Abstinence 'Talk To Your Children About Sex'

Here is a funny response to the pro-abstinence talk to your children about sex --psa that has been on TV lately. How could they get kids to say that? This deserves Golden Globes, Oscars, and Latin Grammys!

To The Hottie Cop Who Doused Me With Pepper Spray

I know we got off on the wrong foot, what with my drunken disorderly behavior and my suggestion that as a taxpayer I'm entitled to ask you for a hummer, but I felt like we shared a moment. From what I could see before you squirted pepper spray into my eyes and judo chopped me in the larnyx, your nipples were totally hard. Sure, that could just be a gal enjoying her job, but I think you and I had a connection.

And don't tell me that GI Joe kung-fu grip on my testicles was all business. There was some caressing going on, or at least it felt that way before you crushed them purple. But don't worry, the ER doc assures me at least one of them will continue to produce sperm, which means you and I can have lots of little state troopers together.

So let's not let your job and my occasional lawbreaking ruin a good thing, sweetie. Put down that doughnut and shoot me an email. I know you're not supposed to fraternize with types like me, but I can't lie, a hot chick with a gun and handcuffs gives me a rock-hard boner. And you had your hands down there -- you know this ain't a misdemeanor I'm packing, if you know what I'm saying.

Write back soon, lover. Don't make me break the law again just to see you.

Pennies

Are we done with pennies yet?

Because it is time. The American public hasn’t been using them for about a decade. They have become so worthless, that people give them to each other as a matter of routine. Get your change, pick out the pennies, and leave them there for the next guy. Need a penny or two? Well, there should be a few there for you, because the last guy sure as heck didn’t want his. That’s the game.

I hate when stores don’t want to play by the game. If a store doesn’t have a little tray, I am immediately annoyed. The hell if I’m fishing another dollar out of my pants because it came to $5.02. When that cash register rings up $5.02 and you look at me, we’re fixing to have a long staredown. I’ll return an item before I break another dollar and let you give me three more of those things in return. And that item probably had a profit margin of at least $.03 to you, so who’s the loser now? Get it? As long as they’re still around, you better play by the game.

When there is no tray, my normal routine has become to fish through my change and immediately pick them out and deposit them into the trash. Not only are they worthless, but they are disgusting, and I’m not carrying them around. Most have been in circulation for 20 years, and as the stepchild of your change purse, they have been given no love. They live in ashtrays, parking lots, and huge jars owned by 72 year old men who remember when they were worth something. Old copper is gross enough to start with. Add to the fact that they are covered in gum and crap and filth, and you need to wash your hands every time one touches you.

Think about this: a stamp costs $0.37. 37 pennies weigh 6 ounces. It takes about two stamps to mail 6 ounces of stuff. Therefore, if I wanted to mail someone 37 cents in pennies, it would cost me 74 cents. By my definition, it’s pretty clear cut. When a monetary unit can’t afford to mail itself, it’s worthless. Don’t get all cocky either, nickels……you aren’t far behind. (I don’t really know how much 37 pennies weigh, that was just a guess. I have a scale in my office, and would find out, but I can’t. I threw out all my pennies. Just trust me though…I’m right on this general principal. I know by instinct that they can’t mail themselves.)

Vending machines won’t even take them. They hired engineers to assure that any penny which entered the slot would be immediately routed straight to the change opening. Think about the engineering involved. Dimes, which are smaller than pennies, go right into the till, but they had to create some sort of mechanism that would sort out and eliminate any penny that enters the machine, lest they get involved with the REAL money that is in there, and gross it all up.

Have you ever tried to give one to a bum? Seriously. I almost got in a fight in San Francisco over the fact that I gave a bum some pennies. The man had no home, was hungry, cold, and hopeless, yet when I gave him a handful of pennies, he tried to spit on me. Fortunately, his lack of front teeth seriously affected his aiming abilities and I easily dodged the saliva-based projectile, but nonetheless.

Isn’t this enough evidence for Alan Greenspan and the Fed to say enough is enough? I now summarize my case:

1. Pennies are considered worthless, even by homeless people
2. Pennies are disgusting
3. Pennies can’t even mail themselves
4. Americans are actually giving them to strangers, like some nationwide game of hot potato
5. Vending machines are even too smart to take them. Their job is to take money, not pennies.

Case Closed. Please, Federal Reserve, I beg you. End the game.

I’m done with the pennies.

Seriously? Operating a table saw at 4am?

Dear Neighbor,

When I went to sleep last night at 11pm. Nay, when I went to bed last night at 11pm I heard, very clearly, the intermittent hammering coming from your basement, 15 feet and a privacy fence away. Can’t say that I was pleased, but I had no idea the Black & Decker nightmare you had in store for me.

I managed to drown out the sound of the hammer long enough to drift off to sleep, alas I was awakened at 4 am by the sound of a… what’s that? No, it can’t be. A table saw?

Sir, I am a general contractor’s daughter and know, make no mistake about it, what a table saw sounds like. I was also able to identify a high-powered (bordering on a dentist’s wet dream) drill you insisted on using when you weren’t busy with the aforementioned hammer or table saw.

And while I am certain it’s not your fault that I left a shoe in the middle of my own floor, I place the blame squarely on your shoulders, fair neighbor, for the gaping head wound (thank you window sill corner) and concussion I suffered when I went ass over apple carts across my bedroom in an effort to find out just what the hell was going on over there. Maybe it’s the concussion, could be the sleep deprivation, but here are the thoughts that went through my mind over the course of the next THREE HOURS (I didn’t call the police because I fear, above all else, turning into my mother):

1. You’re building a dungeon.
Power tools in the middle of the night? Creepy old house? Basement? Tell me did you already have your victim chloroformed in the corner, or are you still just stalking her? And for the record, I will not be putting any lotion on myself or in any basket. And I will eat Precious just as soon as look at her. Period.

2. You’re building a better mousetrap.
Or maybe just the biggest mousetrap EVER. Or quite possibly 9,000 better mousetraps, at the regular size.

3. You’re building a popsicle stick Taj Mahal.
Gentle neighbor (I saw your sensitive ponytail), I think we can all sympathize with the panic that ensues when one has completely spaced a school project due first thing the next morning. But I have to admit that I think using a table saw for balsa wood is overkill. What? Your index fingers and thumbs weren’t strong enough to break the sticks in half? Then I don’t think you have the dexterity necessary to safely use a table saw, drill, hammer or, for that matter, a remote control.

4.You’re building a Y2K bunker.
It’s 2007, I think you’re safe.

But the strangest thing you did was this morning at 8 am. While in the shower I heard you yell at your dog to be quiet. Huh? My conclusions are as follows: You’re a hearing-impaired, insomniac, do-it-yourself imbecile with no concept of irony. This does not bode well for the life of our neighborly arrangement. However, if that dungeon has my name on it, I may have bigger hurdles in front of me than a few bags under my eyes.