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Warning: Creating default object from empty value in /home/jimstant/public_html/fetchmyflyingmonkeys/wp-content/themes/platformpro/admin/class.options.metapanel.php on line 49 Hells yeah, it’s Friday! | Fetch My Flying Monkeys
My days consist of going to work and then coming home and taking care of Jack. I’m hell bent on getting him back to normal and by “back to normal” I mean back to being the hard-headed little terrorist he has always been. This doesn’t leave much time for blogging, which means the attention whore in me is suffering. But that’s why God made weekends. And gin. And free long distance cell plans for drunk dialing exes and asking the wives if their husband ever screams my name in bed, you know, besides during night terrors.
Now look at what I found at Food Lion:
Voodoo supplies. Say my name now, motherfuckers. Say. My. Name.
Now, with even MORE voodoo, as if there wasn’t enough already. I like it. I need a couple of those hanging from the rearview mirror, as, you know, conversation starters. For the hitchhikers I pick up. Get them wondering.
He is still wobbly and sometimes topples, but is getting stronger every day. It’s all I can do to let him falter and not pick him up and kiss him and carry him! But I def see an improvement every day. I think once a week I’ll post a video of him walking.
That’s great. He’s just got to get his nerves synced up, and some strength back. I mean, Jack didn’t walk for three weeks, and that’s a long time in Doxie time.
I remember telling the Juju Women, “You gotta let Stretch get up on his own”. It’s a hard thing to do.
Dammit, I just watched that baby elephant being saved and I think I got some of that dust in my eyes ’cause they’re all watering now. That’s some serious voodoo.
I am such a northerner. I didn’t even know chickens had paws, much less that they were worth selling for “meat” in a grocery store. At least, I assume Food Lion is a grocery store and not a black market voodoo supply shop. Next you’ll be showing us a picture of chicken beaks, trying to convince us they’re lips, and capturing our gullible souls in some witch-doctor potion that will speed up Jack’s recovery process. While I admit that’s a worthy cause to have my soul sucked out for, remember, Rupert would then have no one to refill his food bowl with bacon drippings and kibble or to scoop out the den when he is too afraid to poop outside in a rain storm.
In the high-end stores they’re called “Pig Trotters.” Sounds like feet to me. Apparently, according to my stepfather, they were required consumption with beer. Pickled pigs feet. We’re talking serious fart fodder here.
We don’t have Food Lion up here in the benighted North. This makes it extra-fun when Ladybug and I traipse southward. Whenever I pass one, I like to proclaim, in a loud baritone: “FOOOOOOOOOOOD Lion.” Just like that. After five-plus years, she’s still rolling her eyes, but now smiling in spite of herself. I hope to have her actually joining in by our tenth anniversary.
Laura.
Laura the Great.
Queen Laura.
Laura master of the universe. . . and circus peanuts. . . and gin.
Laura guardian of all that is bacon and Jack.
Laura the world’s greatest hand model.
Laura the all knowing, all seeing and all blogging.
Laura rehabilitator of small dogs named Jack.
Laura the best for George Clooney bar none.
(Can I stop now or am I still in voodoo danger?)
I can say I have never seen these in a store, though I do know people eat them. Not sure what is spookier – the idea that someone might need a whole package of them or that someone out there at Food Lion thinks chickens have paws.
Gah! Chicken feet. Hate chicken feet. When I was a kid my family was invited to a chicken butchering party. It was grim, bloody, violent. And then the chicken butchering started. We kids all laughed at the headless birds flopping around. The smell, the feathers, the blood. All of that was tramuatic, but what I remember most was playing with the chopped off feet, pulling on the tendons, watching the toes clench.
You know, that goes a long way explaining why I’m so fucked up. Playing with chicken feet. Cool. I can stop seeing my therapist now.
You might need several packs of chicken paws for some long-distance voodoo…your boo is a key witness in Berlusconi’s “I didn’t sleep with the Moroccan teen skank” trial. And boo’s previous WHORE is a witness too.
Now that he’s back in fighting trim, I might let Jack do the voodoo, as long as he doesn’t eat the paws.
Laura. Laura. Fucking. Ledford. Consider your name spoken. All the best for Jack.
-Verboden
HAHA! Thank you.
That’s what I was gonna say!!!! TY! ha!
Now, with even MORE voodoo, as if there wasn’t enough already. I like it. I need a couple of those hanging from the rearview mirror, as, you know, conversation starters. For the hitchhikers I pick up. Get them wondering.
Like the rope, bottle of chloroform, and duct tape in the seat doesn’t get them wondering?
‘Zactly.
I always wondered who would buy those things, and what they would do with them. Now I know. I can always count on you for edumacation and junk.
That’s what I’m here for. And attention.
Psst… Chickens don’t have “Paws”, they have FEET so I think your voodoo will back fire.
Tell that to Food Lion. A foot is a foot.
OK… what the hell? I didn’t even know they sold those things. Talk about not wasting anything. What the hell do u do w/those anyways. seriously…..
Voodoo. Other people eat them.
Just keep on keeping on with Jack. More good juju coming his way.
Is he starting to get his balance back? It took Stretch a while.
He is still wobbly and sometimes topples, but is getting stronger every day. It’s all I can do to let him falter and not pick him up and kiss him and carry him! But I def see an improvement every day. I think once a week I’ll post a video of him walking.
That’s great. He’s just got to get his nerves synced up, and some strength back. I mean, Jack didn’t walk for three weeks, and that’s a long time in Doxie time.
I remember telling the Juju Women, “You gotta let Stretch get up on his own”. It’s a hard thing to do.
It is really hard not to pick them up when they’re stumbling around that’s for sure.
Your Voodoo name, that’s “Hard-Headed Terrorist,” right? (Dangit, am I confusing you and Jack again??)
Dammit, I just watched that baby elephant being saved and I think I got some of that dust in my eyes ’cause they’re all watering now. That’s some serious voodoo.
Wasn’t that the bestest thing to see the baby and momma running to each other?
Ha! No, I’m Bulbous-Headed Assassin.
A field full of rabbits heave a sigh of relief.
HAHA!
Ditto the above comment for the baby elephant rescue! Love a happy ending!
Me too!
Laura. Ledford.
Laura. Ledford.
Lau—- Hey, if I say it three times will you show up in my living room? Or do I have to say it into a mirror?
I would totally roast those feet to desiccated little claws so I could hang them from my rear view mirror. Happy Halloween, kiddies!
Three times and I show up and steal your bacon and raid your liquor cabinet.
I love Butters!
My local grocery store had this on sale yesterday. Hubby asked me why I bought five packs.
I just looked at him like he was an idiot. He understood.
Nobody voodoo like you do.
I’m afraid to speak your name aloud.Last time I did my toilet overflowed and my cable went out for three hours.
HAHA! That’s minor damage actually.
I am such a northerner. I didn’t even know chickens had paws, much less that they were worth selling for “meat” in a grocery store. At least, I assume Food Lion is a grocery store and not a black market voodoo supply shop. Next you’ll be showing us a picture of chicken beaks, trying to convince us they’re lips, and capturing our gullible souls in some witch-doctor potion that will speed up Jack’s recovery process. While I admit that’s a worthy cause to have my soul sucked out for, remember, Rupert would then have no one to refill his food bowl with bacon drippings and kibble or to scoop out the den when he is too afraid to poop outside in a rain storm.
We mustn’t let Rupert do without bacon drippings and outdoor poops!!
Chicken claws??? OMG Laura Ledford. Wonder how those would taste with bacon?
EVERYTHING is good with bacon.
oops, I meant chicken paws. Obviously it’s still early here in San Diego.
Stop bragging!
Laura Ledford
you could get pig’s feet too ya know
I’ve seen them there too!
In the high-end stores they’re called “Pig Trotters.” Sounds like feet to me. Apparently, according to my stepfather, they were required consumption with beer. Pickled pigs feet. We’re talking serious fart fodder here.
I would lose my beer buzz.
We don’t have Food Lion up here in the benighted North. This makes it extra-fun when Ladybug and I traipse southward. Whenever I pass one, I like to proclaim, in a loud baritone: “FOOOOOOOOOOOD Lion.” Just like that. After five-plus years, she’s still rolling her eyes, but now smiling in spite of herself. I hope to have her actually joining in by our tenth anniversary.
I like to call it my ghetto store.
Ok so I went and watched the baby elephant video- that was one of the sweetest things EVER!!!!
It was adorable!
Laura.
Laura the Great.
Queen Laura.
Laura master of the universe. . . and circus peanuts. . . and gin.
Laura guardian of all that is bacon and Jack.
Laura the world’s greatest hand model.
Laura the all knowing, all seeing and all blogging.
Laura rehabilitator of small dogs named Jack.
Laura the best for George Clooney bar none.
(Can I stop now or am I still in voodoo danger?)
Damn. You’re safe as safe can be now.
Thanks, that’s a load off.
No, thank you.
Chicken!
(get it?) lol
I’d save you from George Clooney, but my wife might object. So you’re on your own.
Story of my life. Ha!
I can say I have never seen these in a store, though I do know people eat them. Not sure what is spookier – the idea that someone might need a whole package of them or that someone out there at Food Lion thinks chickens have paws.
If you lived in the South, you would see them way too often.
Ack! Are you the same person as Elison? Two chicken feet posts in one day…
http://cheeseaisle.blogspot.com/2012/10/scary-meats-and-chicken-feets.html
HAHA! Who would of thought it?!
Gah! Chicken feet. Hate chicken feet. When I was a kid my family was invited to a chicken butchering party. It was grim, bloody, violent. And then the chicken butchering started. We kids all laughed at the headless birds flopping around. The smell, the feathers, the blood. All of that was tramuatic, but what I remember most was playing with the chopped off feet, pulling on the tendons, watching the toes clench.
You know, that goes a long way explaining why I’m so fucked up. Playing with chicken feet. Cool. I can stop seeing my therapist now.
BTW, send Jack my good vibes. Good doggie.
Who the hell invites a kid to a chicken killing party? Ha!
Chicken paws. What the fuck. Best to Jack.
Weird isn’t it?
Mmm, mmm, mmm.
Gives a whole new meaning to chicken fingers.
Go Jack!
Ha!
You might need several packs of chicken paws for some long-distance voodoo…your boo is a key witness in Berlusconi’s “I didn’t sleep with the Moroccan teen skank” trial. And boo’s previous WHORE is a witness too.
Now that he’s back in fighting trim, I might let Jack do the voodoo, as long as he doesn’t eat the paws.
Ha! Jack would def eat the chicken paws.
Ew! Those are gross! (And what is the Food Lion? That seems weird.)
It’s a ghetto grocery store.
OH! We have Giant Tiger. AKA “The GT Boutique”