Less than a mile from my place of work is a church which has a Vegas style full color lighted marquee with animated text and pictures inviting everyone to come to their church. I’m hoping that if I sit in front of the sign long enough it’ll say “$5 Prime Rib, You Think Mary Magdalene was bad? Our slots are more loose than her!!”
Notice: First Read This Post
The pervasiveness of drug culture in our society has come to light with the previous post (yes I know I’m breaking my own rule of not referrencing my own stuff….).
Cockroach. COCKROACH. When speaking of the singular, it is always “Cockroach.” While when speaking in plural, “Roaches.”
Had I said “Roach” everyone would have assumed I was smoking the reefer. Be serious now, mudflaps on an insect is one thing, but mudflaps on the sad remains of a joint is just crazy talk. Crazy Talk.
Crazy Talk.
When outside what is normally referred to as “The South” you hear about the “Big Skeeters” and other large bugs. I come here today to bring you news that these are not lies. These are all the truth.
I just saw a cockroach with mudflaps.
And the mudflaps had the confederate flag on them.
Ok, not really, but it was a big cockroach.
In horror movies sometimes there’s a hallway where a flourescent light is flickering ominously, which is really the director’s way of saying, “Hey, the guy with the meat-cleaver and that cannibalism thing hangs out here.” I’m pretty sure I’m safe, because its the light outside my neighbor’s door which is flickering like that. I can’t recall there ever being a scene in a movie where the meat-cleaver-blonde-person-eating psychopath decided to pass by the door with the flickering light and attempt to digest the neighbor instead.
When getting ready for bed sometimes truth comes to you about how much sleep you really need. This is pretty evident when you find out that you’re wearing your underwear both inside-out and backwards.
Sometimes hunger gets in the way of common sense and causes one to brave the wilds of their personal, fully functioning Fireball Gun/Oven…. which I’m tempted to hang a palque over, reading, “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”
That or a plaque reading, “I pooted” which I recently saw on a bilboard on the side of the road.. it was the only thing on the bilboard.
So after trudging through all seven of the demonic circles of my oven to place a frozen Hot Pocket on the center rack (right next to Be’elzebub) and waiting the 28-30-minutes-or-until-ready length of time I was confronted with the strange paradox that hot pockets seem to taste better when bombarded by microwaves rather than being cooked in hell, er… my oven.
