and other dirty laundry
At bedtime I asked my daughter if she was an herbivore. She confirmed what “herbivore” means and replied in the negative.
So I asked if she was a carnivore. She thought for a moment and confidently said, “Yes, I think so because I like Spam!”
Some time last year my boss asked all the teachers to fill out a questionnaire for fun. It’s about all our favorite things, like favorite book, favorite food, etc. One of the questions was ‘favorite store’. I wrote: Trader Joe’s and Costco.
When I submitted my answers to her, she read that and looked at me with this look on her face like she’s seeing the weirdest creature on earth, and that she isn’t sure if she’s amused, amazed, scared, concerned, or disgusted. And she asked in disbelief: “Trader Joe’s and Costco???
Got this through email.
George Bush has a heart attack and dies. He goes to Hell where the Devil is waiting for him.
“I don’t know what to do,” says the Devil. “You’re on my list but I have no room for you. But you definitely have to stay here, so I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ve got three people here who weren’t quite as bad as you. I’ll let one of them go, but you have to take their place. I’ll even let YOU decide who leaves.”
George thought that sounded pretty good so he agreed.
The Devil opened the first room. In it was Richard Nixon and a large pool of water. He kept diving in and surfacing empty handed over and over and over, such was his fate in Hell.
“No!” George said. “I don’t think so. I’m not a good swimmer and I don’t think I could do that all day long.”
The Devil led him to the next room. In it was Tony Blair with a sledgehammer and a room full of rocks. All he did was swing that hammer, time after time after time.
“No! I’ve got this problem with my shoulder. I would be in constant agony if all I could do was break rocks all day!” commented George.
The Devil opened a third door. In it, George saw Bill Clinton lying naked on the floor with his arms staked over his head and his legs staked in spread-eagle pose. Bent over him was Monica Lewinsky, doing what she does best.
Bush looked at this in disbelief for a while and finally said, “Yeah, I can handle this.”
The Devil smiled and said, “You’re free to go, Monica!”
The other day my 7-year old son got into our car after school all upset. When I asked what happened, he only said that he didn’t want to talk about it yet.
I told him that that’s fine, but my 4-year old daughter kept pestering him to tell.
I asked my daughter to give him space, and to be patient, because he will tell us when he’s ready.
Her response: “No, I wanna know now. I don’t want to wait because then I’ll get old and I’ll die.”
Why does this article make me think of third world countries? It’s so maddeningly embarrassing I can hardly say anything.
What a sham, what a shame.
Because I read so much.
I love reading. Reading is so educational.
This is the latest eye-opening material. Read it yourself.
It taught me everything from geography, anthropology, theology, and biology.
What more could I ask for?
The end. (Now you’re smarter than a 5th grader, too!).
Sorry, I laughed so hard when I read the story that I couldn’t help mess with it. Hope you have as much fun!
I’m a fan of Annie, so a friend brought up the controversy of late, noting that I “should see the picture [myself], and bear in mind that the girl is only 15.”
Well, I just did, and the big deal is completely lost in me. It’s a beautiful photograph worthy of Annie’s other famous shots. It reminds me of cherubs from the Baroque period; no bedroom scene like some people claim.
A few years from now, when we’re free from this groupthink brouhaha, we’ll hopefully recognize the artwork for what it is: another ahead-of-its-time masterpiece. Just like how it happened with Annie’s other once-upon-a-time scandalous magazine covers.
What a wonderfully written insight by Amelia Rawls, published in Thursday’s Washington Post. It’s given me hope about the future generation and compelled me to look the writer up.
I hope she continues her service to humanity, at the very least by writing more such illuminating and thoughtful pieces.
I’ve wanted to have my own blog for a while. I looked up a whole bunch of IDs on both Blogger and WordPress about a year ago, but my favorite ones had been taken, even if they weren’t being used.
I finally made the jump when my 4-year old daughter called me “forgetty pants.”
She was upset because I kept forgetting to get her milk, so with her trademark pout on, she mumbled the magic name, and this blog was born.
