I wrote today's update because everybody driving every vehicle irritates me. Yes, the topic is cliched and done to death, but I had to get it out of my system. I was at a Gamestop the other day and some guy was letting his young, grade-school daughter play some racing game on the Xbox 360 display unit. She was driving 35 miles an hour, down the middle of the road, while the screen repeatedly informed her she was in last place. Her dad kept shouting, "go faster! This is a racing game! You're not going fast enough to win!"
"Dad," she said. "The speed limit here is 35 miles an hour and I don't want to get a ticket," she replied as her car veered into the wrong lane. Somebody give this kid her driver's license.
Our daughter Lauren is approaching six months of life. So far she can roll over from her back to stomach and vice versa over and over and over again until she realizes rolling around is gay and she begins to shriek like a weasel trapped in a paper mill. She's also very skilled at drooling, which will look good on her resume when she grows up. She hasn't started crawling yet, but as my wife says, "she's definitely thinking about it." My wife can look at babies and instantly determine if they're thinking of crawling. It's her mutant superpower. Mine is the ability to generate the smell of bread on the bottom of the fingers on my right hand.
My back has been killing me for the past week or so. I need some Tylenol-3 or Vicoden or whatever those goofy pain prescriptions are that cause Frolixo to throw chairs over his head. What's the URL of the Canadian pharmacy that ships to US webmasters again? Wait, I mean pain-killing prescriptions, I don't want a prescription for pain. I've already got one of those, and it sounds like the tagline of a movie about a pharmacist who beats up criminals. "THIS SUMMER - HE'S WRITING PERSCRIPTIONS FOR PAIN." The pharmacist could be played by Tom Cruise / John Travolta since the concept of a pharmacist beating up his customers would undoubtedly appeal to him and his wacky cult.
OH MY GOD I NEED DRUGS.
Was an awesome game.
Hows about you, me, and five uncomfortable minutes in my basement apartment next to the dusty Christmas tree that's still up from my last visit with my estranged children.
The Upper Kitchen Cabinet Where Your Roommate Keeps His Food: You’ll 'need the footstool' to reach your roommate’s 'fine selection' of 'stale cereal,' but he'll never notice if 'only a little is missing from each box.' Feel less guilty by reminding yourself that Jeff 'acts weird around your girlfriend,' and always 'asks about her.' What a 'creep.'
This ain't your daddy's globe...! .... or is it?!
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