Now, don't laugh.

You know how some people's laugh sounds like a gasp for air? Like their throat is being constricted while they're trying to inhale? And you know how some people do that laugh really slowly when they're fake laughing? And you know how obnoxious it sounds? And you know how if they're sitting in the same office with you and they're having a long, drawn out, condescending, judgmental conversation with someone else you don't like about yet another person you don't like and they do that gasp laugh thing over and over and over and over and over and over?

Yeah. If I ever do that, please feel free to hit me with a large, heavy object. Repeatedly.

Muffin top

Now, I'm not saying I wouldn't have a muffin top for a million dollars. Heaven knows I already have the equipment with which to create one. What I'm saying is that I wouldn't willingly inflict such a thing on the world. I don't know why stores refuse to sell pants with waistlines that actually sit at the waist. Hip huggers make sense for those who are a size 4 or below, but they shouldn't be sold in my size...which is a bit more than 4.

Geritol and Flintstones

Mr. and Mrs. Larry King just make me feel all icky. They came to town last night to present the Singin' and Story-Tellin' King Family Revue. I didn't attend.

Seriously, seriously. Not for a million dollars.

Few game shows exist that would entice me out of my nice, comfy, introverted shell. "Who Wants to Be A Millionaire" is one.

"Wipeout" is not.

How does one network go to such extremes?

Ooo, how embarrassing.

Oh, yuck. There's something on his teeth. Ew. Now, what does he do when he eats a spinach and strawberry salad? Are his friends going to be kind enough to tell him what's stuck in his grill?

I think there's something going wrong all up in his mizzle. I'm just sayin'. Is all.

I disagree with the show's title

No, you're not.
And I'd much rather leave you there.

Ice isn't for driving on

It's bad enough to skate on ice. I know firsthand how easy it is for one's feet to fly out from beneath one's butt, thus allowing one's butt to make violent contact with the ice, which, by the way, is harder than rock. But to drive an 18-wheeler across a few scant inches of ice just so we can have oil and diamonds? No. Just no. Maybe, like Mama putting the good cookies on top of the refrigerator, God put that stuff up there so we couldn't get to it.