Thursday, May 31, 2012

Justin Bieber and Toe Cleavage

Q. How do we know that the suit against Justin Bieber for assault will never go to court?

A. Because no one will admit that Justin Bieber beat them up.


Toe Cleavage?

Glad you asked, Billy.  Tell me, do you like gladiator movies?

My twenty-something niece told my forty-something wife about toe cleavage.  My wife told me.  It was immediately obvious to me what it was; in fact, I remember seeing a picture of some famous female on a runway and thinking to myself why couldn't she afford proper sized shoes - her toes barely fit in them.

Apparently this is an acknowledged issue in these wild days of 2012, when either the Big One is going to come get us or nothing too far out of the ordinary will happen in late December.  I predict gas gouging and a smaller holiday because no one can afford Stuff anymore.  And that our new president will be more of the same.


So apparently face-eating is caused by bath salts.  Or something.
No, really.  The police found some guy eating another guy's face and he growled at them.  He was found to be under the influence of bath salts.

OMG - my wife bathes in that stuff all the time!


Speaking of face-eating, my ultra nice wife kept offering me the evening off.  It might just be her kindness responding to my morose attitude toward mowing the lawn.  She told me to sit and relax.  I told her I had to mow the lawn.  She said that the lawn could wait a day.  I said it was going be the lawn because the two things I dread most in life are the dentist and the lawn and I went to the dentist yesterday.

I decided not to waste too many words on yesterday's visit to my genuinely caring dentist, Dr. Mengele.  In truth, I don't feel much pain from either the good doctor or mowing the lawn, yet I'm terrified of visiting the doctor.   It was never this way until recently and I have no idea why.  Never mind that my one and a half hour slot had me seated for over two hours.  Perhaps I can describe my terror better this way: while seated, I do not look into the deep blue eyes of the dental technician nor do I even think of looking down her shirt.  Yes, I'm that scared.  I even forget the view I got following her down the hall to the damage dental suite.

Since I merely loathe mowing the lawn, it was off to locate the mower.  In theory, the mower is in the same place I left it, so it shouldn't be too difficult to locate.  In practice, however, all sorts of things could have happened, up to and including full dematerialization and rematerialization in a different dimension altogether.   I think this might have something to do with string theory but in truth, the only string theory that matters is will the string that starts the mower be intact when I pull it two or ten times to start the infernal beast.

Most likely the mower is just hidden under the new growth of grass.  The grass grows really quickly here in Pennsylvania, largely due to the rainy season.  Our rainy season runs from about March 13 to about February 29.  April showers bring May showers and it rains most of June.

Sometimes we worry that the dog won't be able to find his way back to the door because the grass is already taller than he is and I mowed two weeks ago.  I tried to cover all the unnecessary grass with concrete but discovered that, due to drainage, this is not legal.

So the bugger started on about the eighth try and off I trudged to do my husbandly duty.   One of the obstacles to mowing is plants.  Unfortunately the definition of plants differs wildly from my wife to me.  I tend to largely mow over most anything that's vaguely green, much to the consternation of my wife.

The other obstacle would be the still dormant planting material; the very material that put the Crazy Lady next door over the edge and forced her to call the county on us.  I figured that after I was finished, there would be enough grass clippings laying about to potentially put the Crazy Lady further over the edge.  Can you imagine the call to the county?

Mrs. Crazy Lady:  Hello, I want to complain.
Poor County Employee:  How are you, Mrs. Crazy  Lady?
Mrs. Crazy Lady:  Oh, terrible.  My horrible, slovenly neighbors have done it again.
Poor County Employee:  What is it this time - someone throw a candy wrapper on their lawn?  More than one bag of trash in their can?  Color of their house not up to spec?
Mrs. Crazy Lady:  Remember the planting materials?
Poor County Employee:   How could I ever forget, Mrs. Crazy Lady?
Mrs. Crazy Lady:  They mowed their lawn and didn't sweep it up.
Poor County Employee:   We'll send a SWAT team immediately.  Now go take your  meds.

My wife keeps telling me we have to be nice to her.  I keep asking why.  She keeps telling me because she's old and our neighbor.  I keep telling her that good neighbors don't call the county on their neighbors.  She shook her head and let on that Mrs. Crazy Lady's hip had given out and that she was in a lot of pain.

Ok, I had to admit I felt a little bad for her.  Here she is, 347 years old (quite young for her species), and she was in serious pain.  My wife says this is when neighbors lend a hand.  I had no choice but to agree and offered her a helping hand - a push whenever she's at the top of a set of stairs.

That's not wrong, is it?

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