Oh oh oh oh oh....oh oh oh oh

Oprah had the Jonas Brothers on her show the other day. Apparently they are quite popular with the teenyboppers.

I was curious, so I dug in and checked it out.

Much like the Hanson brothers of a few years back, they are a group of three sibs making the youngin' set squeal with pre-pubescent delight.

Also like the Hansons is the fact that the oldest one is the ugliest, the middle one is hot, and the youngest one is...the youngest one and only 15, so I'm not going to go there.

They had their parents on to discuss how they keep the boys "so grounded".

The answer was soooo predictable: Their faith.

Commence eyerolling.

The boys are 15, 18, and 20. Granted their main demographic shouldn't even be thinking about what's going on in their tingly bits, don't tell me there aren't a league of older sister types (and maybe a few pervy Moms) who would be more than willing to help the boys "relax after the show".

When I was in high school, there were these two senior girls who were obsessed with New Kids on the Block. The funniest part was that they were goth chicks. They went so far as to follow the boys on a summer tour one year. I heard they staked out a Boston hotel for hours, but didn't get an invite up. They blamed it on tight security. I just think it was because they were ugly.

My point is, there are plenty of older, of legal age women willing to be groupies for boy band members.

It's nice that Mr. and Mrs. Jonas (and what a lovely biblical last name they have. It was probably changed from Jonaskovitch or something) can sit on Oprah's stage and spout about how "faithful" their boys are, but who are they trying to kid?

"Oh no no random co-ed I'll never see again, please don't put my penis in your mouth. I know I am exploding with hormones, but Jesus would be very disappointed with me."

Call me cynical, but I ain't buyin' it.

I've been watching way too much reality television

Suggested titles for forthcoming Pussycat Doll songs:


Look at My Snatch!
Who Wants a Ham Sandwich?
Attention Whores Need Love Too
Best Cocksucker in da House (dance remix)
Doncha' Wish Your Drag Queen Was Hot Like Me?
(Oops) I Forgot my Panties
One Pretty Decent Singer and Some Filler
Hot Nubs

Amtrak: Portal to the Underworld

I took a train ride up to Chicago yesterday. The last time I took the train up, it was quite pleasant. Sure the train ran a little late, but 45 minutes wasn't really any bother. Yesterday's train however, ran much much later than that.

I was supposed to be on my merry way at 11:43 in the AM. We didn't push off from the station until close to 3. Once we got moving, things seemed to be fine. Sure, I was three hours later than I had planned but I spoke to my friend up north and we made arrangements for me to get out to her place by Metra. No big.

About an hour into the ride, we stopped. And stay stopped for what felt like an eternity. The natives began their slow descent into insanity.

There were a handful of hairdressers on board who were headed to a big beauty show at McCormick Place. Having been in the business I knew things were going to get rowdy in a hurry.

Next to them was a group of older women celebrating one of their birthdays. They too partook of the 4 dollar cans of Bud in the dining car.

One of the birthday party girls sounded like Britney Spears on a bender. You know how people sound when they make fun of a southern accent? Multiply that by 100 and you'd come close to how cranked up this woman sounded.

Then there was the woman who freaked out on a dude while the both of them stood right next to my seat. It seems that the man (who later revealed he was 48 years old) had made a suggestive remark to one of the woman's preteen daughters.

"If you even look at my daughter I'll cut you up, motherfucker" is one of the more delightful zingers she screamed at him not two feet from my head.

The dude most definitely deserved it. I just wasn't in the mood to be party to any bloodshed at the moment.

Later that same man was "detained" on the lower level for smoking in between cars (during one of our many standstills of the trip) and getting belligerent with a conductor. He was really drunk, and this did not help his case. Nor did him shouting, "I am not some ni***r! Don't treat me like some ni***r!". EEP.

At some point the birthday girls and the hairdressers started calling the Amtrak 800 number to complain about the delay. Nothing is more entertaining than listening to a bunch of drunk yahoos trying to sound sufficiently angry without slurring on the line with some operator who couldn't possibly care less that there was a bunch of drunkards stuck on the track in bumfuck Illinois.

One passenger lamented that she really needed to smoke. I mentally agreed with the sentiment. Redneck Birthday Girl, ever the patron saint of drunkards, had a mini lecture session.

"You shouldn't smoke! You're so young! It makes you stink! It's so EXPENSIVE!"

And the best line of the entire night:

"Think about how much more you could drink with all that money!"

Once we finally started moving the mood lightened a little.

I decided that since I wouldn't have time to get ready before the show, I would pull a cheap hooker move and put my makeup on in the train bathroom. Sometimes I astound myself with the magnitude of my class. Yeah...

After that I decided to go full force and change my clothes, but was then informed no one was allowed downstairs to the bathrooms because of the aforementioned drunk, loud guy being "detained".

I shared my quandry with the hairdressers and they kindly offered to hold up their coats so I could change right there in a seat. Again with the class.

We finally got to Union Station around 7:15. Only about FIVE hours late.

I was just glad it was over.

After some phone tag and some well deserved smoke breaks, I was on my way to meet up at the show.

I ended up having a fantastic time with some wonderful friends.

I'll probably take the train again. I'm a sucker for punishment and really...what else do I have to blog about?

Best.Birthday.Ever.

I had far too much fun at my slumber party. Probably more fun than a grown woman should legally be allowed to have.

No, fuck that. I did deserve it. And my wonderful friends deserved a night of drunken revelrie as well.

Photographic proof of our night. LOTS o' pictures.

Flowers from my husband before he got the hell outta' Dodge.


I made some pretty cupcakes:


Enough?


It started off innocently enough:
"Hmmm...do I start with bourbon or wine?"










Present from Travis. He thought I needed a new gym bag. Inside the gym bag were colorful cigarettes and vaginal wipes. I love him.



My husband HATES celery. Hates it with a burning passion. This one is for him.


Who's a Pretty Barbie Birthday Princess? I AM! Thanks to Meghan.


Things went downhill (in a good way) quickly. Soon we were drunk.

Apparently I thought something we really fucking hilarious. I wish I could remember what it was.




No pillow fights, but Rachel got smoochy.










Phil is mysterious.


My dogs wanted us to shut the fuck up and go to bed.


But I made Ichabod play some Wii.


Full contact Wii.




Me. 3AM drunk in three parts.







34 is gonna' be a good year.

I haven't written much this week...

It's been a slow week around here. And that's OK. That's great, actually.

There's something to be said for quiet.

AND...today is my birthday. I'm 34. How did that happen?

I was at the grocery store getting a few things, including beer, and the cashier asked for my ID. I happily handed it over to her and after she checked the birthday, she gave me a most incredulous look.

"I know," I said, "I can't believe it either."

I'd LIKE to assume she didn't think I looked my true age, but my response was more of a "Holy shit, am I really creeping up on 40?!".

Never fear, gentle readers. I refuse to act my age (whatever acting 34 means...).

Tonight I am celebrating my birthday in a way I haven't in 22 years.

I am having a slumber party. Insert filthy sexual innuendo here. (No, really. Please do. I like that sort of thing).

I was cutting my friend Meghan's hair about a month ago and she asked me what I had planned for my birthday, then suggested I have a slumber party. At first I laughed, but the more I thought about it the more it sounded like a perfect idea.

We had so much liquor left over from the NYE party that I didn't have to get more than a couple of six packs and a few mixers. I've invited my Girls and my Gays, and the party is ON.

Come Sunday (or Monday, depending on my hangover status), I'll be sure to post the photographic evidence of my welcoming of a new chronological age.

Regret meme

Katie tagged me with this one: You’ve just learned that tomorrow you will die at sunrise. Tell me the five things you regret and the five things you don’t.

The Don't Regrets:

1. I don't regret starting a blog. Though I was hesitant at first (who the fuck am I that anyone else wants to read about my take on stuff?), I'm glad I hopped on the bandwagon. It wasn't until I re-found Grant Miller digging around on the internets that I seriously considered it (read: you can blame him for this amalgam of whoosit).

I've since (both virtually and actually) met some new friends through it, and not one restraining order has since been filed. In two days, it will have been one full year since I started Better Living Through Bacon. And it's been delicious.

2. I don't regret having children. In my younger years, I honestly didn't think I would. I didn't think I had it in me to take on the responsibility and set aside my own selfish tendencies.

It's not perfect, and sometimes (all the time) I question my capabilities. Having children has tested my sanity in ways I never thought possible. If they weren't so damn cute, I'd have sold them to the gypsies years ago.

With the difficult however comes the amazing. The adoration that oozes from them all over my husband and I is payment enough for every sleepless night, every splatter of poop, and every puddle of puke (of course, they aren't teenagers yet).

Knowing that I have two mini-humans counting on me to keep my shit together gives me reason enough to try and be a better person.

3. I don't regret quitting my job as a hairstylist almost three years ago. I miss doing hair sometimes, but I don't miss hauling my kids around to get to work for a paycheck that was barely covering expenses incurred from working. How sad that it sometimes cost me money to go to work?

4. I don't regret being slutty in college. I would never buy a pair of shoes without trying them on first no matter how gorgeous or cheap they were. Some people learn by seeing or being shown. I learned by trying every pair of shoes in the shoe store.

Sure, I got my heart broken more times than I'd like to admit and maybe I should have listened to that inner voice a little more often. In the long run however, I can't say that I regret any of it (OK, maybe a couple of them).

5. I don't regret going on crazy pills. This is a recent development here in the land of salty meat, and not something I ever planned on talking about here, but there you have it.

I spent way too long ignoring the unignorable. I had myself convinced that everyone felt the way I did. They just didn't talk about it. I was wrong.

My only regret is that I didn't deal with it sooner.

The Do Regrets:

1. I regret never living alone. I went from living at home to the dorms to having roommates to getting married. I never got to enjoy the kind of freedom one has knowing a space is all one's own. I missed my opportunity to do it when I could, and until my kids move out and my husband decides to get a trophy wife, I'm SOL.

2. I regret not finishing college. I could always go back, but time and money don't grow on trees. It's always in the back of my mind though. Someday.

3. I regret not cutting poisonous people out of my life sooner. Whether it was a bitchy friend who never had anything positive to say or a loser boyfriend who couldn't tell the truth to save his life, I regret not having the balls to tell them where to go. I always seemed to fall into that trap of not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings even when the situation made me miserable. I know better now.

4. I regret not standing up for myself when I should have. I spent way too much time in my young adulthood not asking for what I wanted and/or needed. As hard and tough as I thought I was back then, that girl in her twenties would cower in front of the woman I have turned out to be.

5. I regret not owning my actions earlier in life. I also spent the better part of my 20's spending too much time blaming others for my own mistakes. With age has come the realization that I am responsible for my own choices and the fallout--and that that's not a bad thing. This to me is what led me to come to grips with my Atheism (after a whole life of being raised in a religious household).

I hope to look back on this post after a long while and not have anything to add to the bottom part of the list, but without regret what would spur us on to try new things and learn from our inevitable mistakes?

Un-regretfully yours,

The Bacon Lady

My blog is sluttier than your blog

Recent searches that led to my blog:

bacon shoes
puke up for a living
why gay porn is better
i just need to eat some pussy
gay porn blogspot contact me
bacon tattoos
pooptown
voice overs fuck you
holy infant so tender and mild

And my personal favorite:

how to fuck a Barbie

Merry CHRISTmas!

No taking the Christ out of Christmas here. No siree.

I can't wait to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour by opening presents, chowing down and getting deee-runk. Wahoo!

An invitation was extended to The Sweet Baby Jesus to partake with us, but He's a bit busy around this time. His Mother's always harping that he never visits, so He takes time out (on His damn birthday of all days) to go over to her house.
He gets to endure hours of "You look so skinny! Aren't you eating?" and "You never call!" and "When are you going to go back and get your degree? You coulda' been a doctor, but NOOOOOO. You had to give it all away to help all those people who don't even like you."

He promised he'd show up for a spell on New Year's Eve. I'm sure He'll need a stiff one after dealing with The Blessed Virgin from Hell.

I just hope he doesn't pull another party foul like last year. Seems Jesus turned a little bit too much water into wine, and started yelling at everyone. He's a mean drunk, if you didn't know.

"Crucify me, motherfuckers! I can totally come back from the dead! DUUUUUDE, I invented Christmas! DO IT, or I will smite you!"

It was really embarrassing. More embarrassing that realizing that he wasn't wearing anything under the robe.

Merry Happy!

Love in Christ and Bacon,
Chaylene

One Track Mind

I love the exercise class I take on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The Monday and Wednesday ones not so much (stupid cardio), but Tue/Thur gets a hearty thumbs up.

It's a strength training class which I dig, and the teacher is really hard on us which I need.

Today was more difficult than usual because it took everything in me not to completely embarrass myself by laughing my ass off.

She had us do this move where we got down on all fours (which is funny all on its own) and alternate a raised right hand/left leg then vice versa. A set of those led to not only raising said leg/arm combo, but also touching opposite hand to opposite leg and following the path of our arm with our head (to improve our balancing skillz, yo) which the teacher insisted on calling a "reach around".

And if that wasn't enough to me into fits of juvenile giggles, she then started shouting "NOW, JUST THE REACH AROUND. NO HEAD! JUST THE REACH AROUND. NO HEAD!".

I don't know whether to feel sorry for her husband or give him a medal.

Why I love living in Normal, IL

Things like this make the paper.

Awesome.

Limited Time Offer--Act Now!!

What, no one liked the last post? One response? Are you disgusted by me now?

Would it help if I told you that same boyfriend asked to pee on me in the shower? (I graciously declined).

OK, maybe that was too much sharing.

I can't help it if I've been reading oodles of the Dan Savage archives, and have been reminiscing about my sordid past. What a great job he has.

So great in fact, I think I'd like to try my hand at it.

If you'd like any of your relationship or sex-related questions...actually any questions answered (don't worry, you can stay anonymous), send them to:

betterlivingthroughbacon@gmail.com

I won't promise any great moments of insight, but I don't have much to write about so help a sister out, huh?

Don't be shy.

I found it charming.

One summer back in college I had a boyfriend who was sweet and funny and a little bit crazy. It was fun.

I had met him years before we actually dated when I was sleeping with one of his roommates. Who would have thought, years later, we would end up together for a while?

One night while Summer Boyfriend and I were hanging out, he told me that his bedroom was directly above his old roommate's, and he used to be able to hear us having sex through the floor.

And he would masturbate while he listened in.

Fuck you Barbie

It wasn't enough that you gave the little me an unrealistic expectation of what I thought my breasts would eventually look like as an adult (large, perfectly perky and nipple-less)?

Now this? You stupid cunt.



Today is my daughter's sixth birthday. Happy Birthday Mina! I got her a birdhouse kit and a Barbie doll. Not just any Barbie either--a mermaid(?)/fairy Barbie with wings that flutter and a DVD game that is supposed to be easy to use. Whatever.

People have been buying Mina Barbie dolls for a few years now, and I'm just now beginning to get over the guilt of "selling out" to Feminism's Antichrist. I allow her not only play with them, but play with the wretched little hussies with her. I expect the ghost of Betty Friedan at my doorstep at any moment.

I thought I was getting Mina the perfect gift. She wants to have a Fairy-themed birthday party this year, so getting her this particular Barbie fit the bill. She opened her gifts up this morning, and I promised her that she could play with it the second she got home from school. It may be her birthday, but I wasn't going to break the 'no television before school rule' even today.

First off, Fairy Barbie needs batteries. Thank the babyjesus I keep extra on hand at all times...for their toys...yeah...

The battery compartments are located in the doll's inner thighs. I felt like some kind of masochistic perv digging around near Barbie's no no spot. From the looks of her eyeshadow choice, I get the feeling this was not a new experience for her.

Then I was to program Barbie with the DVD remote so that she becomes the remote (so Zen, don't you think?) and can work with the game. It looks so simple, but apparently I am not, as previously thought, smarter than Barbie. I couldn't get the stupid fucker to work.

So, we forged ahead using the actual DVD remote which meant that I had to play too. What good is this toy if I can't sneak out for a smoke break while the girls are entranced by sparkly shit and an 18" waist?

The game itself involves finding jewels, eating seaweed and picking up lonely sailors on the dock.

OK, there weren't any sailors involved. I suppose no one at Mattel shares my love of the inappropriate.

Hopefully when my husband gets home, he can figure out what the hell I did wrong in trying to get that bitch to work.

I'm not touching the birdhouse kit project with a ten foot pole.

Lowering the Bar

Someone please explain to me why it's apparently become socially acceptable for a 20-something year old guy to wear a shirt that reads, "I JUST SHARTED" in any capacity, let alone in public.

I'm no prude, but christalmighty, that's just wrong on so many different levels.

Recently the business department at ISU implemented a corporate attire requirement for class much to the collective groan of its students.

I don't really give a shit either way except that now it's a lot harder to tell the future MBA's from the Jehovah's Witnesses on campus.

Word to the wise: Check for a Bible before making inappropriate comments at young male co-eds.

Can't I just take a pill?

I dragged my ass to the gym today. I've been slacking off because of the move, vacation and just general summer mayhem, so it was time.

I decided to take it easy and not take the class I would have normally taken on a Wednesday. It involves a lot of cardio, and I wasn't really in the mood to have a heart attack today.

I was making my way around the weight machine curcuit when one of the gym's personal trainer guys walks right up to me and starts saying something. I couldn't hear him at first because I had Ira Glass blaring in my ears, and frankly I was a little confused.

I don't talk to anyone around me at the gym unless we are in a class together. I feel weird even making eye contact with anyone while I am on the weight machines, and here's this guy I don't even know striking up a conversation with me.

"Would you like me to show you a better way to work out your chest?"

"Excuse me?" A thousand snarky and/or pervy retorts immediately flooded my brain.

I think the gym is trying to drum up business for their personal trainers so they are sending them out on what essentially boils down to "cold calls".

I can just hear their morning meetings:

"Well guys and gals, no one wants to pay the ridiculous personal trainer fees we have so why don't you get out there and try to get some of our memebers hooked by giving out a few freebies. Try the "mom types" first. They're desperate for attention."

I figured it wouldn't kill me to see what this personal training thing was all about even if I'll never have the extra funds to actually hire one.

He was nice and seemed to know what he was talking about. He was sort of cute in a clean cut way, but...he was wearing cologne. Why cover up the very thing you are trying to be while at the gym?

Sweaty can be sexy, though for the record, there are different kinds of sweaty. Sweaty from exercise, mowing the lawn, sex or fixing shit is hot. Sweaty from the anticipation of getting to the next level of a video is not.

So this cologne-wearing pretty boy is showing me some free weight stuff and some stability ball exercises I can do and offers me a free session. Free is good.

Then he asks for my name and phone number, "I'll call you tonight if I have any kind of scheduling conflict."

Part of me hopes that he does have some sort of conflict. It feels really strange to have someone standing there, watching me do exercises and now I have to do it for a whole hour.

What have I gotten myself into?

Salad! Po-ta-to Salad!

If the Andrews Sisters did yoga:

The one I really really don't want my Mom to read

Not that I want her reading any of them, but this one in particular might send her over the edge.

Katie Schwartz (who, if you don't know by now, ya' really should. She's, as she might put it, "tits to the Nth degree") tagged me.

"For this meme, I'm going to ask you to answer three (hopefully not dumb) questions: What is the dumbest question you ever been asked? Why was it it dumb? And, even though it won't help, because answering a dumb question never does, what's the answer? (Or, as I like to think of them: The Big Dumb Question, The Big Dumb Reason, and The Big Dumb Answer.)"

My sophomore year of college, I was at a party minding my own business when I suddenly found myself in the bathroom making out with some guy I just met. What? It happens. Visitor Guy was in town visiting a friend (who also happened to be a friend of mine).

After the party, we went back to Mutual Friend's (known from here on out as MF) house to continue the party.

This lead to that which lead to another few things and...well, you get the picture. Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up and it's MF. I should state at this point of the story, Visitor Guy and I had commandeered MF's bed. Being Visitor Guy, he obviously didn't have any other place to go to, and I didn't want him hanging around my house.

So, I feel this tap on my shoulder and I look up and MF is standing there, looking nervous.

"Can I join you?" He asks.

"Uh, what?"

"Can I...ya know...join you?"

For the record, I did not laugh in his face. In fact I was uncharacteristically gentle in my response. Maybe it was the Xanax I had taken a hour before. Who's to know?

I calmly told him no, and kicked him out of his own bedroom to "hang out" with his out of town guest.

"You know what I love about summer?"

That's what our insurance guy asked us when we ran into him in the grocery store parking lot last night.

Answer: "Chicks in tube tops."

Was he leaning in my car window when he said it? Yes.

Was I wearing a strapless dress with a tube top-like chestal area? Yes.

Was he staring directly at my breasts when he said it? Yes.

Did my husband say anything? No.

Did I? You betcha.

We did find out we get some cash back after we close on the house because we somehow overpayed our homeowner's insurance.

Tit for tat I suppose.

But I don't have any freckles

I have red hair. I was born with it. It's been changed to just about every color of the rainbow at one time or another, but it is naturally red.

As a kid, everywhere I went, some old guy would invariably call me "Red" or "Carrot Top" which pissed me off. Even at 8 years old, I had no tolerance for elderly smartasses.

"'Bet she has a real temper, that one", some smarmy retiree would quip at my Mom while waiting in line at the grocery store.

Well, wouldn't you if you couldn't go anywhere without someone pointing out the painfully obvious?

People were fascinated by it. They would ask which side of the family it came from, then share some story about how their Great-Great Aunt on their Mother's side had red hair. I couldn't help but roll my eyes and pull on my Mom's arm to get the fuck out of there.

As I got older I grew to hate my natural born locks. I felt like some kind of freak. No one I knew had red hair, and we all know that when you've been saddled with a genetic rarity such as this, kids can and will be cruel.

It didn't help any that I was a really ugly kid. Oh, good times....

We also happened to live in southern California at the time, and in addition to having the pelo roja I was as pasty as the driven snow.

I remember idolizing Cyndi Lauper and Annie Lennox back in the day. Not because of their talent, but because they had red hair. I wasn't quite clued into the fact that theirs wasn't natural. I begged my Mother to shave a checkerboard in the side of my 'do like Ms. Lauper or crop it ultra-short like Annie. She gave me a horrified "no", and I was stuck with the long in the back/feathered sides and top (pretty much a longer version of a mullet). Hey, it was the early 80's! I know--still not a good excuse.

Later in my early teens, I was asked if the "curtains matched the drapes". It took me a few times of laughing uncomfortably with a puzzled look on my face before I was filled in on what that meant. Nothing like asking a 13 year old what color her pubic hair is. Classy.

A few years later I was introduced to the phrase "redheaded stepchild". I didn't know what it meant (honestly, I still don't) but I sensed it wasn't good.

After moving away from home, I experimented with an array of shades. I was every color from the whitest blond to the blackest black. Throw in a few shades of purple, blue and an unfortunate kelly green stint and my hair had seen it all.

And that was before I went to beauty school.

And then it happened. I made peace with my cranial hue.

One summer day, I was walking around campus minding my own damn business when a car full of frat boys zoomed by. One hung out the window and as they passed me yelled, "FIRE BUSH!".

It stopped me in my tracks.

Fire Bush? Really?

At first I was embarrassed, mortified and not just a little bit angry--stupid monkey boys with nothing better to do than sexually harass a lone woman taking a stroll.

Then, I was fascinated by the fact that walking down the street with red hair could elicit such a response from total (albeit undeniably cunty) strangers.

Maybe this red hair thing wasn't the detriment I'd always seen it as. Perhaps it held some kind of magical power. I liked that.

I haven't messed with the color of my hair for years now. I used to wear it in a really short pixie (think Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby). Now it's slowly making its way down the middle of my back. I'm not just wearing it--I'm wearing it.




And yes, the carpet matches the drapes.

Jesus Meme

Ms. Katie wants to know what I would do if Jesus came aknockin', and I am pleased to share my answer.

First of all, he would probably ring the door bell, which would piss me off. No one who knows me well uses the front door. (dirty joke ahead...wait...here it comes...) All my good friends use the back door.

The door bell ringing would send my dogs into a frenzied rage until Jesus crossed the threshold into my home, at which time they would commence their usual violent tongue wagging and pleas for belly rubs.

I would probably offer him something to drink and maybe a bowl of water for his donkey who is welcome to stay in the yard.

My older daughter would most likely force him into a game of My Little Pony Happy Fun Dress Up Time and inevitably ask him if he has a penis.

My younger daughter would most likely stare from a safe distance whilst hiding behind my legs. She doesn't trust men with beards and I can't say that I blame her.

Small talk would be awkward as I'm sure He would already know that I'm an Atheist. I might not ever be convinced by the many Fundies I've encountered in my life, but I could be swayed by a little water-to-wine action on His part.

I'd feel obliged to make Him dinner--fish perhaps? What would Jesus eat?

It wouldn't be fair to keep such a special visitor a secret, so naturally I'd have to drive him around to visit with friends.

"Oh my God!" They would say when they saw who I was with.

"Exactly!" I would reply, cracking myself up.

Maybe we would go shopping. That robe look is so 2,000 years ago. A nice pair of jeans goes a long way in making a man look his best. He's got that long and sinewy thing goin' on--maybe a fitted t-shirt to top of the new ensemble.

Most importantly, I would give him a haircut. Can you imagine the scraggles he has going on? If he would let me, I think a deep conditioner would do him a world of good.

Being married, I don't think my husband would think too highly of me getting any kind of action with The Jeez. I suppose He has the power to erase memories or stop time,so it's not completely out of the cards. I'd almost have to do it. When would I ever get a chance like this again?!

I'm supposed to tag 5 other people:

Tankboy

Grant Miller Media

Glamarama

Blowing Shit Up With Gas

God's Own Suburb

Note: I have no idea why I can't double space the last part of this. What the fuck?