FOR THE (ANGLOPHOBE) HONEYBEE

Well, now....

In about an hour and a half (Eastern Standard Time--and, nope, I ain't know when she was birthed) my sister Melissa will be thirty-seven years young. I'm not sure exactly what time she was born in to this world, but, irregardless, tomorrow is the first of October and, thusly, it is my dear sister's birthday.

Wake the neighbourhood! Start the parties, but get into no rows! Please, if someone gets out of hand, kick him or her to the kerb.

This is about celebration. This is not about rowdiness.

Crack a Bass or a Watney's, enjoy a shepherd's pie. Pop an Altoids. Pretend your wristwatch is Big Ben. (Listen for the dongs.)

:-) Happy birthday, Melissa:

Workout--colour--everyday.

And:

Watch the kerb...irregardless, should of, her's, it's (in the wrong context), their they're and there (in the wrong contextuality), neighbourhood...eggs.

You're present, ma'am:

***SPOILER ALERT!***

I'm buying Meliss a box of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese for her birthday.

Shhhhh....

DOGS AND ROLLERBLADES

So, see, the thing is, I really haven't been Rollerblading as much as I ought to. I purchased some rad 'blades last year (really cool skates--easy on, easy off, and as fast off the line as a sex addict at a lingerie show) but this season, for whatever reason, I have not had the urge to 'blade about town. Two reasons for this, methinks: one, the roads around where I live absolutely suck for Rollerblading. They are pitted and old and cracked and worn and sometimes, when I skate over them, it feels like I am skating on a vibrating hotel bed--Magic Fingers o' Gravel. And the second reason, of course (it always comes back to this) my knees suck.

But recently I have become sick and tired of coming home from work and tapping in to my newest addiction, Grand Theft Auto IV on the Xbox 360, and, also, did I mention that Oliver is a fat-ass? So I figured I would kill two birds with one stone. Exercise, outside air, and, perhaps, some melting of Oliver's rotund black-and-tan bowling ball body.

[The idea of taking both Oliver and Louie with me on my 'blades flitted ever-so briefly across my mind and then I reasoned with myself that nothing good could come of that. I'd either end up splattered against the grill of a Mack truck or Ollie would be dragged behind me as I would be dragged behind Lou...kind of like an elephant parade with my dislocated shoulders being the nasty orange Circus Peanuts. So...Lou stayed home.]

Ollie and I departed Home Base.

Now, listen, I didn't expect Oliver to be Louie-esque in his pulling ability--seriously, when Lou is on a Rollerbladed leash, I don't have to even think about skating for the first four or five blocks; I just have to concentrate on rolling, standing tall, not wiping out--but Ollie completely disappointed me. He ran with me for the first four or five minutes, but then, after that, he was basically dead weight. I had to repeatedly stop for him and wait for His Pudgy Highness to catch up. Three times, during the too-short jaunt around the block, Oliver's collar just slid right off his neck--slid right off the rolls, as it were--because I was going too fast. And once I had to pick him up and Rollerblade around a corner with him in my arms...a floppy-eared canine lamb.

We arrived back home, and I chatted and Ollie became acquainted with the neighbors and then we walked in the side door and Lou, excited to see his little buddy again, smacked him upside the head a couple of times and went off to chew his bone. My human-to-canine translating skillz are a little dusty, but I think what Lou was saying was, "You fool! You had a chance to run outside, spend some quality time with the Foodbringer, let your oversized ears flop in the wind, check out the bitches...and you blew it, dude! Whassa mattah with you? Geez!"

Don't worry, Louie. Ollie and I will go again. And you and I will, too. Just don't go too fast, y'hear? You have to remember that I ain't a tough Boxer/Pit like you. I am a human being and my skin does shred and my bones do break.

***

In other news, my 2002 Ford Focus hatchback turns one hundred thousand in a hundred fourteen miles. If you want to send it a birthday present (cash is what it wants; it told me) just hit me up with an email and I'll give you the pertinent information.

Peace.

"VAGINAL SECRETIONS EXXON-VALDEZED THE WATER'S SURFACE"

Brief snippets:

Yesterday night I was driving home from the local 24-hour supermart with Meagan and we drove past a business called Tub-n-Tan. They offer tanning services and also hot tubs that people can rent for the hour--or half-hour, whatever. I said to Meagan, "That'd be pretty fun, eh? Renting a hot tub?"

She agreed and we drove on a bit in comfortable silence. I thought about the hot tubs and said, "I wonder how often they clean them?" And a nice collection of words swam to my forebrain. I looked over at her and said, "Vaginal secretions and seminal residue coated the water like an oil spill." She gag-coughed. "Um. Gross."

I do wonder what goes on in those tubs. I can just imagine some pop-shots and the semi-solids slowly rising to the surface of the turbulent water, bopping along on the bubbles like so much (literally) man-made flotsam and jetsam. The vaginal secretions would not be as readily apparent...but they'd be there--mark my word.

***

In other news, I have a gnat problem. The motherfuckers are taking up residence in my kitchen, bumping along in the skies above the garbage disposal. I think that is where they sprang to existence, from the succulent mashes of Post-Food. I have cleaned the garbage disposal--let the mother run for a minute straight--and I have washed the counters and cleaned the stove and religiously kept the garbage can from overflowing, but the sons-of-bitches are still flapping around. It makes me feel dirty...and it makes me wonder what exactly I am eating if I leave my food unattended in the kitchen for a moment. Ick.

I went online and looked up how to get rid of gnats. What you see in the picture is an altered Coke bottle--its head cut off--slightly filled with a delicious cocktail of cider vinegar with a dollop of dish detergent. I covered the top with Saran-Wrap and I rubber banded it in place. A toothpick was used to poke Entrance-Onlys into the plastic. The idea is that the motherfucking gnats will "smell" the delicacy and fumble into the trap, never to leave, never to be seen or heard from again. I feel bad for the gnats' familes but--no, I don't. Die, bastards!

Next to the Do-it Yourself deathtrap, is a natural wonder: Meagan bought me a Venus Flytrap and, already, it seems to be working. A couple of the vulva-shaped "mouths" have already closed, dooming, I hope, some gnats to their deaths.

Wish me luck.