Category Archives: Uncategorized

Why God Invented the 2nd Amendment

So this is a little story about me and what happened a couple of weeks ago.

Here I am running along the road without a care in the world:

I was with two dogs: Allie-whose mine and Jack Black-who belongs to my parents.

I keep the leashes attached to my  belt in order to keep my arms free while running. Jack Black’s leash is just out of habit since he would never run away.

 My dog’s leash, on the other hand, is a necessary evil because she can sometimes be a big A-hole and run off. She doesn’t seem to understand that out in the wilderness there isn’t anyone to feed you Organic Kibble every evening at 5:30 on the dot.

I know this because she’s escaped from me, one way or another, not just once—not just twice—not just three times…but more than three times.

So we  just finished up our run and stopped across the road from my parent’s house for a cool down.

When all of a sudden……

It was a neighborhood dog that absolutely hates Jack. Some how he must have got out and was running straight at Jack with rage in his eyes.

So there was a WWF deathmatch dog fight going on right in front of me and I was in the dangerous position of still being attached to the dogs!

I tried to yell to get them to quit.

But the dogs weren’t listening to me.  As the seconds ticked by tensions were escalating and the fight was turning out to be an all out

to-the-death match.

And I was getting scared.

So, I decided that I needed to get free from the scramble. So I pulled the belt down from my waist and was able to get it off. Then I freed the dogs.

But I was torn about what to do next.

I wanted to run into the house and grab something to make them break apart, but I was hesitant because I was truly afraid for my dog’s lives and I didn’t want to leave them.

So what did this strong capable female do?

She called for her mommy.

Luckily she very quickly heard my cries…

…and ran out to see what was wrong.

Now normally, mine and my mother’s brains are rarely on the same wave length,

but in this instance she and I pretty much had the same idea, and I knew exactly what she was going to do next.

She ran inside.

I waited for her to return and at the same time attempted to break up the fight by yelling and clapping my hands like a freakin idiot.

About a minute later, my mom ran outside carrying 2 things. One of them, I expected, but the other was a surprise.

My mother ran out of our house. Carrying a handgun (expected) and my husband’s hockey stick (not so much).

In that moment, the north and the south were united so seamlessly that history has only seen a comradery like this; one other time in the past.

So my mom runs out with and hand gun and a hockey stick and starts to yell.

But the dogs continued their death brawl.

The last two shots startled the dogs and they separated.

The attack dog left and–minus a few bloody cuts on Allie and Jack–everyone was ok.

At least, that’s the way my mom views the story.

Like I said before. Mine and my mom’s brains work on totally different wave lengths.

Here’s how I remember the whole story playing out:

So, the dogs are fighting and I call for my mom.

She runs out of the house. Our brains connect. But not really.

Mom runs back into the house and then runs back out. Now, here’s how I remember the story going down:

But the dogs still did not listen…

…and Mom grew angry.

Yes. Yes, saw it with my own eyes.

The hockey stick turned into a light sabre. (saber??)

Sabre.

Like in that space movie. I just can’t remember the name.

Yeah, I didn’t know hockey sticks could do that either.

Now I do. And so do you.

So, my mom began spinning the hockey stick-saber-sabre around in the air like a Dick’s Sporting Goods Destroyer-Chopper

And just like that the dogs stopped fighting, and the attack dog went on his merry way.

I mean, that’s just how I remember it happening.

I do know there’s 3 sides to every story. Your side, their side and the truth.

But I think in this case there’s only one real side. And that’s mine, which is the truth.

And if you don’t believe me…..

…just ask Mr. Chippers.

Discussion Questions:

Why is your mom wearing a pirate hat?

Um, well, I was trying to draw something that made her look tough and bad azz, and then I think I got confused.

 What do you think your mom is going to say about this post?

I don’t know. You’ll have to stay tuned for her comment. But if she’s smart she’ll agree with my side of the story.

If you like what you see in my blog, check out my book. It’s absolutely nothing like my blog!

But it is funny.

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Don’t Kill Whiteboy; Not a Racial Post

Most of you may not know this about me, but I love goats.

 A lot.

When I was a kid living out in the boonies, my family owned a “herd” of goats. We had about 10 adults and a few babies from time to time. They actually make great pets and can be quite affectionate.

In my opinion, probably the cutest thing in the world would have to be a baby goat.

When I was about 8 years old, one of the mother goats gave birth to the first baby goats we ever had: Twins.

They were both completely white and beautiful.

My sister and I named them Cottonball and White Boy.

At the time, my parents weren’t very supportive of our decision to name them, and we had no idea why.

As time went on, much to the chagrin of my parents, my little sister and I grew more and more attached to our new baby goats.

My parents finally realized that these animals which were intended to be livestock had inadvertently crossed over the blurry little line of becoming pets.

So one day they had a talk with us.

 Mother: So, you understand why we got these goats don’t you?

Me:  For love.

Mother: No. Not exactly.

Me: To be in tune with Mother Nature?

Mother: No…y-“

Me: I like Jack Hanna.

Mother: No! We got them to eat.

The 4th of July was coming up and my parents were throwing a big party. They wanted to roast one of the baby goats for everyone to eat (you don’t eat full grown ones).

Now before you go and judge my parents for roasting a goat, you should know that in some cultures this is perfectly normal, like in Mexico….. and Iran.

My mother warned me that they were going to have to use one of the goats for roasting at the party.

But I just thought she was bluffing.

So I immediately moved on with my life, flooded with the delusion that my parents couldn’t possibly be serious.

Dun

 

 

Dum

 

 

DUUMMMMMM!

 

 

Dun Dum Duummmm!

 

 

One day, a few weeks later,  my little sister and I were playing up in the tree house together when we spotted Mom and Dad out with the goats.

The only problem was, my sister and I were both bare feet-ed and the path between us and my parents was a landmine of stickers and thorns.

We knew time was not on our side, so as fast as we could, my little sister and I ran into the house to get our shoes.

Once in our bedroom, within seconds I had my shoes on and was ready for action.

Yet, I forgot that Rebecca was still at the age where she was struggling with the whole shoes on the feet concept.

I remember her shoes were those little Jellies that were so popular back then.

As soon as the shoes were on her feet, we rushed out our back door as fast as our little legs could carry us.

Ok let’s be real here. If it was my dad it probably looked more like this:

Upon seeing our reaction, my parents realized that the goat had, despite their efforts and warnings, become more of a pet to us than livestock.

I think they felt pretty bad about the whole thing

So, never again was a goat eaten at our house….after that particular day of course.


Discussion Questions:

No questions. Just a comment: Oh, Alexa. Really?

What?! I was a kid. I bounced back easily from hardship.

Still.

My Book:

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