I know exactly how 'K' feels. My favorite from the article? Sex Fruit. How could you possibly hate that name?

I really empathize with her though, because I too have a name that's embarrassing; which is why I go by shank in the blogosphere. My real name is actually Richard Cocking. There I said it in front of you all, my real name.

Posted by: shank at 06:56 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Religion, bringing the reason to the season since. . . 0.

Posted by: shank at 11:01 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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IÂ’m vindicated at last. IÂ’ve written many posts about people microwaving popcorn at work. The stench of burning popcorn permeates the whole floorÂ…in some instances several floors, like mustard gas. I never thought it was dangerous but it infuriated me to the point of wanting to physically beat someone down. Well, that foul stench has been declared lethal.

“… doctors there believe they have the first case of a consumer who developed lung disease from the fumes of microwaving popcorn several times a day for years.”

Any stench that foul is bound to be lethal.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:46 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Use of the word “party” as verb.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:51 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Have you ever had good friend call up and tell you they were getting a divorce or dumping their boy/girl friend and you went on a super long rant about how you never liked them anyway, and how happy you were that finally, you'd never have to see the offensive party again, and listed a lot of really good reasons why that person was a horrible piece of shit, and added in plenty of name calling and really insulting, derogatory shit only to have them call you a few weeks later and tell you theyÂ’re getting back together?

Doh!

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:09 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five I subscribed to GentlemanÂ’s Quarterly. This is more of a confession than a fact. I do not repent.

I concoct very elaborate stories about myself in strange situations. If I go to a party and donÂ’t know too many people I usually make up a cover life and go into incredible detail. A lot of people out there think theyÂ’ve met an Earl or a Duke. Others think theyÂ’ve had dinner with the foremost authority on Algonquin languages, Burmese antiquities, medieval soil analysis or the descendent of a wide range of famous Wild West types. In the past IÂ’ve had business cards made up with various impressive credentials. My theory is that if youÂ’re never going to see a person again, why not make up incredible characters and lives for them. Once in line at the grocery store I told the cashier that I was about to go and cheat on my wife. It was a very intense moment for the woman. Next time someone asks you what you do just give it a try. Do you think someoneÂ’s going to question you on your made up job as a falcon trainer?

I am non-confrontational and I have a hard time saying no. When I was younger I dated some girls simply because I didnÂ’t have the heart to say no to them. It took a long time to make progress and in the end I never totally changed. Instead of saying no I would just never answer the phone or totally avoid the situation. Then they would go completely crazy and accuse me of using them or stringing them along. These berserker scenes almost always occurred in public.

I donÂ’t usually hold a grudge because IÂ’m forgiving by nature, but on the occasions that I do, it is cast in stone.

If I become interested a subject I will spend years becoming an expert on it. No matter the cost or research time involved.

I hate skiing. Hate it. The feel of those boots on my feet enrage me.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:33 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I’m not much of a cook. That’s an understatement, actually. There is almost nothing that I can successfully cook. I dry out eggs from fear of sammy. I burn almost anything that needs to be fried or sautéed. Things tend to be charcoal on the outside and raw in the middle. A few months ago I bought a digital meat thermometer; I thought that would really help but it hasn’t. I’d poke it onto something and all the juice would come out and the thing would read “rare” or I would get no reading at all. Then a few minutes later I’d do it again and it would say “well” and be completely dried out.

I never fared any better on the grill. IÂ’d watch some cooking shows and I learned a little bit, things like cold meat sticks to a hot grill, but for the most part, IÂ’ve ruined a lot of good meat. What makes this all worse is the fact that IÂ’m somewhat of a gourmand. I know a lot about food. The fact that I know what I want and what I like and canÂ’t cook it is starting to wear thin on me. Not that IÂ’m going to start making complex reductions from veal bones or anything, but I should be able to grill a steak without destroying the damned thing.

Last month we decided to get a new grill and I finally fired it up this week. We got a couple of NY Strips and some potatoes and gave it a go. The first thing I notices was if you light this grill and close the lid the thing goes up to 600 degrees really, really fast. My old grill never really got hot enough. So I brushed a little olive oil on them so they wouldnÂ’t stick, some salt and pepper and threw them on. I closed the lid and watched the temperature gauge go back to 600 degrees. When I opened the lid a few minutes later they looked like they were ready to be turned. I flipped them and gave it a few more minutes at 600.

They were perfect. Turns out it wasnÂ’t me after all. You just need to get that bastard up to 600 degrees and keep the lid closed.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:53 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Adult suburbia is a lot like high school.

I pick my kid up from dancing lessons and other events. IÂ’m forced to attend the odd birthday parties as well, and IÂ’m here to tell you that high school behavior is alive and well, long after your CamaroÂ’s been sold for scrap.

When I pick my kid up from dancing I am always the only man there. The gaggle of mothers all look up when I walk in and then go back to talking amongst themselves. None of them will look me in the eye. I always nod and smile because IÂ’m polite. They all look away. After a few minutes a couple of them will start staring at me when they think IÂ’m not looking. And I mean stare. Like I have two heads.

Most of them pretend IÂ’m not there at all. Like I give a shit. Every once in a while IÂ’ll look up quickly and catch one of them staring at me and they panic and look away. This goes on week after week. Are they threatened by me? Are they wondering why their own worthless husbands canÂ’t contribute a little more? IÂ’ll probably never know. They have a definite pecking order as well. In fact a couple of the women are ignored as well.

Anyway, a friend of the family started taking her kid to the same dance school and now I have someone to talk to when I show up, much to the dismay of the other mothers. They are clearly pissed off by my talking to this woman. What they really need to do is relax and develop some damned social graces.

The only difference between this situation and high school is the frump factor. And a cloud of dope smoke. Most of these broads look like theyÂ’ve had the life beaten out of them. A few keep in shape but most are pretty far gone, and theyÂ’re younger than I am. Maybe thatÂ’s where the hostility comes from.

The same thing happens when IÂ’m forced to go to a birthday party. I walk in and either all conversation stops or they pretend IÂ’m not there. Like theyÂ’re punishing me. Do these broads think I like going to these things? Do they think I want to share theyÂ’re company? Maybe get a play date going or something? Because IÂ’m here to tell you broads something. I donÂ’t like you. I donÂ’t want to talk to you. I donÂ’t want to see you in those horrifying clothes you wear. The sweat pants and the saggy-baggy old crap thatÂ’s hanging off of you. You all need to get your fucking hair done, learn to put on some makeup that wasnÂ’t purchased in a Northern New Jersey drugstore and learn to sit up straight.

These women look at me like I have two heads and theyÂ’re the ones that look like they slept on the floor in their clothes all night. TheyÂ’re the ones that better not get a divorce because itÂ’s going to be CAT CITY for them.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:05 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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My life is cluttered with useless people and mindless chores.

Yesterday someone was hovering in my office doorway while I was working on something complex. I couldnÂ’t lose my place and I was trying to finish something before looking up.

“Am I bothering you?” they asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

It had the desired effect. I glanced up and saw that the person had no idea how to reply to that. DidnÂ’t know whether to flee or not. And they cut right to the chase and it was fairly painless for me. People usually stand there and try to talk about some TV show or something before they get around to asking me the question they came in for. I guess itÂ’s an attempt at bonding.

I donÂ’t fraternize at work. I have a professional life and a private life and never shall they meet. IÂ’m very polite, but I donÂ’t share, bond, relate or participate in small talk. I smile a lot. IÂ’m courteous. IÂ’m professional most of the time unless someone invokes my anger with stupidity above and beyond the standard that I have come to expect.

I can’t personally take credit for the “Not yet” line. I saw it or read it somewhere, but I’ve been dying to put it to use.

In other news, Bill has already vanished, having exhausted his repertoire of items that have been inserted up his ass.

IÂ’ve been watching The Tudors, a new series on Showtime about Henry the 8th and Ann Boleyn. Very entertaining. I had no idea how popular doggy style sex was amongst the royal court was back then.

IÂ’m also taken with the show Cash in the Atticon BBC America. ThatÂ’s where an antiques expert goes to someoneÂ’s house and rummages through all their shit to find stuff to sell at auction. Then just before the auction the idiots set reserves twice as high as the value of the item and nothing sells. ItÂ’s amazing though, the amount of Victorian and Edwardian furniture people have lying around in England. All made of walnut, mahogany and oak. And the stuff sells for less than I paid for a coffee table in a middle range furniture store. My wife now wants to visit England just for the auctions.

IÂ’ve never been to an auction but I really need to go just for the material. People touching their noses and shit to bid versus the people holding up giant placards with their number on it. People hiding in the back and then jumping out at the end for a bid just before the hammer strikes. IÂ’m fascinated by that stuff.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 04:04 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:15 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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Well, here we are again - Ash Wednesday, the only Holy Day in the Calendar year when you can smoke in church. And two days before Christ is beaten up by the Italians, spit on by the Hebes and then crucified by his own father. His father then forsakens him as well, adding insult to injury.

But it is also a happy time. A time for spiral hams, peeps, dyed hard-boiled eggs, patent leather shoes, frilly bonnets, jelly beans, pastels and polyester, bunnys, and of course, your annual visit to church. Ah, happy times indeed. Except the church part that is. But once you're done with all that blathering voodoo, what better than a few cocktails and a nice brunch. And to start off that brunch, or as a light snack while you get drunk, try a little Cheeses Christ. Enjoy!

Cheeses Christ

1 pkg. Cream Cheese
½ c. Sour Cream
½ c. Ricotta Cheese
1 pkg. LiptonÂ’s Onion Soup Mix
1 Tbs. Chives
¼ c. Pimentos Chopped

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Form into the shape of a cross. Serve with a light Eucharist, unleavened bread or Ritz crackers.

Alternatives

Cheeses, Mary and Joseph

If youÂ’re feeling creative and have some artistic ability, double the recipe and, using your favorite picture of Joseph and the Virgin Mary, sculpt the cheese mixture into a likeness of the two. Closely place individual kernels of corn around their heads to form halos!

Update: By the way, Snooze Button Dreams doesn't have a monopoly on the "cheeses" thing. I was doing that shit years ago. Yes, I just stole from myself but that's not the point. The point is, SBD is stealing from me...from 2002. You think you assholes are so fucking clever. I guess you are - stealing five year old shit from the master. Nice!

And you're welcome.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:27 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
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Some moron actually spent a (relatively) considerable amount of time and effort developing paint that blocks wireless signals.

That's a wonderful idea if you live in a windowless building; ya dipshit. Do I need to paint the ceiling too? I'd bet a finski that it comes in a range of vibrant colors with oddly similar sounding names: deep charcoal, moonless midnight, and Wesley Snipes.

It also seems to have slipped by this forward-thinking product development department that houses have interior walls. So there you are painting your entire house one color, fervently preventing the hordes of hackers at your virtual gates (because your home network is, apparently, the best in the universe); and you can't even get signal in your own living room because the three rooms between your dumb ass and the antenna are covered in Information Age prophylactic. You dickass!

Still, this is probably the best alternative you have. Honestly. I mean, until someone comes up with a way for you to protect your network with a key...or maybe a password...if only there was a way!

Posted by: shank at 08:39 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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HereÂ’s a piece on ten of the best April Fool's Day hoaxes.

In 1996, American fast-food chain Taco Bell announced that it had bought Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, a historic symbol of American independence, from the federal government and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell.

How do you think that went over? Aside from the astounding fact that many, many people believed it, you have to wonder who signed off on that one. Some say there’s no bad publicity, but I envision pickup trucks and molotov cocktails converging on Taco Bell. You can never reckon what you’ll get from the “we’ll teach them a lesson” crowd in suburban America.

In 1998, a newsletter titled New Mexicans for Science and Reason carried an article that the state of Alabama had voted to change the value of pi from 3.14159 to the "Biblical value" of 3.0.

IÂ’m pretty sure that most evangelist types are wholly ignorant of pi, but at the mere mention of the bible I bet a bunch of them jumped on the bandwagon out of faith. Regardless, when I was in school they didnÂ’t even use the decimal form. When I was a kid pi was 22/7. ItÂ’s been brought to my attention that some people (virgin, male comic book readers) can recite upwards of three or four thousand decimals of pi from memory. My initial reaction is to set up a BB gun firing squad for these folks.

And hereÂ’s my favorite:

Noted British astronomer Patrick Moore announced on the radio in 1976 that at 9:47 am, a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event, in which Pluto would pass behind Jupiter, would cause a gravitational alignment that would reduce the Earth's gravity. Moore told listeners that if they jumped in the air at the exact moment of the planetary alignment, they would experience a floating sensation. Hundreds of people called in to report feeling the sensation.

I simply cannot fathom the idiocy most people. These are the same people that feel better when they wave a magnet over an injury. The same people who send cash to Nigeria. The people that scald their balls with drive-through coffee.

It’s a large pool to draw from. New age hippy types, frequent customers of palm readers, people who look directly into the hose when there’s a kink in it, “Jackass” impersonators, Bermuda triangle aficionados, the “black helicopter” crowd, unemployed poets, urban myth spreaders (excluding the dog & peanut butter story), ad nausium.

On an unrelated note, the only thing that’s ever been up my ass are a doctor’s fingers. I don’t want anything in my ass. If Angelina Jolie was begging me to stick her finger in my ass during sex I would decline adamantly. It’s a personal choice—do whatever you want, just stay away from my ass. Aside from not relishing the feeling of any type of probe, no matter how many times she washed her finger I’d be consumed with watching that finger all night long and keeping it away from me. Who knows, it could put me off for weeks.

And while weÂ’re at it, leave my balls alone too. TheyÂ’re fragile.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:20 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I had been shanghaied into attending an afternoon “party” at my mother-in-law’s condo, which is populated by exclusively by people older than Moses. My wife laid down the law, that we were stuck there for at least two hours before I could “come down with the flux” or pretend to have a fever, thus extricating myself from the affair. It was rough.

As soon as I walked into the clubhouse I became depressed. Gaudy furniture, wood paneling and the smell of death. As we made our way to an empty table I looked around and took in the scene. These people were fucking old. You know what I mean. Full grown adult women shrunk down to the size of leprechauns, every third person had a walker and scattered about were a few with portable oxygen tanks.

A buffet was being set up that contained “pot luck” dishes made by the attendees. Let me first say that I don’t eat things other people have prepared behind closed doors. I will eat dinner at friend’s houses because I have known most of my friends for twenty years or more. I know their food preparation habits. I lived with some of these people and they’re clean and smart. However, under no circumstances will I eat pot luck food at work or anywhere else. Especially not shit that’s been prepared by these old bags. They looked like they could have voted for Lincoln. I couldn’t even identify some of the shit they cooked and I was sure it contained rubber gloves and morphine patches and cotton balls and who-knows-what-else.

I did drink a glass of “wine” which came from a bottle with a screw on cap; only because it was the only thing I could find to anesthetize myself from the whole affair. And if that wasn’t enough some old bastard was setting up a PA system and trying to fix the reed on a tenor saxophone. I am not making this shit up. Meanwhile I was being introduced to people as fast as they could shuffle by, which wasn’t very. It was 2:00PM and they announced that the food would be served at 3:00. That meant I had to sit there for an hour with the pre-dead. Just then the guy with the saxophone cranked up his karaoke machine and started singing along with it as if that was a fucking acceptable thing to do. And it was bad. Very bad, and very old. I felt a part of me die as belted out “Quando, Quando, Quando.” He couldn’t get with the beat, probably because he was listening to the Angel Gabriel calling him home.

I started to feel light-headed. I had another glass of “wine.” And every once in a while the old guy singing would start blowing into his saxophone and it would cut through my head like a hot knife through butter. And then the food was served.

I was determined not to get up any reason but then my mother-in-law asked me to get her a plate of food. The worst part was I knew that I could not possibly fulfill this request to her exacting specifications. So I got up and walked over and stood in the line. It was peaceful enough for a minute or two but soon the old folks realized they had forgot to push and shove and when they realized their mistake they made up for lost time with gusto. I kept getting jabbed by some guyÂ’s walked, the leprechaun women were moving in under my arms and the whole thing was just too much to weather. Since they couldnÂ’t see they were dropping food all over the floor and meanwhile the old bastard was blowing into his saxophone and I freaked out and went back to the table and pleaded to my wife to please, for the love of God, help me before I became wholly undone.

By the time I got home I went right to the bottle which is where I find myself still, some hours later. Forsaken.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:00 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Had buffalo meatloaf for dinner tonight and it was pretty damned good.

On an unrelated note, the next time someone at work uses the phrase, “Think outside the box,” I’m going to punch them in the windpipe and no one will be able to stop me. People think they’re so cutting edge with that, when in reality, it’s like fifteen years old.

When I hear that phrase I almost canÂ’t control myself. I will become violent.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:27 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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And then there are words that should be altogether dropped from the vernacular. Words and phrases that are passe, lame, or just sound dumb; and only make the speaker seem clueless.

'jumped the shark' - A phrase that has completed a self-fulfilling cycle so fast that the mind reels. I shouldn't even have written it here without censoring it, it's so dumb. From here on out, let's just consider it profanity. We promise not to use it in polite company, and when we have to use it (for reference only, as we do here); asterisks will be used as such: 'j*mp*d the sh*rk'.
'gobsmacking, -ly' - I don't know who came up with this, but I can't possibly imagine what kind of beatdown they recieved from the first person they spoke it to. Seriously, I keep a rusty crowbar in my trunk should someone utter this word. Consider yourselves warned.
'quiche' - Okay firstly, this word looks nothing like it sounds; which is actually a compliment because it sounds like the noise of a frog bursting, were someone to gradually squeeze it in a vise: 'Keesh!' Secondly, quiche is gross.
'stool' - This seems like an odd word to find here, no? Well, I'm only referring to a particular use here. When people refer to crap, turds, feces, shit, dung, guano, poop, number two, caca, or Carrot Top as 'stool'; it's irksome. With all the other great variants for crap, turds, feces, shit, dung, guano, poop, number two, caca, or Carrot Top; why use the word stool? I'll tell you why, because they want to use a word without any vulgarity attached to it. Look people! It's shit, shit's vulgar!
'panties' - Now, this might just be a me thing here, but this word sounds awkward out loud. Say it: panties. It just, I don't know. When I hear myself say it, it sounds like something a pussy might say. "Oh, my panties!"

Posted by: shank at 12:50 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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1 So, you wear panties but you don't like to SAY panties...interesting.

Posted by: De at February 26, 2007 02:01 PM (IdVP4)

2 I was with you up until "panties." In the first place, perhaps it's a conditioned reflex, but when I hear the word 'panties' spoken by a woman I have instant wood. Next, what the hell can we replace it with? Drawers? Not hardly, my friend. Unmentionables? I think that went out with Queen Victoria. Undergarments? Sounds like something worn under the uniform of a industrail janitor. Underpants? Way too masculine. Lingerie? Way too general. Could be a teddy, could be one of those other things that cover things but not really, could be all kinds of shit: slip, corset, et cetera. See. Not much left. And let's face it, they do need to be referred to from time to time. The word I have a problem with is "thong." While I enjoy the effect as much or more than the next guy, the word itself sounds like a Laotian recipe for battered monkey testicles.

Posted by: Paul at February 26, 2007 05:08 PM (ahClC)

3 Ok. I don't even know what the first two even mean. Maybe it's because I'm blond. Who knows. But how bout when I refer to panties like this. I slipped by finger under my panties and gently pulled them down.

Posted by: Tiffani at February 26, 2007 06:56 PM (Vf34l)

4 That works for me!

Posted by: Paul at February 26, 2007 07:29 PM (ahClC)

5 I suppose you're right about panties. But I maintains that it sounds dorky when I say it. So, from here on out I guess I'll just leave that word to those who say it best. Like Tiffani.

Posted by: shank at February 27, 2007 08:49 AM (+H1yK)

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IÂ’ve done very little sailing in my day, but IÂ’m a huge fan of nautical terminology. IÂ’ve decided to start using some nautical terms at every opportunity.

Some of my favorites:

Yaw
Scuppers
Gunwale
Belay
Abeam
Thwartships

And of course, my favorite: Coxswain.

I encourage everyone to throw the word coxswain into as many conversations as possible, especially in the workplace. I believe the correct pronunciation is “Cox’n” but the phonetic pronunciation works well too.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:23 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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It was a fair enough question.

“You are, without a doubt, the most critical person I have ever met,” my wife continued.

“You criticize everything and everyone.”

“It’s not always negative,” I replied. “I simply call them as I see them.”

We were watching American Idol and when one of the cheeseballs started singing I said that he sucked.

“How could you judge him so fast? He just opened his mouth…it couldn’t have been more than one or two seconds!”

“I set the bar very high—for other people.”

It may have been the best line IÂ’d ever used.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:35 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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People who put two spaces after a period.

ThatÂ’s from the caveman days, people. In the days of typeset printing and typewriters you needed two spaces because the fonts were non-proportional. Nowadays, most fonts are indeed proportional (except maybe Courier). That extra space is useless.

Please stop now.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:02 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Paranoia Strikes Deep

Last week I decided to clean our home office. No business gets done in here, but itÂ’s where we pay the bills, the computers in here and itÂ’s got a big desk and filing cabinets. Over the past year I noticed a giant pile of papers was stacking up in a corner. Since it was my wifeÂ’s doing I left it alone for a long, long time. And last week, in an effort to clean up and find our tax receipts I took a look at the papers. They were credit card statements, water bills, electric bill, et cetera. They all had a date written on them of when they had been paid. It seems my wife is good at paying bills on time, but not so good at filing the records.

I flipped through and saw they went all the way back to 2005. Then I looked in the filing cabinets and saw why they werenÂ’t filed. Every folder was completely jam packed. And you canÂ’t just throw that shit away because of account numbers, social security numbers, et. al.

Since our shredder is so old I thought IÂ’d upgrade to a level 3 shredder because IÂ’m a paranoid and I always assume the worst. So I empty out all the files, make new folders and whatnot and by the time IÂ’m done I have a stack of papers waist high that all need shredding. The new shredder supposedly takes ten sheets at a time so I load in five and it almost grinds to a fucking halt. Come to find when they say ten sheets at a time theyÂ’re reffering to tissue paper. So I start loading these things in and the machine starts cagging and shutting itself down after every fifteen sheets or so and you have to wait thirty minutes for it to cool down. So while IÂ’m waiting for it to cool down I start looking in the closet and I find these boxes and when I open them up I see that they are all documents that need to be shredded. Six boxes in all. I was almost in tears by then, because the whole process is so painfully slow and once I start something thereÂ’s no stopping me.

After a brief analysis I realized that we had every bank statement, investment portfolio statement and retire fund statement since 1992. They were fairly thick and every page had a social on it. In addition we had saved every single credit card statement, water bill, electric bill, insurance, mortgage, cable, cars—you name it—going back for fifteen years or so. Every single pay stub I ever got as an adult, plus two because the wife saved hers as well. Fifteen years, times two statements per month is over 700 pay stubs to shred. Not including all the credit card convenience checks that we would never use and those things come in the mail every day.

I had the shredder cranked up like a lawn mower. In fact, I got the old one out was using two at a time. It sounded like I was mulching fucking trees up here. And every time I emptied the bin on the shredder I was engulfed in a huge cloud of paper dust. Soon the dust was everywhere. I had to change the all the filters in the house once a day. I was sneezing and coughing paper dust. Meanwhile the shredders kept running and I kept pouring oil in and when they overheated I would use the time to lug big plastic bags of the confetti down to the garage and line them up against the wall.
Yesterday I shredded the last document. And in todayÂ’s mail I received a bunch of credit card checks that IÂ’ll never use. Now IÂ’ve got the shredder set up right there in the kitchen. 90% of the mail will go directly in the damned thing. I never, ever want to go through this again. It was a shitty, shitty ordeal.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:34 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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