John: (answering phone) “Hello?”

Voice: “Is this John F. Kerry, the guy running for President?”

John: “This is John F. Kerry speaking, and who is this? Do you realize it is the middle of the night?”

Voice: “You don’t recognize my voice?”

John: “No, I don’t recognize your voice, and stop playing games. Who the hell is this?”

Voice: “I can’t believe you don’t recognize my voice. How about this? (singing) ‘I just wanna be your teddy bear….Put a chain around my neck and lead me anywhere’.”

John: “Oh, so you’re some asshole Elvis impersonator. How did you get this number?”

Elvis: “Impersonator, my ass, Stork Boy. I’m the real goddamned deal.”

John: “Baloney. Everyone knows that Elvis is dead.”

Elvis: “Hey, I may be dead, but that don’t mean I’m gone. We get phone time up here in Rock ‘n Roll Heaven.”

John: “Rock ‘n Roll Heaven. You must be insane. Good bye.”

Elvis: “Wait! I’ll prove it to you. Look up at the ceiling. Look now, because I can only do this for a few seconds.”

John: (looks up) “Holy Shit! It’s your face! It just disappeared.”

Elvis: “Satisfied now?”

John: “I guess I am, but this is really weird. I’m calling Teresa in here.”

Elvis: “I didn’t call to talk to her. I called to talk to you.”

John: “Well, what is it you want?”

Elvis: “I wanna know WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

John: “What the hell do you mean by that? Nothing is wrong with me. In fact, I’m the democrat candidate for the presidency.”

Elvis: “Man, you are dumber than dirt. Of course I know that. I’m calling to tell you that you got no damned Elvis in you!”

John: “No Elvis in me? What does that mean?”

Elvis: “Hell, if you don’t know that means, then you’re even more screwed up than I had thought. Let’s see if I can help you with that. You are a sorry-assed Ichabod Crane lookin’ dork, you wear those ballet dancer looking duds when you ride a damned bicycle, you speak French, you’re boring as a damned dial tone, you can’t sing and you can’t play that damned guitar you keep having your picture taken with.”

John: “I can so play the guitar. Maybe even better than you.”

Elvis: “Listen, Hoss. One thing we learn here real fast is that bullshit doesn’t work. Something in the air actually identifies bullshit and turns the air a shade of green. I’m looking a little green cloud now forming around the phone, so don’t try to peddle your bullshit to me, OK?”

John: “OK, so I really can’t play the guitar worth a shit, and maybe I don’t have any Elvis in me. What’s the big deal?”

Elvis: “Jesus, you don’t get it, do you? Not havin’any Elvis in you doesn’t just mean that you can’t play the damned guitar. Not havin’ any Elvis in you means you’re talkin’ goddamned trash about the Commander in Chief while we got folks dying in the field. It means that you’re telling the people fighting in the war that they’re wastin’ their damned time, that they’re fighting the wrong war, at the wrong place, at the wrong time! What the HELL are you thinking about, boy?”

John: “I’ve had about enough of this.”

Elvis: “And what about that shit you pulled in 1971? Telling the Congress that American soldiers behaved like war criminals and then sitting down with the enemy while you were still in the goddamned military reserves? Hell, I was alive when you pulled that shit. If you had any Elvis in you, you’d never think of doing shit like that.”

John: “I already said that I may have gone too far in my testimony to congress in 1971, and as for the war, my position has always been consistent…..I have always believed that Saddam was a threat, but I……”

Elvis: “Bullshit! The green cloud here is about to fill the room. Truth is you were a lying opportunistic prick in 1971, and you’re STILL a lying, opportunistic prick. You talked trash in ’71 to get elected, and you’re talking the same trash now to get elected. And, guess what, Dickhead. Soldiers were dying when you did it in ’71 and they’re dying while you’re doing it now!”

John: “I think you are questioning my patriotism.”

Elvis: “You can think whatever you want, but I don’t intend to let you get away any more bullshit.”

John: “So what’s a dead drug addict like you going to do about it? Screw up the election?”

Elvis: “Hey Peckerwood, that’s a snap from up here. And, as for the ‘dead drug addict’ remark, sure I was a drug addict, but that was only because I had opportunistic pricks hang all over me for my money. Some of them even married me for my money. I also plan to have a little talk with that dumbass wife of yours before she starts hitting the pills. But that’s not all I have planned for you.”

John:

Elvis: “Just fixin’ the election and getting that rich wife of yours to toss you out on your ass is too easy on you. No, Dickhead, when your time comes, I’m gonna arrange to have you met by a couple thousand military people who are already up here and who are anxiously awaiting their chance to get their hands on your sorry ass. When they’re done with you, they’ll send what’s left of you to your final destination. Think about it, asshole. Bye for now.”

John:

Teresa: “John, JOHN!!! Wake up!!! You’re having a nightmare!!! Jesus, you’re all sweaty and you pissed in the bed. Get the hell in the shower, then put on clean pajamas and go back to sleep.”

John:

Teresa: “Don’t just lie there shaking. Do as I told you!”

John: “Muffin, do I have any Elvis in me?”

Teresa: “What’s an Elvis?”

John:

I saw an advertisement last night pitching NBC’s premier of yet another “reality” series. This one is called the “Biggest Loser.” I looked it up on the web to see whether the description of the show there sounded as appalling as it did in the advertisement.

The idea of the show is to find 24 overweight contestants (some are way, way overweight) and split them into two teams of 12 and then to have the teams compete in various “challenges.” I don’t know what the winners “win”. Perhaps a whiff of a protein bar. And, in a display of concept non-originality that only can be accomplished by network television, the roles of the show provide that each week the team will vote one of their members off the island team. The series will end with the person losing the most weight (I am assuming that it is percentage of body weight) winning $250,000.

What good fun it will be to watch the fatties compete in a stair climbing challenge and to watch them jiggle, gasp and sweat during their fitness-trainer led exercises. The trailer on the web even promises some crying fatties and some arguing and angry fatties. Fatty alliances are also in the offing.

Apparently there will even be systematic exposure of some of the super corpulent to “temptations,” which appear to consist of several tables brimming over with desserts. A real laugh riot, I tell you. We can all howl hysterically while one or more of the ample contestants mentally and emotionally struggles with the seductive power of an éclair or a big piece of chocolate cake.

I figure this to be a surefire hit among those people who would buy a ticket to a dwarf tossing contest or those who find it entertaining to watch people eat maggots on “Fear Factor.”

I’ll be taking a pass on this one. Oh, and I think I’ll also take a pass on the potato chips.

I used whatever functioning neurons I had today to try to think of how to properly capture the weekend by the Chattahoochee River in, of all places, a “Bavarian” village. There is no way to capture it other than to say it was, quite simply, the experience of a lifetime.

Of course, getting out of Atlanta was the pits. When we got off the plane, we saw the signs pointing to “baggage straight ahead,” and the other sign that also said “baggage,” but it pointed to the train. We decided to take the walk, instead of riding. “Hell, how far can it be?” It turned out to be a two-mile, underground hike, which led us to an empty baggage carousel. After we stood around for about fifteen minutes, looking like idiots wondering where the hell our baggage was, we went over to the baggage office, where our bags (and my guitar) were waiting for us. That’s when I learned from the friendly guy behind the counter that the walk we had just done was “two mahls.”

Then, it was on to the Hertz counter, where it seemed like half the state of Georgia was on line to rent a car. However, unlike the people in Jersey, everyone on line was OK with it, and the people behind the counter were pleasant as hell. You really notice stuff like that when you come from a state where most everyone walks around with a middle finger at the ready and an attitude a mile long.

After bucking the horrendous Atlanta traffic, the trip to Helen was uneventful and even fun. I did, however, notice lots and lots of churches. I figure that any time ten people get together in the south, they build church. I also saw numerous Bush-Cheney signs, which was a refreshing change from what one sees living in a Blue State.

After checking in to our digs, we drove over to the place everyone had agreed to meet. When we got there, the bloggers were easy to find. They were the noisy bunch on the second floor balcony. After a quick introduction, Eric led us to the “bar,” which marked the official beginning of the drinkfest “event.”

The Cast of Characters:

Eric, the Straight White Guy. I had spoken with Eric a couple times on the phone, so I knew his voice. Knowing his voice wasn’t necessary though, because there weren’t any other tall, red haired marine recruiter poster guys that I noticed. He had his custom Fender in tow, and it didn’t take us long to drag out the guitars. He is most definitely a party guy extraordinaire, although I understand he might be prone to slugging Yankees. Fortunately, I was spared (I think). I was also honored to meet Mrs. Straight White Guy, a lovely Scottish lassie, with whom I regret to say I did not get to spend nearly enough time chatting with.

Velocigod. You know how they often say that people don’t look like the mental picture you had formed of them? (I know, I know…You all thought I looked like Sting – sorry.) Well, it absolutely is true of Velociman. From his writing, I pictured him to look like one of those raggedy, sweaty, dirtbag, fly covered villains in a spaghetti western. I was dead assed wrong. The guy has the distinguished, handsome looks of a 747 pilot or the CEO of Exxon. His gentlemanly good looks notwithstanding; he is a gorilla-stomping party guy. I also watched him fling that cut-in-half ball, and I have to admit that there is no way I could have hit that thing. I believe he was also quite helpful in seeing to it that I didn’t do an ass-over-elbows going down the stairs after having sampled some of that amazing homemade Georgia “wine.” I will be forever grateful for that. Oh, then there is the bullwhip. Some scary shit, that. I also got to meet the Velociwife. She knows how to rock. I like her a whole bunch.

Acidman. What can I say? The guy is amazing. He has grabbed life by the balls and he’s not letting go for a better grip. It didn’t take long before he dragged out his Martin guitar, and we got to play and sing together. He’s damned good. If there is a heaven, I hope to spend it sitting around a table drinking, bullshitting and playing tunes with guys like him. I also got to spend a fair amount of time with him on Saturday afternoon in the Troll Bar (great name for a place for bloggers to drink), and he managed to crack my ass up, with one good story after another.

Dax Montana. Hilarious!! The guy takes no prisoners. Dax is the kind of guy I want on my side if the shit hits the fan. He came armed with some of his homemade Georgia wine (apple flavored), and was sadistic generous enough to let me “sample” as much of it as I wanted. I think he ran that batch through his car radiator. It was a fine drink and he is one fine guy.

Denny, the Grouchy Guy from Atlanta. He’s another guy who doesn’t look like I figured he would look. He calls himself “old,” but he and I are the same age, and I look like I have a good deal more mileage on me than he does. He’s about as interesting as anyone can be, and don’t believe him when he says he can’t play guitar well. He picked up Eric’s guitar and ripped into a piece by Bach. By comparison, I’m a rock and roll hacker. He’s a great guy, and I am sorry that he left on Saturday morning. I think he had a bit of vodka poisoning. Must have been bad ice.

Recondo 32 and Georgia. Now, these are two super people. Period. About thirty seconds in, Recondo said, “Hell, for me a trip up north, is a trip to Atlanta.” It was one gem after another from then on. Georgia…she’s super. A southern free spirit, with a sense of humor a mile long. She was the one who stayed on top of Mamamontezz’s transportation problem when everyone else was getting oiled. Obviously, Recondo knows that she is a keeper.

Geoff and Gordon, the Dog Snot Guys. It appears that, at least for a couple days, the Jawja Bloggers did us Jersey guys a favor and moved the Mason-Dixon line to a spot just below Massachusetts, because Geoff and Gordon were the “Yankees.” We were the Yankees, but with an asterisk. However, they gave as good as they got. Good guys, both.

Mamamontezz. As you can see from her post, she showed up late on Friday night, so I got to meet her on Saturday. She’s a great person with a terrific sense of humor and general take on life. She was, however, drinking blue shit, followed up by neon green shit. It was Boone’s Farm. I didn’t think that stuff was legal any more. I got to catch up with her during our ride back to the Atlanta airport on Sunday, and I’m glad I had that chance.

Catfish. I believe I could listen to him talk for hours. He has a melodic drawl, with a Mel Torme type velvety voice. He was drinking the blue and green shit with Mama, and I believe that he also “sampled” the homemade Georgia “wine.” Excellent guy.

Key Monroe. She was the bearer of Sam’s gifts, so she (and he) bear some responsibility for my condition, although I don’t believe she could be accused of forcing me to “sample” the homemade Georgia “wine.” This is one fine looking Southern woman, with brains to spare and a constant smile.

Kelley. A real hell raiser, who introduced herself as “The Mouth of the South.” Kelley is yet another example of a damned fine looking woman. Maybe it’s the water down there. Than again, maybe it’s the grits. Kelley is the one who presented me with my ten souvenirs that I don’t remember getting. I’ll spend the next year thinking of a way to return the favor. 😉

Evil White Guy. His blog is aptly named. He was the guy at the ready with a camera to snap my picture as walked out of the ladies’ room, wondering why there was no urinal in there. I owe him one.

Zonker. Zonker showed up on Saturday night, when we were all fairly well oiled. He came bearing a couple cartons of smokes as gifts, which were eagerly and happily accepted by the revelers. I lost track of him after a while. Then again, I lost track of a lot.

Blake, The Laughing Wolf. Blake made a special side trip to Helen to take a gander at the collection of misfits, and from there, he was headed off to the Scottish games. It was great to meet him. Sorry he couldn’t have stayed longer.

Acidman’s Buddy, Ken. I regret to say that he and his lovely wife are two more people I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time with. I hope to see them again.

My Buddy and Bodyguard, Ken. About a month or so ago, when I mentioned that I would be attending this event, Ken said, “I’m going too.” He wanted to come because it sounded like it would be a helluva party. If Ken had not been driving, I would have turned the car around in that Atlanta traffic and headed back north. He also got my impaired ass back to our digs, and saw to it that I didn’t leave half of my shit at the motel when it was time to pack and I was still trying to figure out where the hell I was. Ken’s not a blogger, and I believe the only blog he had ever read was this one, and only then about once per week. I’m guessing that, from now on, he will now be regular blog reader now that he has met the cast of characters.

I don’t think I have forgotten anyone, but if I have, I apologize. I’ll have to blame it on that fine, homemade Georgia “wine.”

I would like to thank all of you for the kind words and your friendship. You guys are the best.

Finally, thanks for the wonderful gifties – the shirt (Eric) and the mousepad (Recondo). I already brought the mousepad to work, and I haven’t decided if I want to wear the shirt or just keep it to remind me of my excellent adventure.

Oh, and like it or not, we’re coming next year.

I’m back. I’m still toxic.

Georgia “wine” — It seemed like a good idea at the time.

We had an absolute pisser with a great bunch of folks. More tomorrow when I can swallow my own spit.

Well, we are truly down to the short strokes for the Blogtoberfest. I am looking forward to meeting the attendees listed below and all the bloggers and non-bloggers who show up for this major drunken blowout cultural event, where I expect we will do some guitar pickin’, singin’ drinkin’, bullshittin’, boiled peanut eatin’, grits tastin’, and a good bit of laughin’. (See? I’m already starting to talk Southern.)

The List (as swiped from Blogtoberfest attendee, Kelley)

Adam, The Single Southern Guy
Dax Montana
Acidman, with boiled peanuts
Geoff and Gordon from Dog Snot Diaries (Fellow Yankees)
Steve of People Will Say We’re In Love
Mamamontezz, da Hoosier
Velociman, da Innkeeper
Recondo 32 and Georgia (about whom I have heard great things)
Denny, da Grouch
Eric the Straight White Guy and da Bride
A couple of Eric’s Billiard Buddies, one of whom needs a nickname
Zonker of Thunder and Roses
Catfish, who was hostless, but who now has new digs.
Key Monroe, the bearer of Sam’s gracious gifts
The Laughing Wolf (LW may emerge from his lair for a Friday visit)

And, of course I will be there along with my good friend, driver, and bodyguard, Ken, who is one of the Usual Suspects and is sometimes known at the Rest Stop as the Deckmeister, and the Anal Retentive “Cruise Director.”

How psyched am I about this drunken free-for-all unscripted event? I am excited enough about it to forego spending my birthday (yes, it’s Saturday) getting crocked with family and the full compliment of Usual Suspects so that I can spend it getting shitfaced with only one of the Usual Suspects and y’all (normally I would say “yous guys”).

Lavish gifts are not necessary (except maybe for one of those stogies and a pull on Sam’s squeezin’s), but boundless adulation and compliments on my winning personality and great farookin’ hair are always welcome.

I read over at Spoons that the Guardian, a “liberal,” British left-wing rag newspaper is providing the name and address of an American voter in Clark County Ohio to anyone who submits his or her e-mail address to the Guardian on this page. The purpose of this scheme is to have a British citizen write to the American voter to express his or her views on which candidate the American should vote for in our upcoming presidential election.

Why Clark County? The Guardian makes that clear.

By typing your email address into the box on this page, you will receive the name and address of a voter in Clark County, Ohio. You may not have heard of it, but it’s one of the most marginal areas in one of the most marginal states: at the last election, just 324 votes separated Democrats from Republicans. It’s a place where a change of mind among just a few voters could make a real difference.

Writing to a Clark County voter is a chance to explain how US policies effect [sic] you personally, and the rest of the world more generally, and who you hope they will send to the White House.

The Guardian pays lip service to impartiality when it says, “Of course, who you urge your voter to support is entirely up to you.” This is, without doubt, pure horseshit. The page offers sample letters from “three prominent Britons.” Here is a sample of each:

From John LeCarre
Probably no American president in all history has been so universally hated abroad as George W Bush: for his bullying unilateralism, his dismissal of international treaties, his reckless indifference to the aspirations of other nations and cultures, his contempt for institutions of world government, and above all for misusing the cause of anti-terrorism in order to unleash an illegal war – and now anarchy – upon a country that like too many others around the world was suffering under a hideous dictatorship, but had no hand in 9/11, no weapons of mass destruction, and no record of terrorism except as an ally of the US in a dirty war against Iran.

From Antonia Fraser
First of all, if you back Kerry, you will be voting against a savage militaristic foreign policy of pre-emptive killing which has stained the great name of the US so hideously in recent times. A policy that Bush and his gang are set to continue – if they get the opportunity. I say “the great name” of the US because I believe that to be profoundly true. Although resolutely against the Iraq war, I remain equally resolutely philamerican, almost every movement towards liberty in the past having its roots or its refuge in the US.

From Richard Dawkins
Don’t be so ashamed of your president: the majority of you didn’t vote for him. If Bush is finally elected properly, that will be the time for Americans travelling abroad to simulate a Canadian accent. Please don’t let it come to that. Vote against Bin Laden’s dream candidate. Vote to send Bush packing.

Like Spoons, I wonder how happy the citizens of Clark County will be when they learn that: (a) their names and addresses are being handed out by a foreign newspaper to foreigners as well as to any other person (including wackos) who submits an e-mail address, and (b) the purpose of this exercise is to permit non-Americans to exert direct influence on this country’s presidential election, and in a hotly contested area of the country at that?

Silly me. I still like to think that, for most of us, we are Americans before we are democrats or republicans, and that we sorted out our independence from Great Britain a couple hundred years ago.

Just to be clear, I have the utmost admiration for Tony Blair, undying gratitude to those wonderful British troops who are spilling blood with us in the Middle East and to those in Britain who support our joint effort. I also appreciate that there are those in Britain who may not agree with the course their country has chosen. I would urge those people to become active in their own elections and butt the FUCK out of ours.

Update: Tim Blair has more here, and so does The Shape of Days.

Check out Zell Miller’s piece in the Washington Times, entitled, “Iwo Jima, if covered by the media today.”

Via Power Line.

It appears that Governor McGreevey will not have to update his resume after all. That is because he already has a spot waiting for him as a partner, the law firm of his “mentor,” democrat state senator Raymond Lesniak. The firm Weiner Lesniak served as general counsel to town of Woodbridge for the almost-ten years that Jim McGreevey served as mayor and then went on to make boatloads of money representing the county government and its insurance carrier.

Given that Governor McGreevey hasn’t practiced law since entering politics in 1990, it is not surprising that his role in the Lesniak firm will focus on “business development, client recruitment and strategy for clients dealing with government.”

Mr. Lesniak, stated of Governor McGreevey:

Look, this is hardly the first time, nor will it be the last, that a firm provides a job to a former public official who, while in office, sent loads of business to the firm. However, one cannot help but wonder whether the public official will truly “earn his keep,” or whether he will simply cash in on prior favors and show up occasionally to submit a large expense reimbursement request.

In this case, one also has to wonder how this man would fare if he applied for a job at a law firm or anywhere else, like any other person seeking a job. Imagine, if you will, that you are the hiring partner at a law firm, or the head of the Human Resources Department in a large company. How much consideration would you give to an applicant who:

As a law professor of mine used to say, “To ask the question is to answer it.”

It’s just politics as usual in the Jersey Political Swamp.

Update: Roberto, of DynamoBuzz, another Jersey Blogger, also discusses this. One of his commenters states that the AP reported that McGreevey (through a spokesperson) and Lesniak deny the published story. I have not been able to find the story. If I do, I will post the link.

Update 2: The link to the story containing McGreevey’s and Lesniak’s denial is here. Thanks and apologies to Eugene, Roberto’s commenter. He actually had posted the link to the story in his comment. However, when I took a quick look at it, I had thought it was the original story.

As for the denial itself, we’ll see.

OK, here’s the story tonight. I know damned well that if I start reading blogs and writing stuff, I will not put the new strings on my guitar. If I don’t put the new strings on tonight, I have a feeling that I will either play with old, raggedy strings in Helen (unlike Eric and Acidman whose guitars will be sporting new strings), or I will wind up putting on new strings in Helen, which would be a bad thing, because I would have to re-tune the guitar every couple minutes as the strings stretch. No one, including me, wants to listen to that.

So, with that, I will tear myself away from this machine and go about doing the string thing. Maybe I’ll be back later. However, I also wanted to do a bit of blog housekeeping, so this may be it for me tonight.

We’ll see.

Teresa: “John?”

John:

Teresa: “John!”

John:

Teresa: “JOHN!! Dammit, stop playing with the LEGOs for a minute. I’m talking to you.”

John: “Oh, sorry, Muffin. Look! I’m making this really cool car. It’s a Bentley.”

Teresa: “Christ Almighty, John. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

John:

Teresa: “Well, anyway, I wanted to let you know that John Edwards called, and he wanted to speak with you.”

John: “Is he still on the line?”

Teresa: “No, he’s not. I told him that you were busy and that you would call him back.”

John: “Jeez, Teresa, I would have come to the phone. Why didn’t you call me?”

Teresa: “I’ll tell you why. Because Edwards was pissed – like really pissed.”

John: “Pissed?”

Teresa: “Get your head out of your ass. I said ‘pissed,’ didn’t I? Turns out that he is really pissed at you.”

John: “Me? Whatever for?”

Teresa: “He said that he’s getting the shit kicked out of him on the campaign trail by the people and the press asking for the details of all these plans you’re talking about.”

John: “Oh, is that all? I’m surprised he is having trouble with those questions, him being a trial lawyer and all. Besides, I have been perfectly clear about my plans.”

Teresa: “You know, John. Sometimes I think you are actually getting dumber by the hour. If he knew the details of your plans, he wouldn’t be calling here asking for them, would he?”

John:

Teresa: “Well, WOULD HE??”

John:

Teresa: “OK, Pelican Boy, let’s hear em.”

John: “Hear what, Muffin?”

Teresa: “Don’t ‘Muffin” me, you prick. I want to hear the details of your plans, and I want to hear them right goddamned now.”

John:

Teresa: “You’d better start talking before I decide to hang my foot in your bony ass.”

John: “OK, OK. … I…HAVE…ALWAYS…HAD…ONE…POSITION…ON…IRAQ. I…KNEW…SADDAM…WAS… A…TH—-“

Teresa: “STOP!!! You’re repeating the same horseshit that you tell the public. I want to hear the details of your goddamned plans. It’s just the two of us here. So, let’s have it.”

John: “OK. … I…WILL…BRING…OUR…ALLIES…TO…THE…TABLE. I WILL BUILD A STRONG COALIT—-“

Teresa: “Jesus Friggin’ CHRIST!! That’s the same, warmed-over shit. Is that it? Is that your plan?”

John: “I’LL.…CALL…FOR…A…SUMMIT…CONF—-“

Teresa: “My God, John.”

John: “ Did you say ‘God?’ I…AM…A…CATHOLIC. MY…FAITH…MEANS…A LOT TO—-“

Teresa: “What the hell was I thinking when I hooked up with you, you preening putz? You promised me the WHITE HOUSE, dammit! What the HELL was I thinking? These so-called plans of yours are pure bullshit, aren’t they?”

John:

Teresa: “Well, aren’t they?”

John: “Aren’t they what, Muffin?”

Teresa: “Bullshit, John. They’re bullshit, bullshit, BULLSHIT!”

John:

Teresa: (sighs) “John Edwards is expecting to hear from you. What the hell do you plan to tell him?”

John: “How about I tell him that someone broke into our house and stole my plans. We can blame Karl Rove.”

Teresa: “Maybe I can help you with your plans.”

John: “That’s very sweet of you, Muffin. I appreciate that. Where do we begin?”

Teresa: “Well, you can begin by enrolling in the twelve-step plan offered by Douche Bags Anonymous.”

John: