Now THIS Is How To Celebrate

For your loathsome holiday enjoyment, here is a Valentine's Day post from accurately self-proclaimed funnyman, Avitable. Most of you who read here already know Evil Genius Tracy Lynn, so this may be a little redundant, but hey, funny is funny.

VD and Valentine's Day

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Sponsored by STD Floral, providers of the 'Sorry I Gave You The Clap' Bouquet ============================ Programme Note: (Like that fancy spelling? That's for my international readers) I will be offsite all next week, Monday through Saturday. I'll be a stranger in a strange land, learning my new job on the high-falutin' proprietary engineering software. I expect to be surrounded by people who speak a different language and have unusual dental formations, and who knows if the Internet has penetrated such foreign parts. However, you can count on Spiffytown to bring you the most for your entertainment dollar, oh yes. The village will not go dark, and I will tell you how. Later. ============================ Last night I was roped into another long, drawn-out game of Cowboys and Indians. The rules of this game go thusly: The cowboy waits on the phone while the Indians try very, very hard to sound American while sapping my will to live through repeated requests for highly personal information, interminable waits with ultrashat smooth jazz music, and multiple transfers. Yes, Charter has still not come through with providing the service for which the meter is now running. They say on the 15th a technician will arrive to take on the daunting task of opening a little plastic box and attaching a wire. Good thing I have a place to go where the internet flows like sugar from a hole in the bottom of the bag. ============================ Somehow the subject of kids with Wal-Mart bags on their feet came up last night. It sent me back to my days as a snot-nosed schoolkid. Okay, lots of things send me back there, but you're missing the point. I had the old-fashioned black rubber boots, with the thick felt liner and metal buckles on the side. Since they were made of rubber, you would think they'd be waterproof. Not so. My mom, in her ever-watchful wisdom, would bundle us up by first slipping our little feet into 3 layers of socks, bread bags, and then the boots. Yep. Wonderbread, in case you wanted to know. My feet had a fresh baked yeastly aroma for most of my childhood. When Moonboots were invented, I could ditch the bread bags because the fashionable one-piece design tended to keep slush and water out for a little longer. I loved 'em, for the baglessness and the quickness. An ADD riddled (undiagnosed, because that hadn't been invented yet either) kid who wants to go out sledding does NOT want to be hampered by shoestrings and buckles and the like. At school, we didn't have traditional lockers. They were wooden shelves with a coathook in each, open for the world to see. Along the hallway floor there would be rows and rows of moonboots. One day at the end of class, I was leaving late for some possibly detention-related reason. My moon boots sat nearly alone in the deserted hall. I inserted a socked foot, and felt something strange therein. I wiggled my toes, but couldn't figure out what was inside. I turned the boot upside down and shook gently. Out plopped a soft, perfectly formed dog turd. It had been collected while frozen, and left to thaw in my warm and cozy boot. Tragedy was averted because I caught it before full-meltdown mode - odorless and stainless, which is not a turd's normal state. The perps were never brought to justice, which bothers me still. Maybe that's why I've never gone to any class reunions. Perhaps I should be grateful. From that day on, I compulsively check every shoe before installing it on my enormous foot, saving me from countless golf balls, spiders, and other buggy encounters.