I was going to post more this week but I’m in West Texas with my family and my sister is here too with all her kids and we’re in one small house with 8 people, one shower and too many goats and it’s very distracting.
I was going to write yesterday but then my cousin showed up and she wanted us to relive our childhood memories so we ended up going to the whorehouse. True story. There’s an awesome picture of us at the whorehouse in full whore regalia that would fit here perfectly but it’s on my sister’s camera and she can’t find the cord to download it so this shitty post is all her fault. Then we went to the bar next door and the bartender showed us where the underground tunnels to the whorehouse used to be and then he introduced us to his dad at the bar and his dad started to going on about how hot the bartender’s mom was and then he shook his head and angrily said “But I FUCKED THAT ALL UP” and I couldn’t stop laughing because this is my home, y’all.
Then we went back to my parents house and my dad was all “Well, no one got molested today so I’d say it was a success”. And it’s hard to argue with that for many reasons.
But if you need a fix of weird and can’t wait till I have pictures you should go read my latest advice column about whether it’s okay to watch those shows on TLC about limbless people and dwarves who look like trees or todays (relatively safe for work) sex column about stuff I wonder about porn stars, which are both totally new this morning because I am a professional.
PS. My mom wanted me to clarify that the goats are outside. They don’t live here in the house with us. I’m not sure why I have to clarify that but then I re-read this post and I guess that goats sleeping at the foot of our beds wouldn’t be that strange comparatively. So yeah, the goats don’t live in the house with us.
PPS. Victor stayed home so if you try to break in to our house you will get a lot of dirty clothes and an assfull of samurai sword.
PPPS. Spellcheck is trying to convince me “assfull” is not a real word.
PPPPS. Okay, there’s now a goat in the house. Or maybe a small pony. Something very loud and clompy. I’m just going to stay in my room until it’s gone. I swear to God I am having such childhood flashbacks right now. Except that my kid is out there so I feel a little bad about hiding in my old bedroom but I think those are happy screams so it’s probably all good. Or possibly my next post will be very tragic.
PPPPPS. The screams have died down and I hear giggling and running. I suspect my father just dumped a bag of live ducklings on the living room floor for the grandkids to chase down. This is exactly what happened last time we were here. It’s sad when shit like this becomes old hat.
Updated PPPPPPS. Okay, here’s the picture of us at the whorehouse. To get it we had to take a photo of my sister’s camera screen with her cell phone and then email it to another one and then save it to the laptop and now I have cancer. I hope you’re all happy.
PPPPPPPS. Photo credit to the girl with magnificent cleavage at the whorehouse who just yelled at me in the comments section even though I have cancer.
PPPPPPPPS. Fine. I don’t really have cancer.
PPPPPPPPPS. Okay, I might have cancer. Or the flu. Feels like a cold.
Weirdly educational comment of the day: What you REALLY need to know is that when you use the term “old hat,” you’re really saying “vagina.” Actually, “old used vagina.” PROOF: http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=old+hat ~ Miss Rosa