Dance, little sister, dance. And then shut up.

You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance.
- Edward Flaherty

One general down and few left to run the dysfunctional fracas that is Afghanistan; BP is fixing it's odds in the gulf by cheerfully kicking off new drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea, Al Gore allegedly played with his masseuse's girl-parts without her express permission; Joe Barton got exactly what he deserved for fellating Tony Hayward in public, which is to say he gets to keep his job and make more money shilling oil; Mark Kirk remains at large and free to lie about everything he's ever done from teaching to military service; and life goes on here in America, the land of the free, where free is only a relative term: Amazon dropped the price of the Kindle to $189 and I still can't have one, Goddammit.

Hmm. They don't call me “King of the Run-on Sentence” for nuthin'.“

To top it off, it's been freaking hot here. 93 – 97 degrees every single day, and my air conditioning is running 24/7, all the better to drive that electric bill up to astronomical heights I can scarcely afford. My lawn is a delightful shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, but on a good note I looked it over this morning as I took out the garbage and found it is an even shade of silvery-beige, with just a hint of green, not all blotchy, so it's all good.

Meanwhile, I spoke to a lawyer yesterday. I make no secret that I have plans to dip on my mortgage, but this attorney, a canny young man with more dollar signs in his voice than Ke$ha can dance to has...a plan. It is not terribly crafty, nor is it sneaky, but it is, I hear, very effective. It is called “The Forensic Loan Audit.”

To wit: these guys place a restraining order on my loan servicer, inspect the loan documentation and process for flaws (which, I understand, all loans have), then they offer a court date to discuss the flaws...or a settlement for “fair market value“ and a good interest rate. I use quotations on “fair market value” because, let's face it, not many people who bought when I did can claim to be within 30% or so loan balance to value ratio.

Will this save my house? Mebbe. Mebbe no. Dunno, but the money I pay the lawyers, if it doesn't save the house, pays for then performing the paperwork for a deed in lieu of foreclosure service, or a short sale.

It's five grand, folks. I do not have five grand. Plus I have found some evidence that this is sometimes fraudulent activity.

I may do a Deceptively Simpleminded writeup on this, but I might ask anyone who happens by my blog today: what do you know of this practice I am considering? Know anyone who did it? Heard anything negative, positive, neutral? Nice to hear from people before I commit five large to a law firm I know little about except they have an “A” rating at the Better Business Bureau.

And with that, we will get all Dear Prudie up in that bitch.

Originals are here.


1.) At my company, when a colleague does something great everyone is called into the lobby. The person's supervisor announces what she did, and she has to dance in front of everyone. How can I let the company know that public humiliation is not a valid form of employee recognition?
- Ballerina Not in Job Description.

This letter has some of the hallmarks of the best DP letters plus the absence of any importance or gravity whatsoever.

Having said that, I will not approach this as if I were your HR director, a position I have never held, but one which I have been face to face with far too many times in my life to possess anything but a curious blend of jejune pity and unrestrained loathing for the poor fuckers faced with making that dour career choice.

First – do you work for Sesame Street? What are these people, nine, ten years old? Who else would dance in the middle of the goddamn lobby when someone does something good? Does Big Bird sign your paycheck? Fuuuuck! Snufflupagus, get off my fucking toe, dickhead. I have a two O'Clock!

Then again, there is one thing the people of Sesame Street have on you that you may find enviable: jobs. Endless jobs. The same people have been there so long they've grown old and gray and the producers had to create goodbye shows after they die, for Christ's sake. There are children of characters on that show who have children of their own. Built-in lifetime employment, and it's a good thing: what the hell else could they do for a living but count to four in song and dance?

Get this: they probably don't have to dance when something good happens, but I'll bet they just do anyway, 'cause hey – it's Sesame Goddamn Street.

You do not work for Sesame Street.

So here's the deal. Go to your boss and say “boss, I will not dance in the lobby when someone makes a sale because I get all embarrassed and shit and it's degrading and you can't make me.” Your boss will give you “the look”, and the conversation will end. You will find yourself sitting alone at lunchtime, and former friends of yours (likely already doubtful about you, from the sound of things) will cease dropping by. You'll be assigned to a few shitty tasks, menial and beneath your already dubious abilities, and suddenly realize that this company has little care for you, given prima ballerinas are pretty damned easy to find out there among the ranks of the unemployed these days.

You'll go job hunting, might finds something, might not. They will not care. Stay or go, you will become “that snotty bitch who thinks she's better than us”, and that, my dear, is evidently what it really is.

Moral? It does not matter that you are right about dancing in the goddamn lobby. It matters that you are about the become despised by many of those you work with, so go look for another job.


2.) I could not be happier with my boyfriend. He has an outrageous temper—but only toward inanimate objects. I would never fear for my physical safety, but his venting really scares me sometimes. I have asked him to tone it down, but he can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment. Should I just let this anger-toward-inanimate-objects issue go?
- Rage at the Machine

I will have to assume you are young and know absolutely nobody who has ever been in an abusive relationship. You'd have to be, what, about fourteen years old, perhaps twelve, to not hear about it. Maybe eight. Six. But that's not the issue.

Little Freddy Flawless, your beloved perfect man, has what are called “anger problems.” Anyone can get angry. I have punched a wall or a door in my life, no doubt, but I have always remembered it later because 1.) I typically take note of blood dripping from my knuckles when I strike something hard in anger and b.) wait: did you say he “can't seem to remember in the heat of the moment?” Did you really say that?

Oy fucking vey.

Oh, now what am I saying, I sound like such a worry wart. Don't fret, sweetums! Everything's fine! He's just blowing off a little steam – you know, people get a little upset and the destroy shit all the time with absolutely no memory whatsoever, it's completely normal! Why, a whole country invaded another country and blew all kinds of shit up and killed everyone the saw and completely forgot about it to the degree they put a “Mission Accomplished” banner up for all to see, even though they forgot why they were there and what happened! And that was a whole country!

I think you should just sweep this little thing under the rug like a good little girl, attend church and make certain you come to know Jesus in your heart, get married and have as many children as possible, and just don't fret about silly things like his temper. It's really no big deal, you incredibly stupid brainless fucking idiot.

Really? Can any one be as fantastically stupid as this? You think this is what “perfect” is? This is the one little problem amid a sea of perfection this guy swims in, you anencephalous dingleshit?

Truth: therapy might help him, if he's willing. Without it, if you stay, you get what you ask for. You leave, you get an opportunity to go through life without being beaten senseless every night. Make a choice, Ms. Gump. Sooner is better, and this world is never short on statistics for spousal abuse. Just look at South Carolina.


3.) My dad had a stroke last summer and now requires 24-hour care. My mother died very unexpectedly. After reviewing her medical records, my siblings and I discovered that her physician ignored test results and treated her for an illness she did not have. We don't intend to sue. We have yet to share this devastating news with my father. Two siblings want to tell my dad, and two don't. What to do?
- Distressed

You know, my wife is Canadian. She says “you want the best, you gotta import”, and she was right. She's baffled by the lack of healthcare here, but the more she hears Sarah Palin spout her teabagger idiocy the better she understand where the failure comes from.

Having said that, why is it that you make an admirable choice not to sue the doctor and cannot make any choice whatsoever to tell your dad what happened? Seriously: brother Billy says “it'll kill him!” and sister Sally says “he has the right to know” and this is the end of the conversation?

And then you go to Prudie and ask her to arbitrate? How embarrassing.

Look, Americans will forgive Canada for that comically bizarre closing ceremony at the Winter Olympics, all those giant inflatable beavers and mounties and shit. It was oddly cute, in a Timothy Leary sort of way.

But this childishness must stop. Draw straws and go with it. Flip a coin. Best two out of three. Play checkers, winner makes the choice. Whatever.

Quit fucking around, do something, then go have a Kokanee and relax.


4.) My boyfriend and I hosted a small get-together, which our friend "John" attended. The next day, we discovered that John had scabies! I am outraged that John came over knowing he had this parasitic infestation. Should I confront John about what I feel is completely unacceptable behavior, or am I overreacting?
- Skeeved out by Scabies

Cooties? Ah, for fuck's sake.

Coincidentally, my daughter brought scabies home a few months ago. Pretty nasty rash, very uncomfortable for her, poor thing. The pediatrician gave us a prescription for cream and bathing/application instructions which we followed. A week later, it's as if she never had scabies. Nobody else got them. Case closed. Bonus: we still love her.

Your case is evidently more serious. To you, at least.

Here's what you have to do:

First, you have to burn all your furniture. Every stick of it, no matter what; for Sarcoptes scabiei, the Scabies Mite, is an intelligent, ferocious, and relentless predator which typically creates protective fortifications among the sofa cushions using dead skin flakes shed by humans. These epidermal ramparts can withstand almost any direct attack but the cleansing of flame. Tear out the carpet, any rugs, blankets, and any wall-mounted textiles as well, and burn them immediately, before they start to build their cities and develop technology. If they have already built their vile scabies bordellos, you're screwed.

Remove all food from the house: this is the target of these fierce creatures. If they get your food, they will be able to summon the intelligence to develop weapons and vehicles, so work quickly. Best to burn it all in a bonfire. WARNING: Do not be comforted by the canned goods. Scabies have pincers on their front appendages which can open a can of peaches in seconds, and they love peaches best of all. Burn those too, but watch yourself. The cans may explode and spray flaming hot matter for hundreds of feet. It really hurts. I know.

Next, you have to shave yourself completely hairless: head, eyebrows, body, pubic hair – every hair must go. The pets as well, and if you have fish you must scale them.

Afterward, everything and everyone must be scrubbed using copious amounts of cleansing fluids. You will start with rubbing alcohol. It's a little uncomfortable, especially on freshly-shaved balls and eyelids, but scrub every inch of your body, then the floors walls and ceilings, the cat, the fish, and you have to do the lawn, too: scabies are tricky, and will build revetments amid the fescue from which they will launch serial attacks upon your home if you let them get away with it.

Finally, slather yourself and everything on your property with maple syrup, marmalade, and Johnny Walker. Allow it to dry, then wash off with cold water and a Brillo pad.

Are your floors oak or pine? Rip it all out. The Scabies mite uses the wood to build weapons, vehicles, cities, military installations, missile bases, aircraft, and roller skating rinks. Replace it with Pergo later.

Best at this point to stay in seclusion for about a week. Have Dominoes deliver pizza and Pepsi for food, and make certain you spray the delivery boy liberally with Johnny Walker before he leaves, or any surviving mites could infect him. I mean, what if he delivers pizza to the Pentagon or something?

Check yourself vigilantly. At any symptoms of reemergence of scabies, immediately bathe in a poultice of salt, Quaker State (or any well known brand) 10W40 motor oil, and goat's milk. Remain submerged for at least ten minutes, only surfacing to breathe. Any mites which remain on your face can be removed with packing tape. Apply firmly, then rip off in a rapid motion and immediately burn the leavings. The sticky tape stuff left on your face can then be removed with either naptha or acetone (nail polish remover works) and coarse steel wool.

Shave your entire body every day. Dogs and cats too. This fish are likely to die the first day or so – you can eat them if you get too hungry, after Dominoes refuses to deliver to you.

After a week if you have not shown any symptoms you may go outdoors for short periods of time, but do not wear any clothes for at least three months.

Note: “John”, and all the people who have even been in your home need to do the same things immediately. After you all have recovered, you can sue him for his actions, or maybe shoot him, although I might warn you it's illegal and I do not condone that course of action.

Oh, be sure to warn them all about the exploding cans of food.


Tell John to go to the doctor, get a prescription of an approved scabicide such as “Premithrin”, follow the directions, and five days later it's as if it never happened. Vacuum everything in your house. If you get a rash, go to the doctor, get the cream and do it. Gone.

Also: go to a shrink and deal with your fucking OCD-based germaphobia, you panicky little twat.


Long Winded today, huh?

Remember – please update me on that whole forensic loan audit thingie if you know anything, and we'll see you all next week.

Cheers, my beloved Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

A Desperate Dose of Dads, or; Papa Loves Mambo.

When one has not had a good father, one must create one.
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Damn, but I thought it was going to be spring for longer than this. As a transplant to the American Southeast (colloquially called “The Say-outh” by the locals) I was thrilled to experience some of the weather it had to offer – autumns effused with gold and red and yellow of turning leaves; winters graced with just enough snow and ice for the kids to have fun but not enough to keep us from a drive to our favorite beer joint; and springs that start dreary and suddenly assault the senses with so much greenery one seeks out large parking lots to catch a glimpse of asphalt, all the better to keep from overdosing on the green-ness of the place.

Then summer comes. Does for us all, I guess, and I suspect I will not be the only one complaining of the 95 degree temperatures and 90% humidity for days and weeks on end. Still, I am already pining for September, they way my Canadian wife says she used to pine for May when she lived up north, but for different temperature related reasons.

All that poetic nonsense I was spewing a few short weeks ago about the lusty burgeoning of spring is well and truly (and suddenly – came on fast) over with, and here's my most poetic statement of late: fuck this place in summer, it's too goddamn hot and sticky and nasty.

I am taking a new tack with DP letters – I will paraphrase the actual letters rather than recap, because I've noticed my recaps can suck a lot. And so, without further commercial interruption...

Originals are HERE.


1.) I married my high-school sweetheart. I had an affair with a colleague. My husband found out, and we decided to work things out, then I found out I was pregnant. Do we ever tell our son that my husband isn't his biological father?

Always Worried – Among the joyful things about youth are the alternatives in how you live your life without cognizance of responsibility. Spilling sperm all over the landscape is, apparently, a requirement of being a stupid young male, and receiving said sperm in unprotected sex is a similar requirement of the young female. The cheating part comes with youth as well, and most don't survive it – good on you two.

Ah, la. Youth! Huzzah!

Um, do you really need to write a letter to someone asking if you need to tell your three year old offspring who his father is? How fucking old are you? Did you make it all the way through high school? Did you ride the special bus there? Geez.

Go get your Magic 8-Ball, you cheesebrained dummy, and see what it says, because whether you tell him or not he's got a long row to hoe with a stupid parent like you to follow. This poor kid already has your genetic material in him, and I simply have to assume that means he's fucked regardless what you do. Maybe his real dad had a goddamn brain and he'll be lucky. Proof once again that natural selection has it's flaws: the particularly stupid ones seem more prone to successfully mate. Sad thing.

My take? Let the natural father make the choice. You can't handle it.


2.) Our kids are in summer sports. I coach my son's baseball team, and my daughter plays softball. I'll attend one of my daughter's games each week. But I don't want to be heaped with guilt by my loving spouse if I don't attend every one of her games. My wife thinks I'm cheating our daughter. When I was a kid, I was lucky if my dad came to any of my games.

Ballpark Bum – let's start with this: “I don't want to be heaped with guilt by my loving spouse.” Really? Is that was loving spouses do, dickless? Heap guilt on you? Better revisit that.

Let's move on to this: “When I was a kid, I was lucky if my dad came to any of my games.” Boo fucking hoo for you, but it gives you a tidy, if completely lame, excuse. Is that what you need in lieu of paternal skill and instinct?

You mentioned also that coaching is stressful. Really? At least parenting isn't, right?

You should go put on a dress and do your hair, Nancy.

Look, you goddamn pussy – man up and make a fucking schedule. Baseball, softball, whatever: sit down with your “loving” spouse and sort it the fuck out and shut the hell up and go do it. Prudie isn't going to solve your problems or stop your whining for you, you weak-ass milquetoast pansy, and if you can't handle it you should just let your “loving spouse” continue to use the testicles you obviously gave her at marriage and do the sports planning.


3.) I'm a single mom of three teenagers. I divorced when they were little. Their father dropped his involvement when he remarried. He's divorced again, and my kids hate going to his house; they say my house is their real home. I need some down time from chauffeuring, solving problems, and providing meals. My sister said I'm destroying my kids by forcing them to go to their father's.

Protecting My Sanity – Oh, joy. Another one of ”those” letters. Yippee. Stifling a yawn, I say: um, what's the problem? Oh, I see: you're a single mom, seeking a day or two off.

Let me start by saying it is my belief that one single mother is worth twenty of me. This world still has the fucked-up biblical-paternal stupid way of thinking that once the seed is sown the woman is thence on call 24-7 for everything and the sperm donor is effectively off the hook and retired from service.

It don't work that way, sis, but you are probably screwed.

Here's a mechanical fact, and it is an unfortunate one: one day, years ago, a boy and a girl ended up in a place he was compelled to insert his erect penis into the girl, who was compelled to received it into her vagina. With me? Sperm came out, traveled through the vaginal canal, past the cervix, and onward whereupon it met an egg, and one of those sperm penetrated that egg, and viola! Baby!

You know this story – you were there. And from that very moment you became 100% responsible for those children. One. Hundred. Percent.

What's that, you say? That's not fair! What about him?

Get this: he also became 100% responsible.

Before you start making mewling noises and spewing that stupid goddamn imbecilic mathematical argument, listen up: you both have exactly that percentage of responsibility to those children, or you are each only 50% a parent. Furthermore, this isn't a goddamn math problem, princess: it's children, and life. Your lives belonged to them from the moment you had sex. You didn't “start” it, and neither did he. It's not your “fault” these children were born, nor is it his.

It is simply both of your responsibility. There's the truth. Anything else is sloppy parenting.

Now, he's not quite taking this task on, is he? I mean, you aren't the “bad” parent, if there's any truth to this letter; he is. You just want a break, and with 5 kids and a grandchild of my own, God knows I understand that, as does my wife.

So take your break, but you better start having a few conversations with Daddy Dearest regarding his responsibilities, because he's not doing them any favors, teaching them everything he shouldn't by example, and let's face it – you may have to pull the plug on him entirely to protect them.

And if you do, you will never have a break.

And that's life. Sorry.


4.) My dad asked that I write a testimonial for him an online dating service. I have no desire to be involved in his dating life, and can't honestly give him a glowing recommendation. Let's just say that there's a reason he's single. I'm afraid if I decline to write the testimonial, he will feel offended. What should I do?

On-the-Market Dad – Nothing like unresolved childhood issues and resentments to fuck up the lives of otherwise normal people in the digital age.

BTW – Read this for a little perspective.

Seems this letter is properly placed: he's not the one with the problem, you are, and that's where we're going, chum. See, in people without pages of unresolved bullshit with their parents, the solution to this is to write a testimonial and be done with it.

You can't because you're evolved enough to know it's a bunch of bullshit and he's not worth it...but you're not evolved enough to be anything but stumped for a solution. Let's fix that, Darwin:

“Dear Dad,

I cannot write a testimonial for you, because I think you have emotional problems and frankly I still harbor resentment for the way you've treated me.

Your Child.”

See what I did there? I did something magical, amazing, unimaginable: I wrote a letter for you that tells the truth about how you feel! Aint' that grand?

Send it. Don't send it. Your call, Darwin, but I might suggest you get this fucking bullshit over with and move along, because until he dies you're on some a hook that you can't seem to wiggle free of. Yeah, I know you think he put you there. That's irrelevant. It is your job to get free. Grownup stuff, you know.

Happy wiggling!


This Sunday I will have two kids climbing on me like little monkeys, then I shall enjoy my Father's Day by loafing like a clod, sipping (like I ever sip) beer, watching something on the tube, and generally screwing off all day.

To all fathers out there worth their salt and title: happy day, and after it's over remember you have 364 days to prove you're worth it again. And happy birthday, Igor

Cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=

You wanna piece a me? Come and git some.

As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.
- Clarence Darrow

I am an outlaw.

Dark and mysterious, a questionable past and some bad choices made which shape who – and what – I am today, jaded and bitter, yearning for something better but no recourse for me: I must face my destiny as it comes to me, and suffer for it.

My story, you ask? You probably can't handle it, punk. See, I got a ticket for failing to renew my registration, and I forgot to pay it. Now there's a warrant out for my arrest.

I'll never stop fighting those bastards, and I'll never top running until the fight is done. I'll pay the ticket, I guess – my fault, pretty damn stupid. Until then I am an outcast, spurned by society. A vile darkling not made of the kind of stuff that needs the light of day cast upon it, the better to veil my shame in the shadows of my bleak sorrow; this fate, thrust upon me, become me.

You know. An idiot. I may be an dipshit, but I sure am stupid.

Like these idiots.

Originals here.


Yuck – I like your thinking! Recap – you caught a senior guy milking man mustard from his meat machine, flogging the dolphin for salty seafood yogurt, slapping the spicy salami seeking a spurt of sticky seed. Oh, this while in the office.

At first blush this is not terribly interesting, and my stupid alliterations don't help much, but your inclusion of the line “ is not as though I can leverage this in any lucrative way” gives me shivers goosebumps and takes this post to the level of bloody goddamn epic. You fiery little minx, you! You're thinking the right (read: lawyer-ly) way!

Meanwhile, I am appalled you didn't offer to go in and finish him off first. Seriously. You should have swayed in the door, a hungry look in your eyes, hit your knees, and done him right there...and tape it with your cell phone camera, then blackmail the shit out of little Mister Jimmy Jerkoff! Profits, lawyer-lady: it's about profits. You don't make the big bucks in the legal space until someone blows someone.

I mean, wait, you are a lawyer, right? I though that meant you are both smart and unscrupulous? Sigh.

Maybe next time, kitten. Meanwhile, start staking out the other bigwigs, because this one won't likely make that mistake again. There's a pony in there somewhere.


Mad – boy, nothing says “I love you” like being an idiot married to an idiot. Recap – your ex said bad shit about you and you seem to be formerly unaware that sort of thing sucks. Side note: your son was who he said it to, and now the boy thinks you're a whoring slimeball.

Listen, witless: you were fighting about child support? Not any more you're not. You now have the means to bring those little money wars into your side of the ring and gain the upper hand. What I am suggesting may seem slimy. Well, it kinda is, but it kinda isn't.

First: you could be the grimiest whore ever to step on this Earth, I don't know, but moms and dads need to learn to shut the fuck up about this stuff around their children. Kids don't need to know what kind of dickheads parents are about relationships until later in life, and even then a father who slimes mom without taking a little heat for himself is both a liar and a fucking moron, and he's creating another one from scratch.


Start snatching this data from the boy's computer – you are his mother, and you should have the right (slimy of you, but there it is) to go look (ask the lawyer-lady above – she'll know). Save it to a thumb drive or something. Over time you might drop hints to him about his emotional distance and see what he writes further, and later you can outright confront him and ask why he's being so mean, and if daddy dearest said anything vicious. Keep at it – he'll write something...incriminating, eventually.

Copy everything he wrote and save it. Then give it to your attorney.

Shortly after, you might just let your ex know there will be one last little fight about child support. And keeping his fucking mouth shut. And attempting, somehow, to quit being a fucking and giving his son such shitty examples. It's not about the child support; it's about the boy.

This is only the start, of course – your son will need to know about everything after all. The end of the rainbow is the truth in this case, and even if he hates you for it now, I strongly suspect he'll understand it better later, and that's when he might learn the real lesson: don't be a fucking douche, like dad.

PS. I hope you know that goes for you, too.


I Lost Someone, Too – I doubt this is weird. Recap: you and best friend were in a crash, and she didn't make it. You want some of the stuff you gave her back for mementos.

Can we assume if you were really best friends that her folks were close to you too? And can we assume the lot of you have had some unfortunate but needed quality time together since the wreck?

Get your balls out, sister. Sad or not, quit quibbling: just go ask for the stuff. You know how to do it (gently, duh) so just go. Be prepared for some confusing answers, but hope for the best. You should be fine.


Didn't Lose a Leg in Iraq – well, you both lost your fucking brains, that's for certain. Recap: people ask about hubby's lost leg and assume it got itself blowed off in the war, but it didn't. You are such a dipshit-licking dullard you have no idea how to discuss it when they get all Toby Keith “Proud to be an American” on him over the non-war-wound missing leg.

Listen, you cretinous, yak-witted, nipple-brained moron: this ranks way up there among the stupidest question ever asked in the history of asking stupid fucking questions, and I am stunned that you can operate and manipulate a machine like a computer (or a pencil...or fucking Crayolas) well enough to put this dunderheaded, galactarded insipidity to words.

Sigh. Deep breath.

You dumbass fucking cheese head – here is a sample conversation between people with an intelligence quotient numbers assumed to be roughly about the same as, or slightly higher than, the nearest speed limit sign:

“Hi, we're Bob and Mary!”
“Hi, we're Dick and Jane!”
“Gee, were you in the service, Dick?”
“Yes, I was.”
“What a great sacrifice, you fighting and losing your leg for this great country! This goes to show that Americans, no matter who they are, are brave and true, and stand up for what is right and just! I do believe I am starting to shed many tears of pride right now.”
“I didn't lose my leg in the service, Bob. I drove a desk in Washington.”
“Oh. Really? So, you hear about Ken Griffey, Junior? Whoda thought he'd ever be old?”

Yadda yadda yadda.

Unlike the people in this example, you are too goddamn stupid to figure this tactic of “tell them” out on your own. Glad I could be there for you. Idiot.

I might add that doing this will not discourage people from giving thanks to vets in the future. I will assure you people will be likely to do so regardless the fact you two are so fucking flagrantly and profoundly stupid. Just so you know.


I hear Bon Jovi...”Wanted, Dead or Alive...” Of course, some might say it makes perfect sense a fucking weasel like me would have his first arrest warrant made out to the tune of a goddamn unpaid expired registration ticket, but pay those jokers no mind: it's all about the danger, all the time, every day, that's what I am made of, and just you watch yourself: I get a hold of your license plate, you could be right up the shitter and on your way to the big house.

Like me.

I am a very bad and dangerous man.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go feed my kitties.

Cheers, Flysters.
STC =^oo^=