happy thanks...oh, well that's unfortunate...

I was going to wish everybody a Happy Thanksgiving, because it is, after all, Thanksgiving. So I did a Google Image Search, thinking how cute and original it would be if I included a picture of a turkey.

I'd forgotten how fantasically ugly turkeys are. I mean, really. Ew.

I'm sure by now you're noticed there isn't a cute and original picture of a turkey anywhere to be seen. I imagine you're wondering why.

Let's just say there are lots and lots of people dressed in camoflauge out there, and they're all sitting in a crouched posistion, surrounded by feathers, with, um, turkey-shaped dead things clutched in their fists. Call me crazy, but I just didn't think anybody would appreciate such things just before sitting down to dinner with the in-laws.

I searched for spaghetti, but let's face it, spaghetti on Thanksgiving just seems wrong. Ravioli, though?



Now you're talking.









Happy Thanksgiving!

rotty, yep, that's me

You Are a Rottweiler Puppy

Powerful, smart, and protective.You're eager to growl at anyone you hate - but you're a big sweetheart inside.

Why I take these quizzes online is beyond me. I mean, it's not like I don't have a life and six bazillion things to do, but for some reason answering a question about preferring playing outside to licking my private parts is infinitely more interesting than folding Mr. Lemony's boxer briefs.

what the &^%$* did she say?

What you gon’ do with all that junk?
All that junk inside that trunk?
I’m 'a get, get, get, get, you drunk
get you love drunk off my hump.
What u gon’ do with all that ass?
All that ass inside them jeans?
I'm 'a gonna make you scream, make you scream
make you scream!
'Cuz of my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
my lovely lady lumps
Check it out

What the bleeding hell is that dreck, you ask? It's MUSIC! It's POETRY! It's ARTISTIC CREATIVITY! YEAH!

Okay, it may or may not be poetry, but it is a song, and it is somebody's idea of creativity and art. Frankly, I would have titled it I'll Show You My Tits if You Buy Me Something Pretty instead of My Humps, but that's just me. Maybe there's a reason I'm not raking in millions of dollars for naming songs, eh?

Anyway.

I don't usually care what lyrics somebody chooses to write and/or perform. Personally, I think Eminem is astoundingly talented and I'll play the unedited versions of his songs at full volume in full listening distance of the Lemony Brood.

But My Humps? Not so much.

Now, if Fergie doesn't mind shaking her booty while signing my lovely lady lumps who am I to say anything? Go right on and objectify yourself, sweetie. They aren't my lumps.

(as an aside, it's good thing we're not talking about my lumps because, hello, goat-old lumps are scary, dude)

Fergie will have to forgive me, however, for changing the station on the XM radio whenever I hear her start going on about her lovely lady lumps. Lemony Child, in all her four-year-old glory is starting to sing along, and to be perfectly honest, I find this a bit more disturbing than the time Lemony Teen was a four-year-old in the back of the car singing along as Boys II Men harmonized about making love to you, like you want me to.

Hearing your four-year-old sing And I'll hold you tight, baby all through the night?

Not too scary.

Hearing your four-year-old sing Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky RIIIIIGHT?

Nightmare material.

and then she came back to earth

Lemony Teen is a flyer. This basically means that she dons a really short skirt and a skin-tight blue turtleneck tucked under a red, white, and blue halter and lets similarly dressed girls throw her. Into the air. Really, really HIGH.

At a competition, which Miss Lemony Thang told me was a Very Important Competition, the child climbed up onto the thighs of three squatting girls. With an odd little bumping motion, they flipped her into the palms of their hands, where they balanced her for a very brief moment before suddenly, with all of their strength, tossing her. Into the air. Really, really HIGH.

The child hovered twenty feet in the air, struck a pose, did a straddle, touched her toes, and then FLUNG herself backwards before plummeting down like a rock thrown from a very tall building.

I barely breathed the entire time, waiting...watching...her fall...

And then, like it was the easiest thing you could ever imagine doing, those three girls snatched her from the brink of catastrophe, and bounced her gently to the ground, where she landed perfectly on two feet, arms high over her head, ponytail bouncing, brilliant smile on her beautifully flushed face.

She? Was thrilled.

I? Was nauseous.