I'd Vote for Zotz and Sweet Tea.

Zotz. Who remembers them? I loved them as a kid, and now I can buy them again. I'm filled with a mix of unadulterated joy and trepidation. Joyous because their fuckin' ZOTZ, people! The trepidation kicks in because I'm scared that I'll try them and they'll suck smelly ass. I've tried other foods that I loved as a kid, and I was severely disappointed. If I buy Zotz now, and find I don't like them...well...life as I know it could be over. I just don't know if I can handle Zotz disappointment. How would I ever get over finding out that what I thought was the holy grail of candy really wasn't? What if I found out that the only reason I liked Zotz as a kid was because they had a slightly futuristic sounding name? The blow I would suffer would be nearly unrecoverable. Do you think there's a special therapy group for those suffering from Zotz disappointment? I didn't think so. I just don't think I can risk it.

Elections. I will be so damn glad when the elections are over and done with. I'm tired of the ads, the news and the signs. THE SIGNS!! They're everywhere, and they're annoying. Why does every politician think it's necessary to use only red, white or blue on their signs? Are we really so programmed as to think that if a candidate used pink or orange, or god forbid, purple on a sign that we wouldn't vote for them, because subconsciously we'd think they were anti-American, flag-burning, non-apple-pie-eating, basement Nazis? I, for one, would vote for the first person who dared to not use the colors of Old Glory on their sign for the simple fact that they weren't like everyone else.

Unless they were a Republican.

Birthdays. My husband turned 42 Sunday, and he still has the body of an 18 year-old. An 18 year-old Greek god, at that. Except that he's not missing any important parts of his anatomy like a lot of Greek god statues are.

Another birthday meant another night with his family. Have I mentioned his family is nuts? I have to say that the highlight of the birthday soiree was when the not-quite-three year-old niece summarized her thoughts of the evening with a very distinct, "goddamn". And, while she was being chastised by the grandfather figure, I was agreeing with her summation and laughing behind Thomas' back.

Once again, my maturity reigns supreme.

Sweet Tea. I love the stuff. If I could figure out a way to be able to inject it into my veins and still be able to taste it, I would. I'd walk around with a 5-gallon bag on an IV pole, mainlining sweet tea until I was delirious and speaking in tongues.

Until I moved to the south, tea was simply either 'iced tea' or 'hot tea'. But, everyone here calls iced tea, 'sweet tea'. It's one of the very, very few Southernisms I've picked up. In fact, it may be the only one. Because, I will not tell you I'm drinking coke when we all know I'm really drinking a pop. I will never be fixin' to. I will never call you guys, y'all. I will never go down yonder, nor be back directly. And, I absolutely will not eat me a mess of grits.

And, that's a campaign promise.

Take Care,
The Bablatrice - who dressed up as a witch today, but somehow ended up looking like Alice Cooper.

I Put the Wee in Halloween

Due to some kind of conspiracy against the Bablatrice, all of the church signs I've driven past this week have been either unchanged from last week or completely mundane. So, I'm afraid there will be no Church Sign O' the Week. I mean, what the heck am I supposed to do with signs that just have stuff like, "Fallfest" on them? Sure I could make fun of the church people for being too weenie to celebrate Halloween. And why don't they celebrate? Because, Halloween is the time when we unrepentant heathens worship our dark lord and master, Satan, and cavort about engaging in various manners of perversion and general shenanigans. Not to mention the virgin sacrifices and the whole summoning demons thing (which is a LOT more fun than you think it'd be).

And, I could mention that the children of these Fallfest goers will probably resent their parents when they get to be adults, because they never got to celebrate Halloween. Of course, I'm just guessing on this part. It's not like I know first-hand how much it sucks to have never been allowed to go trick-or-treating, even though it was perfectly okay for us to hand out candy to the other hell-bound children. Who knows what horrors would have occurred had we dressed up in costumes and snagged some free candy one lousy night of the year. Trick-or-treating probably would have introduced me to the powers of tobacco, which would have led to pot, and then to heroine and then I'd be mixing up a concoction of pixie sticks, Brasso, and silly putty and shooting that up my veins, struggling to fight my addiction and pass the 5th grade. All because I dressed up and got some free candy.

I could also mention that the Christians don't have any qualms about stealing other pagan holidays like Easter and Christmas, so I don't know why they just don't thieve this one, too.

But, I'll refrain from all that, and move on.

One thing about living dead center of bum fuck, is that we don’t have any trick-or-treaters come to the door. This is good and bad. Good, because I don’t have to buy the little beggars candy. And, bad, because I don’t have to buy the little beggars candy. You know, it's just no fun decorating for Halloween if there aren't kids to scare. I mean, what's Halloween without getting to see at least one kid pee their pants?

I guess this year the main-squeeze and I will have a quiet, non-scary night at home. Of course, we could always dress up like this and go down to one of the local churches' Fallfests and harrass the Christians. Bwahahahaha!

I'm kidding. I would never do that.

Seriously. I wouldn't.

Mostly because if I get within 10 feet of a church it bursts into flames.

Anyway, I hope everyone has a good time celebrating October 31st. Whether it be at some lame church Fallfest, or a totally rockin' Halloween party where everyone is costumed and drinking some wickedly alcoholic brew out of a cauldron while singing Monster Mash off-key. Oh yeah, and selling their souls to Satan.

I know which one I'd rather attend.

Take Care,
The Bablatrice - who doesn't really worship Satan. He's just so last year.

Fish Poop = Nutritious Goodness.

The small town we live in has an ordinance that doesn't allow any form of merriment, and has about 10 job opportunities. (Actually, we don't live in the town..we're about 5 miles outside of it which puts us dead center of bum fuck. ) So, Thomas and I both work and play in Fayetteville, which is about 25 miles from our house. Now, Fayetteville has its good points. It still has somewhat of a "free-thinkers" subculture which makes me quite happy. I have found some cool shops, and even managed to locate one or two good restaurants. But, one of the downsides to Fayetteville is that about 80% of the time, the water completely and utterly sucks. And, not just a little bit. It sucks, well, a great big buttload. 80% of the time, the water tastes like part of the treatment process involves dumping large amounts of potting soil into the water.

When I first moved to this area and experienced the potting soil flavored water, I asked one of my fellow diners what the hell was wrong with the water. His reply was that the "lake had turned". What? I grew up in a city, and know of no such phenomenon. So, I looked up what happens when a lake turns. Fascinating reading, really. Well, fascinating if you're really bored.

What amazes me about the whole water tasting like dirt thing, is that that the people here are just so lackadaisical about it. They just take it in stride like their water tasting like dirt is perfectly okay with them. I am not like these people. My concern is that if the water treatment facility can't manage to get the taste of dirt out of the water, what else do they leave in? Fish turds anyone? How about a little water with lemon and just a hint of human waste? Mmmmmm. Yumminess, itself.

You know what the funny thing is (and I mean funny in a completely seventh grade way), the lake that Fayetteville gets its water from is Beaver Lake.

I reek maturity sometimes, don't I?

Take Care,
The Bablatrice - who strongly suggests you don't drink the water.

And of Course a Cake, I Guess.

I thought I'd share a few tidbits I found from our local small-town paper. Just so you know, I am not making this up. I really, really wish I was. Everything is exactly as it was printed in the paper - punctuation, or lack of, included.

Tidbit #1 - Bob and Joan Grigg attended a homecoming at Boxley Church Sunday. There was a very good singing and eating. Saturday, they cut wood, so they wouldn't get cold this winter.

Tidbit#2 - Leo and Carolyn Bowen went to Harrison shopping Saturday. They ate breakfast at Shoney's. On Sunday, they helped Bethaney Hawthorn celebrate her 12th birthday with a family dinner and of course a cake I guess.

Tidbit #3 - The Kingston First Responders have had two calls this week. The fire department had one false alarm call.

Well, what can I say? Welcome to 1893, and may the day when I can flee this place come quickly.

Every morning I stop at the same convenience store. There's a chick who works there and I'm guessing she's in her mid to late 20s, and every morning she's wearing a tiara. That's right. A tiara. A sparkly, rhinestone tiara. Now, if she was the type who was fun-loving and happy, and was a general goofball, then I might be able to understand why she's sporting a tiara while turning on gas pumps. However, I've never seen this woman smile. Ever. Not even a slight smile. Not a fake smile. Not even a smirk. I think it's physically impossible for the corners of her mouth to move north. She's not the type to wear a tiara in a jocular manner and pull it off. I've racked my feeble brain trying to figure out why the hell she feels possessed to wear a sparkly, rhinestone tiara, and I can only come to one conclusion.

She's mentally disturbed.

I know what you're thinking. You're wondering why I just don't ask her why she wears it. But, not only does she walk around as though she's awakened every morning by rabid, howler monkeys, she's also twice my size. And, I'm a weenie when it comes to large women hurting me.

Speaking of large women, Thomas has a new cell phone. I'm pretty sure he really, really likes it because tonight he described it as, "that tiny fuckin' piece of fuckin' shit crap". And I think that phrase just screams love. The reason he adores his phone so much is that it's tiny, and his hands aren't. So, he has trouble pushing the buttons. I think it's rather amusing to watch. Sadly, he doesn't share in my amusement. And, in case you're wondering...it is true what they say about men who have large hands. He really does have a hard time finding gloves that fit.

Did you see that, Sweetie? I somewhat alluded to your penis without just coming out and saying, "my husband's penis". And, from what I remember about the penis rules, I am allowed to allude to it, so you shouldn't get all wild-eyed about it. By the way, here is his wild-eyed look

Lest anyone think I really married a psycho, here's a picture when he's not flashing the crazy eyes.

I however, look frightened with a touch of nausea.



Take Care,
The Bablatrice - who hasn't been photogenic since she was 4.

Church Signs and Pickled Okra

Do you know that this week I've managed to get ZERO pieces of art completed? Of course you didn't know that. How could you know that? I mean, yeah sure, now you know, because I just told you, but until then you didn't know, did you? If you did, that means that you're either stalking me, or you're in my head, and neither of those could be very pleasant for you.

Things I've Experienced This Week:

• A woman and her two sons eating pickled okra out of the jar while waiting in line at the grocery store. Pickled okra...out of the jar...while the jar was still on the conveyor belt. This pretty much sums up the small town I live in.
• One of the commentators on our local NPR station try to say, "make a smart investment", but instead, it came out, "make a fart (slight giggle) er..smart investment"
• Subway restaurant employees that were friendly. And they smiled. And they even looked me directly in the eyes and then they greeted me! Eye contact AND a greeting??? Do you know how rare this is? I felt as though I was wrapped in a warm cocoon of fresh baked bread and pure joy.
• That people can be catty, men and women included, and it's just not very attractive. It's not nice, either.

And now it's time for, Church Sign O' the Week. Actually, this week there are 2. Bonus!

"The only ghost here is holy." See? They even have to be pious about their ghosts. Oh wait, do you think they were having a go at a little Halloween humor? Do you think they were talking about the Holy Ghost? As in, the third guy on the right in all the trinity photos? And, is this considered blasphemy of the Holy Ghost? Because, as an ex-Christian, I know that blasphemy of the Holy Ghost is the one thing that will for sure guarantee me a direct route to you-know-where. And, going to you-know-where is definitely on my to-do list.

and

"Dear Father, can you hear me now?" This is on the church whose signs usually try to tie in with current trends. But, um, church sign guy...the whole "can you hear me now" thing has been dead for some time. Do you people have to try and resurrect everything?

Take Care,

The Bablatrice - who has a lot to talk about in therapy tomorrow.

I'll Buy That for a Dolla!

This note is one of the reasons I have to smile at the office. For clarity's sake, Lawn Monkey is a landscape billing software. And, it sucks. In fact, it sucks huge monkey butt.

Enjoy fine shopping? Well, if you're driving through Arkansas, you're pretty much screwed.

Instead, you can enjoy this quaint, little boutique. What surprises me most about the sign was that the proprietor knew that the word 'Bubba' should be possessive and properly used the apostrophe.

I've started getting random catalogs at the office, and the one that came in today was amazingly crappy. In fact, the name of it was Catalog of Amazingly Crappy Crap. Here are a few of the items you can purchase.

Naughty, naughty elves. I'm sorry, but looking at these two elves I can't come up with any caption that doesn't include the words, "rim" and "job". So, I just won't say anything about them. Except that I am completely shocked that they've had to mark down the price of the two lawn-humping elves.

Sweet, Jesus. It talks! I love that it's described as a "tasteful depiction of Jesus Christ", and the ad writers felt the need to point out that Jesus is "dressed in the style of biblical times".

I'm glad they specified, because I was waffling between a Jedi Knight and Indiana Jones in a dress

Does the sight of human feces turn you on? It does? Then these are the chocolate thongs for you. You simply slip them on and your body heat melts them, and then it looks like you've shit the bed, and that's when the fun starts!

Please note: these are elasticized and the image of melted chocolate on an elastic band is just not something I want floating around in my head.

Finally, when the whole chocolate poop fiasco fun is over and done with, you can wipe your chocolate covered ass with the image of your own face on a towel. Sweet!

Take Care,

The Bablatrice - who is filling out her order sheet as soon as she's done here.

Wear Your Hot Pink Pumps for Jesus.

Yesterday I saw a woman doing her best to try and walk in 4.5" heels. Never mind that they were hot pink pumps and she was wearing them with a jogging suit. But, as she high-stepped across the street as though the pavement were made of toxic marshmallow cream, I remembered a class that I had to suffer through in high school. We were forced at gunpoint to take a charm course. Since I went to a Christian school, it wasn't a charm course where you learned what kind of wine you were supposed to serve with lamb, or how to gracefully help your boyfriend put on a condom. Pinkies out, ladies! No. We had to learn things like how to properly pick up our handkerchief should we "accidentally" drop it right in front of the guy we had the hots for. Handkerchief? I was in high school in the 80s. Did they really think that high school girls in the 80s were using handkerchiefs?

We also learned how to: have a neat, orderly closet, gently wash our 'underthings' in the sink, curl our hair, apply makeup, talk on the phone to a member of the opposite sex, pose for a photograph, select the most flattering clothing for our body shape, and cross our legs in a manner that prevented us from flashing our beavers to all of creation. All of this was somehow pleasing in the eyes of the lord and would assure us a totally rockin' mansion in heaven, and we would get more stars in our heavenly crown than the non-charming girls. Amen to that!

Part of the course was about marriage. Because, all good Christian high school girls should never, ever have the dream of going to college or ever having a career. Oh no, gentle reader. The highest aspiration a good, Christian girl can have is to find a good, Christian man to marry, and then be subservient to him for the rest of her life while churning out 1.5 children every 3 years until she reaches her menopausal years where she finally snaps and kills her husband with an ice pick that she's been hiding behind the headboard for the past 22 years.

The only thing I remember from the marriage sessions of the course was that our instructor told us to never let our husbands see us pee.

It's funny, when I see that written out, I giggle exactly the same way I did when I first heard it in high school.

I, for one, firmly believe in this choice piece of advice, because the instructor that doled out this wisdom was very subservient to her good, Christian husband and had like a totally awesome marriage.

At least until she found out that he was boinking anything that would hold still. But, up until she found out, her marriage totally rocked.

So, there you have it. Girls, if you never let your husband see you pee, you will abide in wedded bliss, as long as you can overlook the philandering.

Take Care,

The Bablatrice - who is exuding charm at this very moment.

I am Rubber. You are Glue.

My husband and I had a conversation today on the derogatory terms we used as children to insult other children. While I was coming up with things like poo-poo head, and fatty, fatty two by four, my husband said that his derogatory term of choice as a child was, mother fucker. Unless he was trying to be nice, then it was othermay uckerfay. Because, everyone knows that if you want to nice up an insult, you should say it in Pig Latin.

That lead me to thinking about terminology that kids used that really, really were just completely annoying, and here's my list:

• I have to go #1 or #2. What? Who was the mother that was so prudish that she felt numbering bodily functions was so much more proper than having a child who used such profanity as "pee" and "poop"? Oh yeah, it was Mrs. Clark, because her daughter was the one who always informed the teacher that she had to go to the bathroom and it was to do #2.


• "She just kicked me in my privates". Do boys really think they have tiny army men in their pants? For the record, this particular boy deserved getting kicked in the nuts. But, I still say that he didn't have to be such a big baby and run to the teacher about it.
  
• "You're going to make Jesus cry". This one wasn't said by another child, but was used on me by my mother. Because, nothing will further the development of a child's self-image like handing them the guilt of making the savior of the world burst into tears.


• "It's none of your beeswax". No matter how many word puzzles I make from it, I still can't figure out how "business" got transformed into "beeswax"??? If I find the kid who came up with this one, I will kick him in his privates so hard, he goes #2 in his pants.

Along with this trip back to childhood came the inevitable flashbacks from Sunday School, and even though he pleaded with me to stop, I made my husband watch while I sang Sunday School songs. How sad is it that I can still sing all the god-songs I learned as a child? Brainwashing, anyone? Now, I have "I'll Be a Sunbeam for Jesus" stuck in my head. AAGGGGHHHHH!!!

For some reason (we'll say it's because I'm a lunatic) I felt the need to google, "Sunday school songs", and however deranged and kooky the songs were when I was a child, nothing can compare to this song I found here. It's titled, "Man Named Noah", and it's to the tune of...are you ready for this?...

I really don't think you're ready for this...

It's to the tune of THE BEVERLY HILLIBILLIES theme. Yeah, buddy, we've made a very smooth transition from Uncle Jed to Uncle Noah. Now, for your reading pleasure, behold the lyrics to this musical gem:

Come listen to a story about a man named Noah.
Lived at a time no one ever tried a cola.
In fact, everybody acted rotten all the time,
even though they were blessed with sunshine all the time.

Then one day, a voice, a deep voice:

Listen to me, Noah, this is what you are to do,
build a big boat and load it two by two.
Believe it or not, the sky is going to pour.
When it does, don't forget I'll tightly shut the door.
And, the rain came for forty days and nights. Drip. Drip.

WOW! How craptacular is that? The cola line is pure genius, I say, and the "drip, drip" ending is, indeed, the icing on the cake. This needs to be recorded, because I think I smell a Grammy.

I have this image in my mind of cherubic children sitting in Sunday School classrooms ,with the just-right amount of Jesus light streaming through the window, bathing their perfectly groomed hair in heavenly halos. The teacher stands with the above lyrics printed on crisp, white posterboard and holds it in front of these little angels and informs them that it is to be sung to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies.

And, the little darlings are all like..."who the uckfay are The Beverly Hillbillies"?

The Bablatrice - who absolutely refuses to be a sunbeam for anyone. I'm just not that kind of girl.

She's Crazy and Has the Shoes To Prove It!

I've been wondering lately if I might be losing my mind, and what I did this morning clinches it.

I am crazy. I'm a nutter. I'm bonkers-boinko-bling-a-ding-ding. I am cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

I have a habit of taking off my shoes while sitting at my desk at the office and this morning I did that exact thing, but when I went to put them back on, I noticed that something was wrong. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

The shoes sitting beneath my desk weren't white like they were supposed to be. In fact, they weren't even the same color. Then I realized that I left the house this morning wearing TWO DIFFERENT SHOES! They are both flip-flops, and they're the same exact style, but one is pink and one is blue. The really sad thing is, when I pulled them out this morning I could have sworn they were white.

So, my ensemble today is jeans, a celery green shirt, a sky blue flip-flop on my left foot and a bubblegum pink flip-flop on my right. I look like the poster child for PAAS Easter egg dye. To my credit, I did get very little sleep last night, and when I get ready in the morning the only light I have is the ambient light from the bathroom. BUT...it was 9:00 before I realized that I had on different shoes. It took me 2 hours to notice that one shoe was blue and one was pink!!!

Sweet Jesus, I need help.

In my last post, I mentioned my husband's penis, and he got all wild-eyed when he read about it. He told me that it was fine if I wanted to allude to his package, but that I couldn't use the term "penis". In fact his exact words were, "You can't just slap my penis across your blog."

Oh my, he is quite the wordsmith, isn't he? And, one kinky little cookie to boot.

I asked him if I could refer to it as his "winkie".

He said no.

And, with that we move on to....

The Church Sign O' the Week

"Be still and know that I am God. See you at the pole." What? See you at the pole? That's P-O-L-E. What pole can it be? It certainly can't be a voting poll, well, because surely to all things holy church sign guy wouldn't have misspelled POLL would he??? I'm pretty sure it isn't the South Pole or the North Pole, because I'm also pretty sure church sign guy would have specified which frickin' pole everyone was to gather at. And, for the love of little green monkeys, it couldn't possibly be a stripper's pole. Fireman's pole? Pole cat? 10 Foot Pole? Curtain Pole? Totem Pole? Maypole? Fishing Pole? Tent Pole? Pole Vault?

I know...this church worships some large Polish man, and they are all going to gather around him and hold hands while singing songs of worship to the great Edmund Falkolowski (what I would name a Polish god-man if I were so allowed). And, there will be much rejoicing, yea verily. And, they'll probably be naked.

Much to my dismay, I made the mistake of googling "see you at the pole" and lo and behold, church sign guy didn't misspell anything...see for yourself here.

I can't tell you how disappointed I am that there isn't a large, Polish man they worship. But, in several of the pictures they are holding hands. And, even though they're clothed in the photos, I'd bet they really do get naked.

With a Cluck, Cluck Here and a Redneck There.

Do you know where I went this weekend? Let me rephrase that.

Do you know where my darling husband dragged me this weekend?

To an animal auction. Out in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas, where they were selling chickens, geese, chickens, quail, chickens, ducks, parakeets, more chickens, rabbits and did I mention that they were selling chickens?

If you've never been to an animal auction in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas, let me explain how it works. First, you get in your car and you drive. For a long, long time. Then you drive some more. Then you get aggravated because you're driving so far to go see animals get sold. Then you drive a little more. A little more aggravation, this time with a loud sigh, and then you finally arrive. You park the car and tentatively make your way over to the auction arena, which is an arrangement of crappy folding chairs under a pole barn. Then, you decide to check out your surroundings, and this is when IT happens. Slowly, like the unseen, clammy hand of death reaching out to brush the nape of your neck, you realize that you're surrounded by all manner of fowl and rednecks. Oh! THE HORROR! THE HORROR! RUN! RUN NON-REDNECK PEOPLE!!!RUN FOR YOR LIVES!!! AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!

So anyway, for those of you fortunate enough to not know what a redneck is, here's a quick checklist. By the way, I detest the term "redneck", but I haven't come up with anything better, yet. If you have any ideas, let me know, okay?

• Uneducated. And, by this I don't mean a lack of a Master's Degree. I mean a lack of anything past the 4th grade.

• Appearance- MEN: Wrangler jeans with tell-tale Skoal ring on the back pocket, button-up shirt (usually plaid) with the sleeves cut off, ball cap with dirty brim, crappy boots. Has not bathed in at least a week. Reeks of the aroma of Skoal, body odor, beer, motor oil and some cheap-ass, knock-off cologne they think will cover up the previously mentioned odors. Hair is greasy, stringy and usually finagled into a mullet. Several missing teeth, remaining teeth will be outlined in chewing tobacco. Will spit once every 6.4 seconds, so watch how close you stand.

• Appearance - WOMEN: See description for men.

• Pastimes: Watching NASCAR and wrestling (simultaneously if they somehow manage to get the "bottom" television working again) hunting, fishing, listening to country music on the front porch while drinking the cheapest beer they can find, shooting random objects and being a Republican.

• Professions: Hahahahaha. Um, yeah. Part-time help at the carnival/fair when it comes to town or gas-station attendant.
  

After my initial chicken/redneck shock wore off, I became bored rather quickly. So, I decided to try and count how many chickens there were. But, that was difficult to do because they had about 50 chickens shoved into each 2' x 3' cage, and there were a lot of cages. So, I decided to start counting teeth instead, because I knew that wouldn't take as long. And, then, just to make things more interesting, I started giving IQ points to the people depending on how many teeth they had. For every tooth they had, they received 5 IQ points. Here are the final results on how the attendees fared on the Rachel Tooth IQ Scale:

47% of attendees received 30 IQ points .

26% of attendees received 40 IQ points .

23% of attendees received 50 IQ points.

The remaining 4% were either: lost, good country people who just needed new chickens, or dragged there by their husbands.

I also had to see 3 man nipples at this sale. I was not dragged to an animal auction to see man nips. The first one was on a guy who must have had some physical defect that kept him from being able to button the top 4 buttons on his shirt. So, as he swaggered through the crowd, his shirt flopped open and out popped a man nipple. As it stood flapping bravely in the wind, the man attached to the nipple sucked in a big gulp of air and looked around with pride smeared on his face like plum preserves, and he looked in my direction just in time to see me heave. The other 2 man nipples belonged to one of the guys that worked at the auction. I think his official title was "Professional Chicken Hauler", and he had on this article of clothing that I really can't call a shirt, because it was so, so much less than that. It was two little, tiny straps that hung down to just above his waist and then about 2 inches of fabric stretched below that to make up the rest of the "shirt". People, listen! If you're wearing a shirt that shows your nipples, don't bother with the shirt! To top it off, the pseudoshirt was purple. And dude had a mullet. A mullet-sporting, purple-pseudoshirt wearing professional chicken hauler. Now, that's something you don't see everyday.

Needless to say, I never, ever, ever want to go back to the animal auction again. Ever. Never, ever, ever. As much as I adore my husband, if he ever mentions taking me to the animal auction again, I will threaten his manhood with a rusty grapefruit spoon.

Just kidding, Sweetie. I love you and your penis way to much for such nonsense.

I'll bet there are a lot of you who are wishing you lived in Arkansas about now, aren't you?