Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Ain't Skeerd? Oh man I wish I'd thought of that. Rick over at Obsession has cracked me up.
First, his brilliant observation that both the garage and the kitchen are home to power tools in reference to my quest for the perfect toaster oven. (Cue the manly Tool Time grunt of happiness.) What he doesn't know is that a few years ago for Christmas I asked that my husband get me a new jig saw and a new set of saw horses. (Manly Tool Time grunt, again.)
Also, he unwittingly participated in an act of synchronicity. No one has ever before questioned the origin of my choice of "Ain't Chicken". Until now. Last week my buddy Lisa (Hi, Lisa!) asked why I had chosen this particular nome de plume, and now Rick has wondered to the whole world why I didn't choose Ain't Skeered. That, my friends, is synchronicity. So now, for all the people for whom this is obviously a burning issue (along with why the HELL Paris Hilton is so fascinating) is the thrilling scoop.
I've been subjecting the Blogosphere to Ain't Chicken for about four years now. When I first set out to rant to the world, I decided to include a photo of myself as part of my template. Since this blog is more or less "anonymous", I didn't want to show my wrinkled, grey haired self to the world. Also, I didn't want to burn its retinas. So I chose one of my favorite pictures of myself (look - over there on the left). Damned I was a cute kid. I mean, DAMNED.
Thus the origin of the name. It's got a clever double entendre which no one gets because it is so personally obscure.
First, I am indeed a dare devil, Mr. Rick man. Ever been towed through the air by a boat with only a silk parachute keeping you from becoming shark supper? Ever braved the Maw Of Hell in California? Long story but both my husband and I admitted to all our sins while promising God that if he would just keep us from falling off the side of that mountain in a mud slide we would be better people and floss every day. And we apologized for that time we had sex in a public stairwell. Oh wait that last part wasn't with my husband. But it WAS before we met so it's OK, people (Hi Beauboeuf!* Haven't heard from you in years. Call me!). Have you tried paddling through a Louisiana swamp in a pirough trailed by a hungry mob of alligators? OK I'll admit I incited the mob by throwing marshmallows to them but hey that's part of the FUN! You know that woman at your office who everyone thinks hasn't had a bath since Atlanta burned? Let me at her. I'll tell her in the nicest way possible that she reeks and that being near her is like letting a new whole generation learn what mustard gas smells like. And she'll walk away grateful! And I was the only one at Uncle Jack's funeral who was willing to say that all the people walking around talking about him like he was a saint were just hypocrites. He was a son of a bitch when he was alive and just because he was laying there in a coffin didn't mean anything had changed.
Oh, the other part. I've digressed. See that picture over there of the unbearably cute girl? It was Thanksgiving. I was three. See that thing on my head? We made those at Sunday bible school out of paper bags and construction paper. Everyone thought is was a chicken head. BUT NO! It was a TURKEY head. It was Thanksgiving. Get it? Turkey head? Ain't Chicken? GET IT? Go now and laugh amongst yourselves.
*Yes, I had sex with a man named Beauboeuf. Shut up.
First, his brilliant observation that both the garage and the kitchen are home to power tools in reference to my quest for the perfect toaster oven. (Cue the manly Tool Time grunt of happiness.) What he doesn't know is that a few years ago for Christmas I asked that my husband get me a new jig saw and a new set of saw horses. (Manly Tool Time grunt, again.)
Also, he unwittingly participated in an act of synchronicity. No one has ever before questioned the origin of my choice of "Ain't Chicken". Until now. Last week my buddy Lisa (Hi, Lisa!) asked why I had chosen this particular nome de plume, and now Rick has wondered to the whole world why I didn't choose Ain't Skeered. That, my friends, is synchronicity. So now, for all the people for whom this is obviously a burning issue (along with why the HELL Paris Hilton is so fascinating) is the thrilling scoop.
I've been subjecting the Blogosphere to Ain't Chicken for about four years now. When I first set out to rant to the world, I decided to include a photo of myself as part of my template. Since this blog is more or less "anonymous", I didn't want to show my wrinkled, grey haired self to the world. Also, I didn't want to burn its retinas. So I chose one of my favorite pictures of myself (look - over there on the left). Damned I was a cute kid. I mean, DAMNED.
Thus the origin of the name. It's got a clever double entendre which no one gets because it is so personally obscure.
First, I am indeed a dare devil, Mr. Rick man. Ever been towed through the air by a boat with only a silk parachute keeping you from becoming shark supper? Ever braved the Maw Of Hell in California? Long story but both my husband and I admitted to all our sins while promising God that if he would just keep us from falling off the side of that mountain in a mud slide we would be better people and floss every day. And we apologized for that time we had sex in a public stairwell. Oh wait that last part wasn't with my husband. But it WAS before we met so it's OK, people (Hi Beauboeuf!* Haven't heard from you in years. Call me!). Have you tried paddling through a Louisiana swamp in a pirough trailed by a hungry mob of alligators? OK I'll admit I incited the mob by throwing marshmallows to them but hey that's part of the FUN! You know that woman at your office who everyone thinks hasn't had a bath since Atlanta burned? Let me at her. I'll tell her in the nicest way possible that she reeks and that being near her is like letting a new whole generation learn what mustard gas smells like. And she'll walk away grateful! And I was the only one at Uncle Jack's funeral who was willing to say that all the people walking around talking about him like he was a saint were just hypocrites. He was a son of a bitch when he was alive and just because he was laying there in a coffin didn't mean anything had changed.
Oh, the other part. I've digressed. See that picture over there of the unbearably cute girl? It was Thanksgiving. I was three. See that thing on my head? We made those at Sunday bible school out of paper bags and construction paper. Everyone thought is was a chicken head. BUT NO! It was a TURKEY head. It was Thanksgiving. Get it? Turkey head? Ain't Chicken? GET IT? Go now and laugh amongst yourselves.
*Yes, I had sex with a man named Beauboeuf. Shut up.
# posted by Carol : 11:30 AM
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"This is a dog, not a chicken. Chicken's don't look like dogs. Who told you this was a chicken, son? Nice boy, but doesn't listen to a thing you say. You got a bum steer, son. I'm a chicken, not a schnook. You're wrong, son" -- Foghorn Leghorn.
I haven't been chased by gators or crocs. How about bungee jumping? I did that once and I shall never do it again.
And yes, I do want a sewing machine. It is a power tool isn't it?
"I say, I say, go away boy. You bother me. That boy is as sharp as a bowling ball." -- F.L
And why I am doing F.L quotes, I found one for the picture.
"That girl's like that road between Fort Worth and Dallas...No curves." -- F.L.
Sorry about that one but I figured it was twice as good with you being in Taxes, er, Texas.
I haven't been chased by gators or crocs. How about bungee jumping? I did that once and I shall never do it again.
And yes, I do want a sewing machine. It is a power tool isn't it?
"I say, I say, go away boy. You bother me. That boy is as sharp as a bowling ball." -- F.L
And why I am doing F.L quotes, I found one for the picture.
"That girl's like that road between Fort Worth and Dallas...No curves." -- F.L.
Sorry about that one but I figured it was twice as good with you being in Taxes, er, Texas.
Well, now that you have cleared that all up, the only thing I need to know now is, just how do you pronounce Beauboeuf?
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