I don't think it's odd to have words or phrases that make sense to you, but to the untrained ear cause confusion or downright panic. I realized the other day after saying one of my everyday words that people outside my circle may think I'm a complete nutjob. Just because I have a special vocabulary doesn't mean I'm a fool. (Trust me, I'm a fool for much better reasons than the few words I've either made up or somehow maimed for my own personal gratification.) So, here's my little CC Dictionary.
Snorgle (noun)
The act of snuggling closely to beast or human for some quality time. It was created when the word "snuggle" collided with...I don't know what.
Usage: "I will snorgle your face off when I get home."
Schnozzleberry (noun)
A small Boston Terrier that goes by the name of Lili. I don't know why or how this came about, but it just fits.
Usage: "Good morning, Schnozzleberry. Quit dragging your hind quarters on the carpet and let's get some breakfast."
Nomulent (adj.)
Delicious food that is eaten quickly and without a whole lot of breathing in between bites.
Usage: "Those cookies were so nomulent that they are now extinct."
Related word: Nomulence (noun)
Food.
"Would you like some nomulence, or did that burrito at lunch sufficiently fill you up?"
Crapulent (adj.)
Anything that is below quality standards.
"That movie was so crapulent that I lost a few IQ points watching it."
Jesus Crime (apparently bad word)
RC's four-year-old daughter informed me the other day that "Jesus Crime" is a bad word and shouldn't be said. She doesn't know its origin or what it means. I can't stop saying it now.
"Jesus Crime, why is this movie so crapulent?"
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The Number of the Treat
See? This is what I get for naming my blog something semi-blasphemous.
The only other time 666 has worked its way into my life was when CM, AV and I went to Jamaica. We arrived, straight from the chill of Minneapolis, to the tropical isle and boarded a bus. That bus took us on a life-threatening journey down narrow roads at speeds that I'm pretty sure rendered our lumbering, rickety ride completely out of control at times (with a short stop off for a beer at a roadside bar), and delivered us into temptation. Upon check in, we were given the keys to room 666. The three of us looked at each other, standing against the front desk with fruity "welcome" drinks in our hands, with eyebrows raised so high it nearly dislocated our hairlines. The pleasant woman behind the computer realized that she had just given us the room of the devil, and quickly tried to rectify that situation by placing a well-meaning but completely useless zero in front of the number on the paper key sleeve. We were staying in room 0666 for an entire, sinful week of Jamaican excess. Fear not, for we did not let that room down. We partied. Hardy.
I actually developed some kind of acid reflux to the rum punch I decided was a good substitute for...well...any other beverage. CM got lost in the curtains that separated our room and the small balcony overlooking the gorgeous rooftop of the lower part of the hotel. She was forced to fight with those rascally curtains for the better part of 10 minutes before just giving up, dropping to the ground, and crawling underneath them to get back inside the room. AV managed to get a strange but completely appropriate sunburn in the form of a stripe (a Red Stripe) down her entire body on one side. We made our second home at the dance club inside the hotel. We met a Christian rock band that offered us illegal drugs. We also met a group of guys from St. Louis or something like that who all dared each other to wear Speedos, and whom we affectionately and permanently nicknamed "Team Banana Hammock." We ate enough jerk chicken to make the poultry population of the island cluck in fear. We ordered conch balls at dinner, despite not having the faintest clue what they were...it just seemed right. We left the hotel once during the entire week and that was to go on a booze cruise and slide down a waterfall (we managed the waterfall fine, but fell during the booze cruise due to rough seas and even rougher equilibrium.). Between our days of sunning and drinking and our nights of dancing and drinking, we had a few hours to kill. We did that with AV's video camera and either a hairbrush or bottle of sunblock we treated as a microphone. We interviewed each other, people milling about in the twilight hours with nothing better to do, and the staff who were just trying to clean the pool. The best part was that eventually everyone would grab the hairbrush out of our hands and speak directly into the camera. We were the trio from 666, and people recognized. Or at least they knew we were off our rockers just enough to be entertaining. Plus we smelled like fried chicken and rum, so we were nigh irresistible.
One night we had the sliding glass doors to the balcony open, and as a strong breeze swept into our room it made a most notable sound as it passed through the door leading into the hallway. I can only describe it as a howling sound, and if I was skittish I might even say "demonic sounding." But we were too brave, too drunk, or too hungover (or some combination thereof) to find anything but humor in it. The sound got louder and louder as the wind picked up, and why wouldn't our room howl? It seemed so fitting. Who knows, maybe it was actually the sound of our livers begging for reprieve.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Random Thought Round Up
I have not been able to hold an entire thought from start to finish for the past week. My To-Do list looks like someone started writing a flurry of well-intentioned sentences and was hastily and repeatedly removed from the vicinity of the list, whether by emergency or maybe just good old fashioned spontaneous combustion. I get a quarter of something done and then either lose my stamina and need to take a nap or get distracted by a shiny object. It has taken me three weeks to get my insurance switched from California to Arizona, and though I have finally made arrangements with my new agent, I have let the paperwork sit, undownloaded, in my email inbox for five days. All I have to do is print it and then fax it. But, see, that would require me to actually plug my computer into the printer, print it, sign it, and then drive the half a mile to the local Staples outlet and have it faxed, which requires me to get dressed and work up the gusto to make small talk with the person behind the counter. Then there's the waiting for the fax to go through, the confirmation, the ringing up of my fax purchase. Gah, I need to rest just thinking about all that stuff.
So, insurance is in limbo. I have to get my new driver's license and my car registered before the end of September (any bets on when that's going to be done? I'll take October of 2012), write thank you notes for my past baby shower, look forward to another round of notes for next weekend's shower, put together the crib, paint, wash the baby's clothes and blankets, get a job, somehow fit in a couple of actual showers between now and November, make dinners, drink lots of water (which is really taxing for some reason), and go to yoga everyday. I just don't know how I'll get it all done. I feel like I had more time and energy to get things done when I was fully employed.
I've been thinking a lot about employment lately. It's been approximately 10 and a half months since the last time I had to wake up in the morning and go to work. Sounds awesome, right? It's not. I mean, it's nice having an open schedule for as many naps as I can muster the energy to take, but it's not really all that intellectually challenging. I would like to be working. But see, having this big ol' baby belly kinda puts a kink in the ol' job hunt. No one is gong to hire me right now on account of the fact that I won't even be able to start working until 2012. I guess I'll have to save up for those faxes to the insurance agent.
To top it all off, when I do have a complete thought in this little head of mine, it's been a morbid one. I really hope these completely random and vivid thoughts of doom are a normal symptom of pregnancy, because I think it's a little too late for me to become a melancholy emo kid with black nails and white makeup. Plus hanging out at the cemetery in this kind of heat isn't good for the pastey skin that I'll need to pull off all that black clothing. I don't know why I've been imagining horrible things happening to me as of late, but these thoughts are vivid and fully fleshed out. I actually played out the scenario of what would happen yesterday if I died while at yoga. The lights were dim, people were focusing and breathing rhythmically...would they notice I wasn't? Who would call 911 when my heart just gave out on me? Would they make it to me in time? Would the baby survive? Would my yoga instructor have to ride in the ambulance with me? Would they have to give everyone in the class a refund for the day, or pay them a trauma stipend for having to sit there as I did the "Stiff as a Board" pose better than anyone ever? Why am I even thinking this stuff? On the way home from yoga, after not dying, I watched a car blow through a red light ahead of me. Then my brain was off and running on the tangent of my vehicular demise at every stop light between where I was and where I wanted to be. My poor car would be totaled. I would be dead. How tragic for everyone...because my car is really cute and it would be a shame to ruin it. God, I really hope this is just a phase due to all the crazy hormones.
If I die from carpal tunnel, I hope it's not because of this post. It would be a shameful legacy to leave. Shhh...do you hear that? Yep, it's a nap calling.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Talking Through Takeoff
Last week, I was on a jet plane from PHX to Milwaukee (Algonquin for "the promise land," if movies are to be believed). RC and I flew Southwest airlines, because it's free or cheap thanks to RC's friend who works for the airline. Flying Southwest is an adventure in itself, due to the herd of cattle all clamoring and mooing as they try to get on the plane first to snap up those coveted aisle and window seats. I know there have been studies done by the airlines that found unassigned seating saves time in boarding, but really it just causes undue panic for most of the people waiting in line as they watch their chance of not being stuck in the middle dwindle. I, being "with child" or "knocked up" or "gestation-riffic," have been circumventing the system by boarding early with the families with small children. Hey, the Blueberry is small! Plus, I stick my stomach out, look miserable and uncomfortable, and RC holds my elbow to guide me to the ticket counter and down the jetway to ensure that no flight attendant would dare tell us we couldn't board early. We're no dummies.
So, after boarding early, sitting in the near back of the plane and all settled in for our three-plus-hour flight, a young guy sat in the middle seat directly behind me. I would not have paid him any attention, except that he struck up a conversation with the young guy next to him that I could not ignore. Awkward plane conversations are as intriguing to me as they are uncomfortable to listen to. This one was the worst. Not because they were making each other uncomfortable, but because they were making me uncomfortable due to their sheer idiocy. I wanted to turn around and beg them, plead with them, to shut up until they hit 28 or so for the sake of mankind. Because the senior in high school by the window and the guy in the middle who was a junior in college were making me rapidly lose my faith in the future of the world.
The dude, or DudeBro as I have nicknamed him, in the middle was giving the starry-eyed Wisconsin high school kid some advice on college. HS said he wants to go to the University of California at San Diego, and DudeBro agreed that was a good school. DudeBro looked at it himself, but didn't end up there (which I translate into: I like that college, but I didn't get in). DudeBro was also super stoked on UC Santa Barbara, so HS should check that out, too. In reality, both of those schools are awesome and really hard to get into, so DudeBro is not helping HS at all here. A kid from out of state is going to have a heck of a time getting in. But don't worry, DudeBro has other ideas for HS. DudeBro thinks that HS should check out the colleges in Arizona, because that's where DudeBro goes. He checked out ASU in Tempe and also a college in Tucson, but DudeBro informed HS that Tucson is like little Mexico. Way too many shady "foreigners." So, DudeBro decided to go to ASU. Arizona State University is the mecca for college kids who want to go to college while mostly just attempting to kill their livers. Party school. Completely. I'm sure there are quite a few students who go there and get a great education, but the majority of the student body is just trying to inebriate and invade the rest of the student body. So, DudeBro then tells HS, "I chose ASU because, dude, it's the top school according to Playboy. I mean, there are girls everywhere. It's siiiccckk. You should check it out." I'm not exaggerating. That is what he said, verbatim. I wanted to turn around and put noise-canceling headphones on HS, because his sweet Wisconsin demeanor was being threatened by thoughts of frat parties and girls and sunshine 365 days a year, and I know kids who grow up in the Midwest can't resist those things (mostly the sunshine part).
DudeBro kept talking. And everything he said involved the words "sick" and "stoked" and "totally" and "DUUUUUDDEE," and the complete confidence in which he said these things sent a shiver down my spine. He was a wise, all-knowing "frat and drunk chick" guru. I am still worried about the impact that this all had on little HS there in the window of 29A.
This was all within the first 15 minutes of the flight. I have never wished harder for the flight attendant to announce that portable electronic devices were acceptable for use. Please, let me turn on some music and drown out all the "gnarly" and "awesome" being uttered behind me. I kept looking at RC and I'm almost positive that the sound of our eyes rolling in our heads was audible, but yet still not enough to drown out all the, "Dude, we had a party and this sorority showed up and then we did keg stands and these two chicks made out.....garble garble garble." Of course, we hit turbulence, so no music, no movie, no escape. "Dude, college is soooooo much easier than high school. Like, don't even sweat it. You're doing way more work now than you will when you get to college." Oh, please Lord, I've been a good girl. Help me here. "I just do most of my work on the internet. It's simple. It's almost a joke how much work I don't have to do and I'm still getting kickass grades." I mean, okay God, I know I got pregnant out of wedlock, but really, in the grand scheme of life, do I deserve this punishment? My underwear is threatening to climb into my colon as I sit here. Isn't that enough? "It's always hot there and so girls on campus barely get dressed. It's like going to class at a bar the way the girls look." What sedatives are pregnancy approved, and who on this plane has some? "I had one class last semester that I barely showed up for and still aced it. My parents were so stoked on my grades and I just laughed cause I was drunk most of the time." Is the pressure in my head from the turbulence or is my brain exploding? If it's exploding, could I just maybe hear a constant tone or just pass out? Please?
Was I like this at 20 years old? Did my conversations make those around me convulse with the utter vapidness that passed my lips? I shutter, knowing that I probably was and probably did. But you know what? At least I didn't choose my college according to the sage words of a nudie mag...dude.
So, after boarding early, sitting in the near back of the plane and all settled in for our three-plus-hour flight, a young guy sat in the middle seat directly behind me. I would not have paid him any attention, except that he struck up a conversation with the young guy next to him that I could not ignore. Awkward plane conversations are as intriguing to me as they are uncomfortable to listen to. This one was the worst. Not because they were making each other uncomfortable, but because they were making me uncomfortable due to their sheer idiocy. I wanted to turn around and beg them, plead with them, to shut up until they hit 28 or so for the sake of mankind. Because the senior in high school by the window and the guy in the middle who was a junior in college were making me rapidly lose my faith in the future of the world.
The dude, or DudeBro as I have nicknamed him, in the middle was giving the starry-eyed Wisconsin high school kid some advice on college. HS said he wants to go to the University of California at San Diego, and DudeBro agreed that was a good school. DudeBro looked at it himself, but didn't end up there (which I translate into: I like that college, but I didn't get in). DudeBro was also super stoked on UC Santa Barbara, so HS should check that out, too. In reality, both of those schools are awesome and really hard to get into, so DudeBro is not helping HS at all here. A kid from out of state is going to have a heck of a time getting in. But don't worry, DudeBro has other ideas for HS. DudeBro thinks that HS should check out the colleges in Arizona, because that's where DudeBro goes. He checked out ASU in Tempe and also a college in Tucson, but DudeBro informed HS that Tucson is like little Mexico. Way too many shady "foreigners." So, DudeBro decided to go to ASU. Arizona State University is the mecca for college kids who want to go to college while mostly just attempting to kill their livers. Party school. Completely. I'm sure there are quite a few students who go there and get a great education, but the majority of the student body is just trying to inebriate and invade the rest of the student body. So, DudeBro then tells HS, "I chose ASU because, dude, it's the top school according to Playboy. I mean, there are girls everywhere. It's siiiccckk. You should check it out." I'm not exaggerating. That is what he said, verbatim. I wanted to turn around and put noise-canceling headphones on HS, because his sweet Wisconsin demeanor was being threatened by thoughts of frat parties and girls and sunshine 365 days a year, and I know kids who grow up in the Midwest can't resist those things (mostly the sunshine part).
DudeBro kept talking. And everything he said involved the words "sick" and "stoked" and "totally" and "DUUUUUDDEE," and the complete confidence in which he said these things sent a shiver down my spine. He was a wise, all-knowing "frat and drunk chick" guru. I am still worried about the impact that this all had on little HS there in the window of 29A.
This was all within the first 15 minutes of the flight. I have never wished harder for the flight attendant to announce that portable electronic devices were acceptable for use. Please, let me turn on some music and drown out all the "gnarly" and "awesome" being uttered behind me. I kept looking at RC and I'm almost positive that the sound of our eyes rolling in our heads was audible, but yet still not enough to drown out all the, "Dude, we had a party and this sorority showed up and then we did keg stands and these two chicks made out.....garble garble garble." Of course, we hit turbulence, so no music, no movie, no escape. "Dude, college is soooooo much easier than high school. Like, don't even sweat it. You're doing way more work now than you will when you get to college." Oh, please Lord, I've been a good girl. Help me here. "I just do most of my work on the internet. It's simple. It's almost a joke how much work I don't have to do and I'm still getting kickass grades." I mean, okay God, I know I got pregnant out of wedlock, but really, in the grand scheme of life, do I deserve this punishment? My underwear is threatening to climb into my colon as I sit here. Isn't that enough? "It's always hot there and so girls on campus barely get dressed. It's like going to class at a bar the way the girls look." What sedatives are pregnancy approved, and who on this plane has some? "I had one class last semester that I barely showed up for and still aced it. My parents were so stoked on my grades and I just laughed cause I was drunk most of the time." Is the pressure in my head from the turbulence or is my brain exploding? If it's exploding, could I just maybe hear a constant tone or just pass out? Please?
Was I like this at 20 years old? Did my conversations make those around me convulse with the utter vapidness that passed my lips? I shutter, knowing that I probably was and probably did. But you know what? At least I didn't choose my college according to the sage words of a nudie mag...dude.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Million-Dollar Ideas
RC and I regularly have conversations that start off pretty normally but end up in tears of laughter and more fodder for our "Million-Dollar Idea" list. I don't know if it's a good thing that two people with the same warped sense of humor (and reality) are together unsupervised, but damn, it's fun. I thought it would behoove me to make a running list of our surefire moneymakers, and I'd hate to hoard all this awesomeness, so I'm sharing it with you.
Idea #1: Strip clubs. Sure, they may only make money a couple dollar bills at a time, but it's a start. Add in a $20 cover charge, $10 drinks, and ATM fees of $5 for every traceable bad decision you make with your debit card, and voila! Money! Okay, so strip clubs are not our original idea...they exist and have existed before our time. But ours has a twist: A strip club with a daycare built in so the dancers and patrons can leave their children to be tended to while getting a face-full of bits. It's called "Who's Your Daddy?" Good, right? I know. Don't be jealous you didn't think of it first. Then RC and I carried on the theme and built an imaginary strip club next door to "Who's Your Daddy?" for the older crowd called it "West Coast Floppers." Just so you know, we were completely sober when coming up with these. Delirious, yes, but completely sober.
Idea #2: Dollah-Billah Killah. This is all RC. He awoke from a mid-day nap the other day and the first thing he said to me was, "Is there a rap song that goes, 'Dollah, dollah billah. Dollah-billah killah?'" I blinked multiple times. I thought as hard as I could. And then I asked if he had, unbeknownst to me, suffered some sort of head trauma before his nap. The worst part of all this? Now neither of us can stop singing this imaginary song. I've heard some of the crap on the radio as of late, and I'm fairly certain we could at least break the top 10 with this hit. If either of us could rap, we'd be in business.
Idea #3: Satan's Anus. I know, I know, but hear me out on this one! See, RC and I were having a somewhat normal conversation about the weather. Arizona right now is ridiculously hot and has been in the range of 114 every day. So, I said something to the effect that it's "hotter than Satan's anus after a five-alarm chili cookoff," because I have a way with words...and I'm a classy lady. RC managed to not swerve off the road while laughing (thankfully) and then he coughed out that "Satan's Anus" sounded like a metal band. Then we were off and running. We spent the next 20 minutes writing fake Craig's List ads for drummers who were "anal about keeping the beat" and could "carry the rhythm in the dark caverns of Satan's Anus' rehearsal space." I mean, c'mon, we don't have cable so we have to amuse ourselves somehow. We're not yet sure how this is going to make us a million dollars, but who needs money when you have the musical artistry that is SA?
Idea #4: Your Kitchen. It's a restaurant chain inspired by those frozen yogurt places that make you do all the work. You know, the ones that have you put your own frozen dairy goodness in a styrofoam bowl and then add all the toppings you want (that little kids have already stuck their dirty little paws in previous to your arrival), and then weigh and pay for your gluttony. So, Your Kitchen would be just like that but a full-on restaurant...where you cook and serve your own food. There will always be one missing ingredient for everything on the menu, there will be incomplete sets of measuring cups and mismatched flatware, and only one clean pan to cook in. It'll feature a couple burnt-out light bulbs in the dining room and tables that show the wear and tear of that one time you tried to build a model airplane on it and got superglue stuck to the wood and the varnish wore off. We could make millions just on the savings of a wait staff and cooks!
Idea #5: Personal Stoppers. The rich use personal shoppers to help them spend their money, so our idea is to offer "Personal Stoppers." These are people who will help you erase proof of all those bad decisions you've made from the World Wide Web. Your Personal Stopper will scour the likes of Facebook, Twitter, random porn sites, and personal emails and texts to prevent photos or stories of you being a complete douche or total twit from making the rounds. Whether you've been snapped wearing underwear on your head at a party (not that any of use would ever do that. *ahem*) or if you've simply spouted off about your dickweed boss at a company function in which you were the only overly intoxicated, "can't remember a damn thing" idiot there, the Personal Stoppers will help you erase your bad decision making. If you're a high-risk case, we'll assign a personal babysitter to go out with you in public and shut your fool mouth before it gets to being foolish. We'll also intercept all drunk texts, Tweets, and Facebook statuses for a 24-hour hold until you sober the hell up. You're welcome.
Idea #6: Judas Treats. Originally, Judas Treats was the name of a bakery I dreamed of opening. We'd serve things like "Bread Zeppelin," "Bon-Bon Jovis," and have "ZZ Toppings" for your "Milli Vanilla" cupcakes. But starting a bakery, after I researched it for all of 15 minutes, is expensive. So I scrapped that idea. Then I thought I could start an ice cream sandwich shop with homemade cookies and ice cream. I wanted to call it "Alice Scooper" because I figured Judas Treats might alienate about half the population. But that's expensive, too. So instead, Judas Treats is now the name of this blog. If only I could figure out how to make a million dollars posting ridiculous things.
Hey, since you're reading this, um, you owe me a million, K?
Idea #1: Strip clubs. Sure, they may only make money a couple dollar bills at a time, but it's a start. Add in a $20 cover charge, $10 drinks, and ATM fees of $5 for every traceable bad decision you make with your debit card, and voila! Money! Okay, so strip clubs are not our original idea...they exist and have existed before our time. But ours has a twist: A strip club with a daycare built in so the dancers and patrons can leave their children to be tended to while getting a face-full of bits. It's called "Who's Your Daddy?" Good, right? I know. Don't be jealous you didn't think of it first. Then RC and I carried on the theme and built an imaginary strip club next door to "Who's Your Daddy?" for the older crowd called it "West Coast Floppers." Just so you know, we were completely sober when coming up with these. Delirious, yes, but completely sober.
Idea #2: Dollah-Billah Killah. This is all RC. He awoke from a mid-day nap the other day and the first thing he said to me was, "Is there a rap song that goes, 'Dollah, dollah billah. Dollah-billah killah?'" I blinked multiple times. I thought as hard as I could. And then I asked if he had, unbeknownst to me, suffered some sort of head trauma before his nap. The worst part of all this? Now neither of us can stop singing this imaginary song. I've heard some of the crap on the radio as of late, and I'm fairly certain we could at least break the top 10 with this hit. If either of us could rap, we'd be in business.
Idea #3: Satan's Anus. I know, I know, but hear me out on this one! See, RC and I were having a somewhat normal conversation about the weather. Arizona right now is ridiculously hot and has been in the range of 114 every day. So, I said something to the effect that it's "hotter than Satan's anus after a five-alarm chili cookoff," because I have a way with words...and I'm a classy lady. RC managed to not swerve off the road while laughing (thankfully) and then he coughed out that "Satan's Anus" sounded like a metal band. Then we were off and running. We spent the next 20 minutes writing fake Craig's List ads for drummers who were "anal about keeping the beat" and could "carry the rhythm in the dark caverns of Satan's Anus' rehearsal space." I mean, c'mon, we don't have cable so we have to amuse ourselves somehow. We're not yet sure how this is going to make us a million dollars, but who needs money when you have the musical artistry that is SA?
Idea #4: Your Kitchen. It's a restaurant chain inspired by those frozen yogurt places that make you do all the work. You know, the ones that have you put your own frozen dairy goodness in a styrofoam bowl and then add all the toppings you want (that little kids have already stuck their dirty little paws in previous to your arrival), and then weigh and pay for your gluttony. So, Your Kitchen would be just like that but a full-on restaurant...where you cook and serve your own food. There will always be one missing ingredient for everything on the menu, there will be incomplete sets of measuring cups and mismatched flatware, and only one clean pan to cook in. It'll feature a couple burnt-out light bulbs in the dining room and tables that show the wear and tear of that one time you tried to build a model airplane on it and got superglue stuck to the wood and the varnish wore off. We could make millions just on the savings of a wait staff and cooks!
Idea #5: Personal Stoppers. The rich use personal shoppers to help them spend their money, so our idea is to offer "Personal Stoppers." These are people who will help you erase proof of all those bad decisions you've made from the World Wide Web. Your Personal Stopper will scour the likes of Facebook, Twitter, random porn sites, and personal emails and texts to prevent photos or stories of you being a complete douche or total twit from making the rounds. Whether you've been snapped wearing underwear on your head at a party (not that any of use would ever do that. *ahem*) or if you've simply spouted off about your dickweed boss at a company function in which you were the only overly intoxicated, "can't remember a damn thing" idiot there, the Personal Stoppers will help you erase your bad decision making. If you're a high-risk case, we'll assign a personal babysitter to go out with you in public and shut your fool mouth before it gets to being foolish. We'll also intercept all drunk texts, Tweets, and Facebook statuses for a 24-hour hold until you sober the hell up. You're welcome.
Idea #6: Judas Treats. Originally, Judas Treats was the name of a bakery I dreamed of opening. We'd serve things like "Bread Zeppelin," "Bon-Bon Jovis," and have "ZZ Toppings" for your "Milli Vanilla" cupcakes. But starting a bakery, after I researched it for all of 15 minutes, is expensive. So I scrapped that idea. Then I thought I could start an ice cream sandwich shop with homemade cookies and ice cream. I wanted to call it "Alice Scooper" because I figured Judas Treats might alienate about half the population. But that's expensive, too. So instead, Judas Treats is now the name of this blog. If only I could figure out how to make a million dollars posting ridiculous things.
Hey, since you're reading this, um, you owe me a million, K?
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