Why Martha Stewart is Lobbying to Have me Put Down
Last night I felt like getting fancy. Not the kind of fancy that involves a little black dress and heels, hell, my fancy night didn’t even involve real pants. In my house fancy means pajamas without stains and my good slippers. It also means Grape-Nuts in a martini glass.
So, all the bowls were dirty, huh?
well, that is one way to address portion control…
Oh Oh Oh m’Bell’m surely can spin ‘erself a yarn, let ‘at much b’told!
Verily, the emotional roller derby this post has thrown me through would put Barrymore to tear-drenched, lisping shame!
The climb: “Last night I felt like getting fancy.” My loins were aflutter. What had my love lumps done this time? Bathed with President Obama? Drenched her body in melted gold? Hired ‘erself a Jangling escort? The possibilities, like the depth of my love for you, were limitless.
And then, as the clunking lift hill reached its peak, I was told “Not the kind of fancy that involves a little black dress and heels.” There was a brief pause at the top of the hill. I looked down, shocked and bewildered, at the comedic effect of my wildest dreams dashed against the little-black-dressless reality that is you.
From there I sped, wide-eyed and drooling, down the slopes of hilarity, plummeting into thy martini glass of Grape nuts. A serial drinker I had pegged thee, lovely, but a drinker of cereal? Oh ho ho ho! My grapely nuts tremble at the notion!