I wonder what Dr. Freud would have to say about this? Is Santa a fecalphiliac? This just screams, “Ho, Ho, Ho, come crap in my mouth!”
While this little toilet decorating set is cute in a sort of creepy way (my grandmother used to always put toilet seat covers and rugs and tank covers on her crapper) I don’t see it making it through Jerry and the Natty Splatters. Poor Santa’s collar would be yellow in no time (because somebody can’t aim and won’t sit) and I have to have the plunger at the ready more than I would like to formally acknowledge.
I enjoy Christmas decorations, the kitschier, gaudier and tackier the better, but the bathroom is just an area in which the fixtures, let alone the decor, have a hard enough time surviving. Jerry was raised by wolves, and his bathroom etiquette reflects his upbringing. It is a rare day that I come home from work and the bathroom sink is not encrusted in face fur clippings and congealed toothpaste spittings. It’s so much easier to clean the sink before that mess dries, but Jerry does not clean sinks. I am doing good when he remembers to flush.
Thankfully, though Jerry’s outward leavings might lead one to believe he’s a PigPen, his personal hygiene is impeccable. He is just too lazy to clean up filth that does not directly touch his own body.
No good playlist is complete without some old, live Journey. “Still They Ride” from the “Greatest Hits Live” album (1982-3) is pretty awesome. Anything from the “Greatest Hits Live” album is pretty awesome, including “Mother, Father” and, well just all of it. I am an incorrigible Journey fan and I admit it. It’s my not so secret pleasure. I’m still on the Jethro Tull kick lately too, as well as I’m enjoying The Babys “I’m Falling” and Rod Stewart’s “The First Cut is the Deepest.”
Then I’ll probably switch over to some Metallica (“Battery” and perhaps the “Unforgiven” trilogy) or maybe some Guns-n-Roses. Or maybe Neal Schon’s “The Calling,” which I’ve been enjoying a lot as of late too. He may have a creepy girlfriend, but Neal Schon is a hell of a guitar player. I don’t understand his obsession with tall, anorexic thin creepy blonde chicks, but then he can afford anyone he really wants. It’s sad, but frumpy old brunette women with the proportions of mutant trolls do not get significant others who buy them Bentleys, or who wine and dine them. It’s hard to go fishing when you don’t have any bait. Women like me are doing good to get a cranky old fart who screams about breakfast and the failing elastic in his whitey tighties, and whose only real purpose in life is to generate filth for me to clean up. Someone has to do it, but it gets tedious, believe that.
All I can say to Jerry in response to the comment regarding failing elastic in the whitey tighties is, that if your balls really are scraping your knee caps, then it’s high time you cart your sorry ass over to Target (because I really loathe department stores anytime during the holidays, and I try to avoid them) and buy yourself a six pack or two of the Hanes whitey tighties you like. It’s really possible for you to do that.
It is not against the law for men to buy whitey tighties for themselves, and it sure looks a hell of a lot less awkward for a dude to buy these than for me to go through the checkout at Target with a few packs of men’s skivvies. I wonder how many cashiers have mistaken me for a she-male when I’ve replenished Jerry’s whitey tightie stash. I mean, the guys at one dealership I worked for did have one of my technicians (granted, the tech I’m referring to is Chinese and he’s maybe 5’6″ and 100# soaking wet) convinced I used to be a man because I have big meaty man hands. I do have big meaty man hands, even for an Anglo woman, so I can imagine my hands are really huge compared to an Asian woman. But, I was born female and even had a child in (sort of) the normal way. No Y chromosome action going on here.
So I keep on going.
I love sleeping. I should be doing that, but my insomnia is getting the better of me tonight.