Call Me, Maybe?

IT’S BEEN SO LONG.

Oh, hey, guys. Let’s catch up. What’s happenin’? What’s the goings on? How you doin’?

Enough about you. Let’s talk about me. In the past few weeks since I last posted I have:

  • Gotten a new job.
  • Gone on my honeymoon.
  • Been in Alaska.
  • Been in Canada.
  • Been on a mothafuckin’ SHIP.
  • Been crazy, balls out busy.

Good talk. Same time next week, yea? Cool.

Alright, time for the punch line.

This invention is divine.

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The bluetooth is IN the gloves. So you are encouraged to look like a crazy person faking a phone call with your hand while you’re…ACTUALLY HAVING A PHONE CALL WITH YOUR HAND.

Christmas just came early.

Sh*t Happens. And Sometimes It Gets Left Behind.

Don’t you love those embarrassing stories in magazines where people submit their crazy real life tales, and you suddenly feel so much better about your own missteps?

No? Did I lose you at “magazines”? You remember magazines (pronounced MAG-UH-ZEENS). They’re those things with famous people on them, and they stare at you while you checkout at the grocery store. Some of them even tell you you’re fat with headlines like, “5 ways to lose those 40 lbs.” And then a photoshopped celebrity shoots lasers out of their abs as your Lean Cuisine and quart of Rocky Road ice cream get scanned. How dare they mock us at checkout.

Well, apparently, we’re all missing out.

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She needs to seriously get her shit together. Or learn plumbing, immediately.

If I were in that situation, I probably would’ve tried to:

a) shove it all down the sink, bit by bit with a Q-tip. And then pour his entire bottle of cologne or shampoo or body wash down the sink with it.

b) wrap it up and throw it out the window with a post-it attached reading, “This is dog poop. Really.”

c) leave it, as is, and write CALL ME on a bunch of toilet paper and throw it on top of the poop.

I don’t know, people deal with their shit differently, I guess.