Spring Cleaning and Couch Rash

Spring cleaning, to me, means springing up from the couch, turning off Farmville and quickly cleaning the house because my husband is coming home soon. Yesterday, however, the cleaning bug grabbed me by the seat of my pants. I ripped the house apart and sucked up a vacuum bag full of dust. Moving the couch away from the wall is always an adventure. A few pine needles, a pen, and even the match to a sock that has been in laundry room for a month. While on my hands and knees picking up what my mother always called “crippy-crappies” I noticed the side of our black leather couch was spotted. Looking over at the love seat and chair, they too had the same rash. I got a rag and some leather cleaner, and went to work. Hummm… Is the leather pitted? No, that’s an optical illusion. Whatever it is, it’s not coming off. Did my husband splatter something while renovating? Cement maybe? No, that can’t be it. I finally decided it was glue. Strong glue. Damn kids must have been doing arts and crafts on the furniture. Probably happened at Christmas time when they were making the window decorations. The leather cleaner wasn’t doing shit to get it off. I got my other rag wet with Meister Proper (Febreze scent) . Scrub, scrub. It still wasn’t coming off, but it was getting loose. I finally had to scrape off the glue with my thumb nail. That worked well. Scrape, scrape. After a while, my thumb nail was getting full. I scraped the glue out from under the nail, and balled it up. I wanted to drop it, as I hadn’t yet vacuumed. No luck, it was stuck. I wiped it on my pants, but every time I wiped my hands on them thereafter, it re-stuck. WTF. It wasn’t until I FLICKED the ball off my finger that I realized it wasn’t glue. There is only one thing that gets flicked, and that, my friends, is a booger. I was reminded of a joke I heard when I was about ten years old.
Two men are sitting on a park bench. One man’s head keeps twitching, as if to signal – come here. He is approached by a stranger. “Excuse me, sir. Were you telling me to come over?” “No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “I was injured in the war, and ever since then I’ve had this twitch.” The stranger looked at the other man on the park bench and asked if he was also injured in the war. “Oh no,” he said, flicking his finger. “I just have a booger of my finger and I can’t get it off.”

A boo-boo on her hoo hoo?

Second on my list of “Things I really hate”, - no toilet paper in a public toilet. (Public toilets being number one.) If you’re lucky, you have a tissue in your pocket or purse. Such was the luck of “Gertrude” (fictitious name to protect her embarrassment) last week.
Gertrude arrived home and felt something was dreadfully wrong down there. Yes, there. Compact mirror in hand she investigated. “GOOD LORD!” exclaimed Gertrude. “ I’ve got a tumor on my hoo-hoo!” Reaching down to investigate further, she realized, (pardon my pun) her lips were sealed. Further probing revealed a sticky mass covering not only her hoochie, but her fingers now too. It was then Gertrude remembered wiping herself in the public toilet with the tissue from her pocket. The same tissue she had spit her gum into.
Alternative titles for this blog: Wrigley's Wax job, and Bubble Gum Brazilial.

FritoLay between a chicken coop and a pig pen?

I try my best to be a good farmer. My insta-grow sits dusty in my gift box. I know it contains nasty chemicals. My animals are free range. And all my poncho lamas and baby elephants were made from scoops of 100% organic feed. (I checked with the president of Farmville personally. Nice guy, round head, wearing an aviator’s cap – which I found a bit odd…) So now, I have quite a dilemma. Where to park my FritoLay’s chip stand and truck. I realize having this on my farm makes me somewhat of a hypocrite, but FritoLay is just so American, and I get so darn homesick. I wonder if I explained my situation to Zachary Zynga, (Yes, we’re on a first name basis) would he make a Tom Wahl’s stand, or better yet, a Pizza Land – complete with a tiny Barb-atar wearing a blue tee shirt covered in flour and splotched with tomato sauce. That would beat a FritoLay stand any day. I think I’ll waddle on over to my post office and send ZZ (only his closest friend call him that) a letter. I can check my winery while I’m over that way. My level 68 red table wine is almost ready. It would be mighty tasty with a large pepperoni, half mushroom pizza…

Boom chick a baa baa - love potion from Labville

I have too many pigs. Pink pigs, pot belly pigs, black pigs, white pigs, and wasabi pigs. No wait, make that ossabaw pigs. (Although, wasabi pigs would make some pretty spicy chops and bacon.) Anyway, I decided to sell a few today. But as I clicked on Sell, a thought occurred to me. Where do the poor pigs go? Off to slaughterville? Or worse, Do they go to a lab? I believe they do. How else would they be able to come up with neon pink valentine pigs? All of those poor animals I sold, and for what? So they could be poked, prodded, and genetically altered for the sake of our enjoyment. How could I have been so naive to think pink pigs with cute little party hats and noise makers could come from Mother Nature. Labville is more like it. Thousands of little avatars in tiny white lab coats just waiting for you to click on SELL. That’s why you can hunt for truffles AND share one with a friend, AND get one back. Oh it’s all becoming so clear to me now! I should have known my pigs couldn’t find truffles on a farm in a country I don’t even live in. I hang my head in shame.
What becomes of all the wandering stallions that no one gives shelter to? And the thousands of unclaimed poncho lamas? Let’s face it, no one has claimed one of those in months. And while I’m at it, who made all those ponchos for the lamas? A ten year old child avatar from sweatshopville, that’s who! And you can bet your chicken coop those poor childatars don’t have fancy-schamcy clothes or costumes to change into when the mood strikes them. Just a sewing machine in a warehouse. Day in and day out, making teeny-tiny hats for party pigs, and thousands of ponchos with matching sombreros for the lamas.
Oh hell, I’m on a roll now – so let me continue. The “instagrow potion” that sprays out of the crop duster… back when I went to school, anything that made crops grow that fast was called toxic fertilizer. Potion my ass.
And then there’s the pot of gold. I have enough gold to buy 12 Clover Chickens which, I have come to conclusion, (because I am just too smart for my own good) are a combination of “Potion” grown clover, and Labville chickens. No sir, not this girl.
But it doesn’t stop there, now there’s the English Countryside. Oh how I waited. I frantically clicked on my neighbors for help as not to wait four grueling days to get there in my British airship blimp. And what happened after I completed my sheep pen? S-E-X that’s what. A “Boom chick a baa baa” sign appeared outside the pen after the (unsuspecting) sheep went inside with the genetically altered purple ram. A-Ha! That is probably the Lab! Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing – A lab in sheep’s housing. God! Those poor little sheep. Why, it’s like an alien abduction. They get probed in places one doesn’t speak of (at the dinner table) And what do we do???? We feed it “Love Potion” Oh those Farmville communist leaders are big on potions. Once the lamb is born, we ease the mama into the fact that she has given birth to an orange lamb with purple polka dots. (Lest we bring back the repressed memories of the lab probing.) We don’t let her know until the poor little thing has had ten bottles.
Good will come of this blog. The people at my Zanganon meeting will take comfort in the fact that stopping their addiction to Farmville benefits not only them, but many, many others as well.