Payback

Hey, remember that time Ripken chewed the legs off our couch when we left alone for 20 minutes? Or that first Christmas with the in-laws and he pulled the entire roast off the counter and ran through the house with it? Or when he drug wet, dripping paint stirrer across the brand new wood floor? Oh, I know -- a oldie but a goodie -- the time he chewed all the stitched out of his arm pit because he had to have a mole removed. A MOLE? So we had to pay for him to be stitched up TWICE??? Remember. That?


Then there was monsoon season a couple of years ago and Ripken decided he could not do us the favor by taking a piss in the yard so he FLOODED our dining room because that totally seemed like a better idea than getting his feet wet. Oh, and when he finally did go out, it wasn't to pooh. No, he did that later, also in the dining room. He went out and played in the mud. Then came inside traumatised. No, don't recall it? Here, let me help you remember.


Yeah, well that's what I'm showing the word this next picture of you. Because a little shame never hurt anyone. Stay off my bed, fucker. And shit in the yard.

Sellout

Hi, Internet. Long time; no see.

I could go into all the reasons I haven't been writing, but it'd just bore you or piss you off. So lets just pretend like that absence didn't happen. You know, like when someone one drinks too much at Thanksgiving and then graphically describes the details of their recent vasectomy. And how it sounded and smelled exactly like the turkey that Grandpa Jo is carving RIGHT NOW.

Yeah, lets just pretend like this posting is the long car ride home afterward. You know the one where you're equal parts exhausted and relieved. The splendidly awesome car ride which includes a moment when you are finally decompressed a little and you lock eyes with your partner and realize you are both thinking the same thing: NEXT YEAR WE ARE SO GOING TO CANCUN.

That's what I'm saying, Internet. NEXT YEAR I'M TAKING AN EFFING VAY-CAY and not having, say, an incredibly painful biopsy of the woman junk. I mean, just hypothetically, I'm so NOT going to do that. Nor am I going to have to be raped by an internal ultrasound wand. TWICE. Nope, not doing that next year. Do you hear me 2010? Consider yourself warned, you are now medically the Year of the Z-Pak or the Year of Nasonex. Under no circumstances are we having 2010: Year of the Endometrial Ripping or Year of the Anal Fissure. Got that 2010?

Whew, so, yeah, lets just pretend like that embarrassing family moment didn't happen. Uncle Frank didn't polish off the eggnog by 10:30 in the morning then take his pants off and sing Carol of the Bells. Nope didn't happen. Nothing to see here. Uterus is fine. HYPOTHETICALLY, of course.

So moving on. Lets talk about something happy. Like money. People say money doesn't buy you happiness. Well, those jokers are broke. Yeah, I said it. People who don't think money can solve their problems don’t have the same issues I do. Can I get an "amen"?

Don't misunderstand, Internet, I am not our here in Houston rolling around naked in piles of hundreds and blowing my nose in 50 dollar bills. No, we're just making a modest profit off of the Ragmonster Empire. But you see the thing that diffrienciates us from feral animals is that we need hope. And that's what my business is: A dream that's fulfilling itself.

Anyway, this rather longwinded intro is to this: Ragmonsters and Sewngrown (my mom's handmade, children's products) are coming to a Sweet and Sassy boutique near you. Yeah, we're going corporate. The details are still being worked out, but within a month our products will be available in a REAL SHOP! So, I'm just saying watch out, Oprah. Here comes Momma Pug and she's got a Gail (Madge-and-a-Half) and a Steadman (The Mark Up.)

Today it’s the Hog Eye Festival; tomorrow it’s world domination.