Overthunk

That title, in a nutshell, is why I've been absent from these hallowed halls the past 14 days -- the inherent duality of the universe has been completely and utterly evident in that space of breathing and blood flow that I occupy, trapping me inside an existential yin-yang constructed of both ouchy mountains and comfy clouds. Carpet A fortnight ago, my bathroom toilet decided to plot its revenge for my continual assaults and quietly overflow while I was at work. Of course I didn't discover it until several hours later, so I returned home not only to my usual floor-full of already-stained, beige, tract housing carpet, but with the added bonus of squishy sound effects, and after a few days, unbearable stank. All the carpet in the house had to be pulled up and industrial fans had to run for about a week to dry the place out. I suppose it's not so bad. I wanted laminate anyway. Honor Though nominated last year, this year, I was elected Teacher of the Year for my particular sch

Sometimes, I entertain random messaging on the interwebs. Sure, I know it's foolish but I sometimes do. I think it has something to do with ongoing research about what percentage of the human race has anything interesting to say. By current estimates, data approaches approximately 1.2%. And you, of course. The other night I was bantering boringly with some random jackass. The conversation wasn't moving along very swimmingly at all. He kept quizzing me about general life info: what do I do, kids, family, hobbies, sorry your parents are dead, blah, blah, etc. Then after about 40 drawn out moments, in which I was giving halfass answers and chatting with two other (interesting) people, reading Wikipedia or some such at the same time, he says, "So do you want to be my gf?" Hmm. GF. Garden Funder? Grappling Fondue? Gargoyle Foot? He also refused to send any pics at first, asking, "Is my appearance all that important to you?" and then when he did, it looked like he

Do you ever just come home from toil and go and lie down, not sleeping nor waking? "Who has time?" you may ask. I don't have time either, but I do it anyway. Always have. It's a need, sort of. When I do this, odd stuff floats to the surface of my consciousness. Just now, this thought emerged slowly from the unformed ether: "If I die tomorrow, I will at least know this about myself:" A few seconds later, a rough-edged, unvarnished truth emerged: "I live more in the world of ideas than in the real world." It's true, I say. ----------------------- "Say hello." -- Deep Dish (Angello & Ingrosso remix)

I don't get Lou Reed. By "don't get" I mean I don't understand what the big deal is about him and why he's considered so influential when the majority of folk have only ever heard one song. With a lot of crusty, bleak, grim artists (see Pink Floyd), maybe I don't like their stuff but I get it, I fathom their influence; however, with Reed, no. Just no. I'd rather listen to Skid Row's "I Remember You" and be called a musical cretin than sit through just one more time of "Walk on the Wild Side." Ugh. Sebastian Bach up. If you do get him, please explain.

When at Starbucks, I have a moral, jingoistic, and/or Texan instinctual thing going in which I refuse to order in Italian, as posted on and imposed by their menu. I also don't order a latte, or half-caff anything. I just say "a large coffee with cream and Equal." The other day when I did this, I actually had to explain what I meant by large: Baristo: "You mean venti?" Me: "Uhmm, yes. ::thinking to self:: " We're still speaking English. You are officially brainwashed, you clueless cog in the international corporate machine, you." -------------------------- Being part of a huge, lumbering, mammoth, inefficient school district, I occasionally have to attend trainings which seem virtually pointless. I had to do this recently. While there, someone corrected my drawing of a multiplication array. I drew this: 3 X 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her contention was that I should've drawn this: 3 X 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My assertion is tha

Man, isn't that idyllic. I like this picture for its mixture of turkeyscat pseudo-history and potential for inventive captioning. Pilgrim Matron: Well, that makes sense! Dark meat for thee! Pilgrim Padre : (thinking to self) O, when shall the festivities make way for the after-feasting footy? King Lear (beruffed): I scent a treason and turning against upon the winds. Earl of Kent: I shall eat no fish. The venison smells sweet, however. Miles: Priscilla, I lay awake last eve with thoughts of thy sweet corn pudding! Priscilla : Mind your countenance, Miles! I mayn't stand closer than two feet to thee -- our elders condemn the wicked thoughts of handholding such proximity shall produce! Etc... Please! Add thy own! But most importantly, know that I am thankful for each of thee, dear blogpals, and PLEASE, enjoy thy feasting and football, and have a -------------------------------------- "You ever notice you never seem to get laid much on Thanksgiving? I think it's b

During my tenure of nearly a decade spent in the Crimson Limbo above Walmart and K-Mart and below, say, Macy's, I worked most of my time at the customer service desk. Working every single holiday of my life was de rigeur during that time, as was donning the horrid color combo of red shirt and khaki pants -- there's nothing like a pair of khaki pants to make me run (slowly) screaming, even now -- only black pants can camouflage flab effectively, which is why it is now de mon rigeur to wear black pants 99.4% of the time. To this day, you will never catch me, even if all my other clothes have been burned up in a fire, wearing red and khaki together. Ugh. At Tar-zhay in the 90's, there was a "no-hassle" return policy -- we accepted virtually any item we had ever sold at any time in the past as a return, as long as we could string a few numbers together to make that identifying number and some semblance of a selling price. I have personally refunded money on leaking

Back in 1988, "Ask me. I like to help." was printed on a white plastic card in large Arial script on a ground of thin red-lined grid. This card was fused in some fashion to the large, uncomfortably identifying name tag which is the universal badge of shame of the retail store employee. I would have preferred, as at the telemarketing job that I held for one day when I tried in desperation to quit the red-walled retailer, to have been able to use an alias emblazoned above the lofty plastic claim of undaunted helpfulness, but it was not to be. From the first time I pinned on that promise of unqualified assistance with ANYthing the customer might need, it galled me daily. I started my training far earlier than that first week of employment. As a kid, we took weekly trips to Target, complete with the obligatory two-foot tall bag of popcorn. Once, when I wouldn't obey my mom, I got my ass flat-out busted in front of the shopping carts, to the amusement of the whole store, it se

Cashiering would seem to be the province of the swift, friendly, and accurate. Yet today, I was checked out at my town's new Super Target by a mostly silent older woman, name of Nadine, who likely lived a previous life as a good and moral sloth, and thus earned reincarnation into a higher, yet not any speedier, form. I felt like my blood itself might have turned to vinegar between the time that she asked me for my ID because I had dared to purchase a bottleful of Yellowtail Shiraz (pedestrian, I know, but it has a nice bite and does the trick besides of fuzzing and furring the sharp edges of consciousness) and the time when she finally, with a lethargic stuffing of bananas into concentric-circle-dotted plastic, completed my purchase. As she sloooooooooooooooooooowly scanned and dragged my merchandise across a filthy rectangle of glass, I had time to rate and rank every male person within a 50 yard radius according to level of attractiveness to my peculiar likings. I also had time t

I've been paring down the amount of makeup I carry around with me at all times. Currently, I am at the following purse totals: Three eyeliners -- brown-black, purple and blue One mascara -- brown-black Three lipsticks (including one that doesn't come off unless scrubbed) One clear lip gloss Concealer (although the one I have is old and I've already bought a new one) AND, this is only what I carry around... I have two makeup cases full of brushes, nail polish, eye shadow, glittery dust and other stuff, not to mention the dozens of tubes and packets I have shoved away in drawers. It's foolishness, I know. How much makeup can one person wear at a time? (Well, woman I mean, as I'm sure drag queens can wear significantly more.) I cannot really explain this other than feeling that I have to have a CHOICE. I do the same thing with shoes. I have probably 30 pairs. And oddly, I have noted that $6.00 Chinese-made shoes from Dollar General can smell like gasoline (making me w

The origins of this unholy, calorie-laden concoction go back twenty years or more, to the kitchen of my aunt, where my cousin was inspired by the ghost of William Howard Taft or somebody to mix two incredibly rich substances: peanut butter and syrup. Whether anyone else does this, I don't know. Today's version was somewhat halfass in it's pantry-product indulgence, because rather than Skippy peanut butter and Griffin's Waffle Syrup , I had to use Simply Jif (reduced fat) and Karo, hardcore corn fructose confection of our grandmothers and a pillar of all true Texan pecan pies (which I didn't even like until this past year). Anyway, here's the recipe, if you and your pancreas can handle the deliciousness: 1. Purchase, then slam a can of cheapass white biscuits across the kitchen counter a few times until it pops, remove and bake according to the directions on the package (spend no more than 40 cents per can). 2. Put about 2 tablespoons of peanut butter into a bow

Some habits persist, and some come and go. Although my driving instructor bud tells me it's terribly dangerous, I must confess that I've been creating a new habit over the past few months: driving unshod. I can't seem to get home through the all-too-long afternoon commute with my shoes still on. Really, this is just an extension of my lifelong practice of eschewing shoes as often as I can. As a kid, I would refuse shoes to ridiculous levels: Hey! Let's see which barefoot kid can stand on the oven-hot Texas summer baked concrete the longest! Hey! Let's walk barefoot across Grandaddy's cow pasture full of torturous stickers to get to the pony that lives next door! How about over and over, for years!? I'm not quite that ridiculous about it anymore, but even now, the callouses on my feet are probably at least 1/4 inch thick (which was my handy excuse to the adult remedial involuntary driving lesson -- "my feet are like shoes"). Fifteen or twenty secon

Just by bleeding, you can contribute 10 cents per box of flow stanchers to your chosen neighborhood school. Well, at least it's good for something other than letting you know you're not expecting a new lil' scholar. Learn more at: http://www.boxtops4education.com/

and I have been recruited to assist with the business of running it, as well as teach my regular class. That is all for now, though I can hardly stand the necessity of sleep over blogging.... See your stuff soon, peeps!

I've lived in Texas all my life, and I've made it through some damned hot summers. Yet only today, and never before, have I witnessed this: cows going for a dip in the afternoon sun.* Of about a dozen cows standing around in the pasture as I sped past, two seemed a little bit smarter than the others. They were skinny dipping, even, and seemed to be smiling, and perhaps snorting the bovine version of the following playlet: Black and White Cow: "Vaya Con Dios, bitches!! We're swimming!! In your and our water hole, even! We are one step closer to taking down our human oppressors! " Black Cow: "Word! I'm sick of just standing here absorbing the sun's rays!" 'Course, what cows actually say to one another as they graze in the blazing sun will perhaps never be known. Any scientists fool enough to try to trek all the way out to the water hole on a 104-degree day like today while lugging heavy data recording instruments and wearing white lab coats w

To cleave into one’s innards, like a sharp steel blade slicing into a paper-bag-ripened nectarine: eventually, you’ll get to the mazing, shriveled core, but when you do, it’ll be messy, juice will be spilled, and the prospect of the truth of new life and renewal inside that crinkly brown pit is completely unenvisionable. Everything comes before it: cleaning that long-dead Junebug out of the corner of the kitchen counter, flipping from song to song to song to song on Internet radio, flinging washed clothes into the dryer, pretending to perform an Everclear song to a sellout stadium crowd while the roommate’s off buying cigarettes, watching some exhibitionist on a webcam. Guilt: The feeling that if you do it, if you REALLY do it, you’ve outed some dirty secret about everyone you know in some fashion or other, including, and perhaps most importantly, yourself.

Though I like owning my house, I wish from time to time that instead of in a middle-class neighborhood, that it was in the middle of a hundred-acre wood or something. I have a crappy little bench, that needs either a coat of paint, or just to be thrown out, sitting in my front yard, fairly close to the door. You can sit on it, but it rather lists to one side. I don't sit on it for fear of causing its last day on earth in a sudden collapse, but it looks somewhat fetching sitting alongside the flowers that I usually remember to water in the bed that needs weeding. I pull up to the homestead today, after a day of toil in which every moment was begrudged (seeing as how I AM a teacher and it IS still summer, but today there was a pesky training day that could be finished in 3 hours but took 7 just to fill up the state-required time), a bank trip that shouldn't have taken 45 minutes in the 100 degree heat, and a lengthy stint at Walmart shopping. All of this was done while wantin

Release date: August 15th, 1984. My purchase date: 1985, probably. I still know all the lyrics. p.s. I'm waiting to get all the desert pix to post along with my desert tales. When those are all available, I'll reveal the secrets of the Texas mountains.

It's road trip time. Tomorrow I embark on a 500 mile journey towards Big Bend National Park, in southwest Texas, into the Chihuahuan Desert -- the largest in North America. It will be my first excursion into such a place, though for unknown reasons, deserts have always fascinated me. Perhaps, on this trip, I'll find out why. In any case, hasta luego! See y'all on the flip side!

So, upon entering the local Chinese food buffet, I determined that I had to GO. As I rushed into the restroom, a horrid stench wafted out. Against all olfactory sense, I still had to GO, so unto the breach I proceeded, holding a piece of shirt over mouth and nose to enable me to survive. Someone else entered as I did, but apparently didn't have to GO like I did, and I said casually, "Wow, we should tell them at the front desk about this." As I was checking each stall, I noted that in one, someone had... missed the shot they'd attempted to take, let's say. It had bounced off the rim. Then they'd tried to clean it up... they just didn't do a very good job. Slightly horrified, I recoiled, and chose another stall. When I gotta GO, I gotta GO. Anyway, in the meantime, the management had been notified. A tiny, older Asian woman dressed in business attire appeared in the restroom door, exclaiming, "Oh my GAAAAWD!!" as she opened it, then shouting in Chi

I know, this trend is old news now, but its ridiculosity has not lessened. Do you want to say that this part of you is juicy? That may be a possibly serious medical problem, possibly related to ingestion of bad enchiladas. Why don't they get more descriptive with it? Like "Gassy" or "Pimply"? And hell, why doesn't the rest of the world besides fashionistas join in? These could appear in all parts of a department store: Menswear "Hairy" "Stanky" "Betta than Brad Pitt's" "Not an Entrance" "Bubble" Infants/Toddlers "Change This" "Caution: May Be Poopy" "Despite what I say, I should actually go potty" Plus Sizes "Got Back" "May Be Hot, May Not Depending on your Proclivities" The list is endless. I mean, if you're going to do a thing, don't do it half-assed! p.s. Go on, add your own!

This isn't exactly it but today in Spencer's Gifts I saw this hobo purse with a large, uhh, bead? attached to the front that was actually brass (well, aluminum) knuckles. This one is far more fashionable and expensive and made by James Piatt, who dubs it the "Peacekeeper." Hmm. I'm not sure that peace is what you're gearing up for when you carry this. Nonetheless, it is rather cool and kind of brings up a subject near and dear to me, which is, carrying some form of weaponry on one's person at all times. As a teenager, I had a double-edged dagger with a blade of about three inches, a brass crosspiece, and a hilt of stacked wood in rainbow hues. It was illegal due to having a double edge, but it looked cool. (Hey, tell the dollar store guy I got it from. Yes, dollar store.) I carried it with me everywhere, either in my purse or in my pocket, to school, to Ozzy Osbourne concerts, everywhere. I don't know why, but having it made me feel better. It was the

We've been having a lot of rain here in Dallas lately. Not as much as in Gainesville, 70 miles north (see photo), but still, enough to turn a few pastures into sort-of rice paddies, or fishing grounds for egrets. So the other day I was lazing about and realized that yet again, it was going to pour down. It was going to pour down cats and dogs, and my particular dogs had a blanket they had soiled and needed washin'. So I threw it outside in the backyard, into said rain. It got washed by the good waters of God, purged of its doggy-stink sins. Later, I washed it in the washing machine, but still, it wasn't AS dirty as it COULD have been, due to quick advantage taken of natural resources . Assertion: I am hickass. Question: Too hickass? ---------------------- Well, it's floodin' down in Texas All the telephone lines are down I've been tryin' to call my baby And I can't get a single sound -- S. Ray Vaughan -------------------------------------- Country folk c

I await. I try to do other things, but I am continually distracted. Will Tony get whacked, commit suicide, lose his family, turn to the feds? Will A.J. flip out? Why the shovel? I just can't stop thinking about it... the alternate endings, the end of an era, almost everyone else is already gone. Soon, we'll know.... but not soon enough!

I did have a scrolling blogthing here that showed the lyrics to my latest enamorment in song: Mika's "Grace Kelly" (specifically, the trance remix version), but somehow posts got disabled by copying the script here and when I enabled them, things got even more wonky and a new song I'd never even heard of replaced it. So, for the safety of all concerned, it has been deleted. This is no fault of the song, however; it's melodic, anxious, just a snip (ok, a lot) gay, and fun, as Violet of The Lemonade Stand can attest! Check it out!

Today I've been, amongst other things, trying to tag as many past posts as possible with keywords, like poetry, contradiction, pig races, sock monkey.... stuff like that. At the end of this lengthy and laborious process, I shall make a bar graph depicting the frequency upon which I expound on variant topics, evidencing the intervals at which they sashay and mosey through my neurons. Or not. Really I just wanted a reason to post the following song snippet, a 17-word microcosm of a perfect love experience. See below. ----------------------------------- "It'll be you and me, Up in the trees, And the forests will give us the answers..." - M. Casey and Lovehammers

You Are a Centaur In general, you are a very cautious and reserved person. However, you are also warm hearted, and you enjoy helping others in practical ways. You are a great teacher, and you are really good at helping people get their lives in order. You are very intuitive, and you go with your gut. You make good decisions easily. What Mythological Creature Are You?

Some of you may remember this gift from the gods of Foods That Should Not Be. Well, here's another. Sweet 'N' Sour Cupcakes 1. Prepare white cake mix, pour into cupcake cups (preferably of the rockin' stars variety, but I've only seen those at Christmas and have been saving them ever since), and bake. 2. Mix one packet of tropical punch flavored Kool Aid and about 1/4 cup sugar. 3. Sprinkle mixture over warm cupcakes and watch in amazement as it turns from a greyish powder to bright red, even though you know that's what's going to happen. 4. Serve to kids you know and await their accolades, which, I assure you, will be forthcoming. 5. Eat one yourself, with visible doubt. Like it and eat another. Amazing what a lack of icing can do to stimulate the imagination. I made these once before for the class just due to lack of materials, but this time they were clamoring for the oddness again. Try it! WARNING: Yes, of course it stains everything in sight. p.s. Yes,

Sorry for the long absence! Work and life are tag teaming to kick my patoot. Speaking of tagging, I've been tagged by Name Hidden of The Unseen Blogger fame. So here are 10 movies I like, listed by imdb plot keywords. Can you guess them? 1. Franz Kafka, Buddhism, Environmental Activism, Watermelon, Sudanese (hmm... half of these don't describe the movie to me... oh well.) 2. Androgyny, Sequel mentioned during end credits, Apocrypha, Revenge, Depiction of God 3. Performance Artist, Left Handedness, Female Nudity, Foot Fetish, Head in Toilet 4. Technology, Experiment Gone Wrong, Cyborg, Regicide, Science Runs Amok 5. Ancient Sword, Magic, Against the Odds, Villian, Stylized 6. Dumped by Girlfriend, Actor's Life, Ex Girlfriend, Dating, Swing 7. Time for Title, Double Cross, Duty, China, Teepee 8. Thief, Remake, Hotel, Caper, Escapade 9. Black Comedy, Part Stop Motion, Tragic Hero, U Boat, Surreal 10. Soul transference, Actor playing Himself, No opening credits, Chrysler Build

(third graders, that is) These are the new lunch policies, from now until THE END OF THE YEAR: 1) Don't ask for anyone else's food at lunch. 2) Don't give anyone else food at lunch. 3) If someone else gives you food at lunch, don't eat it. 4) Henceforth, if you DO eat six pieces of cake, OR drink six cartons of juice, or the like, and then throw up, guess who's NOT going to the nurse? Violate these policies and you will be taking the bowling field trip, field day, and the end of the year party into your own hands. Yep, it's seventeen days 'til summer, alright.

After nine years, this occupational hazard strikes. Guess what it is and I'll flip off a latte-clutching soccer mom in your honor.

People with placards All over this town People with placards Bring me down Come buy the leather Sofa that must go This is the final week For the twelfth week in a row Every item 6 dollars And splotched all with flowers Every item 6 dollars And it lasts 6 hours Hire someone desperate Forty-nine bucks a pop To stand in a cow suit On the corner block Ousting the unborn Out of the womb I'll never do it Do I have to look? If I didn't think Getting saved was required Is one verse on a poster Going to save me from fire? People with placards All over this town People with placards Bring me down

Sometimes I get ideas for posts and I just save them as drafts and forget. Today I was digging around here in the blog closet and found this darkly sparkly scrap, originally thought of back in November 2005 and languishing here until now. Enjoy. God makes trent reznor in his dark angelic glory trent experiences a life of woe enough so that he becomes an artist trent toils for years, distilling anger and pride and self-loathing into this: there is a game I play try to make myself okay try so hard to make the pieces all fit smash it apart just for the fuck of it it works its way down to me this distilled darkness allows me to go on another day I say thanks, God. thanks, trent I go on and have woe of my own I post here you read it maybe you don't feel so bad art will save us all.

I've already been pimping this guy all over the place, but I have to do it officially: Aqueduct, is, in fact, good music . Written and sung entirely (and sometimes performed!) by this one man, David Terry, it's a collection of indie confections, sweet and sinister all at once. What's it like? He claims the Beach Boys! as a big influence but I think I hear Beck and Cake, too. There's lots of Moog-y synth stuff. There are dark storylines of romantic intrigue woven throughout with syrupy, irresistible hooks (and one song based on The Princess Bride). It's often sad, jaded, and even violent, but little bundles of hilarity and hope are interspersed throughout (just like some gunslinger tales I know). His voice sounds like some 70's singer whom I can't place. You can listen to his complete latest record, Or Give Me Death, at the link above, but buy it if you can, because we should all support self-made musical innovation out of a bedroom in Oklahoma. This loveli

Here in Dallas, many people are from other places. Make no mistake, I have no problem with people immigrating -- if I did, I wouldn't be here, I'd be on the slopes of Ireland or Scotland paying the UK's exorbitant 40% taxes, digging potatoes from the soil, and dancing jigs and reels without moving my arms. If there were no immigrants, I'd be out of a job, as many of my students' parents came here from Mexico. Furthermore, I don't believe for a moment that anyone is taking any job that any native-born American wants. But I digress... Not that long ago, a protest called "Day Without An Immigrant" was staged in which immigrants stayed home one day from work to show people the value of immigrants working in our society, and that they provide vital services that the country can't run well without. Well, I don't dispute that, but I think that the day-to-day life of upwardly mobile 30 somethings like me is run from hidden centers of power not by immi

Think that's my rapper name? Well, let me tell you a little story. En route to Saturday School on Saturday, I became involved in the backwash from this . When two people are killed by a drunk driver, it really bungs up Central Expressway, as well it should, I suppose. The ensuing traffic glut took THREE hours to get out of. Not only did I have to navigate the jam with my carpooling matey, but our battery also died in the middle of it. Thank God I live in Texas, where you can always count on a truck-drivin' bubba to come along momentarily and rescue you. And, bless him, one did and had the car jumped within about a minute. But on we sat. And inched up. And sat. And inched up. And watched people drive the wrong way up the on ramp to get out of it. And watched people look at their watches time and again. And called our bosses to say we weren't going to be in. And sat. And it occurred to me that I had to go. So I thought I'd try to wait. But on we sat. And inched u

Click of keys and wail of song Working out whatever's wrong Throwing open my heart's door May they blaze on forevermore (Sure, you can get it tattooed on yourself somewhere in Gothic letters. No problem.)

Not to be an oldster hipster, but I do seek new stuff. Occasionally, it brings me joy. Maybe it can joy you too. In ABC order: Cheeseburger So throwback and ridiculously rock star, it's delightful. It's been done, but it's still fresh. How, I don't know. Louis XIV Sex, sex, sex. Let's keep that between me and you, ok? Piebald I'm still investigating, but things look promising. Ian Moore Bluesy deliciousness. Each new song I hear, I can't believe how beautiful and heart-capturing it is. Dandelion. I think he has short hair now. Now have fun matching the pics and the descriptions! (Having said that, I still burn candles at the altars of Corgan and Reznor on alternate Thursdays.) -------- A wedding salad: lettuce alone. (Ok, maybe you've heard it. I hadn't. But it was good.)

The pugcupine is rumoured not to exist, but know all ye by these presents that I removed about the FIFTH black pugcupine quill from deep within the skin of the sole of my right foot as it was burrowing deeper and deeper. Deceptive are these quills, for they look like single regular black dog hairs, but somehow they penetrate into the skin as I shamble about here shoeless in this pseudo-redneck dwelling like the sort of hick that I am. Sure, I could stop the madness by just wearing shoes around here, but that is nigh unthinkable. Just keep in mind that the ancestors of the hound shown here once had truck with quilled rodents. They MUST have done.

When creation'd barely got its legs Applesauce with nuts and eggs.

You scored as The Hazel . In Celtic astrology, you're a Hazel. The animal symbol that accompanies this tree is the salmon. The ancient Druids say Hazel people are creative, artistic, expressive, imaginative and perceptive. They often make good teachers. However, Hazels may be prone to being overly analytical, morose or preoccupied in their own thoughts. The Hazel 80% The Rowan 80% The Hawthorn 60% The Birch 60% The Ash 60% The Elder 60% The Oak 60% The Ivy 60% The Reed 60% The Vine 60% The Alder 50% The Holly 50% The Willow 30% What Tree Are You? (Celtic astrology) created with QuizFarm.com

Section 59.287 Materials used in burrito construction must be sufficient to contain bean, meat and cheese loads up to 1.78 lbs. as determined by the Texas Department of Burrito Filling Weights and Measures. Section 59.288 Burrito construction teams (at Taco Bell, Taco Bueno, or the like) must remain mindful of the high probability that end user of said burrito will likely be snarfing said foodstuff down at speeds of 45 mph or greater. Section 59.289 Pursuant to Section 59.288, burritos, in addition to being constructed of tortilla (or shingling) outer covering of at least .0599 inch thickness, should also be centered in a paper holding device of sufficient thickness to contain spills of superheated filling goo, should said outer covering fail. At no time should the tortilla (or shingling) outer covering rupture, pooping said goo in smelly driblets upon the user's shirt like hot, steaming, chili-flavored scat from a burrito bird.* Section 59.290 Pursuant to Sections 59.287, 59.288

Driving today (why do SO many posts start like that? I DRIVE TOO MUCH!), I saw this brilliant solution to all our Middle East problemos, articulated in seconds by a piece of sticky vinyl affixed to the back window of a pickup. I couldn't get a crappy cellphone picture in time, so I had to use my mad Paintskillz to recreate this piece of Americana for y'all. Somewhat guiltily, I have to admit it had a certain lizard-brain , barbaric charm on some hickass level. I like to think that my cerebellum rapped the medulla oblongata (or wherever such cavewoman sentiments stem from) soundly. In any case, the thought went away. The laughing didn't, though. Can you imagine the pacifist violence that would erupt in response to this if you were driving this truck in California or somewhere? A rock through the windshield or a lead pipe beating would be prescribed to drum up the lost compassion in your sick, Southern, Bush-loving heart. Besides, it's not gas yet. It's just sweet, sw

I wink you or you wink me we trade some stupid pleasantry we choose some place at which to dine sip bucking stars or glug some wine then at this dump we laugh and smile words flit and jump fling pearls to swine and swiftly then like some black hex you disappoint i holler, "Next!"