hmmmmmm

So I found this little ditty while cruising around youtube. Something about it struck a cord with me and here it is…

Good Morning

A conversation from this morning concerning a cryptic email in my inbox from Wife:
The Email: (Names have been changed to protect the innocent)
“So & So’s House ROCKS!!!!
Sky Mountain Beauty!  If you have a buyer for a golf course
property, please show her house. I DID and my peeps loved it,
cant convince them on Hurrican  yet but want you to know….She
is an awesome agent and needs to sell her personal home
SHOW IT >>>IT IS BEAUTIFUL!”
The conversation:
Her: Awesome. “peeps”
Him: wha????
I’m confused…remember that talk we had about making sure to give me some back ground before launching into things like this?
Her: SIGH
Her: Hi Matt,
Isn’t this a funny email? These are the ones that the Realtors send to the board down here. It’s so amusing the language they choose to use. I like the use of “peeps” in this email.
Wife
Him: why thank you Wife…SMART ASS
Her: Hey…you wanted complete sentences, biatch 
Him: no…I just wanted a little back ground since I had no idea who the forwarded email was from…is this from one of your old PC buddies…is this from your old broker…what???
And
You had to be a smart ass…no no…that’s fine…I’ll pay you back
Her: What, with smart-assedness? I’m certain you will, my dearest.
Him:  I do my best!
And you know I’m going to blog this…
Her: Do your worst! You don’t scare me.
Him: you know you’re afraid of my blog…the sheer weight it carries in the electronic world is staggering!
Her: Staggering. In fact, I can’t think of a single thing on the internet other than your blog. And porn. Your blog and porn are all that are left on the internet.

Yeah…Right….

One of the lovely perks of my job is that I have to purchase items from the local WalMart that I normally would never purchase in my life. I enjoy the looks that I receive from the abundant population of white trash and complete red necks that inhabit this town, as I merrily stroll down the aisles or through the checkout line.

But yesterday really made me laugh. My company runs a promotion where we give out a certain teenage oriented movie that I personally have never seen, and nor do I think that I will ever see. You know the one I’m talking about…the one where everyone is sooooo happy to be in high school and all they do is sing and dance and apparently take naked pictures of themselves…yeah…that’s the one. Ok fine, it’s “High School Musical” there you made me say it, can I get on with it now? So we give out part 2 to this movie to every teenager that graces our doors as it was filmed in the area here and it’s supposed to be good marketing. How deceiving the teens of America into believing that high school is made up of well behaved, groomed, singing and dancing kids who all get along and love each other is new to me but hey…I’m sure this kind of school actually exists somewhere out there, right? right? Yeah probably not.

But I digress…so here I am with 10 copies of this movie standing in the express checkout line at the local WalMart in my dress shirt and slacks while I get eye balled by the redneck construction worker in front of me. I finally make it to the register where the clerk rings the movies up and I hand over the cash. At which point she looks at the movies, then at me and then holds the bill up to the light to make sure that it’s authentic. Yeah, that makes sense…the redneck construction worker who paid for his doughnuts, mountain dew and like 5 red bulls with a 100 dollar bill passes the initial inspection without a second thought or bill check, but me…well I have got to be a counterfeiter because no one in their right mind would try to buy that many teenie bopper movies with cash and not be a criminal. She totally caught me…the closet teenie bopper movie freak who spends his evenings cranking out fake 50’s on his computer while dancing around to the sounds of his favorite Disney musical…I am sooooo busted!

It’s that time

I hate to say it but it’s time for the comments section to go away. I don’t receive many as it is, but I’m tired of having to clean out 50 viagra, weightloss, penis enlargement, mood swing, and herpes cure spams every few days. So to those spammers out there…Here’s to you.

KISS MY ASS AND DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!

One day in the future when Wife and I can get back to a semi normal life we’ll figure out how to be able to open the comments to normal folk like you and me while still telling the spammers to FUCK OFF AND DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!

Shabadoo

Over the weekend I was able to get out on the course for a quick 9 holes. While I was there I was able to bump one in for an eagle on a par 4. It had to be one of those freak shots that I will never in a million years be able to reproduce but it felt good just the same.

For those of you out there that are scoffing, go ahead…I was there and you weren’t. I don’t fully expect you to believe me, basically because I don’t think I would believe you. Either way it was sweet and the picture actually turned out just as sweet.

Missing You

For the past few days I’ve been having that strange burning sensation again. You know the one that comes knocking at the door every so often that reminds you that you have a passion about something and that maybe it’s time you got your fat ass back to that passion! Yeah that’s the one I’m talking about.

The other day I found out that one of my employee’s comes from a family that owns a custom wood shop here in town and being able to talk the talk with him opened the door for the itch. You would have thought that the countless magazines and online articles would help subdue the burn but as of late they’re only feeding the frenzy. The tons of idea’s floating in and out of my head are to the point of leaking out my ears. I’m to the point that I’m beginning to eye the less than desirable tools in my parents garage as an outlet until I can once again free my shop from its jail of a storage shed.

If we could just sell our poor house we could get on with life and I could once again find an outlet for this burning discharge. What’s a guy supposed to do?