Check out the pic and the info, then you decide...
Political whore or hyaena?
Here, this might help:
Hyaena: Any of several carnivorous mammals of the family Hyaenidae, which feed as scavengers and have powerful jaws, relatively short hind limbs, and coarse hair.
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This is a horrible assignment! It's like trying to pick three bridesmaids when you have two cousins, two childhood friends, three best friends from high school and a college room-mate.
So, yeah, I had eight bridesmaids. What of it?
Okay, stuck on a deserted island with a bunch of bloggers...what a friggin nightmare! I mean, really...It's one thing to fantasize about ending up on a deserted island with someone of the opposite sex whom you have no chance of hooking up with any other way...but bloggers?!
We'd go insane.
But, here goes...
I'm hesitant to include this witty hotty for fear of going unnoticed in her presence, but uh, we ARE on a deserted island and, hey, she knows how to make soap...
This woman is WONDERFUL to talk to, and she won't give me hell for flirting my ass off with all the marooned males, who - huh, look at that - just so happen to outnumber the marooned females.
(These two would give me hell for flirting my ass off, so they get to stay home.)
My blogfaddah would have to be there. I have a feeling he'd be the ultimate beach bum, possibly the only one on the blogroll who could actually come to enjoy such a lifestyle. (He'd make every attempt to be incestuous, but my bro would be there too, and he'd have my back.)
As long as I'm inviting family, I might as well include the red-headed step brat.
And I'll be needing a smartass...tough call. Kim or Denny?
I'm convinced the southern gentleman would be absolutely miserable in such an environment, so obviously, he has to be there.
Sam? Sam, I hate to take you away from your lovely wife. No, I don't. You are SO there!
And I'd be willing include Mr. Francy Pants just to have the opportunity to meet him...and that goes for Jesse as well, whom I desperately need to add to the blogroll.
Geoffrey is there. He doesn't get to leave the cave. He's my manservant.
I'm leaving Jim at home. He has a boat. His job is to find my ass and bring me home before the internet-deprived bloggers go mad and start killing each other, or worse, begin reproducing.
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I don't. Everywhere I've lived, they've always been acquaintances (if I knew them at all).
A few years ago, I was living in a nice subdivision about 30 miles north of Atlanta. Now, understand, this is a huge development less than five years old, with homes ranging in price between $120K and $180K. The most I expected in the way of drama was having to deal with the kid that kept riding his 4 wheeler through my back yard.
Until...
One night I was getting ready for bed, when I noticed blue lights emanating from my closed blinds. I walked over and opened them.
No less than 10 police cars were parked in my tiny cul-de-sac street. In fact, my driveway was blocked by a couple of them. The ambulance had just sped off, and the policeman were pulling yellow tape between my yard and my neighbor's.
I looked at my husband. Do husband's not LIVE for such moments? Not mine. He was comfy in bed. If I wanted to know what was going on, I could go ask them myself.
Fine.
I took less than ten steps out of my front door before two policemen stopped me. "How are you tonight, ma'am," they did not wait for a reply, "Have you been home all evening?"
"Yes..."
"Have you heard anything unusual?"
"No..."
"No gunshots?"
"What?!"
"How well are you acquainted with your neighbors? Have you witnessed any domestic disputes?"
Shit. I answered the questions as best I could, and finally, it was revealed to me that during a quarrel, the husband had locked himself in the bedroom. They continued fighting through the door, until she decide to unload her weapon into it.
She got him in the eye. Miraculously, he lived...lost an eye, but lived. He asked to borrow a screwdriver a couple of weeks later (after being discharged from the hospital), so that he could change the locks on his doors. (I figured she'd be put away for a while, but I guess he didn't want to take any chances.)
So...Now I want to know even less about my neighbors. I live in the country now. My current neighbors have noisy dogs, poorly kept yards, and they shoot guns for the heck of it.
Last night I had the house opened up because my STUPID FRIGGIN AIR IS NOT WORKING, so I decided why not go out and do a little late night gardening...
As I was fumbling in the darkness, trying to extract a dusty miller bully off of a would-be begonia, I heard yelling. Not, call 911 because someone is screaming for their life yelling, but definite I've-had-it-with-you yelling.
I went inside, and thought no more of it. (I was busy trying to crazy glue my dishwasher back together.)
So this morning, I went out to see how badly I had butchered the flower bed...when I looked up, and noticed the ambulance in the neighbor's driveway.
Oh, WTF? Not again. Seriously. I drank my coffee and waited. The police didn't show, so I'm hoping all is well.
...but I'll be reading the papers this week, just in case.
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That's nice, Sam! Okay, I will admit that I am perfectly capable of coming up with abstract scenerios on my own, but I actually had inspiration for the "hypothetical" post below.
As "no name" mentioned, this stuff happens. Someone very near and dear to my heart is dating a girl who has been through it.
She was eight months pregnant when she found out that the father of her baby was married.
Had the guy stepped out due to an overwhelming case of love-of-his-life syndrome, I'm sure that he would have chosen the girl, the pregnancy and the new life.
But no... Sometimes I wonder if everyone is capable of true love. He informed his wife that he'd stepped out, and that they'd be having another child around every other week or so.
For some reason, I thought it odd. So, I hope you'll excuse the little gossip column, I just wanted another opinion here.
I still think it's odd. I mean, is the wife even capable of NOT resenting this child?
What a mess.
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Or do you guys have to type in all of your info every time you leave a comment?
Do my cookies suck, or am I just web-challenged?
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Let's say that you're having an affair. Let's say that you get the girl pregnant...
She decides to have and raise the baby.
Now you have options, none of them great. You can leave the old family to start a new one, you can opt out of being a father to this baby, or you can come clean in an effort to be a father to all of your children.
What do you do?
(Don't say you wouldn't get into that situation. We're playing this my way. You ARE in that situation.)
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Truly, I am in awe of this woman. I believe she's broken a record here.
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...and I have a plan to get this country back on track.
First, we will build a campfire. We will roast marshmellows! We will sing Barney songs! And we'll invite the UN! And, yes, they may eat all of our marshmellows and piss on our campfire, but that's okay because we're going to be a team player! Hey! Let's just ALL piss on our campfire together!
That's it. Everybody pissing...
...And then everybody will be happy, and all the nations can be friends. And we will frolic and play and spend and live happily ever after.
...Unless the money-makers get fed up and stop working...or unless we get blown up.
...but, hey, what are the chances?
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Decisions, decisions...
What to do when Miss Priss is at a birthday party, and we have two hours all to ourselves? Dine out? Eat in?
Work? Yeah, we ended up at the office.
We've turned into my parents.
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...such as posting. I think I've got that one figured out. But if you want to read one of my archives - such as the increasingly popular piece on cat puke titled "morning has broken"- you'll have to visit the old home (and you'll have to scroll.) How much trouble is it to move the things anyway? Shouldn't I just link the old archives?
So, anyway, it figures.
My claim to fame....cat puke.
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I have been freed from the hades of blogspot, and I have been given a beautiful home within the promised land of MuNuviana.
First, I'd like to thank my sponsors, particularly Sir Pixy; without these guys, none of this would have been possible...
I'd like to thank Madfish Willie for the move and the beautiful makeover. Some people were so impressed with this transformation that they e-mailed me, asking me to release the precious information. Okay, so she didn't exactly phrase it that way. (She asked, "Who'd you bed?")
I'd like to thank my blogroll, who has stuck with me, even though I've been horribly, criminally neglectful. I know. Many of you have moved, and I haven't fixed it yet. Many of you need to be added, but haven't been yet. (Hopefully, spring cleaning shall commence shortly.)
Thanks to Blog Pimp Daddy, whose blog I accidentally stumbled upon last fall while googling for a vacation spot. I emailed him, asking, "What is a blog? Dictionary.com wants to charge me for that particular information." He answered, had me blogging within a month, and has been a pain in my ass ever since. (He sees potential here, and I appreciate that.)
Additional credits will be forthcoming. I must now spend a portion of my day earning a living.
Seriously, thanks for the blogspot rescue!
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Ogden Nash
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest.
My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats.
I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces.
Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages.
Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez.
Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen.
Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults,
And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again,
But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
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I like e-mail.
If I LIKE what you have
to say, I'll even respond.
keymonroe at gmail dot com
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