The Updates

Anyway, after running the gauntlet of the economically impaired real estate market and viewing the house today to make sure things were repaired in proper order, all the while driving through a seriously intense snow storm (sent by Bob the Bray, fucker!) in which drivers of the less intelligent persuasion were skidding and sliding off the road as they passed us; I can safely say, the house is OURS! Monday we sign closing papers and get our keys. But get this, I must've done some pretty good shit in the eyes of the cosmic wonder and am reaping the rewards, we're actually getting money BACK, that's right folks, nearly $800 back from our $2k earnest money deposit. So instead of sending hubby down with a check for closing, they'll be handing us one. Maybe it was the harrowing ordeal of having to grit my teeth and not complain as the VA stuck a proverbial knife into my gut and twisted it around with all their frustratingly sweet apologies for the delays.

So here's the house:


We plan on moving in next week, although there's no guarantee on when internet will be hooked up, just yet; we still need to get two stoves and one fridge.

Also, I found this online while skipping merrily oblivious down the sewage drain of memory lane. Hil-fucking-larious and too damn close for comfort.

Somewhere, somehow they all got chewed up and spit back out. They don't taste like living anymore. Don't you see what's it's like living in this deranged, weary blender of a world? Every day is an agonizing ordeal, like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head while people whip your legs and butt. Ah, you never forget your senior prom. You think I'm sick? Well the only disease I've got is modern life, a shnug-busting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that's one long parade of letdowns, putdown, trickledowns, shutouts, freezeouts, sellouts, numbnuts, nickenputz and nimrods! All making every day as much fun as waxing a flaming Pontiac with your tongue! And even if you do luck into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like say if some nimphomaniac telephone operator with the muscle control of Romanian matslappers agree to a little strip air-hockey, it will be over before it starts, cuz some foul lacking, fedder reeking cab-jockey slams his checker up your hatchback and the cab is owned by some pinata spanker from a Santaria culpa a culpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big that all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete! And even with all this, with all this! I still drag my sorry butt off the sealy every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day! Knowing when it's time to flash the cosmic card key at those pearly gates, I won't be in the coffin anyways, because some underhanded undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted good and plenty to that same Santaria cult! So does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails, while life dirty dances on their digits, and is it really any wonder THAT I SEEM DERANGED? - Duckman

I forgot how much we loved that show and now I'm seriously missing Cornfed!

Tooodles, lovlies!