Ok, herein I shall try to recreate the fucking masterpiece of a post that Blog-fucking-ger just ate. If it sucks, blame the whiskey.
Wait, let me go get some.
Goddamn it. Sigh. Here goes:
Punkinhead is saying shit a lot lately. That's because I say it a lot. Shit, I mean. She copies to me due to a phenomenon (get me – got it right the first time) that is called... ok, I don’t remember what it’s called. But I’m her mama and she copies me. And I say shit a lot right now. Because it’s the holidays and shit.
Did anyone ever see the South Park where they said “shit” and counted how many times on a little ticker in the corner> I’ll be goddamned, that was some funny shit.
Ok, one more Punkinhead story, then I’ll cease and desist before my hot twenty-something guy readers get their semi-pornographic fantasy image of me ruined. Anyway, so my friend just got back from Iraq (yeah – I’m the shit. I got a friend who just got back from Iraq) and she came to see me. Well, after several gallons of hot tea she needed to, ahem, use the facilities. So she went in and came back out and said nothing besides a delicate, “I think Punkinhead’s diaper is on the floor in there.”
Well, we’ve had a shitload of diapers in this house lo these many (six) years. And I’ve never seen what was in ‘em. Ok, of course I have. But I’ve never seen what was between the “comfort dry-weave” that goes next to the baby’s ass and the outside, cottony-soft cover that goes next to my hand when it’s under said ass.
I don’t know what she did in there (“GO AWAY! ME DO IT!!”) but she shredded the fucking thing like a mouse went after it (it did look oddly like gerbil bedding) and left it all over the expensive slate floor.
My friend didn’t seem too perturbed though. After all, she’s been going in porta-potties. For a year. And, she shared with men. *Shudder* While we’re on the subject, even though she was a civilian contractor, she deserves a Purple Heart or something for sharing a porta-potty with men for a year. ‘Cause guys, you are just disgusting. Rich ain’t measured in dollars. Rich is measured by separate shitholes for spouses. Really. Ok, rant over.
But you’ll be relieved (tee hee – relieved. Get it?) to know that at least she got to share with only American men (as if that’s any consolation) because an interesting fact about the Iraqis: they don’t wipe. Yeah, that's right. They rinse. With bottled water. So there are bottles everywhere around their potties and the stalls are all wet inside and you don’t know what the wet actually is... eeeeuuuuugghhh
I haven’t seen this girl since college – ahem, a few years ago. We were in the same sorority. (Yeah, sorority. Pillow fights in our underwear, the whole bit. And then we made out together and fantasized about you, Krypto.) (It’s a good thing you have a sense of humor because I am so not done with you yet.)
So, to reference the title, I made fudge tonight. Yeah, I’m Martha Fucking Stewart. Except without the old lady body, and the laundry duty, and the parole officer.
Two shitty facts about fudge: 1. Sometimes it’s manna from heaven. You don’t know what the fuck you did, but it is smooth skin, baby. You could trade it for its weight in gold bricks and get a raw deal. 2. And then the next batch sucks. It’s like chalk that smells vaguely like chocolate but has no real flavor.
(This batch is awesome, by the way. I'll be goddamned for the second time tonight.)
The rub is that you never find out until you cut it up and serve it to someone. And even if it's shit, you can’t throw it away. Because it’s fudge.
People go to prison for less.
And that was my day. Aren’t you glad you asked?