The new Republican Party: A Black guy, an Indian guy, and a MILFy wolf huntress. They’re like the Mod Squad but their enemies are taxes and gays.
Dang, that Wyatt Cenac is a cutie patootie.
So a teacher friend of mine found a little treasure the other day while perusing Thrift Town. Aren’t they adorable? And a steal at only $3.99!
According to their website, Thrift Town is a “for-profit business that buys ALL of its merchandise from several nonprofit organizations. The money they raise from selling us “recycled goods” enables them to provide much needed programs and services to people in need.” So somebody donates to the ARC of Utah, for example, and Thrift Town buys merchandise from them and sells it back to you. Everybody wins!
Not everybody wins this big every time, but we teachers deserve a break now and then. Click the photo to check out the label.
Did you just say “SHUT UP!”?
Heh.
OMG. The POTUS has won my heart. When talking about health care reform, my man Mr. Obama extolled the virtues of preventive health care. Not “preventative,” which has long annoyed me.
And then, this—
“Every American will need to get more than a high school diploma. And dropping out of high school is no longer an option. It’s not just quitting on yourself, it’s quitting on your country. And this country needs and values the talents of every American.”
Sigh. Pure afterglow.
A: Look left, look forward, then accelerate
B: Look left, stomp on the accelerator, rear-end the car in front of you who hasn’t turned yet, you moron.
I hate people. Especially when they rear-end my car with their SUVs.
I was stopped at a red light. The Pathfinder behind me was stopped, also. I pulled forward to get a better view of traffic, and next thing I know I’m trying to remember how to operate my iPhone to find the number of whatever fucking police have jurisdiction at the intersection of 6200 South and Highland Drive. This takes me awhile, but before I can totally figure it out, an adorable police officer is at my window, inquiring in quite a caring and adorable way if I’m all right.
“I have a headache,” I say. “I know,” he says, in a tone one generally uses to address a petulant (my favorite kind) five year old. It’s adorable. “I had one too when I was rear-ended. It’ll probably hurt for a few days. May I have your license and insurance information?”
I look for my purse, which has flown from the passenger seat and landed upside down on the floor. How did that happen? I was stopped. Curiouser and curiouser.
Eventually, I’m free to leave, as it appears my mighty Subaru said “fuck that” to the crunched up Pathfinder. At least I think it was crunched up. Officer Adorable told me it was. I never got out of the car; it seemed like too much effort. Besides, had I engaged in conversation with the other driver, I might have been cited for attempt to choke a bitch. Or not. I was feeling sorta non-committal, when I wasn’t feeling pissed as hell.
It did occur to me a few minutes later that perhaps I wasn’t really in any condition be driving, seeing as how my thinking was kinda fuzzy, but by then I was at work. Couldn’t teach worth shit for a couple of hours, though.
Later that day, the PA told me that the way I felt right then was as good as I was going to feel for awhile. Great. She said by day four I’d feel as though I’d been hit by a truck. I think she meant me, personally. My car already felt that way.
Diagnosis: whiplash and blunt force trauma. It’s not a good sign when your head aches immediately after someone rear-ends you, especially when you head didn’t hit anything. Because that means your brain bopped around your skull, which isn’t really very good for it.
The Flexeril she sent me home with is a muscle relaxer but doesn’t seem to have the same promise as the quaaludes that were popular when I was a youngster. Not that I ever used them. But whatever.
