THOUGHTS AFTER THE APOCALYPSE . . .

The world ended on October 7.  Perhaps that explains my inability to concentrate and have a hodgepodge of thoughts.  But perhaps the ending of the world has nothing to do with my lack of concentration.  Perhaps my mind wanders because I have a little black dog and it doesn't bite.

A balding man once said, "I wish my hair would gain weight."

Did you know that you can effectively clear your sinuses by cutting off your head? 

Does history repeat itself?  Does history repeat itself?



There's no such thing as a constipated politician.  They talk so much you-know-what that it can't get stuck inside them.

Did I mention that I have a little black dog and it doesn't bite?

THINGS SAID THAT WILL KILL LOVE

"I love the long hair on your arms!"


"Gosh, you have such lovely eyeballs."


 "You, Beloved, are my one and only -- that is, when I'm with you."


"You take my breath away.  When was the last time you had a bath?"


"You are my love!  You are my inspiration!  You are my one and only pain in the ass."

"Please?  I only want you to touch it a bit."

"I cherish you!  I adore you!   Can you bring me another beer?"   

"I'm looking forward to spending the rest of our lives together -- except when we have to go to the bathroom."

"I love you, Emily."

"My name's Elizabeth!"

"Uh-er-uh-your name doesn't matter.  I love YOU!"

I WANT TO COMPLAIN ABOUT EVERYTHING . . .

I want to complain about everything, but I don't know where to begin.

Why does this picture have nothing to do with this blog?

 
Why are books made into movies?  Why can't they just let them be books?

Why are Blackberry keypads so small?

Why is Dracula so bloody ugly?   

Why don't zombies use deodorant?
 
Why doesn't hair fall out of my armpits and crotch instead of my head?

Why do I cry when I spill milk?

Why does this blog have to end when I was just getting started?

I MUST BE GETTING OLD . . .

I must be getting old.  One of the  highlights of my day is lining a cookie sheet with aluminum foil.

I get tired after brushing my hair.

I think about having sex, and then I fall asleep

I go to the bathroom every morning -- and then I get out of bed.

I can remember when Santa Claus was a clean-shaven thin man.

I get excited listening to my hair grow.

I started using makeup from a funeral home.

I get out of breath while reading.

Sometimes I can't find my way home after putting out the garbage.

Occasionally I have to look at my driver's licence when someone asks me my name.

I must be getting old.  My friends keep telling how good I look.  And I keep telling them how good they look.  And  they keep telling  me how good I look.  And I keep telling them how good they look.  And they keep telling me . . .