Monday, March 20, 2006
Millions of little chunks.
Quite often at meetings I'd notice this guy with a little cassette recorder, which he kept pretty well hidden, but you know, you're not supposed to do that. You're also not supposed to confront people and accuse them of things, and one of my clinically confirmed conditions is an increasing inclination toward paranoia, so I was just waiting for SOMEONE ELSE to say something to the guy. Maybe people don't remember cassettes... They do? Okay. I'm yelling to my wife in the next room while I type this. She insists in editorializing me, ever since I had an online affair. Which I didn't consider an affair at all... I know, you do. What? Okay, I've got to run out and get some parmasian cheese. I'm not sure how to spell that. Is there a spellcheck on this thing? I think that's close. It's from Parma Italy, right, not Parma Ohio. I know! Of course I'm going to get a CHUNK of it. Not the pre-grated kind, yes, I know, you don't want to put ANTI-CAKING agent on your spaghetti. I can't spell that, either. Obviously I'm not Itallian. Okay, okay, I'm going.
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1 comment:
Well, Pam, I guess she doesn't mind, as long as the wigs aren't on MY DICK. WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, WIGS?!? Oh, I guess that time we met I was a much younger man, my hair was that orange color you can only get by bleaching it after having dyed it jet black. At the Flock of Seagulls show at that place where Dimebag got shot in Columbus, 1983? Or am I mixing you up with some other smartmouth clown with too much time to type comments?
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