Don't Worry, Be Happy ...

... that song annoys the piss out of me (Can I say that on here? Is piss a *bad* word?).

Another thing that annoys the piss (?) out of me is the movie Love Story. With Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw, 1970. I was 12 when it came out in the theaters, back when the price of a movie ticket was around 5 cents or something. No, seriously, I think way back when it cost all of a dollar to get in, and special discount matinees were maybe 50 cents.

Anyway, back in 1970 it was a real treat to see something in theaters that was not a Clint Eastwood western bloodbath, or a Charles Bronson vigilante bloodbath. And, since I was on the cusp of womanhood (whatever that is)(still waiting), a romantic though ridiculously tragic love story seemed like a pleasant change.

Boy, was I bored. All I can remember is Ali dying from leukemia about five minutes after they kissed/got engaged/whatever, and laying there in that phony hospital bed looking all pale & wan, uttering those famous eight words:

"Love means never having to say you're sorry".

Which was pretty confusing to a pubescent preteen. I was pretty sure my parents loved me, if not - at least they'd been faking it fairly well for over a decade. But, I was also pretty certain that if I knocked over the potted plant on the brand new carpeting (this happened), I'd better be saying "I'm sorry" or heads were gonna roll (mine).

Many years later, once I'd married, I also learned that if I set the new van on fire (this also happened)(stray cigarette cherry fell down inside the door panel) ... I'd better say I was sorry, or there was going to be a whole lot of uncomfortable silence later on at the dinner table.

See how simple things we adults understand and take for granted, can easily be confusing for kids? Love means never having to say you're sorry ...

Nuh uh.

So anyway, back to piss.

Which reminds me of water, which also reminds me of the broken pipe beneath my home Sunday morning. Luckily it was not too big of a deal (we heard the warning sound of water escaping under pressure) and my beloved children fixed it for me, with a fancy-schmancy new brass fitting. *YAY* for beloved, grown children!

And people wonder why I escape via fiction? Chee, no idea.

On a positive note, I am beyond ecstatic to report that the poison ivy is winding down, or the steroids are kicking in, or my body suddenly decided to fix things ... I dunno, but it's nice to look like only half a freak for a change.

With all the disgusting patches and swelling and scabs and blisters and rash, what I should've done was *roll* with it. I should have mashed one of those uncooked Poppin' Fresh biscuits into the back of my head, squirted on a dollop of ketchup, chewed up some black licorice and let the drool drip down onto my chin and staggered around moaning "braiiiiiiiiinnnzzzzzzzzz" in the parking lot of Wal-Mart.

:D :D :D

Just thinking about it makes me giggle! (I wouldn't have really done this)(not unless it was closer to Halloween) ... heh heh.

Another prank I've always wanted to do but probably never would (probably)(nothing in life is certain)(not a quote from Love Story) ... IS ... now, think about it, try and really picture what I'm fixing to describe ... get some of that nearly invisible, glow in the dark paint.

AND, with this paint, say - on the ceiling of the master bedroom of a home you have finally managed to sell ... have a good old time painting all kinds of psycho crap like:

Freddy was here

You're all gonna die

Amityville part two

Satan sleeps in this room

R.I.P. uncle Bob

... maybe add a few pentagrams or tetrahedrons or ghostly hand prints, etc.

I know it's not nice, and I would (probably) never do this. But I can't help imaging the look on the new owners' faces on the first night in their comfy bed in their brand new home. Staring up at that glowing ceiling from hell ...

Oh, my. The things you think up when you're bored.

There's something in the hard wiring of our brains that make us want to play phucknuts on our fellow man, not in a MEAN way, of course, - just ornery. I think all animals do this, some kind of built in *humor* neuron or what not. Maybe humor is nature's safety valve, an outlet to diffuse tensions before they build up to the point where we want to kill each other.

Instead of bombs, maybe the world would be a much better place if we instead dropped laughing gas on our *enemies*. Or a plane load of Three Musketeers Bars and Whoopee cushions!

The ability to appreciate and relate via *humorous absurdity* is one of God's more subtle gifts. I wish our world leaders recognized this.

Then nobody would have to die, and nobody would ever have to say they are sorry.