The Daver: “WHAT are you DOING?”
Aunt Becky (calmly): “What does it look like I’m doing?”
The Daver: “It LOOKS like you’re gearing up to go outside in the middle of a fucking tornado with your rose pruners.”
Aunt Becky (bored): “Yuppers.”
The Daver: “There was a TORNADO SPOTTED, Becky! You should get into the basement or something!”
Aunt Becky: “The storm has driven off the wasps, Daver, I can finally prune the fucking roses in daylight! Without the EARWIGS ATTACKING ME!”
The Daver: “There may be a TORNADO! It’s pouring buckets AND there’s a thunderstorm going on!”
Aunt Becky: “Don’t be such a puss. The tornado won’t come here. We’re in the middle of civilization. Tornado Alley is MILES out west. You Wisconsin people, I SWEAR*.”
The Daver: “But!!!”
Aunt Becky: “Besides, if I’m outside, I can hear the sirens of the town much more clearly than if I were inside. THEN, I can come in and alert you and we can make a break for the basement.”
The Daver: “Are you REALLY putting your roses before us?”
Aunt Becky: “Um. Dramatical much?”
The Daver: “YOU COULD GET SWEPT UP IN A TWISTER OUT THERE!! WITH COWS!! AND HORSES!!!”
Aunt Becky: “Perhaps you should go hide in the bathtub, then. I’ll let you know when it’s all over.”
The Daver: “Maybe I just will.”
Aunt Becky: “I’ll rescue you when it’s all over, okay?’
The Daver: “TELL IT TO YOUR ROSES, BECKY. Maybe they can keep you warm at night!”
Aunt Becky: *walks out into the sheeting rain whistling “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.”*
*There’s a longstanding rivalry between Wisconsin and Illinois (not, oddly, any of the other states surrounding Illinois). Wisconsinites call we Illinoisans FIB–Fucking Illinois Bastards–and we Illinoisans, uh, don’t have any clever names for our neighbors to the north. But shit, they can’t fucking DRIVE
I don’t tend to watch videos on blogs because I always assume it they are hilarious pictures of cats playing the piano and frankly, I have SCADS of (insert term for computer memory) of my OWN fake cat Mr. Sprinkles and his wacky antics! He’s quite an accomplished fake piano player, don’t you know!
But this, well, Mitch doesn’t send me bullshit, so I watched it. You should to. It’s like 40 seconds, and it’s WICKED AWESOME. DO IT, I’ll wait here.
Apparently, The Daver did have reason to worry…IF I WERE AS TALL AS THE SEARS TOWER*.
(hint, I’m not, but I’d be WAY cooler if I were)
Or perhaps had he come outside to see this:
I know, can you believe it? How had I not shown you photographic proof before? How had it not ruined my camera? How had I not been sucked off to Kansas City to be welcomed by a swarm of very tiny people?
It’s almost like it hadn’t existed in nature before Photoshop was invented. (thank you Mrs. Soup for helping this bitch out).
While I was selfishly off pruning my roses, my daughter escaped from jail:
Then, proving that she learned what thug life means, she stole a cookie and ate it wearing her gold chains. Maybe SHE stole my pants!
And indeed, she never DOES say please. Or anything else, really.
Then, my middle son decided to outdo us all and become half human-half arachnoid:
When he starts scaling buildings and fighting crime, I’ll totally claim it’s my awesome genetics.
And my last son, Benjamin, became a teenager at age 9. He is also for sale.
Actually, I may PAY you to take him for a couple of years. Attitude is included. All sales final.