Crazy Friday

Hello, Folks. Of course, by folks, I mean the rest of my personalities since no one else seems to be showing up to this blog. I threatened to talk to myself, and I'll do it. And not just in the middle of the grodery store, either. Right here, in writing. Well, I found out today that I have a better chance of convincing a pack of angry wolves to dance the tango than keeping an abusive ass away from my child. Yay! I love the legal system! It's a piece of crap.

My housing voucher is a month old and I finally found one house that I could rent to own that was nice, and big enough, etc. It is in a very small town with an abnormally high number of registered sex offenders. Okay. No! I then found another prospect, a half a block from some train tracks with a semi drive and two grain bins in the back yard twenty feet from the house. Yeah, again, no. I just keep thinking that the right one will just magically appear, like in a movie. Actually, nothing could be a lot worse than the house we live in now. There are 1 inch spaces between the floor and walls because the house is basically falling in. The windows are rotten, the foundation is made up mainly of mice mummies, the sink is falling through, the bathtub is falling though the floor.The rest of the house is just termites holding hands painted together with second paint from home depot. And I found a brown recluse spider on the ceiling of the girl's bedroom this morning. I'll probably have to get an extension on the voucher.

My van may soon be fixed. I look at it like this...if it comes back and runs, some obscure car god has smiled on me and I should seek him out and start a church. Maybe I could start the church in the van. To the car god Raoul! and his sidekick, Bubba! Would that make me, like, tax exempt? Let me answer that question, since that is what I am here for. No, it would not be tax exempt, or legal, to start a church in a van. But it would be funny. I know where there's a bar in an old church. It's hilarious. They have an 8 ball on the top of the steeple. And you would think it would be named something great, like, 'Holy Smoke Barbecue and Bar' but no, it is called some stupid thing like Fugly's. Which could be a tribute to the owner, because she is pretty fugly. (for all those non southerner's out there who thought a Mint Julep was just a frosty porch drink, fugly stands for f#*@in' ugly.) And as far as the Mint Julep is concerned, don't let it fool you. Those old southern ladies that fainted all the time and had to take naps in the middle of the day? They were damn drunk, is what they were! A Mint Julep is pure bourbon, a little sugar water and a sprig of mint. It's the civil war version of a panty snatcher. Except, it tastes like shit. At least these days pantysnatcher drinks don't taste like liquor. They just are! Which reminds me. How in the hell can potatoes taste like fish? I don't understand this. They went into the skillet as potatoes, they got nice and brown, came out, and were fish. It seriously could not be eaten. It's one thing if you meant to cook fish, I mean it's nasty enough then but at least you know why it tastes like fish and you can just cover it up with tartar sauce. But, potatoes? There is something scary wrong with potatoes that magically turn into fish. Take that into consideration.