The Box Of Chocolates Post

I got an email from Dammit Todd about my latest post. It needs to be shared.

Dear Jimmie –

1) I’m never hunting squirrels in your home town, especially if they really can be considered to be a big animal, such as a deer.

2) Your makeover pic is definitely being termed “Eye of the Tigger” in my book…

My makeover, courtesy of Tigger

Love, Dammit Todd

When Woney and I were in the Mexico port on our cruise, we got on this bus tour thing. Time has passed and I’m slightly fuzzy on the details now that I’ve slept. Anyway, the tour guide spoke fantastic English although slightly accented, and this is the thing he said that I remember most, mostly because he was calm and dead serious.

“Jyoo can go to the open air flea market and buy lots of silber, leather, wool. Lots of stuff. Jyoo can get handbags, belts, hats, whips. <shrug> Jyoo on bacation.”

An open letter to Tony, Woney’s trainer.

Dear Tony, oh ye of the chiclet teeth, giant arms, positive attitude and Navy Uniform which you refused to wear for me no matter how much I really, really wanted you to or how much I wheezed when I ran to show you that I was serious about the workout –

I heard that you made Woney flip over a bunch of tractor tires as part of her training for her Sheryl Crow arms. I hate to tell you, Tony, but you live in CALIFORNIA. Tractors just don’t really seem indigenous to CALIFORNIA and I’ll bet people snickered behind your back.

However, they do seem to be indigenous to TENNESSEE, where I live. I do believe that here in Nashville we even lay claim to a country music singer who writes songs about how tractors are sexy (Yes, it is a great source of embarrassment for many TENNESSEE natives, one of which is me. Was that Kenny Chesney? Cause if so, he should be strung up by his toenails and tortured mercilessly. Anway . . . .) Tractors and their tires belong here and honestly, I could use some Sheryl Crow arms myself.

I propose an idea. Tony, you come here (and bring Woney) with your tractor tires (and your uniform), and we can flip tractor tires all day long and no one will think it is weird at all. Maybe you can meet Kenny Chesney. And later we can check you for ticks. Deal? Deal.



A Guest Post, by Murphy

People. Tell The Smushy One that the garage is not outside! Frick.

It appears that Christmas is upon us. One of my neighbors put up the whole Clark Griswold-themed light show in their yard Halloween weekend and since then has been blazing the trail nightly in their quest for the Christmas Spirit.

I put my tree up this past weekend and wondered what the cats would do to it. The first year the kitties were with me, I had the tree up but Seamus hid under the bed all the time and Murphy was too busy digging in my cabinets and in the bathroom to notice it. Last year the tree didn’t make it off of the garage shelf.  This year I fully expected Murphy to tear it to shreds or at the very least, pee on it.

Instead, every day when I come home I see this:

Seamus is in love with that tree. He makes a running leap, slides onto the tree skirt and skids across it like he’s sliding into home base. Then he’ll lump himself up underneath the tree skirt and “hide”, except his butt is so big it sticks out. I find new ornaments on the floor every day and I’ve noticed that more and more of my lights on my pre-lit tree are going out. I’m going to have a non-lit tree before it’s over with.

Murphy with the tree:

Meh. It'll do.

Seamus with the tree:

You touch this and I will kill you.

That’s it. Chocolate gone. The end. 

(In case you now need a chocolate fix, all those images came from Godiva.  Just remember me when you go buy some.)

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Felix
    Dec 02, 2011 @ 11:23:32

    ok….love the post! Love the story about Seamus and Murphy. Not sure how the chocolate ties in, nor the story about Tony or the bacation tour guide. Ramblings, perhaps? Maybe it’s me today….a bit dis-jointed.


  2. jimmiesworld
    Dec 02, 2011 @ 14:10:33

    Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get . . . .


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