An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Well, Dress My Family in Denim &/Or Corduroy Underoos, It's... DEAR APRON!

It's the moment you've all been waiting for. No, not that royal faggot's wedding announcement, not the day when we can legalize tarring and feathering BP Executives, not Sarah Palin getting intimately acquainted with a Kodiak bear, no, it's not any of that. Unfortunately for you, it's just...


My dear friend "Shelby" has been involved with a man for three years. "Mr. Secret Agent" is always on the go and can visit her only occasionally because of all of his international business travels. She told me he is from New Zealand and plans to return there when he retires in a few years.

Something about him just didn't feel right to me, so I did some Internet sleuthing and discovered that Shelby's "successful businessman" was born right here in the U.S.A. He has no passport, is using an assumed name, works as a janitor, has filed bankruptcy twice and actually lives in a trailer.

Shelby is overjoyed when he comes to visit her, but I am getting tired of hearing his lies. I know she'll be hurt, but don't you think she deserves to know the truth? I'm concerned he may extort money from her. What should I do? -- 2 GOOD 2 BE TRUE IN WASHINGTON STATE


Wow! Isn't the "Internet" AMAZING!? Really, you can find out just about anything you want about a person via the "Internet." I love it when people capitalize "Internet" like it's some kind of brand-name. I'd be willing to bet that the only people who capitalize "Internet" are at least fifty years old. What do you think, 2 Good? Are you post-menopausal? Well, you don't have to answer-- I'll bet I can find out with some good ol' fashioned Internet sluething of my own...

(A few clicks and clacks later...)

Hmmm... seems that your real name is Ethel S. Merriweather, of 3521 Stanton Street, Beulaville, AL, 35004. You're 58 (ooh, maybe I'M 2 good 2 be true!), married to Dale, with three children: Jennifer, a 34-B paralegal with shoulder-length, chestnut hair (27), unemployed auto mechanic and part-time glue-sniffer tow-headed Roddy (31) and Tranh (7). Hey! Good for you guys for adopting!

According to the Google Earth image, you and Dale are the proud owners of one metallic green 1994 Ford Aerostar and a 1977 Plymouth Volare (oooh, choice) and it looks to me like you need to repaint that left 1st floor window shutter, Ethel. Maybe you can do that instead of spying on your friend's secret agent lover from New Zealand.


I have a suggestion for people who are stuck for gift ideas. Several years ago, I asked my mom for a very special Christmas gift. I asked her to write down her life story -- things she had done as a child, the experience of hitchhiking from New Mexico to Tennessee during the Great Depression, and all the other experiences of her life. She did, and I printed it for her. That year she gave each child, grandchild and great-grandchild a copy. It was the best Christmas present ever and one that's still cherished by us all.

Both my parents are gone now, but we have Mom's wonderful stories to remember. Without her book, those memories would be lost forever. I encourage everyone to record their family history and memories for your loved ones to read. You'll never regret it, and it will be enjoyed for generations to come. -- ANDREW IN JOHNSON CITY, TENN.


I'm confused-- where is the gift idea?


I have been married to "Ben," a wonderful man, for seven years. We have three children. We get along well, but I have one complaint. It's about sex. I'm always in the mood but he isn't. We both work full-time jobs and take care of the kids and the house.

My best friend tells me I have the sex drive of a male and her husband wishes she was more like me. I am not a nymphomaniac, but I'd like to be intimate with my husband more than every other week. When we're together, I almost feel like it's a chore to him.

Is there something wrong with me? I have never cheated on Ben, nor have I considered it. I feel this is an issue in our marriage, but he thinks I am overreacting. -- WAITING FOR MORE


"Is there something wrong with me?"

God. I love it.

This is, hands-down, my favorite rhetorical question of all rhetorical questions. It ranks up there on the podium with "Am I being irrational?" and "Is this rash something to worry about?" I mean, really-- what do you want to know? What do you want from me? Do you want me to gently stroke your 34-Bs or your chestnut hair or your ego and say, "No, honey, there's nothing wrong with you-- it's the way everybody else looks at the world," or "No, it's not you, it's me,"? Honestly, you people really never cease to amaze and inflaccidate me.

Yes, there is something wrong with you. You have three children, so you've obviously done it at least three times. Give your husband a break-- the guy works for a living, you know. Jesus. Have you ever tried masturbation? It's a lot of fun for the first couple of years.


I have already decorated my office for the winter holidays, but my co-worker says before Thanksgiving is too early to display a snowman. When do you decorate for the holiday season? -- FESTIVE SOUTHERN GIRL


Ah, a good question. You decorate for the holiday season immediately after staple-gunning paper cut-out Santas to your coworker's face and before calling for the ambulance.

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