Excellent

Nothing could make me happier. Not even copious amounts of penis. Really. Stop muttering *yeah right" underneath your breath.

Funnily enough, during a recent conversation Shithead pointed out that the "Use This Womb for Free" card I gave you a few years back only has another half decade or so before it expires.

I'm old. When the fuck did that happen?



Around the same time I got old. Which was 21 days ago.

To be technical, it wasn't a "Use This Womb for Free" card that was given. It was a "Use This Womb And Then Pay For My Plastic Surgery" card. Six of one, half dozen of the other, but the offer was still extremely generous, wonderful and makes me tear up.

See, folks? She's not the cold hearted bitch she makes herself out to be...most of the time.

And why in the heck was Shithead pointing that out? Were you two having conversations about babies again? Am I going to be an aunt?

Calling the Fam for Hols Never Fails to Amuse

Quote for the day:

Hold on, I've got a Hummer coming up my ass
-Ma, Easter 2005

Somethings Never Change Category:

Date: January 1976
Impending event: Birth of The Antichrist Romakimmy
Dad is: Watching the Fighting Illini basketball game with the obsterician

Date: Easter Saturday 2005
Impending event: Catholic Mass with Grandma
Dad is: Watching the Fighting Illini basketball game on his cell phone

I cannot believe Grandma didn't give him a frack* upside the head. 'Mellowing out in her old age' doesn't even begin to describe it.

Oh and tell Dippy that she needs to A) call Grandma more often** B) arrange to get some calzone from Grams, else she runs the risck of a frack upside the head from me.

* Grandma's word. We believe it's slang for "fucking" + "smack"
** Yeah, I know. Like I'm one to talk





Hold on, I've got a Hummer coming up my ass -Ma, Easter 2005
You should have heard the conversation after we hung up. It went downhill (i.e. - the thud of a ball sac on a shoe?) very quickly. And of course, I blame you. ;)

What would you like to bet that New Stepmom(tm) was watching him obsess on the Illini and calling him "sweet muffin" whilst shooting daggers from her eyes? Boiled bunnies, indeed.

A) call Grandma more often
Sigh, I'll do my best. Still think that fits in the "two way street" and "parental guidance" cateogories.

B) arrange to get some calzone from Grams, else she runs the risck of a frack upside the head from me.
That made me snarf hot tea. But seriously...calzone! Whoo-hoo! I knew Lent was worth it. Now watch as the 15 pounds I lost comes back after eating just one slice of the delicious, artery-clogging goodness.

Do you think calzone travels well? It could be mistaken as a weapon, especially if frozen. At the risk of a long distance frack, though, I'll facillitate getting you your calzone.

Dad is: Watching the Fighting Illini basketball game with the obsterician
No wonder your head is shaped a little funny.

Please don't hurt me.

Speechless? Why, yes.

This quote wasn't what did it though.

It was the lack of a comma in

YOU HAVE A BABY?????? I ALMOST HAD HEART FAILURE!!! LOL LOL LOL!

that

• I.) caused me to rush back to the previous email I had sent, frantically wondering when I
  
  • A.) become pregnant
  • B.) written an email about it
  
  
• cringe thrice for AOL retard speak
• wince for the extra puctuation ontop of ALL CAPS SHOUTING.

Somebody please take the computer away from mother.

You'd Be So Proud

Had My First Wet Spot(tm) last week. And a subsequent one since.

Guess it's genetic.

*Sniff* I'm so proud. I'll send your complimentary rubber sheets back with Lil'est Sis.

Speaking of, do I still need the 2x4 or will a beating with wet fettucine followed by writing "I will not leave my own brain in storage will dating" suffice?

Back on the Wet Spot Thing, I'm thinking this genetic crapshoot is totally unfairbass-akwards.

You: Get older, get Wet Spots.
Me: Get older, get cramps.

What.The.Fuck.DNA?

Cramps are something one should have to learn to cope with during one's resiliant teenage years. What is this crampy shit at the age of twenty-mumble?! is it because I haven't used my womb for it's biological intent as of yet? Is this my biological clock attempting to train my womb for labour?

"And contract-2-3-4. Harder you pansy fuck! Contract-2-3-4."

If so, this is the wrooong way to try to get me to act on those biological urges. I'm more likely to perform a barehanded self hysterectomy than attempt to squirt out a few crotchlings.

Anywho I want details on the Wet Spot.

Yes, it seems a touch unfair, but I did have to deal with debilitating cramps up until a few years ago. Even now they come back with the knife-stabbingly pleasant sensation of feeling like my ovaries are being ripped from my body. Which, some days, doesn't seem like a bad thing...

But really, I think the cramps are there to remind us labor and the 18+ years of hell following are much, much worse. I'd take cramps any day.

And what's really to say about the Wet Spot? It was wet, it was a bit shocking, a bit embarrassing. But oh-so-much fun and satisfying. Le sigh.

P.S. - The Lil'est Sis is single for good now. Commence jumping up and down for joy.

In Honour of the Crack Monkey's Birthday

If I can't be there in person to help excaberate any latent lurking tendencies towards Severe Liver Abuse, I guess this is the next best thing.

Mwah. Happy 5th Annual 22nd Birthday*, sis.

Love,

The Sister Who Celebrated Her 5th Annual 25nd Birthday in January.

Please. Kill. Me. Now.

This freaking project is driving me to an early grave. At least there's free beer at the pre-party tonight.

Don't fret if I neglect to post or comment for the next few days. I am alive...probably.

While the Crack Monkey and I are lacadasically playing TAG!*...

...crack monkey's birthday is the 10th. She has apparently already started celebrations (Brava) and I fully expect her to continue them after the Annual Work Project That Spawned the Moniker 'Crack Monkey' is over, becasue as far as I'm concerned, it's not a birthday, it's a birthmonth.

* The Annual Work Project That Spawned the Moniker 'Crack Monkey' looms neigh and I too am swimming in a backload of Shite to Finish for Work. I dunno about you sis, but I find more and more grey hairs each day. Did Gramma F. go prematurely grey? I know Gramma S. didn't have a bloody grey hair on her head once she stop dying it red. And I think I saw my first wrinkle today.

*looks at work*

Now I know why I have grey hairs and (a) wrinkle.
Know anyone who has a couple of grand or twenty so I can start my own place? Gah.


Thanks for linking to that particular picture. One of my more shining moments...maybe. I've got to stop being such a silly monkey. I'm almost in my mid-to-late twenties (as opposed to just mids) for heaven's sake.

And I have no idea if Grams went prematurely grey, but with our uncles and dad, I wouldn't doubt it. Funny...she turns grey over kids, we turn grey over our jobs. Modern women rule.

Speaking of jobs, you can stick a fork in mine after the day I've had. The ulcer came back full swing after a shocking piece of news regarding the AE. No wonder wine is my friend. A good bottle of red is going down the hatch tonight, sans glass.

Sister dearest, I am working diligently on winning the lottery so we can both fulfill our fantasies. Yours - to own a [edit] chain across Europe. Mine - to clean your [edit] chain all across Europe. Now I've only to buy a lottery ticket. Small steps, cracky...small steps.

Excuse me while I go whimper in the corner now. (Please give a poke if the whimpering gets too loud.)

[edit] chain - sort of like Kinko's, but with little bespectacled ladies weilding viscous blood red pens against grammar and spelling errors instead of copy machines

Boy-oh-boy are we slackers or what?

We may need to get back on the ball, here, Miss Dictator...

So, here's a topic of discussion. I was given a stuffed monkey (that makes sounds!) for an early b-day present. At first I was going to name him Mr. Blond, after the Michael Madsen character in Resovoir Dogs. 'Cause he kinda looks like him. But, the new monkey has joined the stuffed dog as a sleeping companion (no emphuism, I swear), and the thought of sleeping with anything named either Michael Madsen or Mr. Blond is creeping me out. My dreams have involved chain-smoking, bananas and choppy plot lines. It's no bueno.

Help me name my monkey. And the dog, too, for that matter.

Monkey description: long arms, legs and fur, kind of smirk on his face, white tummy, medium brown fur, likes to say "Screeeeeeee-screeeeeeee!" quite a bit, mainly at inopportune times.
Dog description: size of a pillow, floppy ears, big feet, coffee colored, doesn't do much of anything except be perfectly squishable.

Fire away.