Enter Laughter

Only in America could a severely flatulent white woman, a nice gentleman from India, and his Haitian wife meet in the line at a Department of Motor Vehicles office, and bond. Still suffering The War of the Bowels, I was feelin' mighty poorly, and the last thing I EVER want to do, (much less when I am suffering from diarrhea) is go to the DMV. But the new Neon had to have the taxes paid and the license purchased, because Husband must commute from the farm through a nearby small town, and the fine upstanding officers who may read this so I am not about to say anything bad about them, do tend to look for those minor infractions like one mile over the speed limit, or two minutes past the expiration of your tags. So, while Husband was sympathetic to my plight, he requested that if it were humanly possible, he wanted me to go take care of the nasty business. And nasty it was. I packed up my troubles (and Kaopectate) in my ol' kit bag (along with all of the necessary paperwork) a

OK, Ordinarily, I am so upbeat and perky I make some people want to puke. This week however, 'twas I doing the puking, as Fate stood back with a .45 and shot b-i-g holes in my Perky bucket, draining it faster than I could patch them. First was the enormous expense involved with getting repairs done to the car that the salesman-who-is-lucky-I'm-too-sick-to-go-kill, said was in excellent condition and had no major flaws. Hmmm.....to me, needing hundreds of dollars worth of brake AND suspension work is not flawless, and I have a pretty lax judgement meter for such things. So the brake work was done Monday, and upon picking up the car, we were informed that much more work was required to make it safe and remove its shimmy (grumpy thought to self regarding salesman-whose-shimmy-should-be removed) Of course, shimmy-removal would require additional parts, which had to be ordered from the planet Expensicus, and be manufactured from a solid block of Unobtainium. Be here Wednesda

Was I a car killer in a past life? Some sort of mass machine murderer? What have I done to make every mechanical thing on the planet despise me so? The Bentra Sentra, with its sadly smashed-in side, courtesy of French Fry Boy , just ain't been right since he decided to sling it in front of another moving vehicle. Something about pushing it sideways down the road tends to square the tires (or in my native hillbilly language, "tars"). Plus he is very, very bad with curbs. I think he sees them more as, "guidelines" of how far off the roadway to park. He usually scrapes and/or jumps them. So the sad lil' Sentra has a smashed in side, squared tires and bent wheel rims. Bent wheel rims are bad.... very, very bad. Tires recognize their deformity, and struggle vainly to distance themselves (as if they're any better - they're nearly bald for cryin' out loud - and squared, don't forget squared.) Apparently, the automobiles gossiped in the drivewa

Old rock and roll never dies. It just gets recycled into commercials that make us so sick of a once-beloved song that our ears bleed when we hear it. Subaru is using the tune, "Dust in the Wind" made famous by the rock band Kansas (not my neighboring state, although the state does frequently have dust storms). I used to love this song, now it makes me wince. I hate Subaru for this. I hate other car companies for ruining other great tunes - Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll" hawking Cadillacs, Buicks being hyped to Aerosmith's "Dream On"...MAKE IT STOP! If not being recycled by automakers, the artists (?) themselves, recycle themselves. What is it? Did they go through all of the millions they earned? Sigh, probably so. This morning I saw Rick Springfield on Regis and Kelly. He looks like Skeletor from He-Man cartoons. He's still singing, "I Wish That I Had Jesse's Girl". Why? So she could bring you a can of Ensure? I'

Oh. My. God. What a Wednesday. Yeah, I know today is Thursday. It's just the lack of sleep that makes me.....what was I saying? Yesterday I went out on the weekly treasure hunt, to scour the garage sales and thrift stores for those incredible finds that could be turned into profits at online sale venues. Children were nestled all snug in their beds, as visions of vid-yo-games danced in their heads. (Sorry, it was the only way to make the syntax work - LOL). Middle Son, who toils at McDonalds, was off for the day, and joy-in-a-box was winging his way. (No you dirty-minded geezers, not THAT) . He had ordered a dance pad. Curious readers around the globe ask, "What's that?" He is SERIOUSLY into arcade games like, "Dance, Dance Revolution" , which the webpage says you can make part of your "lifestyle" {OMG I don't HAVE a lifestyle, but I digress, sleep deprivation does that to me, but I haven't told you about that yet because of these dam