So, the project I’m dealing with is now officially in “flaming barge of school children heading right for the Statue of Liberty” mode. Did I mention the kids have explosives strapped to them? And head lice? In other words, an unmitigated disaster. Only Spiderman can save it now. You think I’m kidding? Well, someone just asked me a question about an “XML std.” Uh, that person meant dtd, but I’ll take all the comic relief I can get. Now I’m just going to sit back, put my feet up, and wait for the FBI and possibly the ATF to contact me regarding my earlier gratuitious analogy with the school kids. And tomorrow I’m going to call out sick with a bad case of the “XML.”
Speaking of firearms, I have a new hobby a’ brewin’. Target shooting with small side arms. With a wedding gift haul of unwanted Precious Moments figurines just a month or so away, I’ve got to learn to shoot. A friend has promised to buy me and Mr. H a gun for a wedding present if we get our licenses to carry. We actually hope we get some sad-eyed angel figurines now, so we can take them to the range and pick them off one by one. The destruction will be filmed. Sometimes just returning something to the store is not spiteful enough!
I’m feeling especially entrepreneurial lately, as I wile away the hours thinking of how to get out of this job without being totally poverty stricken. So Mr. H gave me the idea for “blowyourshitup.com,” an extension of our own awful gift disposal plans. It’s a niche market, to be sure. Newlyweds unfortunate enough to not receive wads of cash will mail us their stash of useless crap from Things Remembered, and we’ll do the rest. Just choose “shotgun,” “steamroller,” or “sumo” from our destruction menu, and your commemorative DVD in a flocked velvet box will arrive in 4-6 weeks.
But really, my true calling is designing escape fantasies. I’m a natural. No, really. It’s my number one export these days. The gross national product of Licketysplit.
On a much more positive note, Lambchop has landed! There was a sighting today on Newbury Street. It was hard to tell it was her at first because of the huge dark glasses, but the fawning throng that assembled gave it all away. So she’s back in Boston, and you should beep her 9-1-1 and call her on her cell phone. Meet her by the friendly-ass bear.
Annie got my gun
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