The Adolescent Philosopher
I'm riding around town the other day, doing some errands and stuff. Maria and I are conversing and whining and kvetching, as usual, and finally I say:
"Why does everything have to be difficult?"
To which Brady replied, in a very matter of fact voice:
"To teach you lessons. Duh."
Okay then.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Conversations with the 12-year-old
So, my grandson and I had this conversation the other day.
Brady: My friend who used to live down the street, her house caught on fire. That double-wide down there by my old bus stop.
Me: Oh, that's terrible. Which friend?
B: She was the one that was in my art class and remember I said she lived right by the bus stop but she got driven there?
M: (I have no clue what he's talking about, but...) Uh-huh.
B: She's the one that asked if I wanted to see her.....
M: (omygodomygodomygod!)
B: ... hamster.
I'm hoping that's a literal thing, and not just what the kids are calling it these days. Good grief, he's growing up in a hurry.
Brady: My friend who used to live down the street, her house caught on fire. That double-wide down there by my old bus stop.
Me: Oh, that's terrible. Which friend?
B: She was the one that was in my art class and remember I said she lived right by the bus stop but she got driven there?
M: (I have no clue what he's talking about, but...) Uh-huh.
B: She's the one that asked if I wanted to see her.....
M: (omygodomygodomygod!)
B: ... hamster.
I'm hoping that's a literal thing, and not just what the kids are calling it these days. Good grief, he's growing up in a hurry.
Friday, August 26, 2011
So, a group of Facebook friends I have gets off on some strange tangents. I mentioned to them that I had, along with my brother, John, written a country song about love on the NASCAR scene. Since I wanted to share the lyrics with my friends, I'm posting them here for all to see. One of these days, I'll record my brother as he plays and sings it and post it on YouTube; I'm sure it'll go viral. Not.
Skid Marks on My Heart
You left skid marks on my heart
When you peeled out for another
Right after I told you
I was going to be a mother
You shifted gears so fast
You didn't even use the clutch
I never knew that the trophy dash
Of love could hurt so much
The green flag dropped and we were off
And things were mighty nice
But by the time we hit turn two
You had cheated twice
Things were fine in the back straight
I couldn't ask for more
Then you picked up the trophy queen
As you rounded out turn four
You left skid marks on my heart
When you peeled out for another
Right after I told you
I was going to be a mother
You shifted gears so fast
You didn't even use the clutch
I never knew that the trophy dash
Of love could hurt so much
And now you know why I'm not a Grammy winning lyricist.
Skid Marks on My Heart
You left skid marks on my heart
When you peeled out for another
Right after I told you
I was going to be a mother
You shifted gears so fast
You didn't even use the clutch
I never knew that the trophy dash
Of love could hurt so much
The green flag dropped and we were off
And things were mighty nice
But by the time we hit turn two
You had cheated twice
Things were fine in the back straight
I couldn't ask for more
Then you picked up the trophy queen
As you rounded out turn four
You left skid marks on my heart
When you peeled out for another
Right after I told you
I was going to be a mother
You shifted gears so fast
You didn't even use the clutch
I never knew that the trophy dash
Of love could hurt so much
And now you know why I'm not a Grammy winning lyricist.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Maybe the Grim Reaper Should Hire Telemarketers
This year, my mom is turning 70. It's kind of a big deal, right? I mean, to have survived three score and ten years on earth, through wars, diseases, poverty, childbirth, injury, travel and 36 years of marriage. Seriously, even just 100 years ago, any one of those things was likely to have caused a premature death (especially the marriage thing), so having lived to be 70 years old is clearly a bit of a testament to... stuff. Certainly, it's worthy of a celebration, which is being planned even as you read this.
In America, of course, celebrating one's 7th decade is so common that it's become a marketing opportunity! That's right, the elderly are now targeted for all kinds of advertising, for all kinds of products. Gone are the direct mail campaigns for pre-approved auto loans, cosmetics, and vacations; offers of investment services and life insurance, once voluminous, have now dwindled to a mere trickle. Instead of the formerly plentiful, glossy brochures for jewelry or cruises, my mother now receives a whole different class of mailings.
The mindset of corporate America seems to be as follows:
Over 65 = OLD Is susceptible to financial pleadings from starving children, homeless veterans and any religion promising eternal life. Must need denture cream, walking aids, hearing aids, spurious arthritis remedies, personal alarms, medical and prescription discount plans, and "final arrangments."
That's right. As my mother enters her "golden years" - while holding down a full-time job - the funeral industry is gleefully plotting my mother's eventual demise and offering her all sorts of options for pre-paying her final expenses.
Really. Shouldn't these hyenas have been coming around 20 years ago, when she had a husband and a little disposable income? Is it really necessary that my mother open her mail box every day to several full-color, exclamation point laden reminders that she's old? Is today the day she needs to choose between burial, cremation, or being interred in a reclaimed lighthouse off the coast of Catalina, or launched into space in an urn or whatever other choice they may manage to come up with?
I find this to be, at the very least, tasteless. My mom has a much different take on it and, rather than pontificate on it, I'll let her own words speak for her, and far more eloquently than I probably would. What follows is the letter my mom wrote to a cremation company from which she has received multiple mailings.
Prepare to be dazzled, although I am sure there are some (the cremation people among them) who will be surprised that someone of such advanced years, someone so aged and decrepit, could manage to stay upright at the computer long enough to type this missive, but she did. (If you've ever wondered where I got my sarcastic streak, you're about to find out.)
****************************
I find it incredibly insensitive and downright ghoulish that companies like yours, much like vultures circling carrion in the desert, lurk nearby as I celebrate my 70th birthday, hoping to profit off my impending demise.
I hate to disappoint you but I am in ridiculously good health, have no major health problems and come from a long line of folks who survived well into their 90s. If my impending doom is what you are banking on to put in your new pool this summer, you’re in long in for a long hot one…which may well be your ultimate destination anyway.
You people give new definition to the concept of opportunistic greed. You can’t let someone simply enjoy their 70th birthday. No, no, it’s apparently your God -given right to remind us old folks that we are about to shuffle off this mortal coil and become worm food, and to ensure that we know that that you take pride in making sure we don’t get back up again. I’m so happy to know that you would dispose of my body in an “earth friendly manner” (Wow that makes me almost look forward to the trip!). Too damned bad I already have a burial plot next to my husband, so I guess I won’t be “going out green”. I would rather wait for rigor mortis to set in and be pounded into the ground like a rail road spike than use your service.
I love the “100% satisfaction guarantee" you offer! Has anyone ever claimed it? I think that’s a pretty safe bet isn’t it? How could anyone be disappointed in your caring commitment to turn me into a crispy critter?? And how will they ever know if you did a good job or not? Do I get sent back to the kitchen like an undercooked salmon fillet?
As for the government mandating our “estate and personal options,” what the hell are you talking about? That makes no sense. How does anyone mandate your estate? What, Uncle Sam has a hit out on me? Or are you implying that you’ll have me in powder form before Uncle Sam gets his meat-hooks on my insurance policy?
As for “Do I want an unknown funeral director involved in my end of life decisions” I don’t plan on asking my undertaker whether I should lay down and start pushing up daisies or not! That’s kind of God’s area of expertise, don’t you think? Oh, that’s right, you green types don’t believe in God. You’re God! That’s what gives you the right to mess with old people.
Do I want an unknown funeral director?” Yes! Yes I do. Since he or she is going to see my naked old carcass, I prefer anonymity.
Since you are so into leaving the planet in good shape why don’t you come up with a recycling program to re-purpose the dead? I mean, burning seems so wasteful of good resources, and recycling us is so organic! You could extend our arms, shellac us and use us for coat racks! There’s always taxidermy… little kids scared of the dark could have granny sitting in a rocker in their bedroom at night. Have you ever seen Soylent green? I mean why waste all that protein? I‘m sure you and your “be one with the universe” buddies, should be able to come up with a useful way to re-use us old, non productive types.
My plan is to have myself stuffed with middle finger firmly extended so you can shove it up your greedy, insensitive, ecologically correct ass. Now take me off you mailing list… and speaking of mailing lists and ecological responsibility, how many trees are hacked down so you can send out our invitation to the Grim Reaper's ball?
Without a drop of respect since you showed me none,
Merle L. XXXXXXX
PS: If you’re going to be so politically correct…you might try and get my gender right. I’m a woman.
********************
So, stick that in your pipe - or crematorium - and smoke it.
In America, of course, celebrating one's 7th decade is so common that it's become a marketing opportunity! That's right, the elderly are now targeted for all kinds of advertising, for all kinds of products. Gone are the direct mail campaigns for pre-approved auto loans, cosmetics, and vacations; offers of investment services and life insurance, once voluminous, have now dwindled to a mere trickle. Instead of the formerly plentiful, glossy brochures for jewelry or cruises, my mother now receives a whole different class of mailings.
The mindset of corporate America seems to be as follows:
Over 65 = OLD Is susceptible to financial pleadings from starving children, homeless veterans and any religion promising eternal life. Must need denture cream, walking aids, hearing aids, spurious arthritis remedies, personal alarms, medical and prescription discount plans, and "final arrangments."
That's right. As my mother enters her "golden years" - while holding down a full-time job - the funeral industry is gleefully plotting my mother's eventual demise and offering her all sorts of options for pre-paying her final expenses.
Really. Shouldn't these hyenas have been coming around 20 years ago, when she had a husband and a little disposable income? Is it really necessary that my mother open her mail box every day to several full-color, exclamation point laden reminders that she's old? Is today the day she needs to choose between burial, cremation, or being interred in a reclaimed lighthouse off the coast of Catalina, or launched into space in an urn or whatever other choice they may manage to come up with?
I find this to be, at the very least, tasteless. My mom has a much different take on it and, rather than pontificate on it, I'll let her own words speak for her, and far more eloquently than I probably would. What follows is the letter my mom wrote to a cremation company from which she has received multiple mailings.
Prepare to be dazzled, although I am sure there are some (the cremation people among them) who will be surprised that someone of such advanced years, someone so aged and decrepit, could manage to stay upright at the computer long enough to type this missive, but she did. (If you've ever wondered where I got my sarcastic streak, you're about to find out.)
****************************
I find it incredibly insensitive and downright ghoulish that companies like yours, much like vultures circling carrion in the desert, lurk nearby as I celebrate my 70th birthday, hoping to profit off my impending demise.
I hate to disappoint you but I am in ridiculously good health, have no major health problems and come from a long line of folks who survived well into their 90s. If my impending doom is what you are banking on to put in your new pool this summer, you’re in long in for a long hot one…which may well be your ultimate destination anyway.
You people give new definition to the concept of opportunistic greed. You can’t let someone simply enjoy their 70th birthday. No, no, it’s apparently your God -given right to remind us old folks that we are about to shuffle off this mortal coil and become worm food, and to ensure that we know that that you take pride in making sure we don’t get back up again. I’m so happy to know that you would dispose of my body in an “earth friendly manner” (Wow that makes me almost look forward to the trip!). Too damned bad I already have a burial plot next to my husband, so I guess I won’t be “going out green”. I would rather wait for rigor mortis to set in and be pounded into the ground like a rail road spike than use your service.
I love the “100% satisfaction guarantee" you offer! Has anyone ever claimed it? I think that’s a pretty safe bet isn’t it? How could anyone be disappointed in your caring commitment to turn me into a crispy critter?? And how will they ever know if you did a good job or not? Do I get sent back to the kitchen like an undercooked salmon fillet?
As for the government mandating our “estate and personal options,” what the hell are you talking about? That makes no sense. How does anyone mandate your estate? What, Uncle Sam has a hit out on me? Or are you implying that you’ll have me in powder form before Uncle Sam gets his meat-hooks on my insurance policy?
As for “Do I want an unknown funeral director involved in my end of life decisions” I don’t plan on asking my undertaker whether I should lay down and start pushing up daisies or not! That’s kind of God’s area of expertise, don’t you think? Oh, that’s right, you green types don’t believe in God. You’re God! That’s what gives you the right to mess with old people.
Do I want an unknown funeral director?” Yes! Yes I do. Since he or she is going to see my naked old carcass, I prefer anonymity.
Since you are so into leaving the planet in good shape why don’t you come up with a recycling program to re-purpose the dead? I mean, burning seems so wasteful of good resources, and recycling us is so organic! You could extend our arms, shellac us and use us for coat racks! There’s always taxidermy… little kids scared of the dark could have granny sitting in a rocker in their bedroom at night. Have you ever seen Soylent green? I mean why waste all that protein? I‘m sure you and your “be one with the universe” buddies, should be able to come up with a useful way to re-use us old, non productive types.
My plan is to have myself stuffed with middle finger firmly extended so you can shove it up your greedy, insensitive, ecologically correct ass. Now take me off you mailing list… and speaking of mailing lists and ecological responsibility, how many trees are hacked down so you can send out our invitation to the Grim Reaper's ball?
Without a drop of respect since you showed me none,
Merle L. XXXXXXX
PS: If you’re going to be so politically correct…you might try and get my gender right. I’m a woman.
********************
So, stick that in your pipe - or crematorium - and smoke it.
Monday, October 25, 2010
My Bleacher Report Article - If they ever manage to fix my account.
So, I write for a site called Bleacher Report. At least, I do when I can get into my account. Currently, the site is telling me I'm not a writer and have to apply for an account. Um... my two previously published articles would belie this fact, but whatever.
Anyway, I wanted to post this somewhere so here you go:
NFL - Brett Favre: A Rung on the Ladder of Jenn Sterger's "Career"
I’m going to initiate this missive with the following disclaimer:
Never, in all my 51 years, did I think I would be starting out a discussion on sports with the sentence that begins the next paragraph.
Men—women don’t want unsolicited pictures of your genitalia sent to their phones. Really.
In fact, sending pictures of your "flea flicker" via text message is pretty much the 21st century equivalent of watching a pretty girl walk by and cat-calling, whistling, and making suggestive gestures with your hands. It’s gross, it’s rude, and it’s never called for. Oh, and excepting rare and unique circumstances, we don’t like it.
Yes, yes, I’m talking about Brett Favre. I mean, I know the guy is getting older; he’s not as quick as he once was, physically or mentally. Maybe he’s taken a few too many hits, or partied a little harder than he should have once or twice. But really, is the dude brain dead?
I believe Favre left the voice mails that everyone is talking about, and I believe the pictures involved are genuine. (They also make me want to cry, that a great quarterback is going to be remembered as the pervy old guy who sent pictures of his "special teams" to some sports groupie.) But I do not for one minute believe that Favre left those messages or sent those pictures without encouragement from Jenn Sterger, and I certainly don’t believe that she was an innocent victim of Favre’s misguided lust.
My guess is that, in person, she led him on, calculating how his continued interest could pay off for her and her fledgling career as a Famous Person.
We live in a world where fame and celebrity are mistaken for talent and accomplishment, where being a celebrity is an actual goal, and where loss of fame has driven people to drug abuse, armed robbery, suicide, even to appearing on reality television. In our culture, becoming a Famous Person just because you accidentally appeared on television is an actual career path. People become famous for being famous. Seriously, how else do you explain the notoriety of anyone whose last name is Kardashian?
Is it any wonder, then, that Jenn Sterger took advantage of Favre’s mid-life crisis and faltering ego to get her name and her face all over the media? To call attention to herself and grow the “fame” that began when she managed to get onscreen during a Florida State vs Miami game?
It’s interesting to me that she wears less clothing and exposes more cleavage than a Hooter’s waitress, yet wants us to believe that Favre’s attentions were unwanted and offensive to her. Funny how there was no mention of any of this until she had bit parts in not one, but two, soon-to-be released films.
As a woman, let me say that I don’t condone Favre’s behavior, nor think he is innocent. He’s an idiot. He’s a famous, presumably wealthy man, with a wife and family to think of. He claims to be a Christian. His pursuit of Sterger (and others) was moronic, to be nice about it. But he wasn’t alone in this. He’s an aging athlete who’s losing his ability and his star power and he was looking for something to bolster his self-image, which has to be suffering with his dismal performances on the field of late.
Favre’s antics the last year or so have clearly been meant to draw attention to his flagging career, as if media attention and fan adulation will make his game what it once was. They won't. Time and gravity catch up to all of us, and the idea that soon he will sleep late on Sundays, continue to skip training camp as he has the last two years, and be just another guy watching the Super Bowl from his living room sofa is clearly difficult for Favre to accept. Ms. Sterger is obviously just another straw he was grasping at to try to prove to himself that he’s still the Brett Favre. Sorry, he's just not.
For Sterger, Favre was just one more stepping stone in a “career” that should have ended no more than 15 minutes after it began in 2005. The texts, voice mails, and photos are nothing more than the NFL version of Monica Lewinski’s blue dress, the virtual DNA that will continue to make Sterger famous and elevate her status (and bank account) from sports bimbo to celebrity.
If she was really offended, upset, or disturbed, she’d have handled the whole thing a lot differently. If she meant to "protect" other women from Favre's unwanted and inappropriate attentions, she would not have waited two years to report things. If she was really concerned about Favre's activities and their repercussions (for her, for him, for his family, for other women, for the NFL) she wouldn't be "deciding" if she wants to talk to NFL authorities about the messages, or hiring lawyers and former FBI agents. Her behavior indicates she has something to hide in this situation, or something to gain from it. Or both.
I'm betting Sterger's interview with the NFL will happen, just not until she has another movie or television appearance upcoming, or gets a line of torn and too-small tank tops named for her.
Favre screwed up -- big. No doubt about it, he's clearly on his way to cashing out his NFL career.
Sterger is no better; she’s just trying to cash in.
Anyway, I wanted to post this somewhere so here you go:
NFL - Brett Favre: A Rung on the Ladder of Jenn Sterger's "Career"
I’m going to initiate this missive with the following disclaimer:
Never, in all my 51 years, did I think I would be starting out a discussion on sports with the sentence that begins the next paragraph.
Men—women don’t want unsolicited pictures of your genitalia sent to their phones. Really.
In fact, sending pictures of your "flea flicker" via text message is pretty much the 21st century equivalent of watching a pretty girl walk by and cat-calling, whistling, and making suggestive gestures with your hands. It’s gross, it’s rude, and it’s never called for. Oh, and excepting rare and unique circumstances, we don’t like it.
Yes, yes, I’m talking about Brett Favre. I mean, I know the guy is getting older; he’s not as quick as he once was, physically or mentally. Maybe he’s taken a few too many hits, or partied a little harder than he should have once or twice. But really, is the dude brain dead?
I believe Favre left the voice mails that everyone is talking about, and I believe the pictures involved are genuine. (They also make me want to cry, that a great quarterback is going to be remembered as the pervy old guy who sent pictures of his "special teams" to some sports groupie.) But I do not for one minute believe that Favre left those messages or sent those pictures without encouragement from Jenn Sterger, and I certainly don’t believe that she was an innocent victim of Favre’s misguided lust.
My guess is that, in person, she led him on, calculating how his continued interest could pay off for her and her fledgling career as a Famous Person.
We live in a world where fame and celebrity are mistaken for talent and accomplishment, where being a celebrity is an actual goal, and where loss of fame has driven people to drug abuse, armed robbery, suicide, even to appearing on reality television. In our culture, becoming a Famous Person just because you accidentally appeared on television is an actual career path. People become famous for being famous. Seriously, how else do you explain the notoriety of anyone whose last name is Kardashian?
Is it any wonder, then, that Jenn Sterger took advantage of Favre’s mid-life crisis and faltering ego to get her name and her face all over the media? To call attention to herself and grow the “fame” that began when she managed to get onscreen during a Florida State vs Miami game?
It’s interesting to me that she wears less clothing and exposes more cleavage than a Hooter’s waitress, yet wants us to believe that Favre’s attentions were unwanted and offensive to her. Funny how there was no mention of any of this until she had bit parts in not one, but two, soon-to-be released films.
As a woman, let me say that I don’t condone Favre’s behavior, nor think he is innocent. He’s an idiot. He’s a famous, presumably wealthy man, with a wife and family to think of. He claims to be a Christian. His pursuit of Sterger (and others) was moronic, to be nice about it. But he wasn’t alone in this. He’s an aging athlete who’s losing his ability and his star power and he was looking for something to bolster his self-image, which has to be suffering with his dismal performances on the field of late.
Favre’s antics the last year or so have clearly been meant to draw attention to his flagging career, as if media attention and fan adulation will make his game what it once was. They won't. Time and gravity catch up to all of us, and the idea that soon he will sleep late on Sundays, continue to skip training camp as he has the last two years, and be just another guy watching the Super Bowl from his living room sofa is clearly difficult for Favre to accept. Ms. Sterger is obviously just another straw he was grasping at to try to prove to himself that he’s still the Brett Favre. Sorry, he's just not.
For Sterger, Favre was just one more stepping stone in a “career” that should have ended no more than 15 minutes after it began in 2005. The texts, voice mails, and photos are nothing more than the NFL version of Monica Lewinski’s blue dress, the virtual DNA that will continue to make Sterger famous and elevate her status (and bank account) from sports bimbo to celebrity.
If she was really offended, upset, or disturbed, she’d have handled the whole thing a lot differently. If she meant to "protect" other women from Favre's unwanted and inappropriate attentions, she would not have waited two years to report things. If she was really concerned about Favre's activities and their repercussions (for her, for him, for his family, for other women, for the NFL) she wouldn't be "deciding" if she wants to talk to NFL authorities about the messages, or hiring lawyers and former FBI agents. Her behavior indicates she has something to hide in this situation, or something to gain from it. Or both.
I'm betting Sterger's interview with the NFL will happen, just not until she has another movie or television appearance upcoming, or gets a line of torn and too-small tank tops named for her.
Favre screwed up -- big. No doubt about it, he's clearly on his way to cashing out his NFL career.
Sterger is no better; she’s just trying to cash in.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
'Til death do us... Mom, is that you?
So, there are some things in a kid's life that you just tend to assume are self-explanatory, right? I mean, sure you can't trust them not to put buttered bread in the toaster, but still and all, some stuff just seems obvious. Yeah, gotta watch that.
The other day, I was at my daughter's house, just visiting and chatting. Grandson on the couch with a book, Maria and I standing in the kitchen area. I'd been telling her about a conversation I'd had with a friend. We had been talking about my mom (aka Ma) and how she'd been doing lately, what with it being my late father's birthday, and my brother living with her for nearly two years now, and various other things.
Me: "He says Ma's just lonely."
Maria: "No...."
Brady: "Ma's with Uncle John now!"
Me: "Um, Brady, uh... you do know that John is Ma's son, right? They're not together, right?"
Brady: "Oh, so they're not getting married!"
Eventually, we were able to stop laughing. Maria didn't even wet her pants!
The other day, I was at my daughter's house, just visiting and chatting. Grandson on the couch with a book, Maria and I standing in the kitchen area. I'd been telling her about a conversation I'd had with a friend. We had been talking about my mom (aka Ma) and how she'd been doing lately, what with it being my late father's birthday, and my brother living with her for nearly two years now, and various other things.
Me: "He says Ma's just lonely."
Maria: "No...."
Brady: "Ma's with Uncle John now!"
Me: "Um, Brady, uh... you do know that John is Ma's son, right? They're not together, right?"
Brady: "Oh, so they're not getting married!"
Eventually, we were able to stop laughing. Maria didn't even wet her pants!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Glub, glub, meow.
My daughter, kind and loving soul that she is, invited me to dinner tonight. And not just any dinner, either. She and her fiance' had picked up some Famous Daves. Excellent ribs, fabulous buffalo wings, amazing beans, terrific fried chicken... and fried catfish! I love catfish, and I got all of it because neither Maria nor David likes it. I don't know where I went wrong with that girl, but more for me, right?
I asked my grandson if he had tried the catfish yet, and he informed me that he hadn't. I pulled a small piece of fish off one of my fillets and handed it to him. Of course he gobbled it right down. Kid'll eat anything, including squash and sauteed mushrooms; why would he balk at catfish? He liked it, so we put some on his plate.
As he and I sat there eating our food, he picked up a strip of catfish and after taking a bite, looked at the meat, pondering. He looked a little worried, really, and I thought maybe he wasn't enjoying it all that much. Finally:
"Gammaw, this is catfish, right?"
"Yep. Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's good. But, is it fish? Or is it cat?"
OMG!!! Where's Fluffy?
I asked my grandson if he had tried the catfish yet, and he informed me that he hadn't. I pulled a small piece of fish off one of my fillets and handed it to him. Of course he gobbled it right down. Kid'll eat anything, including squash and sauteed mushrooms; why would he balk at catfish? He liked it, so we put some on his plate.
As he and I sat there eating our food, he picked up a strip of catfish and after taking a bite, looked at the meat, pondering. He looked a little worried, really, and I thought maybe he wasn't enjoying it all that much. Finally:
"Gammaw, this is catfish, right?"
"Yep. Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's good. But, is it fish? Or is it cat?"
OMG!!! Where's Fluffy?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)