Everyone needs a fleet of flying monkeys to rip the stuffing out of the annoying people in their lives
— Laura

"Wow, that's a nice lookin' pair of Crocs," said no one ever.

That’s right, I bought those ugly motherfuckers up there. What of it? Yeah, I know they were the “in” shoe like twelve years ago and even then they were ridiculed. Hell, I was one of the ridiculers. But let me tell you something, my left knee has had rabies for over a year now and three fourths of my house has concrete floors, not counting the courtyard and pool area, and it’s been killing my knee and I’ve been hobbling around for months. I tried all kinds of anti-inflammatory meds, and braces, and voodoo and nothing helped so I decided I had to change my footwear. I needed something lightweight and washable and these ugly motherfuckers fit that bill. So it just goes to show that you shouldn’t make fun of someone’s shoes because one day the shoe will be on the other foot, or walk a mile in their shoes, or a shoe in the hand is worth two in a bush, or some shit like that. I don’t know, I’m not a proverb scientist. All I know is that my new clown shoes feel divine and my knee rabies is in remission. So point and laugh all you want because now I can chase you down and stab you. Because sticks and stones might break your bones but knives require less energy. There. Nailed it.


I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m dying to tell it so here it goes- I have not seen a Palmetto Bug in my house or on my property all summer. I know, right? It’s like a miracle. This is the first summer I’ve lived in the South that I have not seen one of those unholy, diabolical creatures. And if you’re just tuning in and have no idea what I’m talking about, a Palmetto Bug is a cutesy term for giant motherfucking flying cockroaches that are all over the damn place in hot, muggy climates, aka- The South.

Without a doubt, the person holding these nasty sonsabitches was insane and murdered by them shortly after this photo was taken. RIP, Crazy Person.

The only good thing you can say about them is that they prefer living outdoors. BUT they will sneak in for water. The worst thing you can say about them, and oh my God there are so many bad things to say about them, is that they want you dead. When they sneak in for water they will try to murder you and your entire family. Whenever they are spotted, be it indoors or out, and you try to smash them with like a brick or an axe because shoes and swatters don’t work, those motherfuckers will FLY AT YOUR FACE so that you’ll flail your arms and beat your hands against your head until you have rendered yourself unconscious. Then, of course, while you’re unconscious they will murder you and move on to your family. All of this is FACT. I’m pretty sure. Well, I may have read it somewhere. Or dreamt it. It’s not important. What is important is I haven’t seen any *KNOCK ON WOOD* and I owe it all to my exterminator who came out early this past spring to spray the house. When I asked him to treat the outdoors for Palmetto Bugs, that I didn’t want to even see one within a mile of my property, he dumped a shit-ton of insecticide pellets all over outside even though he said under contract they could only treat a few feet from the house. Thank you, Mr. Exterminator. Now I just hope none mutated from my Chernobyl yard and seek revenge next year. Fuck. Oh well, I won’t worry about that, because for now-


I can't even pronounce half this shit, how in the hell did I type it in Amazon search? Gin must turn me into some kind of food scientist word genius.

This is what happens when you watch too much Food Network while drinking and have Amazon Prime on your iPhone all set up with your payment and shipping information. And this is just part of what I ordered last week. If pot ever gets legalized, I’m pretty certain I’ll be bankrupt within a month.


I have an intense fear of inflating tires. I wrote before that I take my car to a full-service garage for all air checks and air fills. I don’t know the fancy Latin crazy science name for this fear and I’m not going to look it up. I just call it Shrapnelandtirelodgedinmyfacephobia. Anyway, I have a nice garden cart I got right after I bought this place that I used all spring for working in my garden and planting shit in my yard. I have not used it lately because it got hotter than hell and I basically said “Fuck it, yard, you’re on your own” for the last few months. But we had a cool spell come through last week and I decided I’d pull some weeds and prune some palm fronds and when I went to go get my cart to haul the shit away I was horrified to see that both tires on my cart were flat! First thing I thought was “How am I loading this big ass cart in my car to take it to the garage without looking like a complete fool?” Then I thought, “Since when did I care if I looked like a complete fool?” and I started to put my cart in my car. It didn’t fit. Shit. Then I thought ”I’ll take the tires off this bitch and just take them in!”  So I set out hunting tools to do that when I spotted something in the corner of my garage. When I got closer I saw it was an air compressor. See, the previous owners left all kinds of shit I never even got around to discovering. Anyhow, I eyed it for a few minutes and then went about looking for garden cart tire removal tools. I couldn’t find any. My eyes went back to the air compressor. “Hmm, if these little tires exploded they probably wouldn’t kill me,” I thought. ”But they will render me unconscious,” my crazy shrapnelandtirelodgedinmyfacephobia whispered. Then I envisioned the aftermath, me all laid out on the garage floor and my neighbors being all:

To hell with it. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can fill a garden cart’s tires! I’m going for it. I plugged the compressor into the wall and it made that weird humming air compressor sound. Then I took the cap off of the stem thingies, put on a pair of welder’s gloves I found in the other corner of garage to save my hands from the explosion, placed the compressor thingie on the stem thingy, turned my head, closed my eyes, prayed to Baby Jesus and pressed the lever thingie. It filled! I repeated the same on the other tire, prayer and all, and VOILÀ!

Like a motherfuckin’ pro, y’all!

Oh, but I’m still taking my car in for tire pressure checks and inflation. Those babies can kill you. Baby steps.