Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Blonde joke

Crazy Train (of thought)

There is a new community of million dollar homes going up nearby. It sits at the foot of an earthen dam holding back acres and acres of water. Whose good idea was it to pick that location?

Don’t those Scientologist wonder why would God have chosen a science fiction novelist to be his messenger?

Don’t buy Citgo gasoline. It’s owned by the Venezuela government, which is run by Hugo Chavez, Cindy Sheehan’s boyfriend.

Marital Bliss

Jill and took a bubble bath the other night. She has a little problem with measurement (don’t even go there) and poured in way too much bubbly. I didn’t see her do it, so none the wiser, I turned on the jets. Within seconds our bathroom looked like an I Love Lucy episode. We tried to salvage the romance of the occasion, but it was a bit of a challenge when we had to push the bubbles aside to see one another. I finally switched gears and played naked hide and seek.


“Meagan, do you realize you are driving 85 miles an hour.”
“No, how was I supposed to know.”
“The fact that you are passing everybody might be a clue.”
“Oh, there’s my exit.”
She started to switch lanes. I glanced at the rearview mirror on my door and read “Objects may be closer than Mack,” it read. Mack? Mack truck!
“Meagan, Meagan, Meagan!” I screamed while flailing my hands about, pointing her back into her lane. After my life and dreams flashed before my eyes, I saw that she was back in her lane. “Good God!” I shouted.
“Dad, I don’t know what Meagan, Meagan, Meagan means.”
“It means ‘Oh shit, I am about to die,” I said.
“Good thing I saw him coming,” she said.
Oh Lord, she’s going solo in four weeks. Please give me strength.

Today’s Rant

Carla Martin, TSA attorney, the blonde bimbo who trashed the Zacarias Moussaoui trail, should be held responsible for the legal bill shouldered by the American taxpayers who are now deprived of the ultimate justice because she couldn’t see her way to a victory without committing horrendous blunders by coaching prosecution witnesses. Maybe it was because she couldn’t keep her fake “I’m beautiful” stringy, dyed too-long-for-her-age hair out of her face. Winch.

Book Report

I took more photos of a few women for a book I’m working on, and as usually happens, sometime after they have warmed up to me and the camera, someone asked, “Do you want us to make out?” I love my job.

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