Hey, babe, you're hair's alright
Hey, babe, let's go out tonight
You like me and I like it all
We like dancing and we look divine
Have you heard Rickie Lee Jones sing that ^^^ song?
I couldn't find it on youtube for you, but it's pretty damn good.
Traffic From Paradise is the album. Give her 99 of your hard-earned cents and buy it on i-tunes.
I spent last night with some friends and Stanette. We went out for pizza and two of our friends (McC and Mrs. McC.) showed up, unplanned. Then my neighbor, Omar, showed up, also unscheduled.
Omar is from Pakistan and he has a daughter who is around 18 months old. She is beeee-yoo-ti-full. Her name is Asha.
Omar says that when she gets to high school and boys come over, he is going to lay some serious Omar-bin-Laden on them. With a thick accent, he screamed, "I WILL KILL YOUR DOG!!"
I can't write it and do it justice. In person, when a 5'6" inch, 130 pound pakistani guy delivers it with wild eyes and a scream?
Now that's funny.
Omar and I played some music. Some Twist and Shout, some I've Got a Feeling. Stanette sang. It was cool.
I made egg rolls (pronounced with thick Chinese accent, "egg low.")
(Wow, am I bringing the racism this week or what?)
If Obama gets elected, he damn well better pick a woman or a Mexican for Vice President.
That'll give the sniper from Huntsville, Alabama second thoughts.
(Also, do you think typing "Omar," "Pakistan," "bin-laden, "KILL," "Obama," and "sniper" on the internet just put me on the NSA watch list? I can smell the Patriot Act from here.)
This morning, I got up bright and early.
Stanette got up, made coffee, cooked me a breakfast burrito and wrapped it up for the road. (She's a keeper.) I drove to the Bozeman Hot Springs to meet Bill and Sean. We went to Big Sky.
Bill worked ski patrol at Big Sky for eight years. We had rock star parking. Some snow fell last night and it was warm (for Big Sky, that means 28 degrees) (Farenheit, in case you Canadians get confused on your way back from your favourite donut shop.) (.)(.)
The snow off the Challenger lift felt like skiing on cream cheese.
We went into the trees with all the expected hoots and hollers. (Holla?)
Later, while blatantly trying to show off for Bill and Sean (Gay?), I launched some Big Air:2008 and, once again, exploded upon impact.
I bring the funny to the mountain. That's right, Mohammed (NSA?), I bring it to you.
(Clearly, I'm fond of parentheticals.) And boobs. (.)(.)
Who doesn't love boobs, really?
The Beatles should have sung "All You Need Is Boobs."
World peace, right there in a nutshell.
(.)(.)
We should send boobs to Iraq.
Good old American boobs.
USA! USA! USA!
(What do you think the NSA is thinking now?
Probably about boobs.)
At lunch, my phone rang. Stanette was sobbing. She was chopping some celery and cut off the tip of her left index finger. (At this point, I'm thinking, "breakfast burrito.")
I called McC, who responded like a champ, drove over and took her to urgent care.
At ugrent care, they bandaged up her finger, and made it look like a penis.
I wish I was kidding.
I'm not.
I named the photobucket folder "penis finger." The cotton balls are to give you a sense of scale.
Needless to say, Joe has been playing the role of sympathetic boyfriend.
And Vice President of Dick Jokes.
I couldn't find it on youtube for you, but it's pretty damn good.
Traffic From Paradise is the album. Give her 99 of your hard-earned cents and buy it on i-tunes.
I spent last night with some friends and Stanette. We went out for pizza and two of our friends (McC and Mrs. McC.) showed up, unplanned. Then my neighbor, Omar, showed up, also unscheduled.
Omar is from Pakistan and he has a daughter who is around 18 months old. She is beeee-yoo-ti-full. Her name is Asha.
Omar says that when she gets to high school and boys come over, he is going to lay some serious Omar-bin-Laden on them. With a thick accent, he screamed, "I WILL KILL YOUR DOG!!"
I can't write it and do it justice. In person, when a 5'6" inch, 130 pound pakistani guy delivers it with wild eyes and a scream?
Now that's funny.
Omar and I played some music. Some Twist and Shout, some I've Got a Feeling. Stanette sang. It was cool.
I made egg rolls (pronounced with thick Chinese accent, "egg low.")
(Wow, am I bringing the racism this week or what?)
If Obama gets elected, he damn well better pick a woman or a Mexican for Vice President.
That'll give the sniper from Huntsville, Alabama second thoughts.
(Also, do you think typing "Omar," "Pakistan," "bin-laden, "KILL," "Obama," and "sniper" on the internet just put me on the NSA watch list? I can smell the Patriot Act from here.)
This morning, I got up bright and early.
Stanette got up, made coffee, cooked me a breakfast burrito and wrapped it up for the road. (She's a keeper.) I drove to the Bozeman Hot Springs to meet Bill and Sean. We went to Big Sky.
Bill worked ski patrol at Big Sky for eight years. We had rock star parking. Some snow fell last night and it was warm (for Big Sky, that means 28 degrees) (Farenheit, in case you Canadians get confused on your way back from your favourite donut shop.) (.)(.)
The snow off the Challenger lift felt like skiing on cream cheese.
We went into the trees with all the expected hoots and hollers. (Holla?)
Later, while blatantly trying to show off for Bill and Sean (Gay?), I launched some Big Air:2008 and, once again, exploded upon impact.
I bring the funny to the mountain. That's right, Mohammed (NSA?), I bring it to you.
(Clearly, I'm fond of parentheticals.) And boobs. (.)(.)
Who doesn't love boobs, really?
The Beatles should have sung "All You Need Is Boobs."
World peace, right there in a nutshell.
(.)(.)
We should send boobs to Iraq.
Good old American boobs.
USA! USA! USA!
(What do you think the NSA is thinking now?
Probably about boobs.)
At lunch, my phone rang. Stanette was sobbing. She was chopping some celery and cut off the tip of her left index finger. (At this point, I'm thinking, "breakfast burrito.")
I called McC, who responded like a champ, drove over and took her to urgent care.
At ugrent care, they bandaged up her finger, and made it look like a penis.
I wish I was kidding.
I'm not.
I named the photobucket folder "penis finger." The cotton balls are to give you a sense of scale.
Needless to say, Joe has been playing the role of sympathetic boyfriend.
And Vice President of Dick Jokes.
Labels: your face is a mess you've torn your dess you're a juvenile success ..how could they know?
posted by Joe at
9:58 PM
10 Comments:
Thanks for the laughs this morning.
Poor Stanette. Were stitches involved? I like how the P-finger is apparently strapped on.
Ouch.
Sorry Stanette, I'm sure that wasn't fun.
I love the images, in photo and Word.
No, no stitches, P., because of the nature of wound.
She was definitely hurting, although the laughter at the bandage helped.
( o )( o )
Will Stanette's "shocker" talents be affected by the injury?
P.S. This stupid comment box removes extra spaces, resulting in my ASCII mammillary rendering being C cups instead of full D's.
I've done that - they cauterized it. Twice. The first time I didn't know I was pregnant and gladly accepted the script. As it was healing, the capillaries (I think) regenerated faster than the skin and they had to re-do it. That time, I knew I was pregnant, and was not given a script.
Hope she heals up soon!
at least they circumsized it.
__)_)::::::::D
Damn Stanette; that's a hell of a "Happy Ney Year"
~Danno~
Whats up with the old school bindings? Don't like the step ins?
ps. Sorry about the finger
Step-ins are old school, ej.
For high performance, they won't even sell you step-ins any more.
In culinary school you are taught to hold your hand with the knuckles up so that the fingernails allow the blade of the knife to harmlessly slide off the tip of your fingers.
At least no harm came to her sweet tush.
godspeed Stanette.
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