So I began a skirmish some time ago called Battle of the Tacky Lawn Ornaments. I began with the not-quite-nuclear option of the lawn gnome. It was first countered this way:
Which was pretty damn funny. I had a campaign sign for a candidate for city council in my front yard in support of a dude who feels that people with a huge amount of cash shouldn’t be able to bulldoze tiny, rundown, white trash cottages like mine to build huge, tacky, ugly houses. So I came home one day and found my sign augmented with the Dubya sign. Because I hate Dubya.
But the game is Battle of the Tacky Lawn Ornaments, not Battle of the Ludicrous Political Statements, so although it was hilarious and appreciated, it did not count. Null! Void!!
But then, then, Young Herschel and Curly Sue came through with style, class, creativity, and porcelain. Exhibit B:
So now I need to find a pump, an old toilet, a stone cherub, and some colored spotlights. And maybe a taxidermist.
I recently recounted a tale of The Accidental Intervention wherein an intervention was accidentally attended because it was supposed to be a barbeque. This event did not occur to me – it was Curly Sue who stumbled across this abomination. Anyone who really knows me would have understood this, because the protagonist of the story had taken homemade angel food cupcakes with her. I used to bake. I bake no more. It used to be soothing, but now it’s just a pain in the ass. So I can see how the sangria could cause confusion, but baking? It’s fucking baking, people. I don’t sift.
I have a response to the driver of the white Ford Econoline van whose bumper sticker seemed to thoughtfully inquire about my spiritual health with its whimsical query of “Got Jesus?” Well, driver of Texas license plate 50N 3VC, I may not have Jesus, but I am a reasonable enough human being to understand that the ONE lane of traffic allotted to my vehicle cannot be made up of the center half of two lanes. So, mother of Cesar and Sergio who play soccer in the Northside Youth Soccer League, next time you drive your van as though it were a fucking weapon and you were Mad Max and next time you seem to be deliberately trying to force other cars off the road, try to remember the definition of the word “hypocrite.” Bitch. Is your answer to the rhetorical question “What Would Jesus Do?” usually “Make the little cars get out of my way”?