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I just started blogging...kind of(if you can call msn space a blog...)...All i do is basically rant about things that annoy me, tell people to go f[b][/b]uck themselves and add lyrics when I'm bored...

My blog is public, I decided to do it because I knew a bunch of my friends would get pissed off at the first thing I ranted about.

So yeah, i guess you could say I blog...even though its closer to pointless inane rantings that come off of the top of my head when I'm annoyed with something.

No, Nadenue is not going to have sex with you. We southern chicks shy away from guys with any kind of "turtle" syndrome, kwim?

I blog on Myspace. I've not been writing as much lately though. It seems like every time I think of journaling something, it's too much trouble

Hadn't really thought of it that way, but you're right.

I blog on myspace. It is just a little more than ramblings when I've been drinking though. Its nice to wake up in the morning and read what you wrote when you were so wasted that you do not remember writing it.

Much like Nadenu, lately it's just easier to let things out in a phone call than to type them.

I'm too lazy to even call anyone these days.

Well, you're the only one, it seems. Over the past two weeks, I've been on the answering end of at least 50 wrong number calls.

Normally, when I answer a call, it doesn't matter if it's halfway thorugh my nightly slumber, I speak politely and explain to the caller that it is indeed a wrong number. I also ask them what number they dialed so if they have MY number wriiten down I can inform them that it's incorrect and (hopefully) won't be fielding a second call from them in 20 seconds.

My patience with the wrong number people is now gone. Kaput, forever byebye. Gone gone. I was getting settled for a good session on the crapper and another one of the twats called. Perhaps I wouldn't have been so irate, but this was going to be one of those "Second Coming" dumps. You know what I'm talking about here: The first time you could have dropped the kids off at the pool there was just no chance to do it, so your sphincter fought a long vicious battle to keep your underwear clean and the world safe and the **** wandered off somewhere in your intestines only to return again later sort of like a defeated monster in an old B horror movie.

As all heroes should be, I was prepared for the return of the beast.

Book: check
Toilet paper: check
Glade Plugin, cotton field scent cranked to max: check
Ventilation fan operational: check
Gatorade (just in case): check

So just after I slid my thumbs under the elastic band of my shorts as I stood before the only throne my *** will ever grace, the damned phone started ringing.

I answered, as I usually do, with no preparatory "hello," but with a statement that trims the first 6 seconds or so off a phone conversation: "This is Tom." (Seriously, ?WHY? do people say hello any more? It's not like phones aren't reliable and you have to ask if someone is actually there. Sheesh.) The guy on the other end apparently had a disconnect between his ear and his mouth because the conversation went something like this:

"This is Tom"
"Pauline?"
"No. This is Tom"
"Well, Can I talk to Pauline?"
"No. You have a wrong number. There's no Pauline here."
"I want to talk to her."
"You should try calling her number instead of mine, then. What number did you call?"
::Caller recites number, which is mine with the last 2 digits transposed::
"You dialed the wrong number: Try <::correct number::> instead of <::my number::>"
"Ok, sorry. <dead air>"

All the while this conversation is occurring, I can feel the **** tapping at the door, like the ticking of some old grandfather clock in a dusty rom at the top of a lost castle, measuring the time slipping away before some arcane deadline has passed and the stars are no longer aligned. Tapping, tapping, tapping. Time tumbling away. Like Sands Through the Hourglass... So Are the Days of Our Lives.

I lay the cellphone down gently, against all urges to simply toss it and I run for the chamber of salvation. Elastic stretched, shorts dropped, gawd that cool seat feels like home to my *** and it's like you don't know what happens next....

Ring, ring!

I can't just let it ring. It's not in my nature. My battered and war-torn sphincter growls and goes to work fighting off the demon once again denied its birth into this world as the shorts come back up to their home position.

A mere glance at the cool blue/green whatevercolortheyare letters on the LED of my Motorla Razor phone confirms what I already know: same ****.

The little red guy on my shoulder has a nasty look in his eye and his tail is twitching. The guy with the halo must be on break; my other shoulder is vacant. Is that a spatter of blood?

"This is Tom"
"Dude, I called Pauline's number."
"Well, you got me again."
"Just let me talk to her, dude!"

The red guy doesn't look so little any more as he hands me the script...

"Pauline can't talk right now. It's hard for her to speak with my co[/i]ck in her mouth. She IS giving me a look, though. I think it means she'll lie to you later about this. Is there any sort of message you want me to give her? Make it short though. I'm not comfortable talking on the phone when I'm this close to blowing a load, it almost feels gay."
"Fu[/i]cker, I'm coming over there. <click>"

No matter how that one turns out, I'm pretty sure he won't be trying to call Pauline too much in the near future. The down side is that it took too long.

I'm not going to take a dump; I'm going to wind up giving birth. I'm a territorial creature and the only place I'm taking a dump is MY place. So I'm hanging around the house for a bit until THE event occurs. Ten minutes, ten hours. Who knows? Grrr.

You kill me.