CAN of Dr. Pepper

First of all, let me start off by saying that the whole “DIGG” thing was originally my idea.  I’m not talking about the website, I’m talking about adding the second “G” to the end of the word.  From the time I was sixteen years old, I’ve had t-shirts made, I named two of my three pets ‘Digg”, and I unsuccessfully attempted to sue “Nambliatia Software”, for their “Dig Dug” rip off game that they called “Digg Digg”  not because they stole my name twice, but because the game only went to three levels, and I think that for $9.97 with tax, I should be getting more for my money.

That aside, I’d like to talk about all of this Olympic horse poo that’s been going around, especially the accusations from our so called “press corp”, that the Chinese gymnasts are all under 16 years old.  First of all, have any of them ever dated a Chinese girl?  I have, in fact I’ve known many Chinese girls, and I just want to say that everyone is full of “Donkey Kongg”.

It is common  knowledge that as a people, the Chinese live longer than anyone else in the world.  Why do you think that there are so many more of them?  Secondly, because of the one child policy that China has instituted over the past century (sure we only know about the past 50 years, but trust me, it’s been going on for a lot longer), the Chinese have genetically developed into a younger looking group of people.  Think about it.  If you were only able to have one kid, wouldn’t you want that kid to look as young as they could  for as long as possible?  I know I would.  There is a phrase that Americans use to describe spoiled Chinese boys called “Little Emperor Syndrome”. What they don’t know about is another Chinese phrase used by parents with single daughters called “Youngish Butterfly Flower Laster Status”, (that’s the Google translation, not mine).  I could try to describe it to you from the original Chinese, but you probably wouldn’t understand it.  That’s just one of the many reasons that the Chinese people, especially the girls, are so much smarter than we are.  I could go into the whole genetics of only having one child, but you have the internet, you look it up.  I think it’s suffice to say that there is at least one night in their lives that all Chinese men look back to with fondness.

So, back to why I love Chinese women.  And let me say that Chinese-American women are NOT true Chinese women.  First of all, they speak English.  True Chinese women DO NOT SPEAK ENGLISH!!!!.  Sure they know a couple of words, here and there, but Chinese women on a whole disdain speaking any other language than Chinese.  I would prefer to speak Chinese, REAL Chinese, but the fact of the matter is that I’m an American, and you can’t change who you are, no matter how many classes they give.  So the reason I love Chinese women so much, is quite simply because they for some reason love me.  I’ve tried every ethnicity, Brazillian, Black, Hungarian, Samoan, French, Siamese, the problem I’ve found is that none of them are interested in dating someone new.  I mean talk about racist.  The excuse that I always got was that “I have a boyfriend”, which always translated into, “I don’t want to date out of my own race”.  Hey I understand, if I was a pure bred Austrian chick, the last thing I’d want to do is birth some mixed race baby that was always going to be questioning why his grandparents looked different.  The only thing I don’t like about Chinese women is that they don’t like Dr. Pepper, at least the ones that I know.  That’s how I can tell if something is going to work out, I ask a women if she wants to go grab a Dr. Pepper, and if she says yes, chances are I’m probably going to get some, I mean not that night, but certainly within the week.  That’s how I met my bitch ex-wife, although if you ask her (and I have over and over), she’ll deny that it happened that way.  The thing that I love about all Chinese women is that they recognize how funny I am.  I mean, not that BS humor that passes for prime-time television, I mean the Universal language of funny that they teach at clown school and the Army.  It’s the ability to communicate something funny in any language.  I have that gift, it’s something I’ve always been able to do, and Chinese women recognize this.  But what’s really cool is that they don’t  go all nuts and laugh out loud like my stupid ex-wife.  They’re more subtle and dignified about it.  They have this soft, almost lily like laugh (and that’s not racist, it’s just what it sounds like.)  The one Chinese girl I dated (I’m not going to say her name, you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it) was probably the best relationship that I ever had.  First of all, it didn’t last too long, so it wasn’t like I wasted too much time on something that would never have lasted.  Second of all, we didn’t spend a lot of time talking to each other, I mean we couldn’t, she didn’t know English and I could only read some Chinese, (and no it’s not Mandarin, that’s such crap).  But I think the best thing about dating her was that I was never worried about her leaving me for another Chinese dude.  Now I’m going to say something that some people might find controversial… I don’t think that Chinese women like Chinese men.  I can’t confirm this with anything concrete, it was just a feeling I got.  I mean it makes sense, if you could only have one kid if you marry a Chinese dude, it would suck, especially if you loved kids.  I mean I don’t like kids that much, but I would totally have had two or three of them if my Chinese wife wanted them.  I mean especially with all of that Geisha stuff, it would be completely awesome.  The one thing that I would NEVER do is bring another Greek kid into the world.  I mean how f’d up is that?  I’m not trying to be mean, it’s just that Greeks only want their daughters to marry Greek men and have Greek baptisms where only Greeks can be be godparents, no matter how many best friends you have that aren’t Greek.  I guess the final reason I love Chinese women so much is the food.  I mean have you ever compared it to Greek food?  I rest my case.

So for all of you geniuses out there, it turns out that a Cease and Desist email is not even close to being the same as a Cease and Desist letter.  And I feel really bad for all of you, because of some stupid #%##, I haven’t been writing or posting for an entire month because I thought Dr. Pepper was going to sue my ass for a million dollars.  I’ll put a copy of the email up at a later date, (I don’t want to give that @#$$ the satisfaction of posting his @#%@#$@#$@@) but needless to say it has really made me reconsider whether or not I should continue this blog.  I mean if someone is going to take the time and effort to forge the Dr. Pepper letterhead (he even had the old logo up), and make up the human resources director’s name (it’s not Jake Ryan, I looked it up), then what chance to I have against this?  How the hell am I supposed to know that all legal notices need to have some type of seal and that just because someone has my home address, doesn’t mean that it’s a legal document?  Luckily the lawyer I hired only charged me $600 once she found out that it was a fraud.  Granted, it was my fault for not telling her it was an email to begin with, but even she said that it was worded appropriately and sounded very menacing.

The thing that sucked the most was that for the past month, I really hated Dr. Pepper.  I couldn’t believe what @#$@@@@@ they were being, when in reality, all I was doing was promoting their soft drink.  I get all of these emails every day with people telling me how much they love Dr. Pepper and how much all of the other soda’s suck and wanting to help with the site.  Granted, most of them are freaking losers, but at least they care.  That’s something, isn’t it?  I mean all of those morons who went and died in the French Civil War at least cared for their country enough to give a #$%#.

So now I’m tracking down the jackass who sent me the email.  He’s got three gmail accounts, but I’m pretty close to nailing down where he is.  And when I do, I’m going to rip your tongue out of your head, have it lick a postage stamp and stick it where the sun don’t shine  (that’s your place, not mine).  I can’t believe that you cost me $600 and several nights of staying up wondering whether or not  I should destroy the website and change my address so that the Dr. Pepper people would leave me alone.  Apparently, I can change my phone number, but the post office wouldn’t let me change my address number unless I moved.  Jesus Christ, all I wanted to do was add a “-A” to the end of the number.  They told me that it was impossible.  I know that’s a load of crap.  In fact, after I find this guy, I’m going to prove that it is by putting a “-A” on my mailbox and see if anyone gives me any trouble.  I bet you $600 they won’t.

I give up.

That’s all there is to it.  I set out with every intention of putting up an entry every day of the week that had a can of Dr. Pepper in it, but you people have made it impossible.  I had no idea how many of you don’t have lives but do have the time to write me incredibly obnoxious emails accusing me of being stupid or “assholic” (thank you tweety56z@rocketmail.com).  Because of this, I’ve been spending most of my time responding to you losers instead of working on my blog.

A friend of mine, Samantha, suggested that I post your emails on my site, but screw that.  The last thing I need is for someone with a lawyer in the family suing me for making fun of you, or causing you to commit suicide (and I could if I wanted to.)  Instead, I’m just going to put the posts up when I feel like it, and respond to your emails when I feel like it, and screw all of you.  I’m not looking to make any new friends here, and I most certainly don’t care if I get a million emails telling me to stop writing it.  I’m going to continue, because this thing is really important to me and is the only thing that I’ve ever done that makes me feel like someone is listening.

And NO “thudpurse@hotmail.com“, I”m not going to give up Dr. Pepper.  I’d rather make babies the old fashion way than do that, so thanks, but no thanks.  Why don’t you make some dramatic life change in your life before you start doling out the advice and taking away the only other thing in the world that makes me happy…at least I’m not a drunk.  I apologize to the people who sent me cool emails.   You don’t deserve this, but I can’t just not respond and be a jerk-off like my brother Luke.  So in deference to you guys, I’m going to end this entry and focus on doing a better job.  Sorry if I let anyone down.  It won’t happen again.  EVER!!!

Jesus Christ people, get a life.  I went from 5 emails to 30 emails in one day.  First of all, my Grandmother is NOT a racist.  She had a problem near the end of her life where she got confused by a lot of things and would put together a bunch of crazy ideas.  Just because she hated my father and would say a ton of crazy stuff, doesn’t make her a racist, it just makes her crazy.  Besides, being a racist back then was different than today.  Today, people really mean it when they say they hate someone else because of their skin color.  Back then it was more of a class thing, you know the majority of people being threatened by a small number of people who were different than they were.  It was like a Lord of the Flies thing and my grandmother just hated Piggy, that’s all. Today, there’s not a majority of anyone in America, and you have to really hate someone to be a racist.  And don’t give me that whole KLU KLUX KLAN argument  (thank you swack@aol.com).  My grandmother never even lived in the South, and I don’t think she even knew what the Klan was.  In fact, in a letter she wrote to my father, she spelled it Clue Clucks Clan, so how the hell is she part of an organization that she can’t even spell?

I think its crap that all of you people are piling on her, and she’s too dead to even defend herself, no matter how much crazier she would be now if she was still alive.  Even off her rocker, she could out think and out edit half of you morons  (“great gaspy”??? really cantoutgme@yahoo.com- read much?)  Furthermore, I don’t hate Jewish people, and I don’t hate Germans.   The first girl I ever slept with was half Jewish and half fundamentalist Baptist, so I don’t think that if I hated Jewish people, that I would lose my virginity to half of one.  Besides, she was pretty nuts to begin with, always trying to get me to date other people so that she wouldn’t feel guilty about breaking up with me the first day that I moved to her house to live with her for the summer.  She didn’t know that she was my first, so I left a note for her in her robe in the bathroom the day I left to find a new place to live for the summer. Like it wasn’t bad enough that I had to fine a new girlfriend, but I had to find a place to live as well?  What the hell kind of thing is that?  If there was any time to hate half of the Jewish race, it was then, but I didn’t.  In fact I went and slept with this half black, half Jewish girl two nights later.  Actually I don’t think that she was half Jewish, but she had just broken up with her then Jewish boyfriend who later turned out to be gay (NO I DON’T HAVE AIDS, IT WAS BEFORE HE TURNED GAY).

Anyway, it was three days before Sandra found my note in her pocket (the thing was four pages long, what the hell was she doing in the bath?), and felt really bad about not knowing that she was my first and couldn’t believe that she was my first, and wanted me to come over to talk to her.  I thought for sure that we would have sex again, but instead she just let me scratch her head for like two hours and then told me that I had to sleep on the couch.   Did I mention that she was completely naked the entire time?  What kind of bitch was she?  She was completely naked, I had given her my virginity and I scratched her head for a complete two hours.  Nothing, not even a kiss goodnight, just a freakin’ Norwegian Wood tease and then off to the sofa.  I never forgave her for that, even after we got back together three months later.  During that time I was dating like four girls and she got off on the fact that I could be dating these four girls, but I would leave them all for her.  I finally dumped her a month later during Rosh Hashanah.  I told her to have a happy Rosh Hashanah and she lost her freaking mind.  What kind of crap is that?  I wasn’t Jewish and she was only half Jewish, how the hell was I supposed to know what the hell was going on?  I only dated two Jewish girls after that, well I slept with one and dated one, so go ahead, call me a racist if you want to.

If loving other races makes me a racist, than so be it.  I don’t even hate Greek people, and believe me I should.  The ones I know are nothing like the people on “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”.  They’re more like the white people who go on “Show Night at the Apollo”, but even stupider.  Always with the stupid jokes that don’t mean anything, always looking for you to like them, even though they have no idea who you are or why you don’t want to spend your one night off looking at some stupid white person when you came to be surrounded by your people, thinking that you’ll be nice to them because you married their daughter.

And did you ever notice how the audience is nice to them at first, until they find out how stupid they are?  So is everyone at the Apollo a racist because some stupid white person thought that they were funny to black people, and they weren’t, and got booed?  I bet that the white person was racist to begin with and his buddies at the KKK bet them a million white sheets that they couldn’t make a bunch of black people laugh, only they didn’t use the word black, and they all laughed with their stupid teeth missing, smelling like Mcdonald’s fry grease and Polo cologne, circa 1983.

And so this crazy, black hating white guy gets onstage, too stupid to know that he wasn’t funny and starts making airline jokes, even though he’s never been on an airplane.   I guess what I’m saying is that these people are the real racists and not my grandmother.  So stop writing in and telling me what my Grandma was or wasn’t.

It’s not very often that I tell stories about growing up.  Childhood is stupid and the people who make money off of it annoy me to no end.  I remember my Grandmother flying into our living room when I was a kid to scream at me for watching a Shirley Temple movie.  She literally pulled the power cord so hard that my dad had to have the TV repaired.  They pretty much hated each other anyway, so the fact that the TV was going to be out of commission for two weeks caused this huge fight.  My dad was German, and didn’t really appreciate being a called a Nazi sympathizer and being told that it was the Nazi’s who first put children on television for propaganda, and it was the Nazi Jews (of which there were many according to my grandmother), who were putting children on TV in America.  Furthermore, if my grandfather (who was also German) had not died in WWII, they would have certainly had a son, who would have kicked my father’s ass up and down, long before he even thought of dating my mother.

My father then pointed out that any son she had would have been such a big homo, that is would have probably killed my grandfather if he had survived the war, and it was probably better that he died not knowing the agony of raising a gay son with a $&@%^ of a wife who was too stupid to know the difference between a Jew and a Nazi.  Needless to say, after my father left, my grandmother gave me the entire breakdown of evil child stars from the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s.  Apparently, when she was seven, one of her aunts has taken her to a studio in New York to audition for some type of radio variety hour.  She was up against this family of black kids who had made a name for themselves in Tennessee playing the spoons and tap dancing with only one leg.  Needless to say neither she, nor the black kids got picked and instead this little Jewish girl from Brooklyn ended up going on that week, eventually winning third runner up at the end of the show behind a singing dog act and someone related to the future Frank Sinatra.

Because of this, my grandmother hated all kid actors, (except the black ones), and forbid any of us from watching, listening, or talking about anyone younger than 16 who appeared on television or the movies.  It took my mother three hours to prove to grandma that Judy Garland was 16 when she made “Wizard of Oz” and that it was okay for me to watch it on Thanksgiving, because that was the only thing our TV would pickup because she had broken it.  I got to watch Dorothy tap her shoes three times and turn black white, completely confusing Grandma.   I’m not going to get into the whole “munchkin” conversation.  Let’s just say that my grandma died thinking that they were part of a government experiment for submarines.

When I was five and a half, my father drove me into Queens to go to the set of Sesame Street.  A buddy of his worked on the lighting package and every once in awhile they were allowed to bring their, kids onset to watch.  Since this buddy didn’t have any kids, he told my dad to bring me so that they had enough white kids there.  Apparently there had been a rash of Latinos, and there weren’t enough kids who didn’t know Spanish for Maria to teach.  The only trick was getting there by 5:30 am, which was fine because then I didn’t have to lie to grandma about where I was going.  The entire way down, my father kept telling me, “now don’t act stupid”, which basically meant that I had to remember the alphabet and not tell any black jokes.  Unfortunately I was missing some teeth that year and couldn’t pronounce an “S” to save my life.  Thankfully they had done that letter the week before on, and unless the letter “X” came on, I was in the clear.  What my dad’s buddy didn’t explain to him, until we got there,  was that I probably wouldn’t be on the show.  “So I dragged my ass all of the way down here for nothing?”  my father bellowed in an alleyway outside of the studio.

“I thought your son would like watching the show?” His buddy looked nervously from the stage door to the group of union guys sipping coffee before their shift started.

“He can watch the freakin’ show at home.  What the hell were you thinking?  I told my wife that my son was going to be on Sesame Street.  Do you know how much I’m not going to be getting if that doesn’t happen?”  My father was very proud of how much he got and often bragged about it to his friends before he figured out that I knew what he was getting.

“Okay, Jesus, calm down, let me see what I can do.  Maybe he can stand in the background or something.”   Fifteen minutes later, some wardrobe guy came out, put a green shirt over the black t-shirt my father had put on me.  I was taken backstage and told to be quiet while they gathered the cast and got the puppets in place.   It was at that moment that I realized that puppets didn’t wear anything below the wall.  I knew that there wasn’t much below there anyway, but I always figured that they would at least try to cover them up below the belly button.  My mother always insisted that I do so with my sister’s dolls and even my Mr. Potato Head.  As I sat there, I remembered all of the black jokes the barber told my dad, trying not to laugh to myself, wondering how to try and look cute so that they would pick me to do a segment and get paid the way my father told me to do.

“Remember, if they pay you, then I can get the TV fixed properly and shove it so far up your grandmother’s ass that she’ll have antenna sticking out of her nose.”  Grandma hated antennas, especially car antennas.

Okay, I’m tired of typing,  I’ll continue this tomorrow.

So here’s something that makes the rest of you pretenders look like the real thing, Italian bullhockey restaurants.  I mean how many places does it take for me to go into before some comes up with something that’s edible?   Granted, my life hasn’t been about the pursuit of the perfect pasta, but for crying out loud, what is going to take for someone to get past the Prego line and wow me?

Okay, I get that the bread is better, the salad is pretty good, and the appetizers are pretty much the best thing on the menu.  But if that’s the case, why not charge me $14 for that and make the crappy Spaghetti plate you sold me $5????  At least then I’d have some idea that I’m only going to be eating something twice removed from Chef Boyardee’s staple of fine canned goods.  If I knew how crappy it was going to be, I would have JUST ordered the appetizers and been done with it.  Hell, I might have even have left a tip. Now all of you stupid waiter purists out there, don’t start sending me in email saying how hard your stupid job is, and whoa is me and how dare you not leave any friggin money on the table?  Well I did leave a bunch of money, too much in fact.  It’s not my fault that the stupid owner charges out his ass for something that tasted like it.  Not my fault.  It’s also not my fault if some stupid waiter is too stupid to figure out the reason that he’s not getting a tip is because the food is awful, and yet he wants to be rewarded for that.  If anything, I’m doing him a favor by opening up his eyes and showing him that there’s more to life than serving bad food to perfectly innocent people spending their hard earned money on what they think is a decent meal.

So I don’t want to piss off the maker’s of Dr. Pepper, but diet Dr. Pepper tastes like moldy SpaghettiOs.  Normally I’d say that they taste like ass, but in case my ex-wife is reading this, I don’t want her to think that I’m stealing any of her lines.  She used to say that all the time. “This (insert traditional Irish food), tastes like ASS.”  In fact the only thing that didn’t taste like ass to her was fast food, which she eats entirely too much of, and drinks diet Coke, which for the record, does taste like ass.  If I didn’t think I’d throw up, I would do a taste test between diet Dr. Pepper and diet Coke, and I bet that diet Dr. Pepper would kick diet Coke’s ASS, (see tastes like).

So there you have it Dr. Pepper, your diet substitute drink sucks less than all of the other  sugar free liquids being pumped down the collective gullet of American tight wads everywhere.  Which brings me to why I hate diet Dr. Pepper so much; everyone is drinking it.  And now they have this cherry vanilla stuff that only comes in diet form.  I mean what’s the point?  Why have something that only diet drinkers are going to drink?  Maybe I want to try it, but never will because of some stupid white can that keeps me from trusting what’s inside it.  I admit, that after three or four Pepper’s in a row, I get a little tired of the taste, and would like to try something a little different that isn’t going to ruin my day.

And there’s no way in hell I’m gonna start drinking coke, or pepsi, mountain dew.  I’ve done all of that, I’ve moved on, I’m my own person, and there’s not much use trying to explain it to all of you, because this is only my third post, and there’s no way in hell that any of you care about me in any way shape or form.  Ah Jesus, that’s why I hate Diet Dr. Pepper, because it puts me in a bad mood even thinking about it, and I don’t know how to explain why, and every time I do, I get pissed off at all of you, and start writing complete crap.  That’s what this post is, complete crap.  I’m just gonna end it now and try again tomorrow.

There seems to be some confusion as to why I’m writing this thing.  I had 5 people email me about how my first post had nothing to with Dr. Pepper at all.  I don’t know, it seems to me that if there’s a picture of a Dr. Pepper can, then maybe there is something about Dr. Pepper.  But since I don’t want to piss any more people off, I’ve decided to actually write about Dr. Pepper… and bananas.  What most people don’t know, (in fact I doubt any of you clever levers could even imagine this), is that Dr. Pepper, when frozen with bananas, is the best dessert EVER.

The reason is because before the liquid part freezes, the acid part begin so eat away at the banana membranes and actually keeps it from tasting like complete crap.  Normally I hate bananas and anything banana like (I try not to look at anything yellow), but there was this time when I was at my stupid-in-laws house and they were serving some kind of Greek banana dessert.  This was back when my wife was still having sex with me, and we liked each other, and she didn’t have that bored look on her face every time I wanted to talk about my computer.  So there I was, I still like my wife, and my stupid-in-laws were trying to push some crappy banana torte on me, not worried if I’m allergic to bananas, or jesus christ, if I even like bananas.  My mother-in-law piles this HUGE scoop of the crap on my plate, and then starts cutting up a banana to put on top of it.  Luckily, I had a  Dr. Pepper with me and was able to gag the stuff down while they talked about how stupid Turkey was and how their son was going to marry an idiot girl whose father was from Turkey, again, not even asking if I’m part Turkish, or whatever it is they call themselves.

By now, I’m about to pass out from all of the banana in my mouth, when they ask me how the stuff is, and would we like to take the rest of it home?  Before I can answer, my wife grabs the torte and wraps it up, while I have to sit in the room with my bag-in-laws,  talking about the Spartans, who I used to think were pretty cool until I found out they were Greek.  Long story short, my wife freezes this thing, and one night I put a can of Dr. Pepper in the freezer, forget about it, and the freaking thing explodes all over the place.  While I’m cleaning up, I actually try a piece of the stuff with Dr. Pepper on it, and it tastes pretty good.  Next thing I know, I put a banana in a bowl with some Dr. Pepper, I freeze it, and have it at midnight after my wife falls asleep, (she could never stay awake after sex).  Best of all, I took some into my wife, and she hates the stuff.  So now I eat it all of the time, and I order Turkey every chance I get.  Screw her parents.

Okay, so in case you geniuses didn’t notice, there’s no picture for today.  My camera can’t focus properly, and it’s going to take Amazon at least three days to send me a new one.  I wanted to sign up for that Amazon prime thing, but wussed out when they asked for my personal preferences.  I mean don’t they already know what I like and what I hate?   Don’t they have that stuff logged in the computer?  Are they trying to trip me up later when I apply for a government job and they bring up my Amazon profile that says I hate Stephen Speilberg movies, even though I clearly bought the Indiana Jones box set on my birthday because my stupid wife was too cheap to get me the one thing I asked for?  Then they’re going to bring her up, and I’m going to say something dumb like “well I hate my wife and still got her,” or “do you guys know how to use battery acid to melt away candle wax?”

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s what she got me for my birthday, candles.  And not even the expensive kind, just some crappy manilla looking ones that are supposed to burn on both ends, like it was supposed to be some comment on how hard I work and play and how it was all going to disappear, like some kind of wax sandglass balancing between two opposites, namely my stupid wife and I.  I remember her smiling when I opened them and asked if I wanted to light a couple for fun.  Now I’m some kind of pyro who enjoys watching candles burn because it’s cool.

Here’s an idea, why don’t I light some candles on my birthday cake and then blow them out all over your stupid, non cake buying, DVD abstinent face?  I asked her, “What the hell is wrong with you?”  What am I supposed to do with these?  And why the hell aren’t you finished getting dressed?  Aren’t we supposed to go out to dinner or something?  Aren’t we?”  She didn’t talk to me for like two hours, ON MY BIRTHDAY.  She wouldn’t even tell me where we were supposed to go to dinner, so I drove us to Outback, which is where I wanted to go anyway.  For two weeks I kept asking her where we were going to go, and all she said was, “Don’t worry, you’re going to have a meal you’re never going to forget.”  What the hell does that mean?  How about a meal that I want? That would be something I wouldn’t ever forget.  How about listening to me when I ask you something, and how about you respond every once and awhile?

But enough about her, she’s out of my life and the only thing I got out of it is this stupid condo and my stupid dog.  Right now my stupid upstairs neighbor is vacuuming and it’s ten o’clock at night.  Jesus, what the hell needs to be vacuumed at ten o’clock at night?  I’ll tell you what, my stupid wife’s hair out of my stupid carpet.  That and the candle wax in our bedroom.  Okay, I’m tired of typing, my hand has a cramp.  Tomorrow maybe I’ll get a picture with my phone.