So put Advice Asylum back in your bookmarks and visit us frequently, then turn the gun on yourself. Oh, sorry. Old habits die hard.

J: "You know that hair gel you picked out? I smell like an old lady. Like roses to be exact."

Me: "It does not smell like roses."

J: "It does too and I bet you did that on purpose."

Me: "What are you saying? That it's all part of my diabolical plan? That I made you get that gel so bees will be attracted to you and your old lady hair? That they'll sting you and your tongue will swell and you'll fall over gasping for air, and you'll try to call out for help, but help won't be there. Is that what you're saying?"

J: (Silence)

Me: (laughs)"Well?"

J: "Umm, no. I was trying to say you just wanted to make fun of the fact that my hair smelled like flowers. And I'm not allergic to bees."

Me: "Oh. Then I have an insurance policy to cancel."

Everyone came up to me Monday wanting to discuss George and his WHORE. What a fucking mess. I am done discussing her. I'm sick of her. She just simply does not exist to me anymore. There's nothing more to say.

What I am going to say is, if you're not roasting all of your vegetables, you're doing it wrong.

Here we have Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, asparagus and onion. Always throw in some onion. Drizzle with olive oil, pepper, kosher salt and bake.

Words cannot describe the yumminess. You'll never want your veggies cooked any other way.

Apparently this goat still wants to discuss her. Goats are very in tune with people.

That's my end-of-the-world apocalypse plan if I have warning ahead of time. Hopefully it won't turn out to be a false alarm. Gah. Can you imagine? Going back to work after you just told everyone off? I'd have to give back my big screen tv too. Piggly Wiggly would probably file charges. I'd probably be going to prison. I'm pretty sure I could carry and eat enough bacon for it to be a felony.

Oh shit. One of them must have been hiding in the limo.

Titled: "My Boyfriend and I Just Hanging Around My NYC Penthouse Apartment."

P.S. Jack is still getting friend requests and also invitations to join groups in Facebook. One of his invites is to join a group called "I'm Gay and Proud" and the other is "How To Make Love to A Gay Man." Seriously. I'm starting to piece together what he's up too all day when I'm at work. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

P.P.S. Did you know I have an iPhone?

• I own three Lady Gaga songs. Yes, Lady Gaga. I own Poker Face, Paparazzi, and Bad Romance. According to my iPod I have played Bad Romance 23 times since I downloaded it. I downloaded it on Saturday night.
  
• I am totally addicted to wacky, weird reality shows. Not only am I addicted to "Hoarders", but I watched back to back episodes of "Deadliest Catch" this weekend and could not look away. And it's the same thing over and over! It's cold, it's wet, they catch crabs. Like most people's prom night. Which reminds me, I also watch "16 and Pregnant" and "RuPaul's Drag Race." Can. Not. Look. Away.
  
• Jack is on FaceBook. Not only is he on Facebook, but he has more friends than I do. Not only does he have more friends than I do, but he gets more people writing on his "wall." He even got solicited by a female Mastiff named Bella. He kindly turned her down, explaining to her that he was neutered but told her they could still go out and sniff cat butt sometime. He's so polite.

1. I would have liked a dollar for every worker who spent over two hours this morning visiting and chatting and disrupting others before their supervisor came in.

2. I would have liked a dollar for every time someone wants to ride on my lunch order but never comes and asks me if I want lunch when they are ordering.

3. I would have liked a dollar for every car that pulled out in front of me today. It was raining fuckers, you shouldn't do that.

4. I would have liked a dollar for every asshole that pulled out in front of me who was on their cell phone. Unfuckingbelievable.

5. I would have liked a dollar for every car I saw trying to outrun an ambulance/ fire engine/ cop today. Again, it was raining today and that meant lots of emergency rescue personnel were on the roads.

6. I would have liked a dollar for every cat yak/hairball I had to clean up today.

Man, I would have made some serious cash today! And I didn't have to resort to violence. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I'd take every cent and buy knives so that I could stab, and stab and stab the fuck out of all of them.

P.S. "A high-powered rifle" would have fit in just as well as "a dollar" now that I look at it.

P.S.S. Although I enjoy firing a high-powered rifle as much as the next person, I think stabbing is a better stress reliever. It's more of an aerobic workout too, which is good for the cardiovascular system.

So I went over there like a big ole' fertile whore fresh out of rubbers and experienced the miracle of creating a few babies. Personally, I don't see what the big deal is, but now that I have them my maternal instincts are kicking in and I feel the desire to drag them out in public and force people to look at my babies and tell me how beautiful they are. So look at my beautiful babies and if you feel the need to buy them gifts, like I hear people like to do, their momma prefers cash.

This is the baby Brad Pitt and I had together.

I didn't bother naming her. I'm selling her to Angie.

My next baby is one I had with "I'm Rick James, Bitch."

Yeah, I know Rick James isn't around anymore. Maybe that's why my baby didn't come out quite right. Maybe Rick's DNA was either fucked up from drugs or it wasn't refrigerated correctly. Either way, the kid's a total mess. I named him Worfie.

You think Worfie's strange looking? Look at the baby I had with Marilyn Manson:

Yeah. Spooky. Who would have thunk it? I'd bet there's three sixes on him somewhere. I named him Damien.

Now here is my "special" baby. This is the baby I had with Michael Jackson.

I know. What the fuck? They must not refrigerate those sperm tanks at all. I am just glad I didn't have to squeeze that melon noggin out of my tootie. Jesus. I had high hopes I would get a child with talent so I could quit my job and just manage her career via my diamond encrusted iPhone from Neverland Ranch while riding a unicorn, but I think I'm going to be lucky if she can learn to tie her shoes. Shit. 

They say a mother should never show favoritism. And I know I've only been a parent for maybe a half hour, but it seems longer. More like an hour. With my vast experience as a mother, I can tell you that mothers do have favorites. Here's mommy's favorite widdle precious bundle of joy:

I am not surprised that we make pretty babies together. Not. At. All. It's like God wants us to be together, except c'mon, if you read this blog you know there won't be any babies. We'll just go through the motions of making one. Constantly. Like, ALL THE TIME. Everywhere.

Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah...

So if you're thinking about having a baby, go to makemebabies.com to see what that little shit is going to look like. You can upload a picture of your husband, or boyfriend, or a random guy on the street and see how the baby is going to turn out. Forewarned is forearmed. If I can prevent just one ugly baby from being made, my job here is done. Just say no to ugly baby making.

Here's a picture I took of a photo of my mother and her goat cart. The photo is in an antique frame and has been on my dresser for years. Today as I was dusting, it occurred to me that goat must be in my blood. I remember my mom telling me that she and her cousins used to have goat cart races and that she would never win because her goat was pretty ornery and her cousins always cheated and she always wanted to stab them. Okay, I added that whole cheating and stabbing part. But you get my point. Goats are awesome even if they're ornery.

Those fuckers will rue the day they ever ignored me.

Know what cures rabies? Baby pygmy goats.