I say this because, after today, I will pledge NEVER EVER EVER to procreate if it means that loud shrieking mullet-haired children are in my future.
I was at the laundromat, doing my month's worth of laundry because I'm leaving for Texas tomorrow and I have no underwear, when this lady brought her laundry and her three ring circus in with her. The room is loud and echo-y and those kids proceeded to run amok, shrieking in that high-pitched way that children and dog whistles have, causing my ears to bleed and giving me an enormous headache.
And the mom? She just sat there. Every once in a while, when one of her evil byproducts shrieked loud enough to make us poor, pathetic laundromat hostages flinch, she'd half-heartedly tell them to be quiet. When we'd direct a glare at her, she'd smile in a vapid, indulgent way as if saying, "Aren't they just precious? Don't you love the melodic sound of their shrieks?"
No lady. Not at all. I was finally driven outside for peace and quiet. It's about, oh, 10 degrees outside, but let me tell you, I'd rather lose my fingers to frostbite than sit in there one more goddamned minute.
The kids were running around, ducking under tables and constantly underfoot. One of them must've bumped into me at least three times, causing me to drop some of my formerly clean laundry onto the floor. I gave the lady such a dirty look (it's not the children, really. I mean, kids aren't BORN assholes, they're MADE assholes and my mom wouldn't have put up with that shit from me) that she actually corraled the little beasties for a moment or two before they broke loose and ran amok some more.
Finally, I gathered all my clothes and got the hell out of there. Lord. That woman should have been sterilized.
On a happier note, has anyone seen that Stetson cologne commercial with Matthew McConaghey? Sweet baby Jesus on a stick, that man is HOT. HOT HOT HOT! I now remember why I loved him and wanted to wrassle with him in a jell-o pool or play bongos naked with him. He's such a Texas boy and a UT fan to boot (hook 'em horns!). Rowr. Tight ass Wranglers, worn pearl snap button shirt, cowboy hat and a shit eatin' grin. Lord, I'm droppin' my 'g's and reverting back to my ol' Texas self just thinking about his butt in those Wranglers.
Not really. I never really was a "sterotypical" Texan. Hell, I don't even have an accent. But he makes me want to have one, just so I can call him darlin'. Yee haw!
I'd ride the bull for that boy, I tell ya!
The closest I ever came to riding a bull, by the way, was my friend's donkey, who threw me off while in a snit straight onto the concrete floor of said friend's barn. But I held on for eight seconds. I should have a belt buckle for that.
Had I been in the arena, however, they might have deducted points for my high-pitched terror-filled girlish shrieking, the way I landed on my ass in a grace-less heap mere inches away from the enraged donkey and my rather unattractive subsequent crab-crawl backwards to avoid getting kicked in the head. Thus ending my attempt at being a cowgirl.
I've also been shocked by a cattle prod, but that's a story for another time.
And one time, a horse peed on me, but that story's never gettin' told. Neither is the one with the cow pies.
Ahem. Moving on.
There's what I think might be a homeless kitty hanging around the library and my apartment. Some people want me to adopt him. Well, since I'm leaving town for two weeks tomorrow, I don't really think now is a good time. But he's so damn friendly and cute. And I have a soft spot for cats.
So, in lieu of adopting him, I set up Hilde's old enclosed cat box on my porch, put a warm blanket inside and covered it with another, that way he can have a place to stay if it gets cold. If he's still around when I get back, and still homeless, I might adopt him. And I will name him Possum Jenkins because that's just about the awesomest name EVER. Thank you, Andre-3000!
