Ok I’d like to turn your attention to politics today. I’d like to use this post to outline my plan for ending the war in Iraq, and I’d like to talk about the presidential candidates, and who I feel will do the best job. Naah, I just wanted to do a number on South’s blood pressure.
Pam writes: “Goddess, you mentioned Mike South wanted you to talk about current events. Does he tell you what to talk about when you write for him?”
I’m joking, Pam. Mike told me that he has complete faith in me and I can write about whatever I want, and he won’t censor me. Translation: he’s fishing and he could give a fuck.
Uh oh. South’s neighbor found out that I was from the North. Duh. Like my decided lack of a Southern accent wasn’t a big clue. When he found out I was from Pennsylvania, the neighbor told me that they don’t “cotton to Yankees down South.” Yankees?! They still refer to us as Yankees? What in the world is that all about? Did somebody forget to tell him the Civil War is over? Up North, where the winners live, we’ve forgotten all about it. The more this guy talked, the more I expected to see Robert E. Lee riding down the street…as a captive of the Northern army, of course.
I was reading Dear Abby today, and some lady wrote in about her husband. She thinks he’s cheating on her. She said she’s interrupted some whispered phone conversations, and she found a pair of red thong underwear in her laundry that he insists belongs to his 70-year-old mother. (Ugh. The visual.) Ok, this is obviously one very lazy man. Hell, he can’t even be bothered to think up a credible lie. If you’re gonna lie, people, lie well.
I’ve realized something very important while staying at Casa de South, and that is that a person can only survive on birthday cake for so long, and then one is forced to leave the comfort of the Lazyboy and find food. South’s neighbor gave me directions to the store, and a discount on crack should I so desire to partake. Unfortunately for him, due to the high sugar content in birthday cake icing, I’m all cracked out at this point. The first thing I noticed about Atlanta yesterday when I went out to eat is that they keep the highways very clean. Not a bit of roadkill in sight. Damn. I blame Atkins. Before that whole protein diet craze came along, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to find a raccoon, a skunk and a possum with a bad sense of direction all on the same day. Now I can barely find a woodchuck, and we know how dimwitted they are. And no, I’m not worried about the skunk or the ‘coon having rabies. Deep frying kills eveything. Including the taste. Alas, I was force d to go to the grocery store today and pay for meat. I haven’t done that in years.
While I was at the store, this question came to mind: do straight guys ever go shopping with their straight male friends? Every time I’m with a guy and we see two other guys shopping, invariably my friend will lean over and say, “oh they’re gay.” Why? Don’t straight guys shop together? Granted, grocery shopping together might seem a tad odd if you don’t share a house, but what about clothing shopping? Do you do that in pairs? Or is that some unforgivable social sin that nobody told me about?
I was reading the paper while standing in line at the check out, and I read about another “reality” show called “Campus Cops.” They tag along with college campus cops and film. Now here’s yet another all-important question: in a shoot out, who do you think would win: a campus cop or a mall cop or a Keystone cop? This article got me thinking about how great it would be for an ordinary citizen, such as myself, to ride along with REAL cops. OMG. The donut runs alone would be well worth it. “One Adam 12. One Adam 12. All units in the vicinty of Fourth and Fairfield respond to the Krispy Kreme. We have an officer on the scene who can’t decide between the glazed donuts and the strawberry crème filled.” I loved this line from the article though: “Many colleges won’t touch reality TV, for fear it’s sometimes shallow, drunken and libidinous characters are not the best ambassadors of campus life.” Yeah, the one part of the reality show that IS real, they wanna censor. Go figger.
South emailed me this morning. “Goddess, I usually mow the lawn on Saturdays.” I emailed back, “Good for you, Mike. Don’t forget the sunblock.”
I found some of South’s baby pictures when I was snooping through his dresser drawers, and some of when he was in high school. I laughed so hard I peed myself. While looking at the pictures, one thought kept going through my mind: if you get pee on somebody’s brand new leather couch, do you think the smell comes out when you wipe it off just using water and Bounty?
I had trouble working South’s DVD player, so I’ll review Southern Magnolias in tomorrow’s update. I called him about it. Apparently it needs to be plugged before it’ll work. Dang these Southern people and their weird ways…
