Iím thinking she might be my girlfriend
2006-01-30, 10:07 a.m.
My sweet kittens, Don is DATING THE SKANKY BAR HO AGAIN. (edited: that's a LINK. A LINK! Go read it!) It seems that his libido has over-driven both his innate fear of women and his common sense, not to mention manís natural tendency to avoid injury and disease, and he is not only dating her, but heís admitting that heís dating her, and went so far as to say that she might be his girlfriend. In fact, he said, and I quote, ďIím thinking she might be my girlfriend.Ē
This can only mean one thing: somebody got laid. I have a feeling that when somebody gets laid by this woman, you donít so much as get laid, as fall in, but who am I to judge? HA. I slay me.
The situation has inspired me to call upon my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, Amen, and write an inspirational prayer:
Please give me the balls to bitch out loud about the things I can change,
The wisdom to keep my mouth shut about the shit I canít do a damn thing about,
The discretion to use fake names in my journal about the things that are none of my goddamn business,
The courage to bald-face lie when I get caught bad-mouthing a skanky bar slut,
And the tits to get away with it when I canít discern the difference.
We all know Iíve got the tits, so Iím working backwards on my list. Iíve done pretty well on the fake name thing, too. Case in point: Donís girlfriend isnít REALLY Courtney Love, but thatís what we call her here. Itís a 4-step program to just getting along, letting others live their own screwed-up, ill-advised lives, and to being able to go out in public and socialize in a small town.
But shit, I have GOT to find somebody decent to get this guy married to. ATTENTION PEOPLE IN CENTRAL AND SOUTH TEXAS: if you know a woman who has a shred of decency, is single, and is interested in meeting a quirky feller in his mid-40s who likes to drink beer, bowl, and dance, CALL ME.
In other news, I outed this journal to my real-live sister, not just my sweet soul sisters (all of you), so we will now hopefully be joined by somebody here who shares a portion of my DNA, but not in the dirty way. In the legitimate way - not the kind collected at a crime scene, but I digress. Oh, hell, youíre ALL my sweet soul sisters. Letís just hope that Sis knows itís considered journal etiquette to comment, comment often, compliment the chef, and be funny, dammit.
OK, back to my social life. We went out with Don and our friends hereinafter referred to as the Larrupsons Friday night, which consisted of going to the Larrupsons house, drinking a Very Large Home-Brewed Beer, and sitting on the couch with Mrs. L, watching ďGhost WhispererĒ, whilst the menfolks spake loudly of brewing nonsense, and we had to keep shushing them because we were at the really good part.
After our show was over, and we had wiped our tears, because THAT POOR LITTLE GHOST GIRL and the dying Ann Cusack (whom I have met in person, revere me), we went and got some Mexican food and shut that motherfucker down, all except for the contingent of drunk teachers who were still hanging in there. By the way, you only have to stay out til 9:00 to shut the motherfucker down around here. Itís a small town.
We then moseyed over to Free Live Music, and enjoyed the musical stylings of some local group that merits the Friday night gig at Free Live Music, and Don and I worked on our bowling dance moves. This is why dedicated watching of American Idol is so important to us: bowling for us is not just bowling, itís mortifying all the children around us by showing off our new middle-aged dance moves.
Dancing after a strike is mandatory, and itís up to you after a spare, but highly encouraged. Sometimes we yell and jeer our encouragement, and sometimes we just run up and spank you in order to really show our spirit.
So there we are, Don and I, standing on the fringes of the empty dance floor (you know, those losers that are too shy to dance on the dance floor, so they stick to the edges where nobody can see them), trying out new dance moves. I did the one where you turn your back to your audience, put your hands behind your head, and shake your saggy ass back and forth. It kind of works up its own harmonic dissonance, and before you know it, cars are being slung down into the river below.
Don did a 70s ďplucking stars out of the sky and putting them into a little bagĒ move that had a Napoleon Dynamite fluidity to it, and although I didnít try this one out, I described to him the crawling-on-all-fours-seductively move that Iíd like to test. This is a very good move for me, because many times, I do end up on all fours after flinging the bowling ball down the lane and having it fling me back down to my knees.
Don, ever the choreographer, suggested that I use my ďSupah Stah!Ē move in conjunction with crawling on all fours, morphing from ďSupah Stah!Ē into the crawl. And that I should lick my lips when I do it.
I canít wait to try it out! This is going to be so HAWT. But not skanky: I wonít show anybody my uterus when I do it. Just my boobs.
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