living in a treehouse or driving a skateboard to work

Hi what goes here?
Oh yeah? What you gonna do about it then? Mess me up huh? I’d like to see that. Step to me fool and let’s see. Don’t make me drop the hammer on your ass, ’cause I’m ready. Step back.

Guys, for real. I’m so excited about my sprinklers almost being done. How gay is that? It’s a huge accomplishment for me though, so I can accept the gayness. Oh, and by the way, I still haven’t stopped using the word “gay” to mean stupid or lame. I think I’m fairly conscious of political correctness, and can operate within its standards most of the time – but I’m just not ready to give up that gradeschool “gay means stupid” thing. So to all you homos, I got mad love for you – but gay means stupid. Sorry. Wait, homos isn’t PC either? Aww man, a brother can’t win.

The other night at Anthony’s, Bronte was playing MASH with some of the ladies. For those who didn’t have a childhood, or whose brains are time-addled and have forgotten – MASH was a kind of “fortune telling” game centered around how your life will turn out. In the 80’s version (which I played), you picked four chicks, for cars, four kid counts, and four locations on earth. Then you draw a spiral and count through all the options to see who you’ll marry, where you’ll live, what kinda car you’ll drive, and how many kids you have. Man, I remember always having my fingers crossed for Alyssa Milano, she was so friggin’ hot on Who’s the Boss. To make it fun you always had to stick one stinker in each category, you know, like, living in a treehouse or driving a skateboard to work. Then there was always that one cootie-ridden girl who’d be the “gross” one in the wife category. For us we had to marry Beth Somethingorother, oh how we hated her. An ugly boy-hating girl with a penchant for nuts-kicking, she was always the “stinker.” She was so butch, I bet she turned out gay (and this time I mean gay-gay, like gay. Y’know?)

Anyway, we were playing MASH and making “cootie catchers” (which are little four-peaked origami fortune tellers), and I was transported back to the 5th grade. All I needed was a swingset, a game of dodgeball, and to be overly proud of some crotchal peachfuzz – and I’d be back in time. I think I ended up marrying Hilary Duff and having “a google” of kids (that sucks), driving a ’63 Stingray and living in a shack underwater. Improbable? Yeah, sure. Horrible? Hard to say. I can kinda see myself transporting our immeasurable offspring across the coral reefs in the Stingray. Yeah, Hilary Duff, what?

Dudes, I can’t tell and didn’t notice at the time… but is that a bare titty in my post’s image from yesterday? I swear I see nip. OK guys (and gals), I’m outta here.

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