Buckethead is singing at the top of his lungs from the shower and I can't concentrate on writing a blog. His last lyrics were, "Nothing rhymes with plethora".
I actually married someone who is weirder than I am.
And has the ability to be just as annoying as me. Is that irony?
I'm not trying to cage Buckethead like a bird who's vocal cords yearn to fly--I just want him to shut up enough for me to be able to write about anything else besides how much he is getting on my nerves right now.
Okay, change of subject. Tip of the Day: Underwear is fun to wear. You can wear it anywhere. If you don't wear underwear, people will begin to stare.
Christmas music is finally being played across the radio waves. The holiday cheer has exploded like Jessica Simpson's thighs and I'm loving it more than she loves the extended Taco Bell hours.
It's funny, I was singing along to "Baby it's Cold Outside" on the commute home from work today and I had an epiphany on the true meaning of the song. Basically, it's some horny guy, blaming the weather and trying to get a girl drunk enough to enjoy his Yule-tide log.
Wait, that sounds a little familiar. If I remember correctly, the first winter I spent with Buckethead he "accidentally" turned on the sprinklers during a freeze thus making the driveway impassible for our cars. Even his 4 wheel drive Range Rover.
Aren't those things meant to go across the Serengeti?
I think he may have even used the line, "Baby it's cold outside".
I made dinner out of a bag tonight.
I'm still hungry.
The Halloween candy is going to be the death of me.
Okay, that's it. Nothing rhymes with plethora.