Have I introduced you to my new husband, Benjamin Butt-On?
Actually, he's still my old husband, Farmer H. But he grows more childish every day. Oops! I think I was going to type 'childlike' but the Freudian slip is more appropriate.
Yes, like Brad Pitt's character, my Benny Butt-On appears to get younger every day. Just this morning he asked me to buy him some deodorant when I go to The Devil's Playground. What's next, diapers? Oh. Perhaps I'm closer to the sordid truth than even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom should reveal. Oh, c'mon! Like that's ever stopped the release of the shocking details before.
This morning I rushed off to town to meet my mom on the Dollar Tree parking lot to give her a valentine. A valentine and a day-old carton of fried rice, some sweet & sour sauce, and a banana. She asked to ride with me to get gas and mail a bill, so off we went. The excursion was moderately eventful, but I have no plan to tell that tale today. A short time later, I returned Mom to her Blazer that surely has the most pristine 4WD assembly ever seen on a 12-year-old vehicle, and headed back home by way of Save A Lot.
Farmer H and The Pony were just getting ready to leave for The Pony's bowling league when I returned. I gave The Pony's unruly hair a lick and a promise (okay, I didn't actually lick it, but I DID promise that I was getting him a haircut if his tresses did not become more ruly) because two guys, waiting all together, cannot comb hair alone. I put away my groceries as they made their exit, then headed for the master bathroom to slip into something more comfortable for an afternoon behind the keyboard in my dark basement lair.
The bathroom scene on the first day of Eddie Murphy and Jeff Garlin's Daddy Day Care could not hold a candle to the specter that greeted my soon-to-be-scarred retinas. Look away if you don't want to risk mind-bleaching hysterical blindness. This is your warning. Peering through a small dot in a paper plate won't work for this one. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's blog is not a solar eclipse. It is merely an eclipse in good taste. Details in three...two...one...
There in the toilet bowl floated half a mega-roll of Charmin quilted! And under it was something suspiciously dark-hued. Oh, the poop-man-ity! Here I was, just home from an outing, after taking my morning meds, which sometimes cause a lady of my mature years to require the facilities like a pipe-car-driving, balloon-reunion-attending commercial voice-over artist...and my facility was full of not-pee! In my rush, I first had to flush! Life is so unfair. The universe has now drafted Farmer H into its conspiracy against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Don't kids learn to flush their own poo down the pot by at least age...um...ten? Even if they're male? I think I've seen cats on the internet who know how to flush. But now that I think of it, Farmer H is not so great at catching mice, either.
Must I do EVERYTHING around here?