
I still love her, ‘cause you know that’s how I am. But as far as ever again sitting in her house with my head in her lap and watching TV, I’m gonna say no way…never again. Not without a lap prophylactic anyway.
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!
She denies knowing the mouse was there for awhile, but says once she realized it; she leapt from her chair, held her arms over her head and screamed in a high pitched warble, the way people with boobs are supposed to.
The investigative reporter in me (I had a big lunch), says something is not right here. Two and two do not equal dead mouse.
First of all, the Evil BL and I have been friends for pretty close to seventy-eight years. In all that time she has never in any way indicated she was a soap watcher.
She hasn’t once made mention of her heart break over Adam leaving Tiffany for her retarded, but pretty, half-sister Natalie, only to be killed by a rabid rhino on their honeymoon ski trip in the Swiss Alps.
Nor has she ever spoke of her elation after finding out Adam wasn’t really killed, but was taken in and nursed back to health by a kindly Swiss army knife maker who turned out to in fact be his long, lost brother, (and true heir to the family fortune) Edwardo.
And second of all, what kind of mind altering drugs must my best friend be sniffing if she can sit for more than 0.0 seconds with anything dead near her… much less on her?
Maybe the better question is, how enthralling must those soap opera things be if a rodent can actually lie deceased on top of you and it does not immediately register that something is terribly wrong
The Evil BL blames what will now forever be known as “That One Time Berta Watched TV With a Dead Mouse” on her stealthy dog and on her lack of a good night’s sleep.
I blame it on MTV.
The OCD Chick has a real problem with germs and people who love them so it should come as no surprise that I’ve never before hung out with someone who lets dead mice sit on their lap. I would even go so far as to say one of my big criteria when cruising the bars for a best friend is that they not hang out with mice… most especially mice that have little x’s over their eyes and all their little mouse toes in the air.
I still love her, ‘cause you know that’s how I am. But as far as ever again sitting in her house with my head in her lap and watching TV, I’m gonna say no way…never again. Not without a lap prophylactic anyway.
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!
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