We gonna bring it ‘till we sting it, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
Are they sure about that?
In an ironic twist, in London they named a beautiful pink rose after Camilla Parker Bowles; that’s like naming the baby-sitter-of-the-year award after Michael Jackson.
In an ironic twist, in London they named a beautiful pink rose after Camilla Parker Bowles, that was much nicer then their original plan: to just name the thorns after her.
Good luck
In a violent border-town in Mexico, a police chief was gunned-down the same day he was sworn in. Good luck finding someone to run for that office. Even Ralph Nader and Al Gore aren’t desperate enough to run for that office.
Goes well with corndogs (Again, we kid the NASCAR. Personally, I like it)
NASCAR has its own brand of wine; or as NASCAR fans call wine: that funny tasting flat beer.
The problem is if you drink too much NASCAR wine you wake up and your girlfriend has left, your dog is missing and your truck won’t start.
If you drink too much of the NASCAR wine, you can only walk in counter-clockwise circles.
The NASCAR wine was produced at Trailer Park Meadows winery.
The NASCAR wine is described in its ads as subtle, yet austere, bold, yet quaffable, in short, it’s some right tasty buzz-coppin’ swillin’ juice right there, boy. Wooooo whoooooo.
NASCAR has a wine. “I’ll take potent potables that Martha Stewart will never, ever, drink for 100, Alex.”
The new NASCAR wine brings up an interesting question: normally white wine goes with Turkey, but do you go with a red or white when serving Turkey Jerky?
Here’s an entertainment tip: if you’re having Martha Stewart for dinner and you can’t get her to leave? Just break out some NASCAR wine.
How bad is the NASCAR wine? Even Ted Kennedy won’t drink it.
The NASCAR in NASCAR wine stands for Nobody Able to Swill this Crap that Ain’t Ripped.
Good traveling companion
Bill Clinton’s book 957 page book “My Life” is now out in paperback. It is also available on CD and is perfect for making those Northern Canada to the tip of South America road trips fly by.
Negotiations are under way
The Los Angeles Lakers are negotiating to bring Phil Jackson back; Phil insists on certain conditions: higher salary, veto over trades and that Kobe Bryant gets a personal chef on the road so he doesn’t ever have to order room service.
Since you asked:
If I had to say which one I was, a slob or a neat freak, I think I would have to say slob. In fact, I would have to think about it for whole split second. More specifically, I rank, in our house, only ahead of Wrigley as the biggest slob and that’s just because I don’t eat rabbit poop and roll in the mud. OK, fine, I don’t eat rabbit poop.
Yes, our dog Kasey ranks ahead of me in neatness, but in my defense, she is a meticulous dog. Ann Caroline is only six and she is much neater then me and my lovely wife Virginia falls somewhere between Felix Unger and that psycho guy in “Sleeping with the Enemy.”
But I feel my sloppiness deserves an asterisk. I am only a slob to a point. I get to where I can’t take it anymore and then it is time for a cleaning frenzy. That is where I am now.
When I finally decide to clean up my office it takes on the look of a combination C.S.I. investigation, Hazmat bio-suit clean up and archeology dig. Like the great Louis Leaky himself, I find that the garbage has layers spread over time.
Here is my thinking: if you have a clean office all the time, how can you enjoy it? It is that wonderful clipped-toe-and-finger-nails-just-flossed feeling you get when your office transforms from a pig-sty to clean.
Speaking of the yellow Labrador beasts, they have been cracking me up lately. Kasey, in her advancing years, (she is ten) has turned into a worried little ol’ bitty and Wrigley, at three, has grown into even more of a knucklehead.
As I have mentioned, every morning Wrigley acts like a little boy in fuzzy, footy p.j.s on Christmas day. He is simply beside himself with unbridled joy that he gets to eat the same thing for breakfast and then bound outside and torment poor Kasey. Not to even mention that he gets to eat those delicious rabbit pellets. From watching him go at them, you’d think we had sprinkled M&M’s on the lawn.
Kasey’s attitude is one of; “Oh, well, I guess nothing horrible has happened so far.”
For Wrigley think combination of "Pooh Corner" Gopher and Tigger and for Kasey think a cross between Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore.
Are they sure about that?
In an ironic twist, in London they named a beautiful pink rose after Camilla Parker Bowles; that’s like naming the baby-sitter-of-the-year award after Michael Jackson.
In an ironic twist, in London they named a beautiful pink rose after Camilla Parker Bowles, that was much nicer then their original plan: to just name the thorns after her.
Good luck
In a violent border-town in Mexico, a police chief was gunned-down the same day he was sworn in. Good luck finding someone to run for that office. Even Ralph Nader and Al Gore aren’t desperate enough to run for that office.
Goes well with corndogs (Again, we kid the NASCAR. Personally, I like it)
NASCAR has its own brand of wine; or as NASCAR fans call wine: that funny tasting flat beer.
The problem is if you drink too much NASCAR wine you wake up and your girlfriend has left, your dog is missing and your truck won’t start.
If you drink too much of the NASCAR wine, you can only walk in counter-clockwise circles.
The NASCAR wine was produced at Trailer Park Meadows winery.
The NASCAR wine is described in its ads as subtle, yet austere, bold, yet quaffable, in short, it’s some right tasty buzz-coppin’ swillin’ juice right there, boy. Wooooo whoooooo.
NASCAR has a wine. “I’ll take potent potables that Martha Stewart will never, ever, drink for 100, Alex.”
The new NASCAR wine brings up an interesting question: normally white wine goes with Turkey, but do you go with a red or white when serving Turkey Jerky?
Here’s an entertainment tip: if you’re having Martha Stewart for dinner and you can’t get her to leave? Just break out some NASCAR wine.
How bad is the NASCAR wine? Even Ted Kennedy won’t drink it.
The NASCAR in NASCAR wine stands for Nobody Able to Swill this Crap that Ain’t Ripped.
Good traveling companion
Bill Clinton’s book 957 page book “My Life” is now out in paperback. It is also available on CD and is perfect for making those Northern Canada to the tip of South America road trips fly by.
Negotiations are under way
The Los Angeles Lakers are negotiating to bring Phil Jackson back; Phil insists on certain conditions: higher salary, veto over trades and that Kobe Bryant gets a personal chef on the road so he doesn’t ever have to order room service.
Since you asked:
If I had to say which one I was, a slob or a neat freak, I think I would have to say slob. In fact, I would have to think about it for whole split second. More specifically, I rank, in our house, only ahead of Wrigley as the biggest slob and that’s just because I don’t eat rabbit poop and roll in the mud. OK, fine, I don’t eat rabbit poop.
Yes, our dog Kasey ranks ahead of me in neatness, but in my defense, she is a meticulous dog. Ann Caroline is only six and she is much neater then me and my lovely wife Virginia falls somewhere between Felix Unger and that psycho guy in “Sleeping with the Enemy.”
But I feel my sloppiness deserves an asterisk. I am only a slob to a point. I get to where I can’t take it anymore and then it is time for a cleaning frenzy. That is where I am now.
When I finally decide to clean up my office it takes on the look of a combination C.S.I. investigation, Hazmat bio-suit clean up and archeology dig. Like the great Louis Leaky himself, I find that the garbage has layers spread over time.
Here is my thinking: if you have a clean office all the time, how can you enjoy it? It is that wonderful clipped-toe-and-finger-nails-just-flossed feeling you get when your office transforms from a pig-sty to clean.
Speaking of the yellow Labrador beasts, they have been cracking me up lately. Kasey, in her advancing years, (she is ten) has turned into a worried little ol’ bitty and Wrigley, at three, has grown into even more of a knucklehead.
As I have mentioned, every morning Wrigley acts like a little boy in fuzzy, footy p.j.s on Christmas day. He is simply beside himself with unbridled joy that he gets to eat the same thing for breakfast and then bound outside and torment poor Kasey. Not to even mention that he gets to eat those delicious rabbit pellets. From watching him go at them, you’d think we had sprinkled M&M’s on the lawn.
Kasey’s attitude is one of; “Oh, well, I guess nothing horrible has happened so far.”
For Wrigley think combination of "Pooh Corner" Gopher and Tigger and for Kasey think a cross between Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore.
posted by Alex at
11:35 AM
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