Chuckle Worthy moments . . .
So here are a few of the things that made me chuckle this week:
Thursday morning I burnt my neck with the curling iron, dropped it two minutes later and biffed myself in the face with it while trying to catch it, giving myself a really cute fat lip. I then tripped on my way out of the bathroom. But then on the way to work, a busload of highschool guys gave me the thumbs up and waved madly at me. So I must be hot stuff after all . . . . at least I hope they were in high school. Did ya notice that the older you get the harder it is to tell the junior highs from the high schools?
My nephew had to have a minor medical procedure done and proclaimed that the laughing gas smelled like his brother’s feet. Two days later and I’m still laughing out loud at this.
I was trolling knitting pattern sites and somebody has gone to all the trouble (psychotic trouble no less) to make a fuschia representation of the female reproductive system. No joke. Check it out.
So I was sick on Wednesday and stayed home and I committed the ultimate mortal sin. I watched Maury Povich. It’s been 5 years since the last time I saw Maury and nothing has changed. Freakishly loud and rude people are arguing on his show about whether or not some lame-a$$ punk with no prospects is the father of some baby. The women always proclaim they are 1000% sure he’s the daddy (who’s your daddy?) despite the fact that they were, ahem, friendly with several gentlemen around the time in question. And then this guy proclaimed he couldn’t be the dad because he had GREEN eyes and the baby had BROWN eyes.
Okay. It’s time to go back to Biology 10/20 and pay attention this time. Better yet, let’s go back to ‘Health’ class (aka Sex ed – which was covered in religion class at my Catholic Junior high. HA!) and review a few concepts.
But it still couldn’t beat the episode I saw with Donna 5 years ago when some young punk declared he was “One hundred and fiddy percent sure he wannunt the faddah of dat baby!” and then he told his sobbing ex to get his name outta her ‘mouf’ (I kid you not! He yelled “Get my name outta your MOUF.”) Maury, Maury, Maury. Stay at home, raise the kids and leave the newscasting to Connie. At least I can take her partially seriously.
Okay I can’t take her seriously either, but there has got to be someone else we can find to fill this time slot!