BE AFRAID! -- no, not really

At a friend's house the other day, I learned that children in a school in New Jersey aren't allowed to carry backpacks from class to class anymore, presumably because they're hauling weapons of mass destruction to history class. I know I would.

When I was in high school, I had a bag that could hold about 4,000 pounds of crap. I carried all my morning books in that bag so I wouldn't have to trudge back and forth to my locker. I could fit small freshmen in that bag.

Maybe that's why schools started outlawing backpacks. Good job, me.

What the hell are people so afraid of, and why do they create crap rules that don't keep us any safer?

Cracked explores the problem with its usual brand of ferocious investigative journalism. I always suspected that Amber Alerts and the sex-offender registry were worthless, at best.

Diddling kids sucks, but if it's going to happen, odds are it's going to be creepy Uncle Todd, who REALLY likes giving horsey rides, rather than that dorky loner three blocks down who got nailed once for public urination.

Hell, if anyone had seen me peeing in Mom's backyard, I could be a sex offender now.

Romeo and Juliet, and cell phones

It's been said before that Romeo and Juliet would have resolved much more happily had T-Mobile been around in Shakespeare's time. Juliet could have sent her beloved a text: "Hey, Romeo, luv u 4evah, don't kill urself." And Romeo could have replied: "U wanna hook up? C U in the crypt."

It would have been awesome, and the Montagues and Capulets could have had a good, long laugh about their little rapscallions' behavior.

Which led me to think how even more awesome it would be if they had IM.

CapChick: O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo. Deny thy father, 'cause his shit is whack.
LoverBoy: No worries. He's watchin' porn on his laptop. LOL.
CapChick: Can u come over 2nite? I Netflixed "Othello."
LoverBoy: Talk about whack. Those dudes make me wanna kill myself. Depressing shit. BRB.
...
LoverBoy: OK, back.
CapChick: Where'd u go?
LoverBoy: Had to pee. Sorry.
CapChick: So, r u coming over? I miss u.
LoverBoy: Waitin' 4 Dad 2 pass out in his beer. OK, BITCH.
CapChick: Did u just call me a bitch?
LoverBoy: No, BITCH. Means Basically in the Clear, Homey.
CapChick: Does not. U just made that up.
LoverBoy: No, really, I got it off of netlingo.com.
CapChick: U r sooooooooo lame. But I love u anyway, pookie.
LoverBoy: U know I would die 4 u. B there soon.

Actually, now that I think about it, we're all better off that they killed themselves.

My Engrish is gooder than your Engrish

Posted inside the Teriyaki Boy on 9th Ave. and 57th Street. It's like people WANT me to blog about them.

Do you have a friend in Jesus?

With the help of some wine and a bit of a mean streak, Devon and I have decided to quit our jobs to sell Rapture insurance.

Yes, if you are certain you are going to be taken by our good Lord Jesus Christ at the end times, you can shield the selfish, lazy heathens in your family from poverty and starvation with our help. Your life insurance won't do Jack, since you won't be dead. You'll need another way to keep your teenage daughter from whoring herself in front of Home Depot and your husband from performing late-term abortions for spare change.

Don't let your family suffer in sin when you are given your eternal reward.

Enroll in Rapture insurance NOW!

I'm going to be a hermit when I grow up

I'm going to live in a cave. My cave will be equipped with electricity and plumping and things for Devon to do, because I want him in my cave. Everyone else can visit my dark, dank hole in the earth, except for people who suck. I have a list of people who suck, and those people will be pitched into the pit of fire, where they will keep my s'mores fire burning strong and bright.

If you are reading this, you probably don't suck, so I will keep an extra marshmallow over the fire for you. You bring the chocolate.

Interview with a moron

I was calling around for some price quotes on 24/7 home care for mom, for if and when she comes home, and I had this conversation with the receptionist.

Receptionist: So, what is her medical condition?
Me: She is terminally ill.
Receptionist: What?
Me: Terminally ill.
Receptionist: Does that mean she's gonna die soon?
Me: Yes.
Receptionist: Oh. Sorry.

I can't be irritated. I'm still laughing too hard. I'm just surprised the next question wasn't, "So, does that mean this is a short-term assignment?"

Cooch ball: I know not what this is

I didn't even know what this was until I saw that someone had hit my blog searching for it. I still don't know what this is. Urban Dictionary says a cooch ball is "When your vaginal area has been been so torn up, it is swolen and appears as a ball between the legs." Then it gives an example.

"Matt: Damn taylor, you must be a slut!

Taylor: Why do you say that?

Matt: You have a huge cooch ball"

Putting aside the glaringly obvious spelling, capitalization and punctuation errors that let me feel all superior, I find this definition unhelpful. Sometimes I think people just make this shit up. I've known a lot of sluts in my time, and not a single one has had her cooch grow four sizes bigger.

If the person who searched for "cooch ball" is still here, get yer ass over here and explain this whatthefuckery.

At least my ovaries won't kill your baby

I know: Two posts in as many days is insanity. But this is an important service announcement, and the world needs to know.

I want this in the sense that I'm looking at it right now, and as soon as I move on to something else, I will stop wanting it. But seriously, don't fuck with these ovaries. They've seen shit you can only imagine.