by Slo Mo
(*Actually, I'm in Florida. The local Chamber of Commerce says this is paradise, but your mileage may vary...)
Ten, plus three, more things I've learned which will make me better for the experience:
13. The NRA-sponsored Charlton Heston Charity Hog Roast was neither the time nor place to wear that cool PETA t-shirt I found in my cousin's closet.
12. Because the sorts of people who go to an NRA-sponsored hog roast, even a super-fancy beach-front charity hog roast, aren't the sorts who take kindly to PETA shirts, nor the "animal-loving, Democrat-voting, non-gun-owning, pinko-commie-jizz-whores" who wear them.
11. And my new status as resident pinko-commie-jizz-whore sure didn't help matters when parents at the hog roast realized that my efforts as a volunteer face-painter ("all proceeds go directly to some right-wing charity!") didn't include face paint that actually washes off.
10. Apparently, some people don't like their off-spring to show up for school the next day looking like Bozo The Clown. Or even Tammy Faye Baker.
9. And speaking of kids, when the boys next door build a clubhouse in the one tree that's taller than my privacy hedge I should know it's time to stop sunbathing au naturel.
8. That's also about the same time I should start closing the blinds before watching the Spice channel.
7. Especially if I'm going to watch the Spice channel au naturel...
6. ... or with company.
5. Because if there's one thing parents hate more than having their kids show up for school looking like Bozo The Clown (or Tammy Faye Baker), it's catching their kids gettin' jiggy with themselves in the clubhouse.
4. And the only thing they hate more than that is when their kids come home from the clubhouse and sit down at the dinner table and ask, "Mom, Dad, do you guys know where I can get a pair of edible panties?"
3. Which means I probably won't be asked to babysit anymore.
2. Which happens to be fine by me because lord knows I've got my hands full right now with all these NRA pamphlets that keep showing up in my mailbox ever since the hog roast, even though that nice lady who signed me up for a macrame Uzi-holster promised she wouldn't sell my info to any mailing lists.
1. And now please excuse me while I go look for whoever shaved the words "I'm With Jizz-Whore" onto Dog's back, so I can stick them with the bill for the dog-walker's nervous breakdown...