Let the record show that I do not condone prostitution in any animal form nor under any guise, be it rock collecting, pleasure seeking, nest testing, etc.
My misadventures on display for all to read.
This past weekend, I had the most amazing adventure in Savannah, GA. My best man friend from college hitched his horse to a wagon and invited over a dozen of his college buddies to celebrate with 300 other people.
I used to be afraid of flying, like recite your last rites afraid. Once I asked a flamboyant male steward if flying were safe. "It's my job, sugar. Now breath into this bag." Thankfully I love it now. I find it one of the rare times where my responsibilities include removing my shoes, napping, listening to podcasts, and inhaling communal flatulence. On this particular trip, I traveled between General Edward Lawrence Logan International Airport to Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport with one small WTF moment after another.
Rarely do I check my bag, maybe once a year throughout dozens of flights. I have used the same luggage since graduating college. It holds all I need and fits in the overheard compartment. The two women at the pre-TSA screening decided my bag needed to be checked. "If it fits in the bin, you are good." I placed it in the measurement bin and it fit. The woman paused in surprise, and insisted that I check it in at the counter. "If they don't make you check it, then you are fine." Wet The Funnoodle!? I rolled it over to the counter and without hesitation, the Delta employee made me pay $25. Back at the pre-TSA line, a passenger walked through the check-in line with a giant guitar case. Strike one.
Once through the line, I proceeded to TSA screening. TSA opened a new line so I moved to get ahead of the crowd and started unloading my computer. "Shoes off, toiletries out, nothing in your pockets. Take everything out of your pockets," the TSA employee yelled to everyone. I emptied my pockets and stepped toward the peep show scanner. That's when the TSA woman pointed to my bulging right hip pocket. "Everything out of your pockets. Wait, what about that? What's that in your pocket?!" Without skipping a beat, I replied, "My extra fat. That's my extra fat." She lifted her hands, backed away and murmured in tongues. Strike two.
When we landed in Hotlanta, the two right tires exploded. We sat on the runway for forty five minutes while Delta brought mechanics to jack up the plane and switch out the flat tires. Seriously!? But of course. Strike three.
The rest of the weekend made for a great time. I didn't even fall once at the wedding.
Alas, thank you to Swedish Lief for this poignant bumper sticker.
This week's Fugly Doodly Friday comes from a fan who left a comment a few weeks back. It's a riddle of sorts. One that will make you question the very definition of humanity, sin, and Black Friday. The penitentiary awaits!
This one goes to all the 3 PM playahs out there who would ratha be sippin on a Shirley Temple by the kiddie pool than sitting through anotha meetin with yer holieah than thou colleagues. If ya words aren't supportin, productive, or meaninful, stick a Maraschino in it.
If you are stuck at work, in a car, on a plane, or riding bareback across the Great Plains, you too can submit a fugly doodle. Thanks to this week's anonymous guest who still wants that paycheck next week!
I have learned that a date can go one of two ways: well guided or completely off course. This aligns fairly well with how I tend to dance.
Despite my tendencies for graceful chaos, I still have friends who particularly enjoy supplying me with their two cents. What are friends for if but not a lovingly honest and supportive peanut gallery? Allow me to share with you the dating commentary my friends so willingly bestowed upon me.