Don't believe me? Listen to this:

Pretty bad, huh? (I almost didn't include the actual video, since the bits of movie dialog distract from the pure lethargic awfulness of the song, but jesus christ look at that saxohphone player's hair!)

Next, one that really pains me, because I'm actually sort of a pro-Rick Springfield type of guy. But I can't really support him on this one:

Actually, it's pretty hard to forgive Springfield for that video in general. It's kind of a shame, because shorn of its awful 80's production, there's actually a pretty good bridge in there.

Finally, there's Men At Work:

This one really isn't a very good song at all, which didn't stop me from loving this band to death when I was 9 years old.

  This is like THE most important post (at least to me) that I'll I've posted so far. OK I'm a huge converse fan, particularly Chuck Taylors. I'm also a huge blue fan, it's my favorite color right next to black. I own a pair of all black chucks and a pair of originals BUT I have yet to buy a pair of blue chucks. Around June or July 2008(don't know the exact date) Converse released a new Chuck Taylor. Unfortunately I don't know the name so you'll have to go off the description. They are blue and have a pocket on the outside of each shoe, and in each pocket there's a little blue flag (OMG!) I almost dies when I saw this shoe. Well of course I was broke at the time and could purchase but I kept saying (I'm gonna get them) So here it is August 29th and I had made plans to head of to journey's next week and get them. I went in the store today you know just to check them out, and they were no where to be found. I thought back to the black and white plaid (also not released too long ago) and thought "I guess there sold out like the others" So I thought "alright guess I'll just have to buy them offline, no bi deal just takes a little longer". Went up to one of the workers and ask "What happened to the blue chucks w/ the flag?" I got the worst news like EVER (in regards to shoes) the words slipped out like venom "OH they were recalled"....RECALLED!!!!! and do you know WHY they were recalled?!?!?! GANG VIOLENCE WTF (CHILDREN PLEASE STOP RUNNING AROUND WITH FLAGS AND GUNS AND RUINING MY DREAM OF OWNING THE BEST PAIR OF CHUCKIES I'VE BEEN BLESSED TO SEE IN MY LIFE!) Why is the world against me???

Anyway the real point of this is to say ANYONE WHO EITHER:

• Know's the name of the shoe

• Know's of somewhere I can find the shoe

• Has a picture of the shoe

• Is willing to give up a pair of the shoes (for a price of course)

• Or just ANYTHING related to the shoe PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE contact me

I'm going to OVERLOAD this post with keywords because I HAVE to OWN those shoes (not really but it's make my year :) ) So yeah come on ppl do your community service and get those shoes to me

pEaCe

clique na imagem para ampliar

"Se o Conde quer sapatos novos, ele terá sapatos novos. Nem que para isso tenha que calçar demônios nos pés."

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Aí está. Passei o dia debruçado em cima dessa folha de papel. Foram algumas horas, mas ainda não é jazz. Gostei do resultado. Valeu a pena. Até segunda.

Barack Obama’s run for the presidency has launched many different grassroots campaigns. The most interesting may be the revival of the Grateful Dead.

I am told that on Oct. 13, possibly either in Philadelphia or Pittsburgh, the Dead will get back together for at least one show to raise money for and awareness about Obama.

All four living original members will play together — Bob Weir, Mickey Hart, Phil Lesh and Bill Kreutzmann. The band's leader, Jerry Garcia, died in 1995 from a heart attack.

Substituting for Garcia will be Allman Brothers and Gov't Mule master musician Warren Haynes.

If all goes well, my sources say, the band will then set out on a major tour in summer 2009.

FOXNews.com - Grateful Dead Back Together for Obama - Celebrity Gossip | Entertainment News | Arts And Entertainment.

ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME!!!??? Excuse the censored curse word, but honestly. My hero, my guiding light, MY GRANDMOTHER [God rest her soul] was the biggest Grateful Dead fan on the planet. In her youth, she would travel to all their shows. She was in love with Jerry. For Christ sake, she had the freaking dancing bear stickers on her car until the day she died. She kept 2 pictures by her bed - The Pope and Jerry Garcia. Not to mention her "Dead Head" wall, which had pictures of Jerry and all the family members who had passed on. So, needless to say, it sickens me that the group would even consider thinking about getting back together WITHOUT JERRY! It just doesn't make sense. HE was the Grateful Dead. Period. GOD I am fuming. It is funny because the article says "substituting for Garcia" - like he is out on mental health issues for the time being. UGH.

I am going to take this opportunity to apologize to my Grandmother, who is in heaven above, for using the Lord's name in vain - several times. BUT SHE UNDERSTANDS - TRUST ME!

UUGGHHH... what is this world coming to?

Take a good hard look people. Now, avert your eyes from the cute pooch to the FREAKING GIGANTIC MOTH on the ground. Good lord. It looks like some sort of small bird. I nabbed this photo from my good ole' friend Matt from Dead Man! Photography. And incase you are wondering - yes, he found that thing at his house! EEEEEKKKK... Matt does not live to far from me - which makes me worried if I could possibly find a creature like this at my own place? What would I do? Surly I would not have my barrings about me enough to grab any of my cameras.... I would probably run around, freaking out, and leave until Peter caught it and took it out of my sight. Yes people. I am all girl. Here is a close up for you people with more guts than me!

thanks to flip flop flying for this deliciousness

If I asked you who Mario Lavandeira was, most of you probably wouldn’t know… But if I asked you who Perez Hilton was, the response would be almost immediate. Just like I did a breakdown of how Guy Kawasaki uses his name for branding power, Mario Lavandeira has done the same… but in this case, without using his “real” name.

Everywhere you look, you see Perez Hilton somewhere… in addition to his power house blog, he’s always on TV (whether it be his own show, or a guest appearance)… but now he’s moving his name into his fashion, cosmetic and music. So where did this Perez Hilton come from and how in just three years did his blog become so popular (and help make blogging popular in the process)? As reported by Wire Magazine… here’s how Mario Lavandeira went from an unemployed fame-obsessed loner, to a celebrity super blogger that can rake in over $50,000 a day!

Super Affiliate Tips from Super Affiliate Zac Johnson - Let the Reign Begin!.

Ao perceber que o aparelho que usa para se locomover poderia danificar o assento que ocupava, perguntou à tripulação se poderia usar um assento mais adequado às suas condições. O engenheiro foi transferido para um assento da frente do aparelho. Instantes depois, um outro passageiro embarcou, e questionou sobre o assento que o engenheiro ocupava.

O assento era supostamente do outro passageiro. O engenheiro tentou argumentar que estava ali por ser portador de deficiência, mas não conseguiu convencer o outro passageiro, que insistia em exigir seu assento. Quando o outro passageiro finalmente decidiu dar a famosa carteirada, dizendo que o funcionário do PIM não sabia com quem estava falando, o engenheiro precisou esclarecer que tinha mestrado, e que aquele argumento não funcionava com pessoas cientes de seus direitos.

O bate-boca que se seguiu foi testemunhado por vários outros passageiros do vôo, e acabou com a Polícia Federal sendo acionada para resolver o impasse. Depois de cobrar explicações sobre o que ocorria, os policiais orientaram o ministro dos Transportes, Alfredo Nascimento, a ocupar outro assento que estivesse disponível no vôo.

Alfredo "Sabe Com Quem Está Falando" Nascimento veio de Brasília até Manaus num assento nos fundos do avião.

Every week, Monday through Friday, at 7:30am, we are both undoubtedly on our way to work or whatever commitments we have in the morning. More often than not, we probably take  the same beginning route - down the ghastly congested and construction ridden street of Brookhurst. Today's route, like every other days route, was slow and meandering, and something we commuters have learned to deal with.

So, I was a bit surprised when your surly ass started tailgating me from Warner to McFadden. We all deal with traffic. It is part of life. However there is not excuse to tailgate someone who is a) going the speed limit (so relax) and b) has 1,000 or so cars in front of her. Where did you want me to go? And if the answer to that is NOWHERE, then where were you going to go?

I especially got a kick out of our little ordeal when you saw your opening, sped up, nearly took off my side view mirror, and then cut me off. Your reckless driving skills astounded me. What was even better was that you had to come to a screeching halt before you hit the guy in front of you who was stopped at the red light. I really hope, by cutting me off, that you gained the half a second you needed. That half a second makes all the difference when traveling to a destination (dripping in UTTER sarcasm). Oh, and thanks for making eye contact with me in your side view mirror and laughing. Classy and considerate - two qualities you undoubtedly possess (again with the sarcasm).

Well, Mr. White Pickup, I hope you made it to your destination on time - because I did. Obviously, you were in so much more of a hurry than any of us could have anticipated and I am truly sorry for getting in your way (again, SARCASM).

Sincerely,

Me.

Apparatus:
A single swinging rope hanging from an unknown part of the sky.

Theory:
At the bottom of the bottomless pit  :D  lies all manner of pain and ugliness. On the other side lies the closest thing one can find to happiness.

Note:For true happiness, one must give up one's material possessions and live the life of a Buddhist monk with a shaved head, dressed in a saffron rag in a mud hut bang in the middle of the Siachen glacier.

Procedure:
1. Pray a little before you begin.
2. Stand 10 feet from the ledge of the bottomless pit.
3. Wait for the swinging rope to come as possible to the edge of the abyss.
4. Take a running leap and grab hold of the oscillating rope just as it begins to swing back to wherever the hell it came from.
5. Ride it safely to the other side.

Result:
Happiness and satisfaction...or the closest one can get to it without actually giving up one's Ferrari (see theory).

Precautions:
1. Time your leap such that you don't drop into the abyss thereby sentencing yourself to burn for all eternity.
2. Do nothing to stimulate the sweat glands during the duration of the journey.
3. Do NOT look down or to the northeast.

Note: To the northeast lies the entire cast of Bay watch Hawaii.

Sources of Error:
1. One may make the mistake of reading this experiment.

Just to recap on the rules:

• You punch random questions/sentences/symbols into Google.
• Sometimes Google directs you to my blog.
• You are amazed and astounded.
• You may or may not come back again.
• My blog makes a list of all of your visits using your phrases or questions.
• I read them every week because I am anal like that.
• I pick out the ones I like and attempt to answer/randomly gibber about them.

I stole the idea from Anna Pickard at Little Red Boat, whose blog is on my blog roll or here.

Bevchen who is also a blogger at Confuzzledom, sometimes indulges in it too.  You can find her here, doing that very thing.

So (cracks fingers like ace world war one pianist about to begin mission), here goes.  Bear with me.  It might be a bit rusty this week.

Are scrofles itchy?

To be honest, when I talked to you about scrofles (here) I thought I had made up the word scrofles all by my rown.  I was incredibly proud of myself.  I thought, in between thinking about how much my fucking head itched, that I might write a nice letter to those jolly people at the OED and suggest that they put the word scrofles in their next tome, entitled S to T (Scrofles to Trombones) and put a small picture of me, smiling in tights, right next to it.  Now I find that either I have invented it at the same time as someone else who is clearly suffering from something similar, or that the word already exists and I have merely appropriated it.  I am quite sad about this.

Because I potentially invented the word, I have no idea if there are indeed, non-imaginary scrofles, whether they are in fact itchy.  All I can say is, my scrofles were very, very itchy indeed.  They are no longer itchy.  I am, it seems, scrofle free.  I suggest ringing the editor of 'Scrofulous Weekly: First for Scrofles' and having a chat with him.

How can I make myself go into labour?

Your best bet is to really not want to go into labour.  That would work.  Try booking a slot climbing Everest and doing it whilst wearing stout support tights, some kind of body stocking and an inconvenient harness.  I bet you a fiver you'll be hanging off an escarpment in minus forty when your water's break, miles from the nearest hospital.  Other options include:

Starting a new job in which it is crucial you attend this training course or the job might as well be in Swahili without subtitles. You will be in labour as soon as the squeaky pen hits the whiteboard to write the facilitator's name.

Having your house redecorated and having to live out of a suitcase on bare boards with only a futon and a can opener for company.  As soon as the workmen have severed a water pipe, turned off the gas and gone away for a bank holiday weekend, you will go into labour.

Taping all the episodes of your favourite programme and waiting to watch them all in the same day.  Just when the cliff hanger starts in the very last programme is also an excellent time to be rushed to hospital.  You will have to be prized from the sofa, screaming blue murder.  As you exit for the labour ward, someone will then tape over the last episode.

How to have a good sleepover.

• Free valium for the under tens and over thirties.
• Poking your eyes out with a stick, whilst simultaneously bursting both ear drums with bent coathangers.
• Only having sleepovers for new mothers, without children in tow.
• Having them at other people's houses.
• Free bottle of gin for every child.
• Making sure you play, let's all be mummies using masking tape just before bedtime.

Shouting at shrews.

This seems rather unfair.  Shrews are generally fairly harmless creatures that bimble about fainting of shock every time a bumble bee farts.  They have weak hearts, chronic anxiety and probably flatulence.  They have really, really pointy noses, and no access to NHS plastic surgeons.  Shrews have a bum deal all things considered.  What do you want to shout at them for?  Why don't you pick on someone your own size? Unless of course you are a highly intelligent shrew octogenarian who wishes to shout abuse at the feckless shrew youths of today, hanging out by dandelions, spitting and kicking daisies whilst being rude to their mothers'.  In which case, more power to your shrew elbow and invest in a tiny shrew megaphone.  You can order them online from www.shoutyshrews.com or make one out of a hollowed out conker shell.

What do you feed a wounded pigeon?

Oxtail soup on a small, silver salt spoon.  All wounded creatures, large or small, need soup.  Just ask our resident experts Trude 'I love shrews' Mostue and Bill 'I fart on your scoma vole' Oddie.  Bill in fact, has his own range of soups for the wounded animal in your life.  They come in twenty handy flavours and three ranges, for the carnivore, the herbivore and the omnivore.  He makes the ones for the carnivore and omnivore out of the remains of the wounded animals which no soup on earth could save.  He feels that this is a boon to environmentalism and is what the animals would have wanted.  The most popular soup in the range is 'Shrew and watermelon' a cold, summer soup, similar to Gazpacho, served with toasted shrews heads as croutons.  Badgers in particular go mad for this variety.  Pigeons have shown a preference for 'Sunflower with a hint of ready salted crisp and essence of pavement'.

Constipated and out of breath.

That's probably all the trapped pooh in you pushing its way to the surface. It has nowhere else to go and is eventually going to burst out of your oesophagus like a tape worm chasing a bit of bacon sandwich on a string.  What you need is a sink plunger and a trusty friend.  I suggest hazmat clothing as a precaution and a confidentiality agreement.  This comes under the classification: 'Things that shall never be mentioned between us again.'

Side effects of eating asparagus.

• You start singing; 'Bette Davis Eyes' by Kim Carnes but with the line: 'She's got some asparagus thighs' over and over and over again until you are driven insane and have to be carted off to a mental hospital, howling and clawing at the moon.
• You develop a fondness for pachyderms and insist on swapping your family car for a camel.  You ride it to work every morning and change your mobile ring tone to; 'Alice the Camel has two humps'.
• Your feet swell to three times their regular size and smell of watermelon and digestive biscuits.
• You rush out and buy a sheepdog called Stan who you train to herd together all the staff at your local post office and keep them in the sorting office while you rifle through the mail looking for birthday cards with fivers in, so that you can flee the country and go and live in Sri Lanka.  You will go native and join the Tamil Tigers in their fight for freedom.  Stan will pine away without you and the RSPCA will put a warrant out for your arrest should you ever decide to re-enter the country.

Hazardous occupation, eating asparagus.

Furniture eating cats

I shouldn't worry too much about this.  The only breed of cat left in the world which enjoys eating furniture habitually is the purebred Persian.  It's why they always look slightly constipated and a bit evil.  Burmese have been known to have a nibble on a pouffe every now and again, but this can easily be avoided by using footstools.  Persians are very fussy.  They loathe Ikea furniture because they despise the taste of the fjords.  Their preference is for early Chippendale or Louis Quinze.  They will tolerate Jacobean, although not if it has been touched by Mr. Sheen.  They detest knotty pine and will only eat sideboards if all the occasional tables are gone.

How am I in Bed? Well, this quiz seems to say that I'm pretty fantastic. Though, I don't understand the 50% virgin thing. I mean, you either are or you aren't. There aren't really any percentages to virginity.

How are you in bed created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as A Romantic. You're a romantic through and through. You may not ever have very many partners, but it's ok. You know that it's about the person who you're having it with, and that the sex is more of a fun biproduct - a very fun biprodict. You know how to make your partner happy, and that's what it's all about. A Romantic 73% Sex God 70% A Slave To BDSM 68% Virgin 50%

What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!) created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as MermaidMermaid: Mermaids are also known as Sirens. These creatures were beautiful women who tricked sailors into becoming completely entranced by their haunting voices and found death soon after. Not all stories of Mermaids are about gentle loving sea people. They are mystical, magical, and extremely dangerous. They have a way about them that brings anyone they are around to seem enchanted. They are very mysterious creatures and to meet one... Would mean certain Death. Let the song of the Sea fill your soul, for you are a Mermaid. Mermaid 84% Demon 67% WereWolf 59% Dragon 58% Faerie 58% Angel 25%

 

All of my high school buddies would find the Mermaid result very funny. Oy.

Think you could conquer the U.S. Bank and stair climb it's 75 flights of stairs? (1500 steps to be exact) Help YMCA promote healthy lifestyles and challenge disease as you battle the tallest building West of the Mississippi. If you make it to the top you'll be rewarded with limitless beer for a year! Fo Realz! Register now at Elevators are for Wimps! Training is being offered by my boy Mervous (aka Paul) just ask for him at the Y.

"Who's with me?"

- iDOL

I have had an evil genius lightbulb moment.

In order to back up my terrible fib of this morning that the tooth fairy was too overworked and/or possibly ill to take Tilly's tooth away I have come up with a genius plan.  Well, actually it was Andrea's, but I have appropriated it and taken all the credit.  Mwahahahaaaaahhhhaaa etc.

I rang Andrea to confess, and to see if she still wanted to have lunch with such a terrible mother as me.  She said yes, because a) I'm not her mother, b) it's an excuse to eat cake and get away from the dusty confines of work (she would even consider lunch with Pol Pot if it meant cake.  And fair play to her.  That's what I say.  What is genocide and mental instability compared to free cake when you think about it?) and c) she only has cows as her children and as far as I'm aware there is not a cow tooth fairy, so it's not such a big deal.

She suggested that I stick with the 'Cough Cough, I was too ill' theory of tooth fairy trickery, and that a grovelling fairy note might do the trick.

I however, cannot write the note, because my hand writing is clearly mummy hand writing and not poorly tooth fairy handwriting, which will of course, once detected blow the gaffe wide open.

Frankly, I ain't doin' no bird, for the sake of teeth and their magical ways.

So.  I have decided that as it was Andrea's idea, that she will collude with me.  I have forced her into conspiring with me in my evil web of lies and deceit.

Here is the plan so far:

• We scope out the area, using Ordnance Survey maps, pen lights and compasses.  Andrea is in charge of compasses because I can't read them.  Andrea is in charge of maps because I read them upside down.  I am in charge of pen lights.  I am good at torches.
• We dress in appropriate attire.  In this case, full dental face masks, gowns and surgical gloves with bicycle lights attached to our heads.  Andrea is in charge of costumes, because she works in a lab and can get hold of such things.  I supply bicycle lights.  I know where the bike shop is.  I have plastic.  I am good at lights AND torches.
• We creep about aimlessly, giggling like a pair of loons, pretending that we are fourteen again, and are cutting up a bull's eyeball with a blunt scalpel and no surgical skills whatsoever.  We howl when the lens from the eye pops out and skids under the benches and is retrieved covered in bits of fluff.  We are suitably chastised by the biology teacher.  That is the end of our careers as biologists.  We come out of our sepia reverie and get on with being evil tooth fairy geniuses.
• We creep into a card shop and frisk the shelves furtively for suitably tooth fairy like notelets, stationery, cards etc.  I am in charge of this because it is my fault we are here in the first place, and I have plastic.
• We retire to the restaurant of our choice where we abandon all pretence at being spies and turn into gluttons, flicking food around and mucking about in a busy manner, fitting as much lunch into our faces as we can.
• When we are finished we wipe our greasy mitts and Andrea grasps the pen that I have provided (not a black biro, because I am allergic to those as my friend Bev knows)  She writes.  I dictate.  She is in charge of handwriting because she writes much more like a fairy than me.  Plus, I have promised that if she ever needs a magical note writing for one of her cows, I will be first in line.  I am in charge of dictation because it was my fault in the first place, and because if there is one thing I am good at other than food, it is words.
• We try not to get butter on the envelope.  We part company at the bus stop and vow never to speak of these things again. You ain't seen me right?!
• I go home and try not to a) lose the envelope b) spend the fairy funds and c) fall asleep before the witching hour.
• Job's a good'un

As long as Tilly doesn't read this blog before she is a grown up.  Thank the lord for parental controls.

No. Do not tune out.  This is still the blog of the grumpiest mother in the entire universe.  I am still woefully glass half fucking empty with a dead fly in it and weird lipstick marks all over it.  BUT! BUT! Good things have happened:

My new blogging friend Almost Mrs Average, whose very inspiring, funny (and I might add, humbling) blog, The Rubbish Diet you can find here  (and on my blogroll) has given me an award for being a good blogger!  This is fantastic, particularly as her blog is all about reducing rubbish and being friendly and my blog is all about creating rubbish and spewing vitriol through the interwebular airwaves.  I think I must be Mrs A's evil alter ego!

This reminded me that one of my other blogging friends Arkay, whose blog you can find here (and on my blog roll) also gave me an award recently, which you can see here.  Now, I am notorious for being the albatross of doom when it comes to winning things.  Jason won't take me with him to the casino because I can kill a winning streak dead from a half mile radius.  The last time I won something was my mile swimming badge in 1987 and you can't really call it winning because I actually swam a mile rather than have Keith Chegwin appearing on my doorstep to randomly award it to me.  So you can see how exciting it all is to be suddenly showered with awards from nice people.

The essence of catnip I put in every word of my blog must be working.  Saj tells me that she is officially hooked.  This is very bizarre.  We only live ten miles away from each other, but we rarely get to see each other, yet she knows all the ins and outs of my life intimately! I think she prefers the virtual me! I am less shouty on the page, although my grammar and punctuation are less erratic in real life.  This morning she has already sent me a text.  It says, and I quote: 'Write woman write.'

My hair now looks like hair.  I officially have a hair do, instead of a hair don't.  My mother came over on an emergency babysitting, hair pity jag last night and sat with the kids for two hours while I rushed off to be highlighted to within an inch of my life.  May I say at this point how much I love my mother.  Yesterday morning I rang her and I was trying to be brave about the fact that my dreams of freedom and hair had disappeared down the toilet, but I fear a slight wobble must have entered my voice.  This was when she announced her intention to babysit, which was brilliant, but not only that, she said: 'I will call you at twelve, when I get in from work, just to make sure that you're still the right way up and that you haven't killed yourself or anyone else.'  How cool is that?  She didn't say it in a judgy voice.  She just accepted the fact that her daughter was a deranged, hair obsessed maniac and decided that she needed checking on.  I hope I grow up to be as cool a mother as that.

Anyway, back to hair.  I now look like a human being.  More importantly I now feel like a human being.  I know it's ridiculous, but having reasonable hair is a kind of emotional anchor point for me and I feel I would have coped with pooh in my flour sifter a lot more rationally and calmly than I did if my roots had been dealt with beforehand.  Psychologically that's quite worrying I expect.  You may even be able to get pills for it.  Nevertheless I feel much, much better today.

Of course, that much, much better may also be to do with the fact that Oscar is back up to fighting weight this morning, which he announced by rippling his bottle along the cot bars and shouting: 'Mama! OWWWWTTT!' at the top of his fat little lungs at eight o'clock this morning.  When I went in to see him he announced that he had had a dream.  I asked what he had dreamed about and he said: 'Monst! Aaaargh! Hidin''  I asked where the monster was hiding.  He looked exceedingly pleased with himself and said: 'In my pants!'

So.  There are no children in the house.  I came home from the school run.  I rang my mother.  I did not have to ring off to batter small children to death with my shoe.  I went to the toilet.  I was alone. It was a miracle.  I had a cup of coffee.  I read more about the strange French concierge.  The house is as silent as the grave.  All is well.  All manner of things are well.  Shortly I shall be leaving the house and going out, alone to have lunch with Andrea, alone.  We will eat cakes.  It will be good.

Oh yes! And the other thing that is lovely is that it is Jason and mine's (me's, I's?) first wedding anniversary next week.  This is very good indeed.  We have not organised anything as events in our lives are a bit chaotic at the moment.  We are not too fussed about this to be honest, as to begin with I thought it was in October! Jason at least got the month right, but we were both miles out on dates.  You can see we cherish these sorts of occasions! Anyway, Jason is buying me the picture that I want from the framing shop I frequent that has been on their wall since before Christmas, and which I keep going in to stare at wistfully in the hope that everyone else will hate it and not buy it, until I can miraculously purchase it with magic beans.  Today is that day.  He has furnished me with sufficient magic beans and I will go and get it.  Hoorah!  He's having some Mighty Boosh paraphernalia.  It's what he wants.  It makes him happy. That's got to be good.

Just so that you still remember that it's me we're talking about here, I will now embark upon a suitably Katyesque tale of woe.

On the down side, I have done an evil thing.  I am in 'nul points' territory on the mothering front and had to dig myself out of an almighty hole this morning.  I tried to cover my tracks, but I don't think I have succeeded very well.

Tilly got home from school yesterday afternoon with a tooth in her pocket.  She's had a loose molar for weeks and wouldn't pull it out.  Apparently, maths was quite boring yesterday which is what inspired her to reach into the gaping maw and pull out said molar in the middle of class.  Ewww! Anyway, she kept it in her fluffy coat pocket all day, and brandished it under my nose as soon as she was let out of school.  It was one of the top topics of conversation all yesterday evening as she was hoping that the tooth fairy would give her £2 instead of her usual £1 because it was a molar.  I said it was unlikely.  In fact, it was never going to happen in a million years, unless the tooth she extracted happened to be made out of diamonds, and it most definitely wasn't.

Unfortunately the tooth fairy was rather comatose last night and lay on the sofa watching How to Look Good Naked before falling asleep in a pile of spit and totally forgetting to do her tooth fairy duties.  Cue one distraught and gappy child this morning with quivering lip at the breakfast table.  I explained that the tooth fairy was probably inundated last night and simply hadn't had time to get round all the molars in one shift and that her molar would probably be top of its toothy list tonight.  God help us all.  I now need to write a note on my hand in indelible ink, in code.  Please God, let me remember what the code is before bedtime or there will be hell to pay in the world of fantasy dentistry and it will all be my fault!

lawlz0rs.

- j.

I heard about this, but never saw the actual video. Apparently K-Ci and JoJo were wasted as fuck (JoJo obviously way more). Damn this dude just smashed the stage, haha. K-Ci is cold blooded to just continue singing, haha. Wowzers.
- j.

I was born some time ago, coincidentally in the same day as my birthday. I was given a name no one had ever been given before, except for my namesakes. I was fed with milk and baby food, which didn't actually contain babies. When I started walking, I became a toddler, and a few years later I went to school, then back home, then back to school, then home again, several times, before I finally graduated. Sometimes in between I went to other places as well.

When I turned twenty, I quit being a teenager, and soon felt like having a girlfriend from the opposite sex. A few years later, I started dating my girlfriend, then engaged to my fiancée and finally married my wife. Fortunately, all three happened to be the same woman.

In between, I had started working at my job, where they pay me to do stuff. And recently, with the birth of my first child, I became a father of one. My wife has become a mother exactly the same day. I feel that whenever I die, my life in this earth will be over.

I have actually thought of writing useful information in this post, but now I have already published it.

If you're actually looking for something useful and funny, you'd better try here.

"I know this post is going to test the limits of my credibility with you, faithful Cake Wrecks readers, so here is the originating site, provided by Summer from TX, to prove I am not making this up.

First, the inspiration:

Which isn't bad, I guess, if you've got a Brave Heart kind of vibe going for your wedding. Certainly it's executed well.

Anyway, here is what the paid, "professional" baker provided:

Erm.

[glancing between the two photos]

It’s like seeing double, isn’t it? I mean, sure, the second one is collapsed in on itself, slumped over to one side, and channeling a bit more Bob Marley than William Wallace, but besides all that I’d say the decorator was bang on, wouldn’t you? Ok, ok, if you wanted to get picky about it, I guess that crack in the bottom – the one you can see the cake through? – that probably should have been iced over. Oh, and the red stripe might look a little nicer if it were one continuous line – or for that matter, if the line were straight. (Perhaps a little too much Red Stripe was consumed before icing the red stripe, eh? Eh? Come on, that was freakin’ hilarious, people: Bob Marley? Jamaican beer? Booya!)

Come to think of it, maybe that mass of squiggles in the mid section isn’t the best example of plaid I’ve ever seen, either. [tilting head to one side] Huh. Yeah. Ok, Summer, you got me: I can sort of see why the bride sued.

Cake Wrecks."

It is the paragraph after the pics that had me laughing out loud at work, calling all my co-workers over, and having them laugh hysterically back to their desks. Ugh. Too much laughing. SOOO FUNNY.

Till next time.

After starting up a blog for my friend Matt, I got the urge to start blogging again. With a new job, school on the horizon, and moving to the next building over next month, I haven't been more busy, so bloggin might be the outlet I am looking for... well, besides photography.

Till next time.