The OCD Chick vs. A Perfectly Good Plane

Someone wants me to jump out of a plane for fun and profit. Because I am a weak woman who will do most anything for fun and profit, I am going to do as I'm asked.

Will I be terrified?

In the words of Whitney Houston, "BOBBY!!!" (aka - hell to the yes.)

Will I quite likely blanket Cleveland with vomit on the way down?

I'm gonna say that is in fact probable.

Apparently I will show up, learn to cross my arms over my chest and also to stop, drop & roll at which point some random parachute guy will strap himself to my back and shove me out a plane.

At least that's what Uncle Google told me last night.

All I ask before possibly spitting out my spleen in terror is five minutes of good, solid interviewing of said random guy before he does what so many before him have done to me - (you go ahead and fill in the rest of that sentence as I know you already have anyway.)

Hey Parachute Boy... Have you done anything recently that might have angered God? Have you taken the Lord's name in vain? Have you coveted your neighbor's ass? What about your mother and father? Would they say you are a good boy who honors them, or would they say they're sick and tired of loaning you money and it's time for you to grow the hell up and get off their couch?

Tell me about your love life. Do you like the ladies? Have one special woman to whom you are faithful and loyal, or do you find chicks dig boys who strap themselves to their backs? Have you had the intercourse lately and if so, did you call out the correct name?

What about life insurance? How much is your policy and who is the beneficiary? Does said beneficiary have any sort of gambling problem or hang out with a guy named Fat Jimmy or Knuckles McKiller?

And finally, are you in any way associated with Jon Gosselin? Have you met him, spoken to him, been within 100 feet of him, touched the hem of his Ed Hardy T-shirt? As he is the root of all evil, I cannot take the chance that the bad voodoo he's got all over him might have stuck to you and will therefore condemn us both to certain death.

Provided Parachute Boy does well in my interrogation, I'll let him hug me tight and fly with me. For fun and profit. And what not.




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

Even if I put some 30-Year-Old Guy Chow in my pocket?

Last night whilst watching a movie on the tube and simultaneously surfing the net, I saw a commercial for a new show that flabbergasted even me. I can’t remember the name of it, but I will be happy to relay to you this “reality” show’s theme.

It seems you take one 30-something guy, a gaggle of 20-something girls, a group of
40-something women and you release them into a pit and see which one the guy will run to.

On the off chance this show is at the top of your Must See TV list, allow me to save you some time.

He’s gonna pick a 20 something.

Period.

Always.

And she’s gonna weigh 97 pounds and have blonde hair.

I swear.

Trust me.

No suspense, no “golly, I wonder who Tad will choose”, no nothing. It’s the 20-something this week, it’ll be the 20-something next week and it’ll be the 20-something all weeks after.

Forever and ever until the end of time. Seriously.

Now should they decide to do a show on who a 70-something man might choose given the opportunity to enter into a relationship with a 20 year old girl or a 40 year old woman, it might be a little different.

NO IT WON’T! Are you seriously that gullible? Tell me you weren’t betting on the 40-something chick to come out on top of that battle just because he’s an old guy.

Have you learned nothing from my biting sarcasm? Here’s a rule that might help you score a little better on our next test. The male… no matter if he is 20 or 200, will always, always, always choose the 20-something.

Don’t blame the men, kids. They can’t help it. It’s nature. Men can father children right up to the minute someone in an apron starts embalming them. Women on the other hand have a limited shelf life on our baby making ability. When we’re done, we’re done…unless of course you are a creepy old lady with enough money to get yourself some lab babies implanted in your belly…after they clean out all the cob webs with a uterus dust buster.

God knew what he was doing when he decided to shut down our egg factory in our forties. He knew if he didn’t, we’d never have time to eat for popping out kids. Drawing upon my training and experience with the male of the species, I can tell you that they have the self control of a….

Ummmm…

What has no self control whatsoever when it comes to sex?

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhh…

OK, I give up. I can’t think of a single thing that has the equivalent low level of sex-self-control a human man has, so you fill in the blank.

All I’m saying is that if I hadn’t had my tubes tied in the 90’s and had left the issue of birth control up to a man’s ability to have a headache once in awhile, I would have had pretty close to twelve more kids by now. Maybe thirteen if I didn’t sleep.

I’m off subject now. Somehow I meandered my way from a crappy reality TV show that pits tight bodied 20-something girls who have genuine concern for Brittney and Lindsey against 40-something women who have grown daughters named Brittney and Lindsey, all the way around to the plight of uterine spider webs.

A 20-something would never do that.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If you're easily offended, best to move on. If not, enjoy a little La Vie Boheme!


Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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