Yesterday, during dinner, my 5 year old started singing the following song:

A, B, C, D, E, F, G,

Barney is my enemy.

Take a bazooka, stick it up his nose.

Pull the trigger, there he goes.

A, B, C, D, E, F, G,

Barney is my enemy.

Ha!  Reminds me of one of my favorites from childhood:

Comet, it makes your teeth turn green.

Comet, it tastes like gasoline.

Comet, it makes you vomit!

So have some Comet and vomit today.

Good times, good times.

So Churl sends me an email about having to buy a bridal shower cake and finds a horrific x-rated photo of one.  I demand that she make it, and suggest she use her husband as a model.  She writes back and says “he already did” and attaches a photo.

I’m thinking ‘god damn it’, if she sent me a photo of her husband’s “area”, I’m actually going to be pissed.  But I open, and can’t believe what I am seeing!!

Churl’s having a chicken.

I HATE this show.  And everytime I leave the room and walk back in, the hubby has this on the t.v.  And it’s always the same episode with some whiny NY bitch who’s too old to be wearing Missoni anyway!

He pretends he’s got it on just to bug me, but I don’t let him fool you.  He actually enjoys it.  And no, I have no idea why.

His name is Damien O’Malley.  We first met when he was seated next to me at a job, years ago.  Listening to his thick Irish accent, I held myself back a full two minutes before I asked if he knew Bono.  Or had seen a lephrecaun.  Or used Irish Spring soap.  Or had kissed the Blarney Stone.  Or if “they” were always after his Lucky Charms. 

He answered:

• yes, everyone in Ireland is best friends with Bono
• only when he was pissed (meaning drunk)
• this made him go on a 5 minute diatribe about the fucking americans, so he never actually answered. 
• no, but he had pissed on it
• he said if “they” ever came after them, he’d beat “them” to death with his shillelagh

I miss that gobshite.  Happy St. Patrick’s Day, you fucking drunks.

People, get it straight.  There is only one true condiment.  Mustard.  Not the fancy farty kind with the seeds and shit, just good old plain yellow mustard.

The following is a list of condiments that make me barf:

• mayonnaise
• sweet pickle relish
• horseradish
• dijon, or any “fancy” mustard
• thousand island dressing (mayo+ketchup+relish = vomit)

I used to hate ketchup just as much, but over the years, I have been able to eat it with fries.  NOTHING else.  And I mean NOTHING else.  Not on hamburgers, hotdogs, meatloaf, eggs (why must you teach our children that, husband?). 

Great mustard moments in literature:

• Shakespeare’s Henry IV Part 2:

His wit as thick as Tewesbury mustard.  (Meaning gross, because good mustard is NOT thick.)

• Alexenader Dumas reportedly said:

Louis XI kept his own pot of mustard with him most of the time, ostensibly to keep him well prepared when he dropped in on friends unannounced.  (Hell yeah, Lou-dog.)

Of course, not all people share my love of the ‘turd.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8IJpDGRa5o.  The best part is the 3-second shower scene at the end. 

In closing, I will share with you that it WAS Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the candlestick.

Here are some conversation snippets you would have overheard:

• “Her teeth are all rotten from eating poo.”
• “I’m going to cut off your leg and serve it to you for dinner.” 
• “What do you think the Queen carries in her purse?”  (His answer was “a dildo.”)
• “What’s the matter?  The lettuce isn’t manly enough for you?”
• “It’s as if I am her Islamic wife and have to walk four paces behind her in silence.”
• “I think Prince Charles has been eating poo, too.”

In the past month, I’ve happened upon three accidents, moments after they’ve happened.  Didn’t see or hear the crashes, but I arrived well before any official help was on the scene.  On on all three occasions, I’m pretty sure the people I’ve driven by are dead.

Two were motorcycle accidents.  Both guys, who looked like they were laying on the ground, sleeping in their helmets.  I know the second one died at the scene because I found the news report the next day.  Today I saw someone on the side of the freeway who had been thrown out of their truck on impact. 

A lot of people had already stopped to help in each instance.  All I could think of was ‘at least the kids aren’t in the car with me, because how would I explain this?’  Every single time, it made me feel sad and angry and lost.  I can’t get certain thoughts out of my head.  The mother who gets the “phone call”.  Having to tell your children that Daddy is never coming home.  It makes me feel like vomiting even now.

I’m tired of watching you, death.  Go away.

I had a meeting with a co-worker the other day, and he’s eating meatloaf from the cafeteria while we’re talking.  Suddenly, quite frantically, he starts picking through the meatloaf. He keeps the work conversation going at the same time, and suddenly, he declares in a low menancing voice, “Onion.”

I look quizically at him, and he turns to face me, straight on, and begins to gag.  Not a coughing-type of gag.  A full on, “I am about to vomit in front of you” gag.  It’s mesmerizing.  I’m frozen, thinking it was a one time deal, and we can move on and both forget it happened, as he continues to face me.  Surely this is an indication that he is done. 

And then he gags again.  And again.  At this point my adrenaline has kicked in and I realize I am too close to the trash can, so I jump up and into the door frame.  Not sure what I was thinking, but that earthquake safety training is apparently paying off.  I gingerly ask if he’s okay and should I go?  (Read this next line in your head with his Russian accent.)  “No,” he says, “it’s just that I cannot stand cooked onion.”  He gags again.

At this point I start to walk away.  “No, no, come back.  I think I’m okay now.”  He gags again.  I start to run… back to my desk, and proceed to send him the picture of cooked onions you see above.  Over and over again.