Ode to Cartman.

Good news, nobody!  I’m back!  (Shout out to Professor Farnsworth.)

So, you know how I was talking about excuses a while back?  Okay, well, I was talking about excuses a while back, try to keep up.  No? How dare you.  Well, I’m going to keep typing anyway. Take that.

I have said that the ultimate excuse was I don’t feel like it.  And I was right it is.  But I remember that there is a phrase that is even fresher than I don’t feel like it.  Here it is:

“Screw you guys, I’m going home.” –Eric Cartman

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Here’s the deal with that.  At some point in all of our lives, every last one of us has wanted to go home.  Too bad for us, only in childhood has actually saying so been acceptable.  Only as a kid do you get to be so fed up that you can get up, get your crap (ball, jacks, jumprope, rocks, sticks, Idunno, depends on the tax bracket in your childhood home) and, when stuff wasn’t going down that you didn’t like, you were like, “I’m going home.” And you bounced.

At what age did this cease to be okay?  At what age do we stop feeling like it’s okay to get out of a situation we don’t like and decide to go home? No seriously, I’m asking.

For me, never. I will ALWAYS get my ball and go home.  ALWAYS.

Because.

Home is the one place where I know without a shadow of a doubt that the rules won’t change up on me.  I might not LIKE the rules, but they won’t change up on me.  Even going into the teenage years, I know who my kids are and while I might have to tweak things, I know who and what those things are.

And then there’s the “screw you guys” part.  I don’t cuss.  So that’s about as hard of language as you’re going to get out of me.  But it says everything I want to say.  Like, “I’m not about to entertain anymore of your foolishness at all whatsoever. Therefore, associates,  I’m going home.”

It helps that, despite my numerous complaints about my family on this blog, I like being at home. With those same people that I live with.  Some of whom I gave birth to. I like them, kinda.   I really do.  It’s the one place where I can be completely awful and everyone has to deal.  YES, THEY WILL DEAL.  Also, I am awful more often than not.  If someone asks me what I’ve been up to, I say, “Oh, just hanging around being awful.”  For some reason people find that funny. (I am not being funny.  I was actively being awful until I was so rudely interrupted.)

Look, I just think that more of us should feel comfortable saying that we are sick of the B.S. and we are going to home.  To people that love us.  Despite our B.S.

Also, this is for those that don’t think the police don’t be on some B.S. sometimes.  Thought I’d reiterate.

 

 

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He-man in 2016. Ooooh, sounds weird.

Hey you guys!  Forgive the incoherence of this entry. But, you guys, you guys, this should be fun.  I have consumed enough champagne for this to be fun.  Why?  I’ll tell you why–and I’m pretty sure this will be a bad idea in the a.m.–because I am going to live blog He-Man.

The Big Man and I have decided to binge watch He-Man on this last night of 2015.  It just seemed appropriate.

I feel like Beastman drinks a lot of PBR.  Like, a LOT.

Does the Sorceress channel Jennifer Tilly? Or is it the  other way around?

Ram-man.  Tee-hee. Sorry, I will never be mature enough to handle that.

Why does this bird-lady have such big breasts?  And not the delicious fried kind.

All the villains on this show speak in the third person at some point. CREEEPY.  Vida doesn’t like  it.

Panthor is better than Battlecat.  There.  I said it.  We shall not speak of Cringer. I hate that cat’s guts. I KNOW it’s the same cat.  Shut up.

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YEEEAAHHH!!

 

He-man’s…vest, question mark?

Does that big-bo0bed bird have a navel?  Do birds have navels?  (I actually googled this.  They do not.)

No one sells He-man’s fur speedo-moccasin combo. Just that I’d menion that in case someone wants to get on it.

The Big Man just mentioned Quaaludes.  I’m….I’m not going down that road.

Ram-Man…hee-hee, again.

I might be Evil-Lyn.  Which is good, since I’ve mentioned dating Skeletor.

I don’t care for Man-at-Arms.  There, I said it.

I know Prince Adam is grown, but I feel like someone should have called CPS on Prince Adam’s parents a long time ago.  Like, they can’t even recognize their own kid in a metal vest and moccasins.  Quaaludes?

He-Man’s tan.  Orange is the new Eternia, amirite?

I just interrupted typing this to make sure my husband didn’t put Russell Brand on the TeeVee.  NO RUSSELL BRAND.  I don’t find him offensive, just unfunny.  (The Destroyer just asked, “Dad, what’s Russell Brand?  To which the Big Man replied, “Nothing you want to deal with.”)

I feel like Tila eats a lot of corn.  Without butter and salt. And not in popped form. Who does that?

I’m going to get a fur underwear-moccasin boot-combo IF IT KILLS ME.

And on that note, good night everybody and see you in 2016!  Which for me is in like, 3 hours of a champagne induced haze.  (Champagne so bad it’s actually Cham-pag-in.  Thanks, Zap Branningan.)