_becauseMondayssuck blog because Mondays suck

  • What's More Adorable Than Cats?

    Posted by Span

    Two cats playing pattycake of course! I'm sure in the world of natural selection mother nature is silently fuming over the fact that one cat isn't ripping the other apart for kittie-chow supremacy. But there's something about a nice, comfy house and a loving family that videotapes your cutesy antics 24/7 that turns the household Simba into a lovable Nermal.

  • The Booty Hitta

    Posted by Span

    Is it the Gene Simmons wig? The Paris Hilton superstar shades? Maybe it's the swim trunks layered OVER the basketball shorts? The hairy keg-belly? Or perhaps it's his heavy breathing and repetitive rhyme schemes?

    Whatever it is, I have been charmed by the pure and complete inanity of this video. So I had to share it with you. Ladies and gentlemen! I give YOU...The Booty Hitta!

     

  • Wowza

    Posted by Span

    Last night I went to see Hurt at The Machine Shop. They are a talented rock band that doesn't get NEAR the shine they deserve. But that's the business and I wish them luck. My focus, for a large chunk of the night, was on something else.

    She was unlike anything I'd ever seen. A six foot four inch amazon in tall heels, black leggings, and a Pittsburgh Steelers football jersey and beanie, she swayed aggressively to Hurt's melodic might like it was hers and hers alone.

    I was just enough behind her to avoid being spotted, so I watched her with naked awe. I watched her near waist-long pig tails caress the sides of her large bosom. I watched as her head lolled to and fro in worship to the rhythm. And I watched as my friend, who'd accompanied me to the show, laughed at my open-mouthed, wide-eyed worship. Caught, I responded with a joke.

    "I'll have to hire a sherpa to climb that mountain!"

    We laughed, but humor was the furthest thing from my mind. I'm used to women being insecure about their height. Where did her confidence come from? Was it bred in her by the same brothers that encouraged her love for the Steelers? Was it instilled in her by her mother who taught her how to braid a pigtail? Or was it the liquid courage working dangerously close to spill territory as she bent and dipped in turn with guitar and drum? Whatever it was, I was just curious enough to wonder upon it.

    Romance is strange. It can catch you in the forehead while observing the pickles in aisle eleven or it can reverse-slap your dignity while your best friend is scampering out of bed with your best girl. But the odds of finding enduring affection in a bar? Not enough for me to forget the awesome show I was listening to. And certainly not enough to ditch out on a friend who had taken time out of her schedule to accompany me. So I watched. And dreamed. And let it be that.

  • Risky Business

    Posted by Span

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

    Marriage. An institution borne of true love and an unending commitment before God, or Allah, or Whoever, with the idea of creating an enduring partnership between two people that will grow into a family full of faithfulness and encouragement. In theory.

    The Divorce Rate is at around 50% which means that one out of every two couples will peace out on each other because he couldn't stop porking the babysitter, she couldn't put down the credit cards, etc. And when it's over all that's left is the "division of marital assets" which is a lawyer's way of saying "bicker like children over things they only care about cuz the other one wants it."

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

    Marriage sounds awesome, but divorce scares the crap out of me. Especially so when it comes to the idea that a woman I'm with and gave my heart to now wants to take my money, whether she earned it or not. I can understand in some cases though. If she was my rock when I was struggling, then I'll cut the check with a smile...even if it'll take me a while to actually let it go. But every other situation I hear about makes me cringe in terror.

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

    Then I read about Michael Douglas. Poor guy's been divorced from his ex-wife, Diandra, since 2000. Recently he underwent surgery and chemo treatments to remove a cancerous tumor the size of a walnut from his throat. In the meantime his sequel to the movie Wall Street dropped and the ex figured she deserved a cut so she took him to court. Nevermind the $45 million check he cut after their divorce and the houses in Beverly Hills and Majorca he had to vacate. She wanted 50% of whatever he made off of Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps because, I guess, $45 million doesn't carry in 2010 like it did in 2000.

    Yeah. Marriage can kiss my grits. The idea of true love and commitment is a seductive mistress indeed. But last time I checked my bank statement, it laughed at me. But if I'd like to hold on to my last 20 cents in lieu of forking it over to my ex, I'm gonna do it. And if it means I gotta walk the earth a single man, guess I better get used to warming my bed with hot soup.

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

    Ah. Campbells Soup, No one knows me like you do baby. No one.

  • Google Me Up A War, Please?

    Posted by Span

    Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

    Nevermind weapons training. Forget all strategy classes you may have attended. And for DANG sure forget all means of diplomacy. When you wanna start a good, 'ole fashioned, war for nothing, go to Google Maps.

    A Nicaraguan General did. Apparently he consulted Google Maps and found that the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica was incorrect. According to the website, Costa Rica was claiming land that wasn't theirs. So instead of calling them up and asking what their deal was, or perhaps CONSULTING HIS OWN MAPS, he assumed they were trying to get over on him and his country and raided away.

    I dunno, makes sense to me. Why not raid a country of Google borders? It's happened before. Google must, obviously, be the final authority on borders. I mean, they make the world's most popular search engine for goodness' sake!

  • 5 Things I'd Do With My Bailout Return Check

    Posted by Span
    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons
    AIG borrowed $180 billion dollars in 2008 when they realized that they were a bunch of dummies that forgot out to add and subtract properly:

    AIG President: If we spend ten billion dollars and earn six billion dollars how much to we have?
    Board Members: Duuuhhhhh...20 billion dollars in profit?
    AIG President: CORRECT! It's time for lunch. Diamond-encrusted lobster anyone?

    Two years later they are poised to start paying us back. Well...not us, more like US, as in The US Department Of Treasury. In fact, according to the Associated Press, AIG is prepared to pay back approximately $37 billion's worth of the aid we provided them. And with the deal struck by the DoT, our government will receive around $20 billion in profit.

    That money originated with the American Tax Payer so we should get a chunk. Of course, any profits will be gobbled up in nutty programs that allow large companies to exploit tax loopholes, but there's always hope. So with that hope, I will dream.

    5 Things I Would Do With My Bailout Return Check:

    1. Purchase large quantities of 'shrooms and arrange my cell phone list so that every number dials me directly into AIG's sales line.

    2. I would buy all the commercial time on The Daily Show and The Colbert Report for a day so they could run commercial free. But in the upper right hand corner of both shows there would be a note that says "Sponsored By The Republican Party".

    3. Set it up so that Google.com would be the first ten hits whenever someone looked up "tax cheats."

    4. Paint the entire north side of the AIG building to look like the old man from Monopoly holding a money bag with cash leaking through it.

    5. Quit my job and become a politician cuz real work is for suckers.

  • The Rules Of The Game

    Posted by Span

    Used courtesy of Aislinn Ritchie.

     

    I won't paint myself a victim. However, it's hard not to when a fellow student was slapping my face in front of a teacher and nothing was being done to stop it. But these were the rules of the game that day and I had to either play to lose or break even. The odds are tricky bitches sometimes...

    Advanced Placement Gym was a senior-only class available in the second semester. The name of the class was purely for paperworking purposes. It was basically an excuse for the most popular athletes in school to play fun games for an hour each school day. No need to change clothes. No need to run drills or sweat. Just come through and party. Sometimes we even left the property for field trips.

    Mr. Burke was the teacher and if ever there was a up-front and fair man, it was him. He had two requirements in order to make the class:
    1) Play a sport at the Varsity level.
    2) He must like you.

    The second req was infinitely harder as Mr. Burke did not suffer fools too much. Either you played the game and it reflected in your social circles or you didn't. That aside, not even the star athlete had a chance to get in if Mr. Burke didn't think he or she would fit. But getting in signaled a certain pinnacle of social achievement.

    AP Gym was everything I could have ever hoped it would be for a senior year experience. I quickly got to enjoy the looks of jealousy from other students as we watched them run track while we took golf swings on ping pong balls. Our goofing and laughter echoed across the playing field amidst whistle blows and calisthenics.

    The one activity all semester we got into that nearly required effort was floor hockey. I hated it. I didn't get how chasing a rubber ball with a plastic stick to hit it into a net was fun. It sounded dumber playing it without checking as it WAS a form of hockey. And positively asinine playing it with girls. Cute girls. Cute girls in skirts and tight slacks. The whole situation was backwards.

    Smiling when you're miserable is difficult in general, impossible when you're a child and you've been indulged too much. And moving from one ridiculously fun activity into this one was like going to the fair to find out the rides, games, cotton candy, and elephant ears were gone...but you could sit in the dunk tank if you wanted.

    I pouted by playing lazy defense or finding ways to end up in the penalty box. Mr. Burke was happy to let me sit out chunks of time there or in the alternates pen while he busted my chops mercilessly for being a baby. Once near the end of the first week I actually tried to participate earnestly a little, but I got semi-checked into a wall and felt my temper flare up. I complained to Mr. Burke, but again he busted my chops for acting like a baby. Then when Julie, a particularly athletic young hottie, took the ball from me during another period of lazy defensive play he, and everyone else, busted my chops again. Inside I was burning up with fury...mostly because they were right. I WAS being a baby. But these were the rules of the game. I can bitch, and lose, or not play, and draw. I elected the latter.

    Two days near the end of the second week Mr. Burke had some personal business to attend to so he placed Mr. Muschott in charge. Mr. Muschott was not my favorite teacher. We'd had some disagreements about my playing time and position when he coached my freshman year of JV Soccer and I'd held it against him like an adult whose parent had lost his favorite toy as a toddler.

    Mr. Muschott's way of negotiating my attitude was by making me play. He responded to my lazy play with wide-eyed incredulity and begged me to perk up. I rebelled by finding ways to stay in the penalty box. Floor hockey is a ridiculous game with tons of rules to break and I exploited them as frequently and flagrantly as I could. Stick over my head? High-sticking. Kicking the ball? Inappropriate play. Soft-checking a girl? Get out. I had more fun breaking those rules than I ever had actually playing.

    Competition, however, would win out. And I, no matter how stupidass the game, will at some point want to win. And with a particularly close game coming to a close we had a chance to win. So for the first time while playing floor hockey, I actually started to jog to the ball. Jogging turned to sprinting. And pretty soon I was up and down the floor like a man possessed.

    I still couldn't play the game worth a crap, but what I couldn't do I threw more effort at. To my utter surprise, and probably to everyone else's, I wasn't that bad. And with me not sucking our team looked like we had a shot.

    The game was ending, the class bell was about to ring, but the game was close and Mr. Muschott had declared the next goal dictated the victor. So when that ball came rolling into my corner of the gym I hunted it down like a fox hunter on the chase. That same ball was being chased by Jack, another fierce competitor. We weren't friends in any way, but I respected his effort. So I put myself between him and the ball and made to shoo it back to the offensive side. But as I reached the ball and trapped it against the wall I saw his stick between my legs trying to fish it out...and entirely too close to another set of competitive objects. I made my objections, but Mr. Muschott bid play on as no one was hurt. Somehow I managed to get my way and the ball went sailing towards my teammates on offense. But I was pissed.

    "Next time you put that stick between my legs dude..."
    "Quit being a baby!"

    I take great care as to not inflame my quick temper, but the competitive attitude I'd taken on left me vulnerable. And Jack's quick return pulled it naked and free. My face was hot, my heart was pounding fresh with adrenaline. And I could feel my hands crushing that stupid plastic hockey stick. But this was the game and once again I had two choices. So I shut down.

    A couple times more the ball ended up in my corner and I barely tried to play it. Somehow the other team couldn't succeed in scoring even with Jack charging here and there around me, but my teammates were annoyed with me regardless. Deservedly so. But I was teetering entirely too close to expressing my seething anger and unsure how to manage it aside from dis-involvement. Still we neared closer to the end and spirits were high as two teams battled it out for phantom supremacy. Well, two teams and one protester.

    The ball rolled into my corner again as seconds were ticking off the final minutes. No one was nearby, so I actually jogged my chase to it. As I neared the wall where the ball was trapped I heard Jack's size 14's clop-stomping my way. I tried to get the ball out, but it would not cooperate. Then Jack's stick was between my legs again. I tried for a few seconds to get at that damn thing, but between all the effort it jumped into the air. And Jack's stick went after it.

    I took one great leap to my right to avoid his efforts, held my stick in the air, and walked away towards the penalty box. Mr. Muschott began to voice his dissent, but I ignored him. Play stopped and Jack started to follow me.

    "You're being such a baby! Stop being a baby!"

    He was poking me in the back with his stick while he said it. I reacted the only way I could allow myself. I raised my stupid plastic hockey stick with my right hand and brought it down in a swift chopping motion behind me. I didn't even know how far back he was. I found out later that I got him on the wrist. I also found out later by Mike, a guy on my team as he told everyone who would listen, that when Jack left-handed baseball swung that stupid damn hockey stick at my leg I never even broke stride as it broke and the last eleven inches of it went flying across the gym in front of me.

    Mr. Muschott, wide-eyed in surprise, beckoned the both of us over. Jack continued poking me with the end of his broken stupid hockey stick and calling me a baby until he finally tossed it aside and we stood in front of Mr. Muschott.

    "C'mon! What's wrong with you guys? Why can't you play nice?"
    "I told you I didn't want to play"
    "He's just being a big baby! Just a big dumb baby!"

    Then, to my surprise, Jack started slapping my face. Not hard slaps. Just rapid, authoritative, open-handed taps to my face. I looked at him, but didn't react. To react would be to kill him. The rules of the game meant I had to shut it down or risk expulsion or worse. So I stood there and counted out the three sets of four, six, and seven staccato slaps Jack administered to my face directly in front of Mr. Muschott. After the third set I looked at Mr. Muschott.

    "Jack! Why are you doing that?"
    "Because he's being a big baby! C'mon big baby! You gonna keep being a big baby?"

    Two more sets of three and four staccato slaps.

    "Jack! Stop that!"
    "Well he should just stop being a big baby!"

    I looked back at Jack and said nothing. It was weird to see everything in red from the gym walls to the gym windows to the locker room doorway to the other students as they left their classrooms to walk into another, oblivious to how close they were to witnessing a double murder.

    "Guys, let's just shake hands and never speak of this again."

    I thought it cowardly that an authority would take that route and not punish Jack, or even both of us for our actions that day. But I'd never known Mr. Muschott to be an effective authority of any sort before, so I figured following instructions would give me time to get away and cool down lest he further try to influence us.

    After shaking hands with Jack and walking away to more taunts amidst Mr. Muschott's impotent requests for silence I reflected on what I did wrong. How I got so angry so fast and let the situation put me in a position where I couldn't do anything while another student slapped my face, in front of a teacher, after having broken a stupid hockey stick on my leg.

    The only answer I have is the same one I use today in situations where unfortunate people do unfortunate things. The world is broken. And these are the rules of the game: You can play to break even or to lose. Only the world wins. And your victory remains in contentment. I am displeased with the circumstances that befall me, for whatever reasons they do. But I gain by remaining within myself, staying confident in my course, and not breaking stride regardless of the obstacles. In that, in time, I'm confident I'll triumph.

  • 6 Beers + Several Cups Of Coffee = Baaaaaaad Juju

    Posted by Span

    According to all the news outlets making it their job to scare you into being well-informed, the new thing to fear lately is alcoholic energy drinks. On college campuses across the country, where alcohol and caffeine have made quite the impression upon the youth, companies are providing the easy answer to studying/partying/doingitfornoreason. Mix a six pack of beer's-worth of alcohol in with a ton of caffeine and sugar and stir. What's happening? Well, CNN's got your answer.

    The short story is that college kids are doing what college kids do. Stupid ****. And with Mommy and Daddy's money no less.

     

    Courtesy The Italian Voice and Flickr Creative Commons

     

    News outlets make money because they show you why you need to be scared senseless of your toaster on Monday, your blender on Tuesday, and of your kitchen table's cancer-giving properties the rest of your week. So I tend to take their reports as it pertains to societal's true ills with a grain of salt.

    That said, WE NEED TO GET RID OF THIS CAFFEINATED-ALCOHOLIC-NIGHTMARE PRONTO!!!1!!1!! College kids are good for soaking up our knucklehead jobs while learning more sophisticated ways to build a better bomb, but the LAST thing we need is them taking LESS time to get ridiculously F'ed up.

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

    If they don't wanna wait for coffee to brew to get caffeine they can buy a pop or energy drink. If they wanna get smashed like a watermelon fresh after a Gallagher show, then make them go through the proper channels: bribing their buying-age older brother with money and free labor like everyone else! Putting all that destructive power in one place for the easily influenced young mind is like teaching a deer to shoot a rifle. Bad. Juju.

     

    Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

  • 10 Things I'd Put In My Mouth BEFORE A Madascar Hissing Cockroach

    Posted by Span

    A Madascar Hissing Cockroach is a two to four inch, foul-tempered insect that has barbs on his legs sharp enough to climb smooth glass. So naturally you'd wanna put one in your mouth, right? How about 12? Sean Murphy of Lansing, Michigan wants to put 12 Madascar Hissing Cockroaches in his mouth. Why? To raise money for the Harris Nature Center by breaking the Guiness world record of holding six of those crazy bugs in his mouth for 10 seconds (link includes practice video...*shiver*).

    Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

     

    Why not just put seven in his mouth and call it good? I have no idea, but probably because Sean has style. A CRAZY kind of style. But style nonetheless.

    But that got me thinking. What would I rather put in my mouth for 10 seconds BESIDES a Madascar Hissing Cockroach? The list got long quick so I narrowed it down to the 10 most vile things I could think of.

    1. A thimbleful of Fantastic household cleaner.

    2. A piece of raw whale blubber.

    3. A regular cockroach. Just one, thank you.

    4. A live tazer. The business end.

    Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

    5. Mentos and Diet Pepsi at the same time.

    6. An item I know a member of the cast of Jackass spent 5 minutes with first.

    7. A pen I KNOW someone just dug around in their ear.

    8. A whole tin of Altoids.

    9. A shark tooth while it's still on the shark.

    10. ANY fecal matter.

  • Come Join The Latest Political Party

    Posted by Span

    Jimmy McMillan is a karate expert and former Black Panther. His next pursuit is to become Governor of New York. He's been trying to get the word out about his "The Rent Is Too Damn High" Party on television for quite a while now and he finally had a chance in last night's New York gubernatorial debate. His platform? The rent is too damn high. The mustache, ALONE, makes this worth a view:

     

  • What Happened With My Glasses...

    Posted by Span

    It's like a movie! You wouldn't think that sort of thing would happen to somebody in real life! 
    -Aimee 

    I saw the plastic bag floating over the car in front of me. I always shake my head when I see them; some idiot using the world outside their car window as their own personal trash bin. I could only imagine some poor schlub having one of those things fly over their face, obstruct their vision, and cause an accident. Looking from the bag to the roadway ahead there was a car about three lengths ahead of me. Then it vanished. The plastic bag was on my face, having been sucked in through the car window. I couldn't see, and the loudness from the bag prevented me from hearing. Doggonit.

    Telegraph Road in Southfield is a schizophrenic roadway. The limit is 50mph in most parts, but it's not quite a freeway. Because of this difficult-to-categorize quality most people end up either driving way too slow (40mpg) or way too fast (WTF??!?mph). Trying to cruise along at a responsible 55 means I'll be dodging the speedsters riding up on me like hungry sharks and running up on roadsters crusing along at a measured pace to enjoy the sun with the wind whipping through their aged locks. 

    I try to give plenty of notice before switching lanes, but it happens so often on Telegraph you just gotta dive for safety, notice be damned. And it was just before I was gonna do my final lane switch into open road freedom that I saw the bag. It was hurtling ass-over-teakettle as the cars and winds beat it back and forth across the road. I hate litter so sometimes I try to catch them and I've snagged more than my fair share. But this one was drifting for the passenger side of my car so I didn't bother. Besides, there was open road to be had if I could just squeeze ahead of this dopey minivan near my right hind quarters. 

    Nature had other plans. For all the times my neighbors dumped their detritus on the road, nature saw fit to reap the whirlwind on me. The bag screamed through my open window and flopped right over my face. I was completely blind. And with all the noise coming from the bag I was effectively deaf too. 

    The red brake lights of the car in front of me had flashed just before the bag hit so time was of the essence. I wanted to use my right hand to clear the bag, but it was already on the wheel. Switching may have meant a deadly altered trajectory with the slightest turn of the wheel. So with my left I felt for the corner of the bag. Preliminary observation revealed that the bag was covering the entire right side of my head so grabbing from the corner wasn't gonna happen. 

    I tried to dig up under the bag from the left side of my face, but the wind kept altering the shape so that no matter how I tried to pull it off, the grip only got wider and stronger. Two seconds had already passed and my mind was flashing ahead to the site of the accident. My car upside down. Me still in it. Bag on my face. Blood everywhere. Panic was beating of my mind like the wind upon my car as I hurtled down this deadly road in what might have become my coffin. 

    The only solution I could come to was to reach for a raised bit of surface on my face. Somehow, someway, no matter what I had to get this thing off my face. Reaching across the bag, I dragged my fingers across my face from left to right and hooked my fingers underneath my glasses. In one smooth motion both the bag and my specs came right off my face. Daylight flooded my eyes. I was at 45mph and the car in front of me had, thankfully, pulled a good distance ahead. 

    I drove for half a mile before I pulled over to collect myself. That's when I realized my vision was slightly blurred. The bag had gone into my backseat once I'd gotten it off my face so hopefully my glasses were there too. Unfortunately, they weren't. I looked everywhere, but no dice. The glasses were gone. I thought about going to look for them on Telegraph, but thought against it. Traffic was always too heavy and if they were in the road they were long destroyed anyway. Oh well. The nosepads had fallen off months ago so the dang things were scratching up my face anyway. I was long due for a new pair. I guess now my hand was forced. 

  • REJECTED!!!

    Posted by Span

     

    Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

     

    Friends mean well. But sometimes, without knowing it, they're setting you up for failure. Especially when it comes to romance.

    My buddy Ben thought he was doing me a favor when he intoduced me to Big Bad Bertha (not real name). Big Bad Bertha had a sense of humor, he said. Big Bad Bertha had a sharp wit, he said. Big Bad Bertha came endorsed by Ben's girlfriend Sarah as well, he said. He couldn't wait to see the two of us interact, he said. The bright, sunny look of gleeful self-satisfaction that radiated from his eyes sold me.

    It was a one hour drive out to where he lived on the west side of Michigan. Along the way I got my mind prepared. I'm no moron. One of my closest friends in the world recommends this chick, but that doesn't mean she's gonna be my soulmate. She may just become another in the long list of acquaintances I've obtained while trying to find a body to warm my bed. We might even be friends, long into the future, laughing over Earl Grey tea, each with our respective spouses, over the foolish attempt at love our friends Ben and Sarah pressed upon us. No way this chick was gonna be a genuine love interest...

    Or maybe she would be? Perhaps Big Bad Bertha and I would see each other and know. Just know. Talk and be even more certain. Touch and feel unrivaled passion. Yes, maybe Big Bad Bertha and I would go forth from this meet and make plans for the next day, together and forever, the rest of our lives. Heh heh. No way it's gonna go down like that. But hope springs eternal cuz in all matters of the heart, you just never know.

    Well, clearly in this case Big Bad Bertha knew. The plan was to meet up for dinner at one place, then have dessert and coffee somewhere else before heading, finally, to Sarah's place for laughter and good times before retiring for the night and letting destiny carry us into the future. As I walked into the restaurant with my apple cap, leather jacket, judo t-shirt and jeans Big Bad Bertha spotted her destiny. And it didn't look like me. It looked like her car. Driving rapidly. Away from us.

    She spotted me first so I met her eyes just before they saddened. What I saw was a portly girl who was also a snappy dresser, skilled in hiding her fat folds. Great reams of hair were held at bay upon her head in a complex system of ornamental chopsticks, metallic barrettes, and twists. Only she and a well-tenured Calculus professor could find a way unlock all that hair using equations and prayer. I was almost impressed with the obvious difficulty wrangling all that hair must have taken. But looking at her body language, it would have been a poor idea to say so.

    I sat down at the table where two friends and an enemy were smiling. Big Bad Bertha couldn't even gather together enough gumption to look at me. We began to conversate as normal though.

    Ben: So Span, how was your drive?
    Me: You mean the hour long drive into foreign territory to meet up with a girl your friends are trying to set you up with? Just SWELL.

    Ben and Sarah thought that was funny. I thought it was funny. Big Bad Bertha just got Bigger and Badder as her arms crossed to hide her ample bosom and her right leg crossed over her left as her entire body turned away from me, who had dared sit at her right.

    My charm and wit carried us through the dinner. But while Ben and Sarah seemed even more drawn into my web of happiness and good cheer, Big Bad Bertha checked her watch as if it was about to turn into a ring of diamonds. That she could turn into barrettes. To continue holding up that possessed mop of hair, that stupid, dirty b...

    We left after thirty minutes which, I was to find out later, was what Big Bad Bertha had promised them she'd stay for BEFORE she saw me. I didn't know Big Bad Bertha was wearing 4 inch heeled boots. But I could hear them as she stomped her big butt off through the snow, rapidly huffing puffs of steamed breath into the cold Michigan winter. I believe I imagined her slipping on a patch of ice and losing a barrette or chopstick or two. Wild tangles of rebellious reams of hair filling with snow as she fell, over and over, into the mottled, salty, unforgiving snow banks walling the sidewalk. And I believe I laughed. A lot.