SMOKING THE LEFT HANDED CIGARETTE

My mother was diagnosed with cancer in Jan. 2000. That's not what this story is about, but it's how we came upon the "bud". I'll get to that in a bit.

I am not really gung ho about making marijuana legal, although I think it is a good thought. Where I live, all of the hucklebucks drive drunk and stoned anyway, so it wouldn't make much difference. In metropolitan areas, I'm sure they're stoned on the subway and buses too, so to each his own. I've never heard of any homicidal maniac smoking pot. The true criminals are either drunk or on heavier drugs. (Or both, simutaneously.)

I don't know why they make such a big deal about driving stoned though, and this is the difference between being stoned and being drunk. You can spot a drunk driver a mile away. He is speeding, has his music loud, and generally, is not staying "in the lines". He will speed up, and slow down. Swerve to miss a deer that isn't there. On the other hand the stoned driver is driving 45 in a 65 zone, thinking to himself, "Why is everyone driving so fast?" Generally, he stays in the lines, it just takes him 2X as long to get to where he's going.

I am not a pot connoisseur. Like fine wine though, I know there are different grades. Like drinking "Georgia Moon Corn liquor" compared to Johnny Walker or the like. Red hairs, or somebody will say, "Columbian" or "Mexican" whatever. I don't know about that stuff really. I led, and still do lead a pretty sheltered life. (When it comes to the drug world. Ask me about something else.)

When my mother started losing weight rapidly, and losing her appetite, and even feeling nauseous all of the time, we all began to worry, including her. She said to me one day, "Boy, I always wanted to be thinner, but this wasn't what I had in mind." A couple days later, I can't remember whether it was a documentary or something in the paper, but the topic was medicinal marijuana. (Which sounded funny to me at the time.) I've heard of using it for Glaucoma, and other things, but cancer never occured to me. It reduces nausea, and creates, yes, something we all know and love about smoking marijuana, THE MUNCHIES!!!!

Suddenly, yesterday's pizza looks like pheasant under glass. Fishsticks taste like lobster. Canned ham when mixed with mayo suddenly tastes like tuna fish. Somebody could put deep fried catshit complete with clumping litter on a stick, and all you would say after you smoked a fattie and took a bite, would be, "Hey, you got some ketchup to go with this?"

Did you ever watch a National Geographic documentary about South American or African aboriginal tribes? They roast locusts between layers of leaves, (Like New Englanders do to Lobster in the sand) and pig out on those suckers. That's not their staple, that's their snack. They have the best weed on both of those continents. Everyone strips down to their loin cloths and fires one up.

I even have a theory about thousand island dressing and how it came to be, and here it is.

A bunch of Canadians were going camping in the thousand islands area. They drank all of their Labatt's blue, smoked most of their pot, and ate all of their food. When one of them went to the fridge again to see if there was anything that magically appeared, he said, "Man. All we have is ketchup, mayo and relish left in the icebox, what do we do, eh?" So he smokes out of his water bong filled with vodka. He looks at the three condiments and starts mixing them together. Then he takes a bite. The other campers, seeing their buddy eating this say, "Don't eat it all, give me a bite, eh?" They marvel over the delicious taste, texture, and smell. One says to the other, "Wow. You made this, eh? What are you going to call it." The other camper, perplexed for a minute says, "Where are we again?" Camper replies, "Thousand Islands, eh?" Back at him, "That's what we'll call it." They now get all royalties, including credit for the Big Mac special sauce.

So anyway, my mother acquired some mary jane, and smoked it. It wasn't from Columbia or Mexico, but rather of the Cleveland variety. I would imagine some hillbilly holed up in his trailer (you have to check this link, you will laugh your ass off) with the walls covered in aluminum foil, grow lights that could support the rainforest, and stacks of old Penthouse magazines. "I just buy it for the articles" Or something like that.

I bought her a pipe, in PA it isn't illegal to have a pipe provided there isn't any resin in it. It's not even illegal to sell a pipe. They say it's for "tobacco". Yeah. Right.

She was embarassed to smoke it. I don't blame, her. Not only was she drugged up because of the pain, here she was wasting away because she couldn't keep any food down, when she did eat. She had no appetite. I think she just pretended to be embarassed. Being a child of the sixties, she was no stranger to whacky weed. She took two hits, and said, "I don't feel anything." I was getting irritated, and it seems funny now. "Mom. Inhale. Big, deep. Like happy gas at the dentist." So she did. All of a sudden she got quiet. "Is there any pizza leftover from dinner?" My mother started gaining weight after a couple weeks of that. Plus, she got addicted to "Spongebob Squarepants". She would laugh at the parts that weren't even funny. So here I was keeper of the weed, worried that the dog would eat the "medicine" and I'd wind up following the dog around like a bad cheech and chong movie.

My mother passed away. (That's not the funny part. Duh.) My whole family was there, and later, we started cleaning up the makeshift bedroom that was the living room. (My mother wanted to be at home.)

So here, my brother, his wife to be, (even though we didn't really know it at the time), me, my sister and my other brother married to Lucifer (see earlier post entitled, "My crazy siblings") were there. Later in the evening after all the eyes were temporarily dry, (but soon to be glazed) we pondered what to do. We were sitting on the porch, and it was a warm July evening. I had an idea.

I emerged from the front door with the "Cleveland Pot". We all agreed that smoking it from a pipe sucks, so we made our own welfare bong out of a toilet paper holder, and some aluminum foil. I'm not going to go any further than that, because some dumb ass will try it and something bad will happen, and he'll say, "I read it on a website."

We rationalized, saying out loud, "Yeah, mom would have wanted us to smoke this. She never wasted anything."

We smoked it. That entire bag. We laughed, but as the supply got lower, things got amazingly and simplistically funnier. I didn't notice it until my brother said, "Oh my god, oh, sorry excu-u-u-u-u-use me." (In a Steve Martinesque style.) There was a pair of shoes in the middle of the sidewalk and he was pretending that it was really somebody standing there. It was like a bad mime show, except there was sound. It was Marcel Marceau on weed.
Without the makeup. Or the jumpsuit. Or the beret.

We laughed. My sister's paranoia even set us off laughing louder. She started pacing. "I can't breathe," She said. "Ok, ok, calm down. Now, just tell yourself, it's just the drugs, it's just the drugs." So she says out loud, "It's just the drugs, it's just the drugs." I said, "I meant to yourself, inside your head." She giggled.

We started a contest: Who could lean over the farthest witout falling over. It was hilarious. Guess you had to be there and be stoned to appreciate it. But it gets funny here.

My brother, married to Lucifer, says he's going to sleep in his minivan. They had just purchased a 6 passenger minivan, hoping to fill it with little demons in time.

(If you read the previous post from the crazy sibling file, the didn't have any babies too soon. If you are a follower of my stories, you will know that my brother and my demon-in-law can't even *uck right. )

As he was walking, you hear wretching. "Dude, did you just barf." Asked my little brother. "Yeah," he says. "I smelled the inside of my hat." So everyone is chilling out to some dumb movie, I think it was "Attack of the Mushroom People" (You have to check out that link. A japanese classic, right up there with "Godzilla" )

Every once in a while there would be this half human half mushroom on the movie. "Whoa. That's **cked up," my little brother said. We are staring at the tv, while you can hear brother number one and Lucifer taking out the bucket seating in their van to sleep in it. That was funny in itself. Then, like ants getting ready for winter, they start carrying blankets and pillows out to their van. It was one of those 90 degree nights, with lightning bugs everywhere. "The grooves where the seats sit hurt." During all of this, my brother number 2 and his wife to be, and myself are eating pizza. I don't even think I chewed it. I just bit and swallowed. So here we are eating and staring at the tv. Every once in a while you'd hear something from outside, and without blinking or ceasing to chew, somebody would say, "Did you hear that?"

What do you know. Suddenly Lucifer is at the door with all of the pillows and blankets again. Holy hell. Where's the dog whistle. How do you get this bitch to go lay down. "Oh, we're going home. Your brother can't sleep here."

We all passed out eventually. I really don't know what happened to my sister.

The next day, my father approaches me, "Was your sister smoking pot last night?" I was dumbfounded. "Uh. I dunno dad, why?" He replied, "Because I kept smelling it in my bedroom window last night."

Now, you have to know my father. He doesn't even sleep with the windows open, because he's afraid of catching a "summer cold". He sleeps in flannel pajamas on flannel sheets all year round. However, despite the fact that his window was closed means nothing. He is like the bionic man. He has extra sensory perception. He can hear a mouse fart at fifty yards. Before you light a candle, he says he can smell cinnamon. He has built in "Spidey sense."

So I just played dumb, blaming the pot solely on my sister who disappeared for half of the night anyway.

I would like to thank the city of Cleveland, home of the two headed fish, (because of all the crap they keep putting in the lake) for the four star bud that I'm sure was grown by Ohio's finest citizens.


It all played out like a Budweiser commercial, imagine this to that tune for a minute,

"(guy in background) A real American hero.
We salute you Mr. Midnight toker
Lighting up inconspicuously in conspicuous places
Laughing at nothing and everything
(guy in background) Mr. Fire up a fatty
Buying pot anywhere you can get it
Even from the trucker next door
(guy in background) stop taking methamphetamines
So fire 'em up and polish your bongs
There's a new stereotype for pot smoking dirtbags
(guy in background) all the kids are doing it

Let me just finish this story by saying that was a LONG time ago, and nobody smokes pot anymore in my family. Although my brother and his wife Lucifer could probably use it to mellow out.

Well, we all know even pot doesn't make her sit down, for Christ's sake. Maybe that would make them do somthing crazy like invite us over for Christmas for Ham sandwiches. (Just like two years ago. I starved myself all day, anticipating dinner. Yum. Sandwiches. And that goddammed fruit salad with vanilla pudding. Creative.) That bitch wrapped up a packet of chi-chi's corn cake mix and tried to pass it off as a Christmas present, at least she could've included all of the ingredients. When I get the chance I'm going to buy her a disposable douche and say "Happy Birthday".

Pot certainly wouldn't do anything for my brother's sex life. Only cheating on his wife improves that. Ew. That's a whole other story.

My Crazy Siblings

This is one of my favorite stories. It also incorporates, and backs up my Asperger's story and how it runs rampid in my family.

A couple years ago, my little brother and little sister kept bugging me to go out on St. Patrick's Day.

St. Patrick's Day is a national holiday in our book, and one year, I remember dropping my mother off at an Irish Pub on St. Patrick's Day, after I dropped off my kids at school. I take the kids bar hopping, and then go out with my sister later. Although this tradition has dwindled since we are all married now, and our families are growing, but here is one St. Patty's Day that stands out from the rest.

I met my brother and sister at a bar called Sullivans. It is one of two bars that regularly has Guinness on Draft. (The drunkard's answer to breakfast shake.)

We were hammered. It was great, the music couldn't be louder, people couldn't be happier, and my siblings are the life of the party. We walked from bar to bar, and drank all the green beer we could get our hands on. (The next day, though, you really wonder if the water at the sewage treatment plant is green, too. You wipe, still green, wipe, still green, wipe....Like wiping a green chocolate bar.) My brother's wife didn't want to come out. To this day we still wonder why she didn't want to, we begged her. All the while she was calling every five minutes to see when my brother was coming home. She even showed up at the bar, but my brother refused to get into the car with her, reassuring her that I would bring him home. She later called to confirm this, and yes, yes, I would bring him home.

I really didn't know that my brother married the spawn of satan until much later, but I'll save that for last. Rumor has it that Hell spat her out because even they couldn't stand her.

So drinking and dancing, elbow to elbow with perfect strangers, who couldn't ask for a better time. I even have this great photo of my brother peeing in a phone booth. Like superman, but I don't think superman peed in the phone booths.

2 a.m. rolls around, and here in PA, that's what time the bar closes. I knew we could squeeze one more bar in before they all closed, so we all piled into the Jeep Cherokee I had at the time. We were driving down the main drag, and my brother says, "Dude, you're taking me home first, right?" We all look at him and say no, we won't have time, etc. etc. So he says, "If you don't drop me off, I'm getting out of the car right now." So he did. I tried to yell for him, but the light was green and behind me was a long line of traffic with the same idea we had.

I hated to do it, so I took a vote in the car. Should we get him? Naaa. everyone said, we don't have time. So we kept driving, and went to the last watering hole of the night. He only lived like, 13 blocks away. He was young. He was drunk, and yes, he had enough cigarettes for the walk home.

Fast forward to days later. At this time I was working third shift, and I didn't know it, but my demon sister-in-law was trying to call me. Nobody ever gave me the message though, because she always called when I was sleeping. This just made her demon-like qualities even more noticable.

Finally, some braniac managed to pass it on that she called. Not knowing at the time why she was calling me, I called her back. She was furious, and she made it sound like I dropped him off in the Sahara desert without any water. (Quite the contrary, it was freezing out. But hey, he had a coat, and jumped out of the car.) Well, she said that he said that I took him captive, and wouldn't take him home, and used the child locks on him. He must've made this story good so she'd believe some other stupid reason why he wasn't home earlier. (The child locks in my car at the time were not even electric, they were manual, and to use them you had to open the door and flip the switch on each door. To boot, they were rusted in the unlock position. I can thank Chrysler for piss poor engineering and cheap Korean Metal.) So she was just screaming at me, "How would you like it if I dropped your daughter off in the middle of winter on State street?!!!!" The demon asked me. I told the demon, "My daughter wouldn't be out until 2 a.m. on St. Patrick's Day, and would have more sense than to jump out of the car in the winter." So this rhetorical dizzying intellect went round and round until she hung up on me.

My brother called about a month later and apologized, and by that time, I really didn't care anyway. She was (and still is) a maniacal bitch. He married her, he's got to ....ew. sleep with her. Coincidentally, they did make their own at home porn, or whatever you call it. I never saw it, but my other sister-in-law did. She just relayed it to everyone that it looked like to mannequins laying on top of each other. At one point one mannequin has his face in the other mannequin's groin area, while the other mannequin receiving cunnilingus lays there expressionless. They labeled the tape "Scooby Doo" so my sister-in-law, (not the demon one) popped it in, at first not knowing what the heck it was. Watch out Paris Hilton.

So through the years, she has left many a bitchy voice mail, and we play them over and over again, just for shits and giggles. Right now, my brother won't talk to any of us, partly because of his wife, you may also know her as Lucifer, the dark angel.

So my other sister-in-law has in her posession, one of the said email messages. She has it saved in her archives of her voice mail. Every twenty one days, she plays it for me, and we both recap and remember why we don't want to talk to her anyway.

I wonder whatever happened to that low budget scooby doo tape. I know that the sex can't be that good, because she's taken up quilting.

asperger's. It's still what's for lunch.

Well, went to the shrink again today. The funny thing is, I don't think the appointments are for her as much as they are for me. It has just been this barrage of emotions in such a short period of time. Irritated that everyone was trying to diagnose my child (before ever seeing a shrink). I know that Asperger's is many things to many people, hence, the term, "spectrum" disorder. I think that the experts have it all wrong though, to a certain degree. The pages I read, (on the internet, of course, God forbid should I leave the house) are so clinical. They make these kids (and adults) sound like emotional robots. I want to scream at the dummies that keep writing about how "these people" don't have emotion. It's not that there isn't emotion.

It is emotion times 10. What is an insult to one person feels like an emotional meltdown to a person with Asperger's. When you are happy you are elated, when you are sad, you want to crawl into the woodwork. This sensitivity to feeling (emotional and tactile) causes an emotional shutdown. (The glassy gaze). Which, I know leaves the average viewer with the impression that the person is void of any emotion.

This is my personal opinion, and in no way should be followed as professional advice. Although, I am a self professed Know-It-All.

The Asperger's individual is like a dramatized theatre actor who, aware or not has many personalities that he or she can turn on or off in any situation. Pretending is a mastered art. However, the naturalness is never quite attained so the individual really never realizes that his laugh is forced, his sad face is sadder, etc....More like a vaudeville actor than anything in the real world.
And why? Because these expressions of emotions are memorized.

Then to the "normal" person all of these actions seem insincere although the AS person has good intentions. Not only good intentions---remember what I said about emotion magnified. So when failure to convey an emotion results in rejection, the AS person is puzzled. Trial and error. Over and over and over again. Sometimes the AS person gives up, and reclines inside of themself. It is very easy to do since the AS person is very satisfied sometimes, completely by themself.

That is why they love TV so much. Life to the person with AS is TV. Everything is the third person. I even remember events in my life in the third person. I don't remember any event through my own eyes, rather, when I have a memory, I actually see myself in the picture in my head. So, if you are a parent with a child that has Asperger's TURN THE TV ON. Let them watch it. A picture is worth a thousand words, and they can learn more as observers than they can as active participants. It can even be a teaching tool.

That is another reason why it is hard for them to concentrate sometimes at school. Life events are playing over and over and over again in their head. Life to them is a video that can be rewound, fast forwarded or paused at any time. Since they see themselves in the third person, when they watch a movie, they are not only watching it. They are in it. Have you ever heard your child say, "Can we go there?" or "I'm Simba, mommy, who are you?" I'm not saying that these are defining phrases in diagnosis, I am not a doctor. I am just reflecting on ten years of practical parenting to a child with AS, and then upon her diagnosis, realizing that this is me too!!!! (As well as other family members in our dysfunctional family tree.)

I think the clincher was 8 years ago. I had my daughter evaluated, because she was rocking, (among other things) and even before that, as an infant would cry until I put her down. She wanted to breasfeed, but hated being held. It wasn't until she was famished that she would finally sit and nurse, but not without squirming until she passed out from sheer exhaustion.

And here I am obsessing about it, until the wee hours of the night. On top of everything else going on. There is a solution. I just don't know what it is.

The clinical approach has got to be modified. Common sense is the only way to approach this whole diagnosis. I think you have to literally, "Think outside of the bowl".

So, to lighten things up, here is a top ten list, since I love making freaking lists so much, but now I know why:

THE TOP TEN LIST
"WHY ASPERGER'S IS A COOL SYNDROME TO HAVE"
10. You can talk to yourself and you don't care what people think.
9.When you say you don't care, you really mean, you don't care.
8. Animals make better friends anyway, they listen better and can't talk about it to anyone.
7. You get good at manipulating people, which can be an asset at your job. If you can keep one.
6. Since you manage to piss most of your relatives off, you save a ton around the holidays.
5. Balancing your checkbook is a breeze, and gives you a feeling of accomplishment without the commitment.
4. You can walk away from anything and not feel bad.
3. You can pretend you feel bad, and convince others that you feel bad, and make them feel bad too.
2. You are your own best friend so you can't disappoint yourself.
1. You can stop wondering. Yes, Everyone else around you is screwed up. It's not you and couldn't possibly be, because you're always right!

oh, what the hell, one more,

since you always feel alone anyway, yes, you can pick your nose in the car because nobody can see you. if by chance your window is down, you can pretend you didn't see them, looking at you while you pick your nose. your car is invisible. like wonder woman's jet.

Asperger's. It's what's for lunch.

It's been a tumultuous month. It is about a month ago that my house was a mess, and I heard a knock at the door. I looked, and realized that it was children's services. My husband and I has signed up to be foster parents in our county, and they called to tell me two weeks earlier that they needed to take our photo for documentation purposes. I thought they were here to take my family's photo. Not so. To my surprise, they were here to inspect my children.

To make a long story very short, it turns out that my school age daughter turned a chapped lip into, "My mother beat me in the face with a hairbrush." I was absolutely mortified. And mad that my daughter could concoct such a ridiculous story. I can laugh about it now and honestly say, a hairbrush would not be my choice of weaponry. (For the record, I DO NOT beat my children, that just adds more insult to injury.) After the smoke cleared, she buckled, and told me that she made the whole story up so that "name witheld", the teacher's aide she told this story to, would be nicer to her. (Which makes me wonder what the hell name witheld was treating her like in the first place. ) I asked her if it worked, "Was name witheld nicer to you after that?" And she blatantly said, "Yes." To make a long and boring story even shorter, this event led us to therapy. It's fashionable anyway, these days, to say you have a therapist, right?

After explaining the strange series of events and behaviors that led us to this point, literally from birth, along with a barrage of other habits, I explained to the shrink were not wanting to be held as an infant and being able to play the violin without ever reading a note. She plays beautifully, (for the past four years) had had two recitals, and only has the sheet music up there with her because everyone else does. When she was about 2, I had suspected that she was autistic because of her rocking and banging her head off of the floor compulsively. Along with stuffing paper in her hears that she would fold into 8ths. I thought it was pretty creative for a two year old, but the emergency room didn't think so at the time. I had her evaluated, and a roomful of specialists told me that there wasn't a problem, that she needed to socialize. Send her to daycare, they said. Thanks for nothing. I smiled and thanked them and left thinking that maybe I'm paranoid.

So the shrink sent me home with a photocopied paper and the diagnosis. I couldn't wait to get home and read about it. Asperger's. I had never heard that word up until this point. There is a family member in our family who is very accomplished chemist, speaks five languages, and locks himself in his room to count football cards at night. Yes, we have a bingo. All this hoopla about vaccinations causing the problem, well, I don't know. I know that I can see many of these characteristics throughout my family, whether or not they are genetic or environmentally inherited, I don't know. At first when I was doing the shrink assigned research, I saw myself completely. Now, I don't know. Has it been so long that I've just adapted?

I remember doing so many of the same things that my daughter does. But if I did have it, would I even notice that the things she does are strange? On the other hand, I know it has to be something, because reading the description for diagnosis draws so many parallels. It's just depressing to think that all of your enduring qualities are just a syndrome. After a couple sessions with the shrink, and then suspecting my other daughter of having some Asperger like qualities, and telling my family, and pissing certain members of my family off, and having children's services call me back and recommend some family counseling, ---ugh. What a month. There isn't enough family counseling in the world.

I realize that the teacher's aide had a moral obligation to report suspected abuse, but it still irritates me. And knowing that my daughter did it so "name witheld" would be nice to her. I didn't even know what (name witheld) looked like until my daughter brought home her class photo. The one consolation that I have is that she looks like a medieval page, complete (from the photo) with bad complexion and Dutch Boy haircut. My daughter always referred to her as "name witheld the lesbian" (stereotypes are common in kids with Asperger's). name witheld, by the way, I am told, is married with children.

I read about this syndrome though, and it seems that it works out very good, (Bill Gates, Einstein) or very bad, (homeless person pissing pants under a viaduct.) I read about institutionalization, and then later how Asperger's has been dubbed "Geek syndrome" because of the cluster area in Silicon Valley. This is just so surreal.

More later, I'm going to go sit in the tub and drink my blackberry Jewish table wine while I have the chance.

brrr. BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE

I haven't added a story in a while, just the Jehovah's Witness List. Don't get me started. Even Michael Jackson left that crazy cult. (Only to leave it to live in Never never land, complete with --ew nevermind.) My in laws are JW's, as they like to call themselves. I saw this documentary on WACO (acronym for "WE AIN'T COMIN' OUT") Texas and the Branch Davidians there, and there's some organization that you can pay a painful amount of money to kidnap and deprogram them. If I ever hit the lottery, I'm going to have my husband's whole family "re-learned". On the other hand, look at all the money we save at Christmas. There's never an argument over where we are going to on Christmas Eve either. Here's a truckstop story.

At one point in time, my two "little" brothers and my "little" sister worked at the truckstop with me. In fact, they got me the job there. I took a year off to finish my degree, and play at the beach all summer. When my savings ran out, yes, it was time. Time to get the dreaded three letter word J - O - B. I cried when I got hired. My new boss handed me a red polo with a ten point buck embroidered on it like the little polo player on Ralph Lauren shirts. Far from Ralph Lauren. I thought I was far above this job, and trust me, I've had a lot of crummy jobs.

Before this, I took care of "mentally challenged persons", which was okay. I know why that job field has a high turnover, it is very stressful. It wasn't the clients though, it was my co-workers. They were a bunch of awful people just waiting to turn each other in for some type of infraction of the rules. I finally walked off the job one day, told my boyfriend to hit the bricks, and start fresh. Which I did. Little did I realize that it would land me into the "Buckhorn Family Restaurant." (Click that link, I know, it is the Marriott of truckstops. MOST of the waitress have their own teeth and their biological children living with them.) With a ten point buck on my shirt, and a three pocket apron as a nice accessory, I realized all pride was gone at the time.

Until I started to make some money. I made far more there than I ever did at a respectable job. Truck drivers leave a $20 dollar tip for coffee and a joke, or even a phone number. (Let me just add that I left the local time and temperature number (814) 452-6311, or the local state police as my phone number, along with a fake name. ) To boot, you get to lie about it on your taxes.

So, my brothers and my sister and I worked at the same shit hole for quite some time. It was actually pretty fun. I would sneak into the walk in cooler with a fork to chow down on carrot cake, only to see my sister doing the same thing. Our boss would walk in and say, "Did you pay for that?" My response always was, "NO. I brought it from home."

One thing I never really counted on was getting to use my French. After four years in high school, and three years of it in college, I had always planned to use it IN FRANCE. French Canadian truck drivers pass through western PA by the thousands, and even though they would rather have a "Tim Horton's" Latte, they would stop to have coffee, and try to teach me dirty words in French. I eventually did get to use my french in France, and hailing my first taxi to the Louve in French proved most satisfying. (Those were my first french words in France.)

So after returning from France, and realizing my proficiency in a foreign language, I got cocky and tried to use it on the truckers. Big mistake. Even though they sound eloquent when they ordered coffee or french fries with mayo, (YUK) they were still the stereotypical truckers that we all know and love here in the U.S.A. So, one day, this guy (old, grandpa old) said something about a kiss, so I said in French, while offering my cheek "Baissez-moi" and he laughed out loud. I was puzzled, and then felt stupidity to the tenth power, because by this time, I knew I said something way wrong. To make a long story short, if you ever tell somebody "Baissez-moi" --- It translates to the slang "FU** ME". At least I got a good tip and learned something new "en Francais".

My old boss, who will remain unnamed, has the worst speech impediment. (Let me first say that I am not making fun of people with speech impediments.) When I first met him, I didn't notice it. One day, he said, "Oh, Hewwo dere Geowge". He sounded just like Elmer Fudd. I thought he was kidding around with me, so I said, "Fine dere mista woberts." The room fell silent. He froze. I froze, I think the flames on the grill even stopped for a minute. He said, "Awr woo making fun of my Bridish accent?" British accent? Huh? "Oh stop it," I said. "That's no Bridish accent!" and then he walked away. A cook came up to me and filled me in. Can you say open mouth insert foot? Good start to a crummy job.

We finally saved enough up for a truck with air conditioning!



OUR BABY

TEN WAYS TO SCARE A JEHOVAH'S WITNESS

10. Tell him you are Roman Catholic.
9. Ask him for a ride in his Lincoln Continental.
8. Let him in and take him to your basement.
7. Answer the door in a towel and stiletto heels (especially if you are male.)
6. Answer the door naked.
5. Answer the door with a rolled up dollar bill and dab powdered sugar on your nostrils.
4. Let your dog out just as they approach the door and tell him the dog bites.
3. Tell him you are a practicing Pagan (Roman Catholic-- same thing to them.)
2. Tell him that you just got a blood transfusion.
And one sure fire way to get them off of your porch:

1. Tell him you are a disfellowshipped household.

(Click the items in red, they are linked.)

What a bunch of bible beating nut cases. If you ever get the opportunity to meet these "witnesses", you will be able to say that you have met the best liars, cheaters, and fornicators in the world. This "religion", or should I say cult, doesn't keep the flock on the straight and narrow, rather, it just makes them better at covering up what they do wrong. Because they also stress that anal sex is against God's laws (even between a married couple), they successfully create a rectal fetish without even realizing it.

I'd love to hear anybody's thoughts on this one.

If you have anthing to add to the top ten list, reply to this post, and if they're good, I'll edit the top ten list.