Sunday, July 22, 2007

Marriage: Probably not worth it

So, there I was, on my so-called summer blog vacation, supposed to be getting shit done, but I wasn't. I did manage to go to doctor's appointments and what-not, but stupid me, I forgot it was Migraine Week, and I picked up some kind of a bug that made the lymph nodes in my neck all puffy and made me all tired, so I was just sleeping a lot.

I did manage to do one thing, though; I made broccoli salad. I had been meaning to make some broccoli salad for a while, as I had tried it at the deli in Stater Bros., and I was pretty sure I could make it for far less than the $5.99 per lb. they were charging for it. So, I got all the ingredients, about $10 worth (which may not seem much, but we are on a budget) and made a huge batch. So that was what I had done tonight.

But now, sadly, I will never be able to eat my broccoli salad. I have gone off it.

"Why?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you why. The Spouse Sparrow, who had been slagging off my broccoli salad all night, telling me how minging it was, decided to have some.

Of course, I didn't find this part out until he boked it all up over my side of the bed, my pillows, and my side of the bedroom, floor and walls and baby crib included. Oh no, I never would have known he had eaten any broccoli salad if the entire bedroom, including exercise bike, shoes, dressers, and spare blanket were not covered in little broccoli florets. The carpet is drenched, as before he ate the broccoli salad, he drank an assload of vodka, followed by a lot of water, apparently.

He then went on to liberally coat the hallway and the bathroom in tiny chunks of greenery. Yes, there was also carrots, as the broccoli salad had carrots in it. My only saving grace is that I was at the computer, and not in the bed when he horked. The baby, asleep in his crib, missed getting puked on by about 6 inches. Nice.

I could kill the Spouse Sparrow, I really could. It's left to me, the one with the horrible headache, to mop up the mattress, bedroom, bathroom, etc., while he is passed out on the couch. I'm the one that will be up all night washing pillows, sheets, and trying to pick chunks out of the carpet. I'm the one who'll spend the next 3 days shampooing the carpet in the bedroom and the hallway. I'm the one that is scared of bugs, and now I have to go back and forth to wash all the stuff, out in the garage with all the flying, crawling, and hopping things.

And it really, really chaps my thighs because he fucking well knows that I have a serious phobia, an actual phobia, about people barfing, and he really, really knows I don't like him to drink that much. I don't care if it's part of the British/Irish culture, he's fucking well in America now and he should adjust.

He is passed out on the couch at the minute, as the mattress will have to dry out for a day or so (and will still smell like shite when it does, and let's not forget that smell will be on my side), and I am tempted to smother him with my puked-on pillow. And do you know what's stopping me? The thought of him shitting and pissing on the couch when he carks it from me smothering him. I would kill him, but I'd just have another mess to clean up.

And he actually had the audacity to give me a dirty look when I ordered him out of the bedroom and on to the couch, and provided him with the barf bucket.

Truly, the thrill is gone.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Like summer vacation, but without the vacation part

I'll be taking some time off from the blog circuit for the next week or two, as I have doctor's appointments and tests for me and the sprogs, and I need to get the kids' room sorted out so that we can finally start to get the Nestling Sparrow out of our room and into the other room with the Fledgling Sparrow. That will involve stripping and repainting a bed, cleaning the carpet, painting, renovating, and boxing up two tons of crap, not to mention the wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part.

I also need to sort out all the crap my parents dumped on me when they downsized, sort stuff for a yard sale, patch and paint our bedroom, clean the upholstery in the living room, and.... Well, you get the idea. I've been feeling a tad better lately, so I figure I should get stuck in before the weather gets too hot to be able to do anything (we only have a swamp cooler for the house), or my healthy spell wears off.

So, posting will be sporadic to non-existent, along with me making the blog rounds to all of yours. I'll try to sneak in to visit you lot whenever I have some spare time.

If you simply cannot bear not knowing when my next post will come out, you can scroll down in my side bar to sign up for Feedburner e-mail notification when a new post is up. And I can still be reached by e-mail, of course, if anyone needs to get a hold of me.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, July 12, 2007

An open letter to the dirty minger that used the toilet at Stater Bros.

Dear Dirty Minger that used the toilet at Stater Bros. --

Thank you so much for leaving the bathroom in Stater Bros. in such a state, as there is nothing I like more than to use a bathroom where someone has left a snail trail all over the toilet seat.

Even better is when it is a bloody snail trail, like the one you left when removing your tampon.

Even better than that is seeing where you have flung your used, bloody tampon, as you tried to get it in to the bin. Rest assured that when it comes to wall art, Jackson Pollock has nothing on you.

Looking at that wall, I could truly feel your state of mind when you tried to chuck that unwrapped, used snatch plug into the trash can. To you, that state of mind says "I too can be empowered just like Sheryl Crow, and not use unnecessary toilet paper." To me, that state of mind says "I am a precious fuckwit, and I think I am too good to touch anything that comes out of my body, as it is icky."

Grow up. If you don't know by now that you need to wrap up your vampire's teabag after you have rooted it out of your stench trench, you are not mature enough to be using one anyway. You weren't beyond touching yourself when you shoved that cotton version of the Hoover Dam up there, so you certainly aren't too good to wrap it up in bog roll when it comes out.

If I see you in the street, I will drop trou right then and there, squirt out my Tampax Slender Regular, and bitch slap you with it.

And for fuck's sake, wipe your fucking piss flaps already, and use more than one square of toilet paper while you're doing it, you dirty, dirty minger.


Fat Sparrow

Monday, July 09, 2007

Really? You don't say

Your Anti Climactic Fortune

In the future, I foresee.... Continued human stupidity, in the form of bloggers who like to hide behind various personalities, and have nothing better to do with their time. I also predict that these same bloggers will be exposed for what they are, i.e., a pack of lying and denying cunts.

Live Earth? Not for long

Boy, nothing says "I want to stop global warming" like setting up concerts all over the world and encouraging millions of people to drive or fly to them, not to mention the gazillions of kilowatts of electricity being used to light up and power the concerts. And let's not forget the gas that's being used to truck in the beer that is being sold for $7 a cup and truck out the boke, piss, and shit.

I suppose "Live Earth: Let's Stay Home And Listen To Music" just doesn't have the same kind of ring to it.

Al Gore is really, really on my list, the cunt.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, July 07, 2007

I knew he wanted me

I have been trying for ages to get the ride off Philip, and finally, he has at least fingered me. I am encouraged at this sign of foreplay, but also disturbed, as it seems he is in to the really perverted stuff: Memes.

Now, quit gasping in horror. Some people just consider them "kinky."

Either way, I get to do it 8 times, and here it goes....

1) I never heard the word "fuck" until I was 12 years old, and I had no idea what it meant. I dare say I've made up for that. And to think, people say that kids don't learn anything in public schools.

2) I was a child prodigy, and I learned to read at 9 months, and could read a newspaper by the time I was 18 months old. I have done fuck all since then.

3) My pinkie fingers on my hands are abnormally short. When I was a child, my mother had to sew up the pinkie fingers in all my gloves because of this. You would think that this would have clued her in to the fact that piano lessons were not for me, but oh no, it did not.

4) I have nipples like JCB starter buttons, and I like anal sex. Those two things may be completely unrelated.

5) In my youth, I memorized the New Testament, which was a complete waste of time. I did win a prize, although I can't remember what it was. Anyway, the important thing was: I won!

6) When I first started driving, I came upon the scene of an accident on the freeway. Traffic had slowed to a stop. For 5 minutes, I looked out my car window at a severed head. I couldn't have gotten out of my car without kicking the head out of the way. I can still see that head, in my memory. It had a rather shocked expression on its face.

7) When I was a child, I read unabridged dictionaries and encyclopedias for fun.

8) My dentist tells me that my mouth is too small and my tongue is too big. I'm beginning to wonder what he has in mind by telling me all this.

Fat Sparrow

People I am fingering: First Nations, Fumie, Devin, Annie, Sassy, Gimme A Minute, and Old Knudsen. I know Old Knudsen won't do it, but I just like to finger him. Oh, and let's toss Eddie in too, as I suspect he secretly wants a three-way with me and Footie, who has also tagged him.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

An inconvenient truth: You're a fuckwit

Al Gore's son was arrested, as I'm sure you've heard.

Personally, I am shocked.

I had no idea that a Toyota Prius could do 100 MPH.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Happy Fourth of July!

I've had a valium, and am feeling a tad mellower.

I ran across a quote that I liked, from Erma Bombeck:

"You have to love a nation that celecbrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism."

I'm off to be patriotic fat fucker. If I don't eat, the terrorists have won.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Forced patriotism and family gatherings

Neither one is valid.

I found out yesterday that all of our little happy family plans for the 4th have been shattered. Why? Because my brother's a cunt. In fairness, it's not completely his fault, but he's still a cunt.

Some background:

I made a really dumb mistake years back, and hooked up my brother with my daughter's babysitter. My daughter's babysitter used to live next door to us, and her mom still does, although her dad died recently. My brother married her, and so now what was previously just my next-door neighbors turned in to my brother's in-laws.

Spouse Sparrow and I had planned a nice little Fourth of July celebration, just us and the kids, as this is the last year that fireworks will be legal in our city thanks to the city council, the unbearable witless mongs. I can't believe I voted for them. I saved my receipt from voting, and I am going to demand my money back, the fuckers.

This being the last year that fireworks are legal here is kind of a big deal to me, because we have the sprogs, but no car, so it's not like we can go and see the public fireworks displays. Spouse Sparrow even humoured me and splurged and bought a nice little assortment of fireworks with the last of his birthday money that his family had sent him. He set some money aside for some beer, and we were going to barbecue, veg out, and set some explosives on fire. Nothing fancy, nothing involving any cleaning of the house, or dressing up, or even wearing a bra.

Then my next-door neighbor came to the door to invite us to a party and barbecue she's having. My parents (thanks a lot for the heads up, Mom!), my brother and his wife and their three girls, the Hell Kittens, will all be there. It's right fucking next door, with all my family, and so there's no way I can get out of it. I'll have to spend all day listening to my idiot brother (we'll call him "Shane"; if you're a fan of "The Shield," this should give you some clue as to his personality, bearing in mind that Shane on "The Shield" looks like a fucking genius and a liberal compared to my brother) mouth off about absolutely everything, including all his little racist tirades and xenophobic crap, not to mention his foul fucking language (I'm a perfect fucking laydee except on this blog, I'll have you know) and I'll have to put up with all of it in the name of family harmony. I'll also have to put up with a whole bunch of stupid, forced patriotism and probably some religious crap, too, thrown in for good measure.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm fond of my country. No matter how much I slag it off, I still think that at least we're trying, and no one's perfect, and furthermore, there's lots worse countries out there. I just don't like to be forced to be patriotic, or risk looking bad. It's like Mother's Day and Father's Day; you're over a barrel and have to pay 6 fucking dollars for a card or you look like a right cunt. It's not fair. What's also not fair is that all of my white trash neighbors look well patriotic, with their stupid huge flags and their strutting and their yellow ribbons, but none of the stupid twats vote, while I do, so who's more patriotic? I do believe that would be me, even though you won't see a flag in sight and even though I am constantly taking the piss out of America.

I have to clean my house, because the nosy bitch that is my sister-in-law will come up with some excuse for wanting to come in and poke around. I have to turn on the oven and bake a cake, even though it's going to be 90 degrees in the house before I even fire up the oven, and that's with the swamp cooler on. I'll have to smile and act cheerful and not slap the Hell Kittens when they push and shove the Nestling Sparrow, and I'll have to wear a fucking bra. And to top it all off, it's supposed to be 109 degrees on the Fourth.

The Spouse Sparrow has informed me that he is boycotting this family gathering, and I would too, if I could get away with it. Instead, I'll have to be out there, exposing my kids to a bunch of crap I'd rather they not hear, with the Nestling Sparrow picking up all kinds of bad manners and habits from the Hell Kittens, and my digestion being totally ruined from having to be around my brother.

The next-door neighbor told me that my parents are bringing fireworks, so I suppose we'll just save ours for next year and risk getting a ticket. It's not like you can see our house from the street, anyway, and ours are just little quiet fireworks, as the big noisy whistling ones scare the Nestling Sparrow. I'm sure my parents will have sprung for the really big expensive collection of fireworks, with all the noisemakers, so I'll probably have to bring the Nestling Sparrow back in the house beforehand, so I don't have to listen to my dad and my brother rag on him for not being tough enough to take the fireworks.

So much for our lovely holiday.

Fat Sparrow