A guest poster. Which leads you with a dilemma. Do you read the guest poster's drivel and pretend to like it out of courtesy, or do you just click away in a huff while muttering to yourself about twatty bloggers?
You should think about that.
Cuz you've been rickrolled (with out the Rick, or really the roll) as Mr. Lady has stamped my bloggy passport to play in her wonderland as much as I want to.
Being the humble and vacation starved chick I am, I've taken her up on her desperate pleas offer and have started rooting through her unmentionables. I'm totally sitting on her couch naked.
It feels good.
I'm totally staring at you from inside her box.
(Which sounds waaay dirtier on paper than it did in my head.)
It's not that Mr. Lady needs a blogging break or anything. Let's face it, she doesn't really do anything other than parent three kids. She spends most of her day time hours in a certain online foot fetish chat room, talking about arches and stilettos, while getting off on bunyon talk.
This is a woman who needs to blog just to remember how to talk to people without asking about their shoe size and inquiring if they've recently painted their toe nails.
However, tragedy has hit Mr. Lady's household.
Her computer bit the biscuit, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, went tits up...I could continue this but I'm sure we all get my point.
Her computer died.
One minute she was happily downloading porn from the net and the next minute she was weeping at the blue screen of doom.
Take a moment to hug your own computers, lest you find yourself staring at the same screen.
Until Mr. Lady and the Donor waltz back into the 21st century with a freshly repaired computer and come back on line, I will be your host.
Floor is open people.
The call is yours. Do we take this time to write odes of love to Shannon?
Do we trash the joint?
Post naked pictures of ourselves er, her for all to ogle?
It's no secret. I'm easy. I just do what I'm told to do.
Keep that in mind.
Oh, and Shannon? Don't worry. I wouldn't do anything you yourself wouldn't do.
(My fingers were totally crossed behind my back. Neener, neener.)