Son Sues Dad After Slipping On Black Ice

This is a made-up news story, and no, my children would never do anything like this, I hope. If they did, my husband might have to remove their procreative organs. And he IS a surgeon. Read on…Son Sues Dad After Slipping On Black Ice | TheFurFiles

Nineteen-year-old Chad Johnson of Burlington, Vermont has effectively sued his father for slipping on the black ice outside their house, garnering a payoff of just over five hundred thousand dollars.

“I was heading out to go to school,” Chad was quoted as saying. “It had snowed a little, you know, just enough that you couldn’t see the ground. I thought about shoveling it, but then I was like, nah, my dad will do it. Besides, I had to get to the gym.” Shifting his backpack, Chad then apparently popped a piece of leftover chicken into his mouth – a guy’s gotta get some protein before a workout – and the next thing he knew, he was “on his ass”.

“Why the hell does he need the five hundred thousand dollars, or even five thousand dollars?” asked his father – rather rhetorically – when questioned about the incident. “He lives at home for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t pay rent. He barely goes to school. His mother and I pay for literally everything.”

Chad claims his slightly bruised rear-end will prevent him from almost (but not quite) getting to class. “I’m going to feel bad,” Chad said. “It’s like I should be going to school, and even though I usually skip, I can’t go for sure now.” We hear you, Chad. It sucks when you are barely trying to make something of yourself, and you simply can’t.

Also, Chad says that his injuries prevent him from playing video games effectively because he marginally jarred his thumb in the fall. “What do you want me to do, read a book?” he said near the end of his one minute interview.

Even though Chad didn’t die as a result of the incident, Burlington police services now fear for his life, reporting that Chad’s father is being rather hostile about all of this. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy. He should’ve been the one out there shovelling and putting salt on the driveway in the first place. I work hard to pay for every goddamn thing he owns and does. The least he could do is help out more around the house. I woke up at five o’clock that morning – as usual – to get to my job at the airport. It must’ve snowed (covering up the icy spot) sometime after that. Chad doesn’t even get up until noon, like WTF? I swear to God, I’m going to kill that little bastard if he shows his face around here…”

Chad’s mother, on the other hand, seems to understand Chad’s plight, saying, “Don’t listen to my husband. Chad is a good, good boy. And the money’s fair. It WAS sort of our fault. We should’ve been more careful. The justice system just wants the best for all of those involved. Anyway, now I won’t have to go behind my husband’s back to give Chad money, not for a few months at least.” Mrs. Johnson has asked the public NOT to disclose that last statement to her husband, for obvious reasons. He does sound rather violent.

Chad’s father has since been seen shaking his fist wildly out the front door of their house and shouting, “Fuck that shit. In my eyes, you are dead to me now, Chad!” And then apparently, he mumbled to the letter carrier, “Seriously, five hundred thousand dollars? In what fucking universe?”

Lucky for Chad, he is now in Miami, “blowing up bitches” – which is Chad’s way of saying “having sex with them” – since his windfall came in. Friends say he’s not likely to return home anytime soon.


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Call It An Ounce Of Crazy…Or Two, Or Three, Or Twenty

This morning, I am alive – thank the man in the moon for that.

I almost didn’t make it through last night. It was touch and go there for a while. It was a close call, and I mean a really close call.

But in the end, the big red pot that sat on the stove overnight with the turkey soup inside that I’m making because Monday was Thanksgiving and we had two turkeys and something needed to be done with the bones, did NOT explode into a giant fireball, ultimately consuming me and my family in smoke and flames as we lay unconscious and charred in our beds, the firefighters unable to get to us because the blaze was just too intense.

Call It An Ounce Of Crazy...Or Two, Or Three, Or Twenty | TheFurFiles

Yes, I’m a little neurotic.

And as someone of this unstable ilk, there are a few things – OK, a lot of things – that bother the hell out of me. The first one – if you haven’t already figured it out – is leaving food to simmer on a ridiculously low temperature overnight on the stove, even if that food will spoil otherwise because there isn’t room for it in the fridge and it’s not cold enough yet to set it on the back porch. My feeling: you never know when the burner will go from slightly warm to inferno-level for absolutely no reason.

I also don’t like the toothpaste lid to be left off or askew – ever. It could fall onto the floor, and I could step on it while I was curling my hair with the curling iron, which I rarely do and which would be very ironic if I was doing it during that inopportune moment. This could accidentally cause me to burn off a hunk of my hair, and make me look either really crazy or like I was some kind of new-wave fashion maven or one of those older but still fairly cool MTV hosts. Sadly, I’m not that put together. My clothes wouldn’t match my head’s hip appearance. I’d probably just look homeless.

And it drives me batty if someone leaves a teaspoon or so of cereal in the box, or less than a cup of liquid in the milk container. Eat it or drink it, for Christ’s sake. As if that little bit is going to make a meal for someone else.

And fingerprints on the microwave or stove? Don’t even get me started on that. Damn you, stainless steel appliances.

Strangely though, I don’t care if there is cat barf on the carpet for a few days. What’s it hurting anybody? Just don’t walk there.

And I don’ t care if the shelves in that same fridge are stained or covered in sticky stuff in a few places either.

I guess we all have our pet peeves, and we all have things we don’t give two shits about. It’s the magic of being human.

A psychologist once said to me,” There is really only ONE important question that you have to ask yourself, and that is, do you think it’s OK to poop in your pants? If you answered ‘no’, then you are fine. If you answered ‘yes’, then you are either two-years-old, or a complete wack job. Since you drove here, I’ll assume the latter.”

Anyway, whose idea was it to make that G.D. turkey soup? That’s right, it was my husband’s. He is always trying to use our resources to their utmost potential, always trying to push me outside of my comfort zone. I guess we were made for each other.


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Men’s Logic

The other day, I was explaining how the people in my house all sleep naked. It was a moment of over-sharing, and truth be told, we are about to have another one.

You see, THEY sleep naked. I, on the other hand, always wear what my husband lovingly (but also very disparagingly) calls my “armour”. I wear pajamas. Not the sexy kind either, though I do own lots of lingerie for those “other” occasions.

No, bedtime to me means wearing pajama pants and t-shirts, or full-length (or almost full-length) nightgowns, or sometimes pajama pants, t-shirts and those almost full-length nightgowns as one ensemble, especially if it’s winter. Oh yeah, and I often wear wool socks.

My husband complains – “Oh there she goes, putting on her ‘armour’ again.” When he says this, he is inevitably rolling his eyes.

To which I reply, “What do you think I am, a sex goddess twenty-four hours a day?”

Men's Logic | TheFurFiles

“Yeah.” He has no hesitation, which is good. It is the right response.

“I need to relax occasionally. Besides, what would you do if I was always naked?”

“Always have sex with you.” Of course he would, but then who would work, and who would make supper?

“You would seriously want to have sex all the time? That just doesn’t sound appealing to me. There needs to be ebbs and flows in life otherwise things get boring. Don’t you think that the times you don’t have it make you appreciate the times that you do?”

“No. I just want it.”

“OK, well you can’t tell me that you’d want to eat chocolate cake every single day. It would start to taste bad.”

“No it wouldn’t. That’s women’s logic. Chocolate cake would taste like chocolate cake.”

“So are you insinuating that men’s logic is better? Men’s logic would have us all playing video games, watching football, fighting in the street, and eating steak with lots of barbeque sauce and not doing anything else. Oh wait, and having sex. How could I forget that?”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” my husband answers plainly.

Moral: you can’t argue with a man.


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