This year, the parental units, June and Ward Cleaver, will celebrate 50 years of wedded bliss. Or, at least 50 years of my father saying "Yes, dear" and my mother commenting on the state of the dust in the house and how us kids never call, never write. I don't know how they did it but kudos to them, especially when I know how hard it is to keep everything fresh for even a year let alone 50.
This month, I celebrated an anniversary of my own. It's been a year of blogging, of letting the internets into my life and allowing a glimpse of the inner workings of the Scribe. There have been childhood memories, rants and celebrations. There has also been a lot of self discovery. I discovered that I'm not perfect. I discovered that I'm not in the place I want to be and now it's time to make my move.
The first step was to recognize what I could and couldn't control and to put those "basketballs" into the two baskets. Lately, there have been many basketballs all over the place and not in their rightful place. I couldn't control whether my Gusafus lived and died. I could control how I would say goodbye to him and how I could honour him by doing what I could. I have no regrets. The other was the job. It's gotten worse, so bad that I had an all-out cry today, for the desperation of it all and for my part in it. And then I kicked myself and booted myself out of the house and into the embrace of a really good friend who understands lists, baskets and working one step at a time.
FYI, this past Friday I got some news on the work front. No, it's not the second interview that I'm STILL waiting for. This news came from my present job. The good news: In the next two months, I will no longer work for the douchebag of a control freak salesperson who takes condescention (is that spelled right?) to a new level. But, while I will be getting new salespeople to help, the boss informed me that his yelling is justified considering the mistakes I've made on past orders and my attitude towards the douche-canoe. Okay, so my attitude is not great but there's only so much I can take.
Tomorrow is supposed to be a new lease - a slate wiped clean (or is that whipped?). It will be in more ways than the one to which my boss referred. While I will come in with a more confident and assured attitude, I will also work towards bettering myself inside and out. Tomorrow, I will venture to my first yoga class in about two years to de-stress and turn inward to calm the thoughts (read voices) in my head. I will also think positive about the possibility of that second job interview and explore other options so I don't have to stay where I am ultimately not wanted. I will work only my allotted hours and work as efficiently as possible.
Wish me luck, bloggers and Happy Anniversary. It's been a year of changes and honesty. Here's to another year of continued growth. I'm glad I have you on my side.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
In which I am disappointed
Let me introduce myself. My name is Scribe. I used to live here, writing every day but then I didn't. And now I'm back and I'm happy to be here.
I didn't know what to write about today. I had dozens of ideas floating around but nothing landed until I spoke to my nephew. He's a great kid, now 14 who loves baseball, wrestling and has a wicked sense of humour, and until today, I thought he was open-minded and kind. Today, I was disappointed and disgusted.
I was surfing his Facebook (we're friends, you know) and noticed a profile picture that did not match to who I thought he was. Add to that a reference he made while on the telephone the other day and I was reeling. Did I actually hear that? In this day and age? Do I have your attention now, bloggers?
The photo I saw was actually a modified movie poster - Jaws - but instead of the Great White star of the film, the movie poster showed an Orthodox Jew, complete with the curls, hat and razor sharp teeth. Yes, my nephew is anti-Semetic. But, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, especially since he's 14 and his sense of humour is not fully defined. But then he repeated a song that he and his friends sang while on a school trip and I was disgusted. It disparaged not only Jews but Muslims. I immediately gave him shit and will have a sit down with his parents (my bro and sis-in-law) in the next few days.
If there is something I can not stand is intolerance and I'm shocked and dismayed that it reared its ugly head from the mouth of my nephew. Is he a throw-back or is this the new state of the teenage mind, or any mind at any age for that matter? I hope not. I hope that we have come a little farther than that, but I suspect not.
When I was growing up I was obsessed with everything about the Holocaust, wondering how people could let this happen, how they could sit back and do nothing as millions of Jews were rounded up, beat and gassed, stripping them of their clothes, possessions, family and dignity. I thought the same thing when gays were persecuted for their sexual preferences.
And now it's my nephew who is spouting this rhetoric, putting images up on Facebook and making up songs that disparages one race or another - Jews, gays, Muslims... it's all the same and I am really disappointed.
I didn't know what to write about today. I had dozens of ideas floating around but nothing landed until I spoke to my nephew. He's a great kid, now 14 who loves baseball, wrestling and has a wicked sense of humour, and until today, I thought he was open-minded and kind. Today, I was disappointed and disgusted.
I was surfing his Facebook (we're friends, you know) and noticed a profile picture that did not match to who I thought he was. Add to that a reference he made while on the telephone the other day and I was reeling. Did I actually hear that? In this day and age? Do I have your attention now, bloggers?
The photo I saw was actually a modified movie poster - Jaws - but instead of the Great White star of the film, the movie poster showed an Orthodox Jew, complete with the curls, hat and razor sharp teeth. Yes, my nephew is anti-Semetic. But, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, especially since he's 14 and his sense of humour is not fully defined. But then he repeated a song that he and his friends sang while on a school trip and I was disgusted. It disparaged not only Jews but Muslims. I immediately gave him shit and will have a sit down with his parents (my bro and sis-in-law) in the next few days.
If there is something I can not stand is intolerance and I'm shocked and dismayed that it reared its ugly head from the mouth of my nephew. Is he a throw-back or is this the new state of the teenage mind, or any mind at any age for that matter? I hope not. I hope that we have come a little farther than that, but I suspect not.
When I was growing up I was obsessed with everything about the Holocaust, wondering how people could let this happen, how they could sit back and do nothing as millions of Jews were rounded up, beat and gassed, stripping them of their clothes, possessions, family and dignity. I thought the same thing when gays were persecuted for their sexual preferences.
And now it's my nephew who is spouting this rhetoric, putting images up on Facebook and making up songs that disparages one race or another - Jews, gays, Muslims... it's all the same and I am really disappointed.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
A little comic relief needed... enter Bess
Leave it to a cat to offer up a little comic relief in a very sad situation. To say the last few days have been hard is an understatement. Thank goodness for a tiny feline named Bess.
I had a hard time keeping track of my purse on Thursday, with so many people in and out and so many hugs to give. So, when Bess found my purse and started to sniff the purse and rub her scent in it I thought that was ever so cute. She's a sweet grey and white cat with a little tiny Hitler mustache and she doesn't come up to people willingly. She's nervous and scared of her own shadow at times. So when she went into my purse, I thought she'd found a place to settle in. Settle in, she did.
We were all sitting around the living room and kitchen, some on the living room couch, others around the kitchen table. And, we all looked in fascination and then in disbelief as Bess stepped into the purse as if to sit in it.We realized, all in slow motion that she just wasn't sitting in it, her tail lifted and a nervous look on her face. You guessed it bloggers. The cute little feline had relieved herself all over my wallet, my two-day supply of tampons, receipts, keys and bank card. And we all sat there, unable to move, incredulous that this was indeed what was happening.
My guess is she was upset, with so many people around and a sense of sadness, she felt it and unable to speak or wrap her tiny paws around any of us, she let us know exactly how she was feeling. A little laughter and a cycle through the washing machine and all was repaired. And, I know not to leave my purse on the floor again. Or at least not the same purse.
I had a hard time keeping track of my purse on Thursday, with so many people in and out and so many hugs to give. So, when Bess found my purse and started to sniff the purse and rub her scent in it I thought that was ever so cute. She's a sweet grey and white cat with a little tiny Hitler mustache and she doesn't come up to people willingly. She's nervous and scared of her own shadow at times. So when she went into my purse, I thought she'd found a place to settle in. Settle in, she did.
We were all sitting around the living room and kitchen, some on the living room couch, others around the kitchen table. And, we all looked in fascination and then in disbelief as Bess stepped into the purse as if to sit in it.We realized, all in slow motion that she just wasn't sitting in it, her tail lifted and a nervous look on her face. You guessed it bloggers. The cute little feline had relieved herself all over my wallet, my two-day supply of tampons, receipts, keys and bank card. And we all sat there, unable to move, incredulous that this was indeed what was happening.
My guess is she was upset, with so many people around and a sense of sadness, she felt it and unable to speak or wrap her tiny paws around any of us, she let us know exactly how she was feeling. A little laughter and a cycle through the washing machine and all was repaired. And, I know not to leave my purse on the floor again. Or at least not the same purse.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
I asked for more time with you and I got what you could give. A few more I love yous, a few more days of tucking you in and calling you my favourite stinkpot. A few more days did nothing to ease the pain, the loss of finding your spot, your place in my world empty. It gave me a few more days of loving you and a chance to tell you how I feel about you. You didn't need it. You already knew.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
And there will be much nashing of teeth too...
I heard the best line ever today, and it came from work, which in itself is amazing that anything brilliant could come of this cesspool: "Will there by yelling?" Why, yes, yes there will be yelling and hair pulling and much nashing of teeth.
We had a new employee start at Cell Block C (which is what my place of employment will be called from now on). She's nice. Like really nice. Like too nice to work here. Her very first task on her very first day is to attend a hockey team fitting, complete with hockey moms, hockey dads and wanna-be Sidney Crosby's only in the female form. In short, it's hell although not nearly as hellish as Cell Block C. But, she does not know that. According to management, everything is sunshine and lollipops here.
So, when wished good luck at the fitting tonight (yes, she's pulling overtime already), she asked why. "Will there be yelling?" With the boss there, I couldn't enthusiastically nod my head nor make the slicing across the throat kill motion. All I said was that it gets busy but to take a deep breath. Everything will get done, everyone will be served and remember it's your first day. Oh, and remember that NyQuil and Valium make a great combination.
We had a new employee start at Cell Block C (which is what my place of employment will be called from now on). She's nice. Like really nice. Like too nice to work here. Her very first task on her very first day is to attend a hockey team fitting, complete with hockey moms, hockey dads and wanna-be Sidney Crosby's only in the female form. In short, it's hell although not nearly as hellish as Cell Block C. But, she does not know that. According to management, everything is sunshine and lollipops here.
So, when wished good luck at the fitting tonight (yes, she's pulling overtime already), she asked why. "Will there be yelling?" With the boss there, I couldn't enthusiastically nod my head nor make the slicing across the throat kill motion. All I said was that it gets busy but to take a deep breath. Everything will get done, everyone will be served and remember it's your first day. Oh, and remember that NyQuil and Valium make a great combination.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Big, bad and bald
You know what I've been thinking a lot about lately? Male pattern baldness.
I blame Anasatan, as I blame her for most things: my shyness when she proclaimed in front of my Grade 7 crush that she would not, could not pull his track pants down so I could get a look at his penis. I digress, but yes she did that. I was mortified. I was also disappointed I didn't get to see said package.
Anypenisways, I was over at her house loving up my little mugwump Christopher, socializing with her and her other half when I commented on the newly coloured state of my hair. It was the night after the potential job interview and in a step to putting my best foot forward, I thought that covering my natural highlights would give me a boost. I had run across to the local Shopper's Drug Mart to procure me some youth-inducing colouring agent and had stolen an hour of probably much-needed REM sleep so I could look daisy-fresh, and wondered what my state of affairs would be if a) Shopper's had run out of my colour; and b) what if we didn't have the colour fusion technology available at all. No colour prisms, no tonal clarity, no washing that grey (um, I mean natural highlights) out of our hair. My answer was not the most popular.
"If I had to I would pluck every grey hair out of my head," I had answered. "You'd be F-ing bald," Anasatan reminded me. Okay, it's time to spill secrets here, as if I haven't already done enough of that. I have had grey hair since the age of 18. My first year in college, the boy I was crushing on sat in News Writing class and pointed out a long, shiny strand. Again, mortified. It didn't take much, really. Ever since, new crops continue to pop up and now it seems that wherever I decide to part my hair, new greys will form. I'm running out of parting options unless I move to the back of my head, which has yet to see a sprout. Lift my bangs on the left and it's night and day. Night on the top, day underneath and it's not fair.
Shorter hair (I had a pixie cut for five years) or longer (it took me a year and a half to grow out), I still have grey. And, if I pick them all out, I'll be bald or at least have to try out the whole Comb Over King concept only it would be Comb Over Queen instead of Scribe. And, no doubt Anasatan will pick up on that one too and tease me to no end until I would stab her with a makeshift shiv whittled out of her long-necked duck, Motherfucker.
And then I would be bald, up on murder charges and have to uphold my duties as Comb Over Queen of Cell Block C. I can't win.
I blame Anasatan, as I blame her for most things: my shyness when she proclaimed in front of my Grade 7 crush that she would not, could not pull his track pants down so I could get a look at his penis. I digress, but yes she did that. I was mortified. I was also disappointed I didn't get to see said package.
Anypenisways, I was over at her house loving up my little mugwump Christopher, socializing with her and her other half when I commented on the newly coloured state of my hair. It was the night after the potential job interview and in a step to putting my best foot forward, I thought that covering my natural highlights would give me a boost. I had run across to the local Shopper's Drug Mart to procure me some youth-inducing colouring agent and had stolen an hour of probably much-needed REM sleep so I could look daisy-fresh, and wondered what my state of affairs would be if a) Shopper's had run out of my colour; and b) what if we didn't have the colour fusion technology available at all. No colour prisms, no tonal clarity, no washing that grey (um, I mean natural highlights) out of our hair. My answer was not the most popular.
"If I had to I would pluck every grey hair out of my head," I had answered. "You'd be F-ing bald," Anasatan reminded me. Okay, it's time to spill secrets here, as if I haven't already done enough of that. I have had grey hair since the age of 18. My first year in college, the boy I was crushing on sat in News Writing class and pointed out a long, shiny strand. Again, mortified. It didn't take much, really. Ever since, new crops continue to pop up and now it seems that wherever I decide to part my hair, new greys will form. I'm running out of parting options unless I move to the back of my head, which has yet to see a sprout. Lift my bangs on the left and it's night and day. Night on the top, day underneath and it's not fair.
Shorter hair (I had a pixie cut for five years) or longer (it took me a year and a half to grow out), I still have grey. And, if I pick them all out, I'll be bald or at least have to try out the whole Comb Over King concept only it would be Comb Over Queen instead of Scribe. And, no doubt Anasatan will pick up on that one too and tease me to no end until I would stab her with a makeshift shiv whittled out of her long-necked duck, Motherfucker.
And then I would be bald, up on murder charges and have to uphold my duties as Comb Over Queen of Cell Block C. I can't win.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Can Dolly do my job?
She may have a nice smile but does she rock the gaudy rings like me?
If I create my clone, will she have better fashion sense than me? Dolly the Sheep did it, so why can't I? Sure, she didn't last very long but that was years ago and I'm sure technology has advanced, so a clone for a year may be possible now.
Unlike Dolly, however, who was content to roam the hills of Scotland (yes, Scotland again - I just love the place!), I would put my clone to good use, putting me in two places at once, doing double the work and easing the voice that seems to ring out in my head every day of the five-days of hell at work: I need it yesterday.
As some of you know, I work in a high-stress environment with people yelling for their crap to get done even though I have 17 other pieces of crap work to go through. Today was stellar. With my coworker, Red, going off to greener pastures (see how I tied the sheep metaphor in there? Gawd, I'm brilliant), I inherited one extra salesperson, doing admin work for now three, sometimes four sales nazis. And, everyone needs their stuff, their orders done... you guessed it, yesterday.
In an ideal world or the world that our company manual seems to represent, admin people have 24 hours to deal with an order. That's 24 hours from the time it lands on their desk. Idyllic, right? Not so. Every order that flies across my desk must be done immediately, orders shouted from across the office, nothing written down and I have to ask how high I must jump. I'm used to it. It was how I was raised, my work ethic, nose-to-the-grindstone ingrained in my DNA. But it's the raised voices, the sighs and tones emanating from the corner cubicle.
Today it was a mutter: "Idiot" under his breath, low so he thought I couldn't hear it, uttered when I had done what he had requested but sent a file in a version that could not be opened by the intended recipient. It was easily remedied by sending a follow-up email with the correct version. One request, one question and no attitude and it would have been done immediately and without issue. Instead, my hackles were up. The email was still sent but I was seething.
I don't do well with attitude or muttered insults. Kiss your teeth at me and I'll put you through the flippin' window. Head first. I'm not a violent person by nature, but disrespect me and question my intelligence and hellfire will be forth coming.
Tomorrow is interview day. Finally. And to top it off, I'm nervous as hell as it's been a while since I was on the job trail and this close to a potentially good job with good people, good pay and a chance to contribute anything but a body in a chair. I just hope they don't kiss their teeth.
Monday, May 3, 2010
In which I question everything
I must be crazy.
It's again almost four in the goddamn a.m. and I can't sleep. Sure, I'm tired and I need toothpicks to keep my eyelids open when I'm not in bed, but my head hits the pillow and WHAM! I'm awake. Restless. Flipping back and forth from side to side, so annoying that I've actually considered moving to the guest room to give The Man the space and the quiet he needs so he can be alert for his 6 a.m. workday.
I'm so tired I don't even know what to write. I spent my weekend loving Gus, doing dishes, cooking dinner and worrying. I have a lot of worries, none for myself. I will be fine. I will cry, I will grieve and I will support my friends in any situation, even if those situations are hard to handle. And this is.
I've decided to go into work tomorrow. And it's now 4 a.m. and I have to be up in 3-and-a-half hours to deal with orders that mean nothing to me. I don't care that a customer will get his golf balls all logoed up to hand out at an upcoming golf tournament. I don't care if the 75 jackets get to the embroiderer in time. I don't care what colour the golf tees are for another customer. I don't care. It's not important in the grand scheme of things. In the grand scheme of things, Gus would be healthy and my friends wouldn't have to consider life without him, I wouldn't have to consider a life without him.
Every day I wish for one more day with him, one more day of hearing the intermittent "I love you" but that is not fair to him. Nothing is fair when it comes to a 10-year-old boy whose only vice is saying exactly what he means. It's refreshing to experience especially when my trust in adults, my trust in a just higher power is being questioned daily. I question daily, hourly, minute by minute why he was chosen, why he was brought into this world only to have to depart now, a lifetime too short. It makes me question everything, including what I used to consider important.
Tomorrow, I will fill a seat, until it's time again to hit the highway and show up at the doorstep of my friend. She's my people and that is what is important.
It's again almost four in the goddamn a.m. and I can't sleep. Sure, I'm tired and I need toothpicks to keep my eyelids open when I'm not in bed, but my head hits the pillow and WHAM! I'm awake. Restless. Flipping back and forth from side to side, so annoying that I've actually considered moving to the guest room to give The Man the space and the quiet he needs so he can be alert for his 6 a.m. workday.
I'm so tired I don't even know what to write. I spent my weekend loving Gus, doing dishes, cooking dinner and worrying. I have a lot of worries, none for myself. I will be fine. I will cry, I will grieve and I will support my friends in any situation, even if those situations are hard to handle. And this is.
I've decided to go into work tomorrow. And it's now 4 a.m. and I have to be up in 3-and-a-half hours to deal with orders that mean nothing to me. I don't care that a customer will get his golf balls all logoed up to hand out at an upcoming golf tournament. I don't care if the 75 jackets get to the embroiderer in time. I don't care what colour the golf tees are for another customer. I don't care. It's not important in the grand scheme of things. In the grand scheme of things, Gus would be healthy and my friends wouldn't have to consider life without him, I wouldn't have to consider a life without him.
Every day I wish for one more day with him, one more day of hearing the intermittent "I love you" but that is not fair to him. Nothing is fair when it comes to a 10-year-old boy whose only vice is saying exactly what he means. It's refreshing to experience especially when my trust in adults, my trust in a just higher power is being questioned daily. I question daily, hourly, minute by minute why he was chosen, why he was brought into this world only to have to depart now, a lifetime too short. It makes me question everything, including what I used to consider important.
Tomorrow, I will fill a seat, until it's time again to hit the highway and show up at the doorstep of my friend. She's my people and that is what is important.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Got a bite... now to reel it in
I will be happy to note that I have an interview this Thursday. Anyone whose been reading this blog over the past several months will know that my job search has not been exactly jumping with offers. I know... who wouldn't hire me? Well, a lot of people apparently. But my tide is turning, my ships are coming in and I'm ready to take another voyage. Enough metaphors? Yeah, I thought so too.
I don't want to go into detail as to not jinx this chance. Suffice to say, it pays a hell of a lot more and it's not working with the douche-canoes with whom I presently spend my days. That's enough for me at the moment. I'm sure there will be opportunities for growth. I will make sure of that. But, let's get past that first hurdle -- the interview.
I need to wow them with my stunning personality, my vast work experience and my never-ending work ethic. Should be a piece of cake...
I don't want to go into detail as to not jinx this chance. Suffice to say, it pays a hell of a lot more and it's not working with the douche-canoes with whom I presently spend my days. That's enough for me at the moment. I'm sure there will be opportunities for growth. I will make sure of that. But, let's get past that first hurdle -- the interview.
I need to wow them with my stunning personality, my vast work experience and my never-ending work ethic. Should be a piece of cake...
I know I had you at turd...
It's closing in on 4 a.m. and I'm still up, catching up on blogs but really trying to make my brain tired that it will shut off. I'm at my friend's house tonight debating on whether the couch will be the lucky recipient of my post-sleep drool or whether I will actually make it to the bed they've made up for me. It's still a toss-up, but in the meantime I will share a story that had me laughing my ass off. Literally.
We were talking about our pets tonight ('cause we're nerdy like that) and what they do that makes us laugh. I could bore you with hours of stories of how clumsy Kao is, but I won't. I won't tell you how he ran headfirst into a recyling bin or how he rolled off of the one couch we let him sit on, his gangly legs taking out a whole coffee table and everything on it. Instead, I have two words, a name actually: Turd Burglar. I never get tired of saying it. Turdy-Turdy Num Num. Nom Nom Nom.
Now that I have your attention (I had it at post-sleep drool, didn't I?), I will save you from your curiosity and tell you about the origins of the Turd Burglar name. Apparently, it's quite common that dogs eat their own and others' feces. My friend Dar's dog, Cody, liked to go one step above and beyond by raiding the resident cats' litter box. With multiple cats in the household, it was a buffet. A smorgasborg. Free-range grazing for turds.
Cody, whose name shall now be written as Turd Burglar, loved the little nuggets, raiding the box at every turn. Of course, we were all disgusted, throwing up in our mouths disgusted, but somehow curious. What made the litter box so appealing? I for one used to hold my breath whenever changing it but to Turd Burglar it was heaven.
I must be deliriously sleepy now, since I'm still giggling and repeating over and over again... come on, repeat with me - Turd Burglar, Turd Burglar. Turd. And I'm wondering why everything about shit makes me giggle. Another friend relayed a story a while back about his first post-puberty date where he stretched out to look cool while he shared a moment with the girl du jour, ready to make the move and put his arm around the object of his adoration only to reach his hand back on the grassy knoll for more leverage only to find a pile of shit. That's right, Brady Brady Shitty Hands (as he is now called) put his hand square in a pile of shit.
See? That shit is funny. Now if only I could stop saying Turd Burglar and Turdy-Turdy Num Num. Bloggers, I really need sleep. Or a life. Both would be great right about now.
Scribe out, but never forgotten.
Turd Burglar. (Still funny).
We were talking about our pets tonight ('cause we're nerdy like that) and what they do that makes us laugh. I could bore you with hours of stories of how clumsy Kao is, but I won't. I won't tell you how he ran headfirst into a recyling bin or how he rolled off of the one couch we let him sit on, his gangly legs taking out a whole coffee table and everything on it. Instead, I have two words, a name actually: Turd Burglar. I never get tired of saying it. Turdy-Turdy Num Num. Nom Nom Nom.
Now that I have your attention (I had it at post-sleep drool, didn't I?), I will save you from your curiosity and tell you about the origins of the Turd Burglar name. Apparently, it's quite common that dogs eat their own and others' feces. My friend Dar's dog, Cody, liked to go one step above and beyond by raiding the resident cats' litter box. With multiple cats in the household, it was a buffet. A smorgasborg. Free-range grazing for turds.
Cody, whose name shall now be written as Turd Burglar, loved the little nuggets, raiding the box at every turn. Of course, we were all disgusted, throwing up in our mouths disgusted, but somehow curious. What made the litter box so appealing? I for one used to hold my breath whenever changing it but to Turd Burglar it was heaven.
I must be deliriously sleepy now, since I'm still giggling and repeating over and over again... come on, repeat with me - Turd Burglar, Turd Burglar. Turd. And I'm wondering why everything about shit makes me giggle. Another friend relayed a story a while back about his first post-puberty date where he stretched out to look cool while he shared a moment with the girl du jour, ready to make the move and put his arm around the object of his adoration only to reach his hand back on the grassy knoll for more leverage only to find a pile of shit. That's right, Brady Brady Shitty Hands (as he is now called) put his hand square in a pile of shit.
See? That shit is funny. Now if only I could stop saying Turd Burglar and Turdy-Turdy Num Num. Bloggers, I really need sleep. Or a life. Both would be great right about now.
Scribe out, but never forgotten.
Turd Burglar. (Still funny).
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