Send Sandra A New Name; F*** Rick Perry!


So. Our Rename Sandra Contest is losing steam. Likely that means either one of two things- you are not a very creative bunch, or I haven’t given you a good enough reason to participate.

My initial instinct was to offer two of my books as the prize instead of just the one. That felt good for maybe a minute, when I realized that giving a second book might be like offering a second helping of turkey and Brussels sprout casserole.

One of my ex-wives was a terrible cook. I won’t name her here, but she cooks like I think. Everything she cooked was a casserole, and each casserole was prepared by: placing all of the raw ingredients in the baking dish; covering with cheese, or not; baking in a 350-degree oven covered for two hours; raising oven temp to 400 degrees and baking uncovered for ten minutes.

No spices, no sauces, no oil or butter, no cream of mushroom soup- nothing but the raw food. The results were exactly what you are thinking, except worse.

At first I figured this was her elaborate method to get me to cook or take her out to eat. But hers were honest efforts of creativity, and her feelings were always hurt when you didn’t eat seconds. The worst thing I have ever put in my mouth was her turkey and Brussels sprout casserole.

And trust me, I have had some nasty shit in my mouth. Hell, just from getting dosed by my Gram’s hallucinogenic potions, I’ve ingested by mouth: skunk venom, billy goat piss, opossum blood, bumpy toad sweat, a bat’s ear wax and more.

Then there would be all of the things I’ve eaten on a dare. I would do almost anything on a dare. There was this one time when little Suzy Ashburn, she’s Dr. Ashburn’s only daughter, dared me to eat a box of Crayolas. I shit rainbows for a week.

Anyway, please send more names for Sandra because I think her feelings are hurt.

I feel better today about the elections. I figure the bright side is that neither side controls both sides of Congress on the federal stage, so maybe they won’t screw things up too badly. And on the local scene, I still get to say, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and have anyone give a shit.



Now lets all drink a cold Carta Blanca beer and feel better. Manana, y’all.

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