Hey! Bring Me a Beer!

The other day when our Christmas travel plans were in peril I threw out a half-hearted request for guest posts and, in the spirit of the season, I received two. Unfortunately, we did have to cancel our trip because the highways were just too treacherous. And, as these things always come in three's (frozen washer fluid and storms), little Liam has developed the Plague. (Ok, maybe not the Plague, but it's definitely a disgusting votex of mucus.) It wasn't meant to be.

And now I have two guest posts to use which means I can slack off some more. Score! First up is Dr. Detroit, Middle Aged Woman. Anybody remember Dr. Detroit (hoo hoo!)? Anyone? Whatever. MAW has recently embraced her masculine side. Her grade 6 class will be in for quite a surprise come January.



Last night before I went to bed, I stepped over the underwear that had landed on the floor next to my socks (it's hard to make a three-pointer with balled-up shorts), and paused to scratch that magic place that makes my eyes roll over. I wasn't worried about the stuff on the floor because I know the laundry fairy will take care of it. Always works.

Soon, I knew, I would be dreaming of power-tools, and plasma screens. For the umpteenth time I assured Husband that, no, his pajama pants did not make his butt look big, and got ready to drift off to sleep. Suddenly I sat up--oh my God! I can't go to bed yet! I didn't write that blog post featuring those manly awards from Captain Dumbass and goodfather! Oh, the guilt!

Hah! Just kidding. I fell asleep like a ton o'bricks. Guilt is for wussies.

Now that I've had my cold pizza and beer for breakfast, and left my empty can where the kitchen fairy can get it, it's time to talk about the manly subject of length. Which I can properly measure because I got this here award from goodfather:



Note the angle on that there heavy-duty measuring tape. I get a chubby just looking at it. It's too short, though. The tape, I mean. Obviously.

And what about this one?



And this is not from some pansy-ass, Johnny Depp-type, make-up-and-beads-wearing pirate either. The Captain is more of a walk-the-plank, shiver-me-timbers, run you through with a cutlass type of pirate. Supreme Leader told him he could be. Real men don't take chances with sh*t like that.


To all the members of the Commonwealth, enjoy your Boxing Day. To my American friends who have to go back to work today, should've thought about your holiday schedule before that revolution.