Suzanne Olsen's Humor Blog - I don't offend some of the people most of the time

Month: March 2010 Page 2 of 4

Wicker or Liquor?

Carol, my friend’s mom, is 79 years old. She claims to have been an this close to being an Olympic ice skater. It’s hard to believe because now she walks slow and hunched over like Yoda. She told some interesting stories.

A couple of weeks ago, on her way home from her furniture store, she had filled her with wicker. Every time the road curved, the wicker in the passenger seat rolled over and bumped the gearshift. She shoved it back in place each time.

When she was almost home, police lights appeared in her rear view mirror. She pulled over.

“Lady, are you drinking?”

“No, officer, I don’t drink.”

“I’ve been following you for about ten minutes and you’ve been weaving all over the road.”

“It’s the wicker,” she explained.

“Are you sure it’s not the liquor?” he asked.

Finally he let her go with a warning, but she was befuddled. When she got home, she somehow got herself into the dog pen. I’ve heard the story twice and can’t figure out how this happened, and didn’t want to belabor the point (or extend the story) so I took it at face value. She went into the pen for some reason and locked the padlock before she remembered to go back out.

It was a cold, dark Montana night and she lives in the middle of nowhere. No one else was home, and she didn’t have a cell phone. She yelled and screamed for awhile but knew no one could hear. Finally she stacked a few items that happened to be in the pen – “the dog’s stool,” a bucket she uses for fireplace ashes and a grocery cart – up on each other. I didn’t dare ask why the dog needed a stool, much else why the ash bucket was in the dog pen. By the time she mentioned the grocery cart I was over being surprised. She managed to climb up these items and get to the top of the chain link fence, straddling it and thinking, “How the hell am I going to get back down the other side?”

Within seconds she found the answer when she lost her balance and fell – plop – on the ground. Despite the six-foot fall, she got up, brushed herself off and lived to tell the story.

That’s the end of the story, and as exciting as it is, I have to wonder how much of it is true. She told another story about a policeman pulling her over and saying, “Lady, I clocked you at 67 mph.”

“That’s not right,” she said, “I was going 75.” He threw back his head and laughed for a long time, then said, “Lady, because you’re so honest I’m going to let you off this time.”

There were other stories along these lines – notably the Olympic ice skating and being asked out by Frank Gifford. I don’t doubt that she is totally honest. On the other hand, I have stories that I tell that I’m no longer positive even happened. I’m pretty sure most of the details are correct, but some are fuzzy and I think I might have put in some embellishments without even knowing it. That’s what happens when you tell the same stories so many times over so many years.

In the end, I don’t know if it matters how much truth there is. If someone can tell a good story and hold my interest, I’m not so sure I care about the particulars. Carol has that gift, and we enjoyed our dinner with her tonight. I hope my stories can hold the attention and get a laugh out of the young folks when I’m 79 like Carol’s do. Thanks for the memories – no matter what they are.

Score Some Gore

I just watched a movie called, “Zombieland” that was a gorefest, and yet it didn’t bother me. Knowing it was just a fake spoof or something made me not care that zombies were biting into people’s faces and yanking off their arms to eat like Henry the VIIIth gnawing a turkey leg.

The lead characters, two guys and two sisters, one of whom was 12, survived by blasting the zombies in the face with shotguns – twice – and running over them – and backing back over them – with cars, and smashing their heads in with baseball bats. Anything that would have had me pressing the off button on a regular show.

The blood and guts looked real, the shooting looked real, but I continued watching without blinking an eye. However, I have to turn my head if there’s the least little finger prick on a “real” show. I can’t stand to watch people hurt themselves or being hurt.

One exception is “America’s Funniest Videos.” Those skateboarders who ride down handrails and lose their balance – the boys who end up crashing down spread-eagled on the metal bar – I cringe, but I laugh. Same with the guys on bikes going up homemade jumps that collapse, the guys on sleds, the guys on stage that are either drunk or lose their balance. All that stuff is so funny, even though you know some of those guys are getting pretty bruised.

This Zombieland wasn’t much of a movie – I don’t think it’s going to get an Oscar. But it had a few entertaining moments. Woody Harrelson was in it, and my favorite line of his was when he was rallying the gang to be brave: “It’s time to nut up.” Half the gang was female.

I can’t remember much more than that. It reminded me of “Shaun of the Dead,” except that movie was way funnier and not nearly as gory. There were some old drive-in movies we teenagers used to go to that were gorefests, but they took themselves seriously. None were memorable at all because the acting was so awful and they were so poorly done. One thing I vaguely recall was a guy smacking another with a rubber hose. It struck us as hilarious. What screenwriting genius came up with that?

I’m not a fan of blood and guts, and I can’t stand war movies, but give me a good old gory spoof to pass the time, especially if it has a laugh. My favorite horror spoof is “Bubba Ho Tep.” Rent it if you can find it. You won’t regret it.

The Naked Truth

I surfaced today after a week of ball busting, number crunching, endless work of helping to get a bid together for my company, so I wanted to see what’s going on in the world.

I went to BBC’s website and saw a fascinating story about human fish. These are people in Lagos, Nigeria who swim to the bottom of the sea and bring up buckets of sand. It was hard to tell how many people where doing this because heads were popping out of the water everywhere like that kids’ amusement hall game with gophers coming up that you bonk back into their hole with a mallort. I don’t know how long they were on the bottom filling the baskets with sand with their hands and hauling the heavy things up to the surface, but it seemed like hard work. They dumped the basket in a boat and went back down, hour after hour.

It reminded me of chasing pennies in the deep end at the swimming pool, except a penny weighs nothing and we were only under the water exactly long enough to swim like tadpoles to the 10 foot bottom, snatch the coin, surface gasping for air, swim to the side, and rest for awhile before throwing the penny again. While we were down there for those few seconds, it felt like someone was ramming their thumbs in our ears – I guess from the water pressure. These Lagos guys must truly be part fish.

As interesting as that was, my curiosity was piqued by another title. “Can people unlearn their naked shame?” It’s loading right now – excuse me while I watch.

Well, that was certainly educational – and I’m saying this sarcastically – thought I’d tell you since you can’t actually hear my voice. They brought in 15 men and asked them to take their shirts off. Then a doctor photographed them. Then they shaved the guys’ backs and chests and took another photograph. They probably went through a lot of razors because a couple of those guys looked like orangutans. Then the good doctor assembled some studious looking men and women and had them rate the photos on the slide show according to attractiveness. The finding? That some hair was okay on a certain physique, but overall both men and women prefer a guy who has little to no hair.

Like a whole lot of “scientific” research, I could have told them the outcome of this one before those guys got shaved and have to itch for months while the hair grows back. Nobody desires a wooly mammoth, though all kinds of people fall in love with the person inside all that hair. The certain physique I mentioned above was one in which the guy’s breasts were not the biggest part of his chest. Turn out people like a lean, mean, hairless machine.

One final video was Dame Joan Bakewell giving tips on growing old. Or so they claimed, but this is not what she did at all. She simply answered five minutes worth of questions and said that, at age 76, she misses her memory but she’s doing pretty good. She looked darned good, too. Many people my age don’t look that good, including me first thing this morning. So she has inspired me to continue living a full life even when I reach her age, which will be awhile, I hope.

Meantime, I’m not going to trust two-thirds of the headlines I read on the BBC’s website. Though I do love the BBC. They have such a sense of humor about their news. Oh my gosh, I just scrolled down and saw there was also an article about the naked shame that shows naked men (from the back) and must talk about their naked bodies. What am I doing writing this blog? I’ve got some scientific research to do. See ya tomorrow.

Mom’s Medical Myths

Tonight I had to take my daughter to an Urgent Care because she spiked herself in track. That sounds like something illegal or immoral. It doesn’t sound like the name of a rock band, however (inside joke).

I’m not sure how you spike yourself on the side of the leg just under the knee, since it has to be done by one of your own feet wearing a track shoe with spikes, but she was pole vaulting and found a way. She came home limping and bleeding with a bandage the size of a sheet of paper on her leg.

Unfortunately, her timing couldn’t have been worse because my son was coming over for dinner for the first time since he moved out, so I was preoccupied making hamburgers. “We’ve got 24 hours to get you stitches if you need them, so we might as well all sit down and eat,” I told her.

I don’t know where I got the 24 hour rule, which is much like the 5 second rule of letting food drop on the floor and being able to pick it up and eat it. Within 5 seconds it doesn’t get any dirt or germs – after  that it’s infested. This is a handy rule with small children because they are constantly dropping food, either by accident or on purpose. If it’s an accident, like if it’s candy, they cry but you can cure that immediately by saying in a very chipper voice, “5 second rule!” and pick it up and give it to them. If they’ve dropped it on purpose, like if it’s broccoli, then you can say in a flat voice, “You know the 5 second rule,” then pick up the broccoli and put it back on their plate so they learn they’ll have to come up with something more creative to get out of eating “healthy” food.

If some of you reading this think it’s disgusting that I have picked food off the floor, let me assure you that it is a common practice among the mothers I know, and we are not meth moms.

Anyway, we had a rather pleasant dinner, and fortunately for my daughter, my son was chomping at the bit to leave because he had a friend coming over, so we went directly to the clinic. They looked at her gash and said, “Yep, she needs stitches.”

A rather cute, very young doctor, who I had passed in the hall earlier and, I’m telling the truth, he winked at me, came in and examined the wound. He smiled with dimples before he told us that he would be injecting pain killer right into the wound itself. We gasped.

“It’s a very short needle,” he said reassuringly.

“Oh yeah,” I said, “like that’s going to make a difference.” I continued to joke and kid around, getting a snicker out of my daughter here and there. Apparently to the medical staff, however, this was no laughing matter.

Part of the reason my daughter was snickering was because I had informed her earlier that the gash, swollen and on the soft, puckery tissue of the inside of her leg just below the knee area, looked like a woman’s private. She shushed me, of course, but as the doctor squeezed the wound and prepared to stitch, there was no denying the resemblance. I told her to take pictures with her phone, and when she showed me the first one, a close-up of the gaping wound just prior to the first stitch, it looked like pornography.

We watched him sew her up, which he did with delicate precision using a needle shaped like a U, pulling at the skin on the side with tweezers that made us both cringe, and slipping the U through then repeating on the other side before tying the whole thing in several carefully engineered knots. If I had been young and single I would have said, in a heavy southern accent, “Oh, doctor, you have such wonderful hands.”

Instead I made pleasant conversation. “Good thing she’s within the 24 hour rule of getting stitches,” I said to show how medically astute I was.

“Oh no,” he said. “Only 6 hours,” after that she risks serious infection.” My daughter scowled at me because I had forced her to sit and eat before getting medical attention. “Well, we’re still safe then, since it’s only been two hours since it happened.”

I did not mention the 5-second rule.

Rusty Saws and Beeping Comics

I always type my titles last, and the one tonight could be names for two rock bands. Yes, I stole that idea from Dave Barry. Sue me.

I was working late tonight in my home office and my husband was asleep on the couch where he usually is from about 7:00 on, and the TV was blaring on some gruesome History channel thing about cutting people’s legs and arms off. They showed these awful saws that the doctors used, saying how they had to briskly saw back and forth because it was hard to keep the patient still, even with two assistants holding the poor guy down. Ghastly. I can see the TV from my desk and even knowing I’d have nightmares, I couldn’t resist looking, which only served to disturb me.

I was too engrossed in what I was doing to go in and turn the hideous spectacle off at first, but finally I couldn’t take anymore. I turned it to Comedy Central thinking I could get subliminally inspired for tonight’s post by listening to jokes.

A show came on that was such an abomination I shudder to think this is the stuff my son is watching. I knew he is the target audience because it was an extremely trashy cartoon with the cartoon characters, trashing sketches of guys, saying stuff I didn’t think they allowed on TV. The plot was a teacher trying to teach boys not to have sex with hundreds of women. There may have been zombies involved, I kept hearing that word. The job of the teacher in this episode was to say the words, “…have sex with hundreds of women…” as many ways as he possibly could in one TV show. I think he broke his own record. Everything anyone said at any time was answered with something like, “We have to cure you so you won’t want to have sex with hundreds of women.”

Again, I was too engrossed in what I was doing to get up. My company is putting in a bid to do a huge solar project, and I’m designing the bid. I worked 16 hours today – mostly because I’m slow and meticulous (and make mistakes). I got ‘er done, though, but not without orofactory torture (that’s ear torture and Word is telling me it’s misspelled but I’m not looking it up this late at night).

The next show that came on was a stand up comedy show with this raunchy comedienne who may or may not have been funny. The audience was laughing, so I guess he was, but we viewers at home heard this: “And then the beep beeper said get your sorry beep beep beep the beep out of here or else I’ll knock the beep out of you with a beeping baseball bat after I ram it the beep up your beep.”

Do you know how annoying it is to hear all that high-pitched beeping when you’re exhausted? I’ll tell you how annoying it is. After about three minutes I had had it. I marched right in and turned off the TV, which startled my husband awake because I grabbed the remote, which he was not holding – but he has remote radar. If anyone touches the remote and he’s in another room he comes out flying and snatches it.

“Why’d you turn that off, I was watching that!”

“How come you were snoring?”

“I wasn’t snoring. I told you I don’t snore.”

I’m going to go to bed and put my earplugs in because I love having a wad of memory foam in my ears all night long, and dream of beeping rusty saws. Shiver!

This Spells Trouble

Have you ever had to spell something to make sure a child doesn’t know what you’re talking about? The family might be watching something on TV and you say to your husband, “Better switch the station because this next show has a lot of S-E-X in it.”

I used to do a ton of that when my kids were little. It was like some kind of Morse code. “Don’t get the i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m out before the kids go to bed or they’ll have to brush their teeth again. And by the way, I’m too tired for s-e-x so don’t wake me up.”

This is a very common practice with most families who have kids who haven’t gone to school yet, and for some parents with kids in high school. Some students managed to get passed along because they were troublemakers and the teacher didn’t want to risk another year with them. Believe me, I know this must have happened because I volunteer tutor and I’m pretty amazed at what I see. But I’m sure I’ve harped on this in a prior blog so I’m not going to waste people’s time going on a rant.

Yes we have s-p-e-l-l-e-d things out for our small children, but have you ever spelled words out for your dog? Around my house we can’t say certain words around our Yorkie Poo because she’ll whimper us to death if she thinks we’re contemplating giving her something. I’m talking about b-u-t-t-e-r. (She’s in my lap right now and can see the computer). This dog lusts for butter around the clock. We leave ours out in a cupboard because this is one b-u-t-t-e-r loving family and we like it soft. We go through a stick every day or two, so it doesn’t have time to spoil. If someone leaves the plate of b-u-t-t-e-r on the counter rather than putting it in the cupboard, the dog whimpers all pitiful-like until someone gets up off the comfortable couch and gives her a chunk. B-u-t-t-e-r to her is like chocolate to us, I suppose.

What I usually do is slice a little off and sling it right on the tile floor. This may seem disgusting but it does not really even hit the floor before she’s on it and looking back up at you to see when the next chunk gets fired off. I have hit the dog right between the eyes by mistake, which is a tragedy for both of us – her because she can’t reach it and me because I’ve got a b-u-t-t-e-r-y mess to contend with.

I thought I was the only one who spelled around my dog until today. I was walking with my friend and her dog ran past another dog, stopped, did a double take and ran back to check out the dog in that fashion that all dogs have. Laurie says, “Oh Pepper, are you checking out his b-u-t-t?”

“Laurie, you don’t have to spell butt, it’s not a cuss word.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but I always have to spell stuff around him or he goes nuts.”

So in conclusion, and I don’t want to make sweeping generalizations here and am only basing this on observations I have personally made, it appears that some dogs are smarter than some high school students.

I know for a fact that dogs are certainly easier to train.

Computer-Fried Brain

I have been staring at my computer for hours and my brain is fried. I bet a lot of people feel this way. I read somewhere that nearsightedness is up by 42% or something, and I’m sure it’s because of computers.

Twenty years ago if someone told me I’d be staring at a bright light for hours at a time, I would have thought it was some Bush Administration torture. My eyes burn and water, and the next morning everything is out of focus.

I’ve been chained to my computer creating this cartoon movie that took about 72 hours to make and is about 45 seconds long. If I can figure out how to upload it I will, but just in case I can’t, I’ll tell you the plot. BTW it was for an Adobe Flash class I’m taking.

There’s this Martian (from Mars) who lands a spaceship on Earth and starts walking. First a bumblebee stings him, then a dog bites him, then a skunk sprays him. So he turns around and walks back to his spaceship and goes back to Mars. The End.

Why did something so easy take so long? The Flash program is not really all that complicated, but you have to be precise with everything, and that was my downfall. It probably took my classmates three or four hours at the most. I had to keep looking at my notes, looking at the textbook, and still I couldn’t get it right.

Walt Disney this is not. I have a highly elevated respect for those guys now that I’ve done my own animation. Their cartoons actually move like something normal. Mine are just pictures yanking from one place to the next – a picture of a bee zigging a half inch here and zagging a half inch there. It’s actually pretty pathetic. I’m not going to upload it because I’ll be embarrassed.

So I’ll talk about the other fun things I did today besides work.

Well enough of that. I read a quote by Bob Dylan that went something like this: Money isn’t what’s important. What’s important is getting up in the morning and going to bed at night, and doing whatever you like in between. It’s a good philosophy, and one of these days, if I can figure out how to break the chains on this computer, I’m going to do what I like in between. Crazy thing is, I like working on my computer, I just don’t like looking at it, and I don’t like having a fried brain.

That is why I’m going to turn it off right now.

Useless Additions

I saw someone’s house the other day that had a big second-floor deck that looked right onto the street and directly into their neighbor’s house. Who would go out on such a deck? I guess if you wanted to smoke, maybe, but are you going to sit out there and stare down into the front window of your neighbor? Seems like the person would go downstairs where there was a fenced yard and hang out in private. The only reason I could see for that deck was a builder thought it would be a good selling point, “And here’s a deck right off the master bedroom!”

Earth Day is bound to be coming up sometime in the future, and everyone is always talking about ways we can conserve or live more sensibly. Someone needs to inform builders and homebuyers that they really don’t need a lot of this useless window dressing.

Like fireplaces. What a waste. They’re messy, practically worthless for actually heating anything, and most of them don’t ever get used. You know why? Because they smoke like a…chimney. Light one up and you get a smoke streak on the wall above the fireplace. When we bought the house we’re in now, the bricks surrounding the fireplace had been painted white, and they were so streaked it looked like black sunrays.

And why do we need all those extra rooms? I’ll tell you. Because most of us have so much junk we have to have separate rooms for everything – a sewing room for our hobbies, entertainment room to fit a wall-sized TV, exercise room to collect spider webs, mudroom to hang coats and keep mud out of the entry room, and a bonus room to stick our children so they don’t bother us. Remember old timey shows like Happy Days where families hung out TOGETHER in the living room? They watched the same shows on a little box of a TV and enjoyed the shows as much as we do today. Maybe more, because today it’s embarrassing to watch TV with your children in the same room. Even if you’re watching a G rated show, the commercials are often R rated. Drives me nuts.

And since when does everyone need their own bathrooms? I remember growing up and having only one. Someone was always banging on the door wanting in. One of my best friends had eight people in her house, with only one bathroom. Today everyone has their own, or only has to share with one other person. Our friends have a vacation home with six bedrooms and six bathrooms. The house sits empty most of the time, or just the two of them go over for a couple of days here and there. There must be hundreds of dead trees sawed up to make that house.

I wonder how many kids these days have missed out on the experience of shifting from one leg to the other, trying to hold it while they wait for the bathroom door to open.

I remember my dad had radar for whenever we went in the bathroom. I barely got the door shut he started pounding on the door needing to get in. “Hurry up and get out of there,” he said every single time. My husband is like that, too. I think it’s a guy thing. They don’t want to have to share their throne.

I also remember little turf wars with my brother when I’d take extra time to get something done in there out of spite. He did the same thing to me. My kids do this too – brings back good memories to hear them screaming at each other and pounding on the door.

So in honor of Earth Day, whenever it might be, I hope you will reconsider trying to have it all and keep up with the trends, and the Joneses. Many of the things I thought I needed in life weren’t necessary after all – like boots that I rarely wear, towels I only have out for decoration, my children. Just kidding on that last one.

The thing about life is, it isn’t about things. I just made that up – profound, huh?

Performance Anxiety

Does anyone except me have performance anxiety? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about not being able to do things as well when someone is watching. I noticed this first when I tried to play piano at a recital. Even though I knew the piece backwards and forward because it was something very simple like chopsticks, when I got up in front of everyone my mind was blank as a dumb blond’s face.

Actually I was going to say: “As blank as a piece of notebook paper,” but then I decided that was a cliché. So I wondered what else was blank, and I thought of a blond girl I knew who used to stare off into space. That seemed to fit – I just added the “dumb” part because it seemed funnier.

Back to my recital. So I came up blank, and my teacher whispered, “D, then C.” He might as well have been saying @%#$ and &*%@# because I didn’t have a brain left to think. It had turned to liquid and was flowing under my shirt down to my ankles. My fingers were dis-attached from my body. I was frozen in time and space, except the time was passing very very slowly. I felt my classmates staring at me, waiting for the show to begin. I saw them start to squirm and look around. Still the fingers didn’t move. “Would you like to do your recital later,” I heard my teacher say in the distance. “Yes,” I said, like I was grabbing a lifeline.

Later came after the next person. By then I had rehearsed again and willed myself to perform, which I did, though I was miserable.

I decided that I was not cut out to be a concert pianist since I couldn’t perform. After that I started noticing a certain self-consciousness whenever people were watching.

A couple of nights ago I had a strange dream. I dreamed I was out in the woods taking pictures with my digital camera. I was capturing some gorgeous shots of flowers and honeybees when a school popped up that had a beautiful candy counter with exotic candies. I started taking pictures of them, getting some great shots, then President and Mrs. Obama drove up in a limo. The school authorities and colorfully clad children surrounded them, and I took pictures of that. Suddenly, Obama saw me and said, “Will you please get some pictures of me and the girls and candy?” I was astounded, even in my dream. But from that moment on, I could not take another picture. The lens fell off my camera. I pushed buttons that didn’t respond. I dropped the camera on the ground.

It’s pretty crazy when a person’s anxieties creep right into their dreams. Of course I was embarrassed to death because of all my fumbling. Finally the Obama’s went on their way, and I was left with no pictures, a broken camera and a broken heart.

I’ve decided I don’t care what people think. I’m going to do my best in spite of them watching. I’ll keep you posted about my success.

Inopportune Visits from the Police

This morning as I was racing across my bedroom from the shower to get to my closet, an idea popped into my head. You know those TV shows where the police break down someone’s door, their guns held out in front of them with both hands, as they yell, “FREEZE!!!!” Then they go through the house while dopers and greasers and thugs cower until one of the bad guys reaches for a gun and bullets start flying.

The residents of these places are drug dealers and murderers and other assorted no goods who expect the police to crash down their door at any minute.

Then you read in Reader’s Digest and other highly entertaining and informative journals about the police busting into a house with an elderly woman sitting there knitting who grabs her heart and has to be whisked off to the hospital because the police wrote the number down backwards or got the wrong street.

Ooops.

This seems to happen all the time. So as I was darting across the room in my birthday suit today, the thought crossed my mind: What if the police suddenly appeared at my bedroom door with their guns pointing at me and said, “FREEZE!!!”

Would I dive for cover because I was so embarrassed to be seen naked, risking my very life because I can’t manage to lose those extra few pounds that I don’t want anyone to see with the lights on?

What if I just stood there, naked as a Chihuahua? What would they do? Would they cuff me and drag me out into the street bare assed? Would they let me get a robe? Would they make fun of me? “Geeze, lady, how come you’ve let yourself go to fat? Hey Jack, come here and check this out. This woman’s got more dimples than a room full of babies. Ha Ha Ha!”

You never see these people who get busted on TV doing anything except sitting around the living room or running toward the back of the house. They’re fully clothed. On TV, the police never have to chase naked people around the house.

Then I had an even worse thought. What if I was on the toilet and they busted in? What if it was Number Two? What if they didn’t want to take any chances that I might run so they tried to cuff me right there? “Geeze, lady, what crawled up in you and died? I’m suffocating in here.”

“Please Mr. Nice Policeman, can I wipe before I go?”

“Aaaawgh, I gotta get out of here. Yeah, go ahead but don’t try any funny business. Ha Ha, Ha! Funny BUSINESS, get it?”

Then I thought: what if a couple were enjoying a little marital bliss on the dining room table and the police busted into the room. What would the husband do? “Officer, can you give me just 20 more seconds and I’ll go quietly?” And the wife? “Can you at least turn your heads? People got no manners these days.”

I entertained myself most of the morning with these scenarios. I don’t want anyone to get the impression that I might be subject to a sting by the local law enforcement authorities, because to the best of my knowledge I haven’t broken any laws warranting a door getting busted in. But if we’re to believe Readers Digest, then this could happen to any of us at any time. I thought about being constipated, and how a bust-in would work way better than X-Lax. If you have any funny scenarios, please share them.

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Copyright © 2021 by Suzanne Olsen