Pathologically Charming

When you rush out your back door to the basement because you hear the load is unbalanced in the washer, take keys with you.  Otherwise you may get to meet the woman from the electric company who reads the meter, while you stand locked out of your apartment...in your underwear...in your dark, scary basement.
I don't know if she believed me or thought I was planning to attack her.
I am, however, hopeful that the fact I had to run outside and around to the front of the house to use the hidden key to get in convinced her I wasn't making it up.
At least enough that I'm not under surveillance.

If I were to open a pet store, I think I'd call it "Gerbils n' Shit."  It's both whimsical and, most likely, literal.

There's something that feels slightly wrong about watching Intervention on A&E and cracking open a few beers.
Not as wrong as the drinking game I made out of it of course...

So, there was a small break there during which there were 2 holidays, a writer's strike, and I got let go from my temp thing...the week before Christmas.  Thanks Insane Supervisor! Read some Dickens ya stupid...

Ah, who am I kidding.  I'd have let me go long before then.  The hate was strong with this one.

Sadly, I have faith that you could sell people turds advertised as "Poop...Now FROSTED!" and make a million dollars.

I was thinking of starting my own Fight Club recently.  I got some members--a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal.  Then I realized I'd made a Breakfast Club.

I went ahead and beat the crap out of them anyway.  Lemons/lemonade ya know.

I remember how popular the book All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten was when it first came out.  I'm reminded of it everyday when I take calls from or sit behind people in traffic who apparently bought the concept wholeheartedly.  So much so that they stopped learning and regressed mentally.

It's was not to be taken literally, jackasses.

Not that they learned that in kindergarten.

You can refute it all you want. Deep in your heart, you know it's true what they say: you'll never be the world's best rodeo clown.  Even if you wear a t-shirt that says you are.  And get syphilis.

Brick and mortar make a building strong and able to withstand years of punishment.

They make a shitty lubricant, though.

If you ever rip your pants in a public place, find a clown and start attacking him.  Sure people will think it's because he ripped your pants, but that's just a side benefit. Let's face it, pants be damned, it's just fun to kick a clown's ass.