"Go sell crazy somewhere else.
We're all stocked up here."
There’s a crazy lady living across the road from me.
How do I know she’s crazy?
When stupid fucktards are drunk at 2.30am and suddenly discover leftover skyrockets, they will sometimes set them off in some poor bastard’s letterbox, completely destroying it.
But this lady, drunk and in possession of fireworks at 2.30am this morning, decided to try and mail them to herself, thus blowing her own box into several small pieces, most of which landed in the middle of the street.
I guess she won’t be getting many Xmas cards any day soon.
Hmmmm. She won’t be getting any bills either.
Maybe she’s not so crazy after all…
Art from the Daily Drivel has been busy dealing with paranoid tenants at a building he manages. One of them complained that they were too scared to cook anymore, as their stove was talking to them.
I have some sympathy for the concerned tenant.
I too was a little freaked when my oven first started talking to me, but once I got over that initial fright, I discovered that the oven had been just as scared of me as I was of it, and then we got to talking and discovered that we actually had a lot in common and we laughed at how wrong our initial prejudiced impressions of each other had been.
I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere for all of us, don’t you?
Here’s a little something I came across on Golf Widow’s site:
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want — good or bad — BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
To be honest, I have enough trouble telling the difference between reality and fantasy as it is, so I’ll probably end up believing we really did do what ever you say we did anyway.
Squawk away...
