This is a blog about nothing. And everything.
In case you are wondering where I went, my blog is now posted at
You should “update your feeds” (whatever that means!). I would have posted this sooner, but I am not blog-hosting-savvy enough to know I needed to! Anyway, all the moving is done now and I should be at my new home forever.
Thanks in advance for tracking me down!
Even though the gender of a couple of the “girls” is still in doubt, I have decided it would be too traumatic to let them go on being called “You!” so I have been naming chicks left and right. Actually, I haven’t named any of them Left or Right. I have names for all but two of them. These two are New Hampshire Reds, and they may be roosters, but they may not. I was sure for a few days that three of the New Hampshires were roosters, but now I’m only sure about one, whose name is now Hani (named by infamous Brother Bob). The for-sure girl of that group is Gertie. The other two need names. Preferably gender-neutral, but what the heck. I’ll pick the winning names in some fashion, which may or may not be random, and won’t necessarily be fair or balanced. And I’ll send the winners something that may or may not suck. How can anyone pass up an opportunity like that???
As for the other girls, they are named:
The Jersey Black Giants
The Buff Orpingtons are four blondes so they are named for my four blonde BFFs
The Barred Rocks
Careful readers will note that, um, someone else is responsible for at least one or two of those names. Does that person automatically get a prize? NO! No prize for you! (soup nazi voice) That predated The Contest. However, everyone is still in the running for The Contest, even if you already named birds.
The chicks are growing up. And becoming lewd and lascivious.
I found this on the half-price table at The Cotton Ball yesterday. It’s a little sticker book to entertain the wee ones. I can just imagine the excited giggles as little Sarah sees a perp being taken into custody, or little David sees his Mom sitting on a bench outside the jail cell, crying because her boy has been busted for dealing pot.
“Billy, look! It’s just like the dog that got Dad the night he was drunk and slapping Mom around! Hee hee hee!”
“Yeah, Sally, this is FUN! I’ll trade you a SWAT lady for a rape suspect!”
Paula is drinking again. Thank goodness. I thought they had substituted a look-alike. Our (drunk) girl is BACK!
I have started taking the chicks outside every day so they can scratch around in the dirt and eat bugs and stuff. The dogs visit sometimes, and of course Oprah is usually with us. The chicks love being out there. In fact, they get so excited in the morning when I go to the brooder to check on them that they remind me of Farmer Plotkin and his pigs.
Mr. Plotkin moved from the suburbs out to the country in hopes of having a flourishing pig farm. He bought 12 piglets and raised them with care, only to find out they were all females. He asked around till he found Farmer Ogden on the far side of the county who had a stud pig that he could breed his pigs with. On the appointed day, Farmer Plotkin loaded all his pigs into his pickup truck and took them to the stud farm. For a couple of hours, he listened as first one and then another of his pigs noisily mated with the stud pig.
When it was all done, Farmer Plotkin asked Farmer Ogden how he would know whether the mating worked or not. Farmer Ogden said, “Tomorrow morning, look outside. If the pigs are in the mud, the mating didn’t take. If they are all basking in the sun, it means they are pregnant.”
The next morning Farmer Plotkin ran to the window and looked out, eager to see his pregnant pigs in the sun, but sadly, they were all rolling around in the mud. So once again he loaded them all into his truck for the drive across the county to the stud farm. Again he listened as each one mated lustily with the stud pig, and then drove them all back home.
The next morning he was a little more wary as he pulled back the curtains to look out at his pigs. Again they were all rolling around in the mud. “Dang it!” he thought, as he gathered them all up again for the long drive. The stud pig was still just as eager and skillful as ever, as he mated with each of the pigs, before Farmer Plotkin loaded them all up for the trip home.
The next morning, weary and worried, Farmer Plotkin couldn’t bear to look out and see all his pigs in the mud again, knowing it would mean another trip to the stud farm. So he asked his wife to look out and tell him whether they were in the mud or in the sun.
She looked out and said, “Neither. Eleven of them are in the back of the truck and one of them is in the front seat, leaning on the horn.”
They killed Chucks. Those bastards.
Be back later. I have to go buy some elastic-waist jeans to wear with my Mom-shoes.
Meaning, it’s my bedtime and I need to write a story. So I dive into the Wayback Machine for a True Tale of the Family.
When my sister was expecting her third child, she tried to get my three-year-old and four-year-old nephews invested in the idea of a new baby brother or sister. She bought all the books about how to introduce the new baby to your children, and talked about how much the boys would love being big brothers. I’m sure she thought she had covered the material pretty well. She found out that a few things might have slipped through the cracks.
One day she was at the checkout stand at the market with the three-year-old, a sweet little blond-haired, blue-eyed tyke that I’ll call Luke (Not His Real Name, but I have a sportscrush on Luke Walton of the Lakers). In the very next lane was a cute young couple with an infant. Luke gazed admiringly at the baby, and then looked up at his mother and asked brightly in that piercing three-year-old voice that can be heard in some parts of outer space,
“Mommy, when our baby comes, can she be all black and shiny like that baby?” (pointing at the baby).
My sister froze in panic for a moment that seemed like forever, and replied,
“I’m sorry, honey. We would have had to plan ahead for that.”
First, to follow up on my Possibly Not Sucking Free Stuff Pay It Forward offer, I am not 100% sure who among my commenters actually want to sign up, except for NucMed, whose radioactive parcel is on its way to her. If any of the rest of youse want something that I was going to give to Goodwill really cool, let me know one more time, ‘kay? Also, don’t be alarmed if you receive a package that is clucking and/or crowing.
Next, I think I have managed to land in my New Spot with my Same Old Address. If you subscribe, you should update your feed. I have no idea what that means but I saw it written down somewhere. Anybody landing at ithinkwereallbozos.com should be directed to this new-looking page, but what do I know?
And by the way, don’t be unnerved as I tinker with the looks of this. I have some things that were on the old page that I want to add back, and I’m not set on the look of it yet. What I am hoping for with the switch is to be able to have better interaction with readers and for my readers to have more interaction with each other, because my commenters are so smart and funny that I hate for their words to be hidden.
And now, while I go clean up the shitstorm that has erupted all around here so that when The Husband arrives tonight he will think that I am a completely different sort of person than I actually am, I will leave you with another gratuitous celebrity photo. Me and Mr. Ice Cube, who as you can see is so happy to be with me that he is totally trying to have that What the F look on his face just to pretend that he doesn’t love me above all other women in the universe.
Brilliant remarks