It's Funny Cuz It's True

Mass e-mail message sent to my gang of friends from high school:

OK, why hasn't anyone from this group thought this up for their wedding? Simone? John? Leash? What happened?

Simone responds:

that is funny. maybe we could plan it for the birth of baby leash. at the hospital. in hospital gowns.

I responded:

I'm making all you guys do Rhythm Nation at my wedding. Unless a couple of the guys want to get together to do Dick In A Box. (But please do not actually put your dick in the box. Thanks.)

My brother responded:

Who, on this earth, is going to be able to tie your arms and legs up long enough to keep you from running away from a wedding?

This is obviously the most brilliant respose in the history of e-mail.

Dear El Nino,

What the hell, bro? It's 13 degrees. Supposed to go down to 4 tonight. Four degrees. F-o-u-r. You have some explaining to do buddy.

When I first heard it was an El Nino year, I was overjoyed. I remembered my last El Nino: Mild temperatures all winter long, hardly ever dropped below freezing, barely any snow. I could not wait. I was so excited to see you again. I greeted you with open arms. Indeed, much of the last month was remarkable.

BUT.

I walked out of my house this morning and the temperature sucker punched me in the face. I saw stars. Seconds later I lost all feeling in my extremities. I could have been wearing 9 snowsuits and it wouldn't have made a difference. I would have screamed but I was afraid that if I opened my mouth all of my internal organs would freeze. I stood on the platform waiting for the train, even though it was obvious I was going to die before it came. Two words for you, dickhead: booger icicles.

Am I in Canada? No, I'm not. I don't know who shit in your dildo drawer, jackwad, but there's no reason for you to take it out on me. I never did anything to you. So get your lazy ass in gear and fix this shit right now, because if I die it's on your head. Jerk.

Regards,

Amberance

Bang!

MrSteve read the blog post about our drinking fun while we sat at the bar last night. He got to the part about the hangover and paused in his reading. "Inner ear fluid?"

I shrugged. "I kept running into things!"

Kitty Woes, Hangovers and the Miracle of Ceramic Tile

I keep not posting my birthday party highlights. The reason is that I'm not in the mood.

I took Kristen the kitty angel of joy to the vet on Friday for her routine annual exam only to find out that she has a tumor in her mouth and needs a $700 dollar surgery to get it out. And then we have to send it to a lab to find out if there's cancer in that thar tumor or not. As if this wasn't frightening enough, they were concerned that she might not survive surgery with her heart condition, so I had to take her for another echocardiogram before they would clear her for surgery. So now my cat has a cardiologist. (Maybe I'm overthinking this, but how does a person decide they want to be a kitty cardiologist? I can see how people decide to become a veterinarian: "I love animals! I should work with them!", but how do you go from that to, "I love animals! I should work with them! But just their hearts."? Or maybe they just find out in vet school that they're good at it? I just don't know.) The cardiologist said her heart was doing very well on her medication and in fact should continue to do well for years before she starts showing signs of heart failure. So she has that going for her. Of course, she charmed everybody in the place with her sweet disposition and tiny frightened meows, because that is what she does. So she is cleared for surgery, which will occur on Tuesday.

So, not really in a party recap mood you understand.

This is not to say there haven't been some smiling times. When I got home from the vet on Friday with my awful news, I sobbed for an hour on the bartender. He did his best to be comforting, but he had to go to work. That was ok, because I had a plan for the evening: get obnoxiously drunk and pass out.

People that know me well know that despite most of my social life occurring inside of a bar, I actually drink very little. Two to three ciders once a week spread over 5 hours is my typical limit. In hindsight, I should have taken that into consideration before deciding to drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. In an hour and a half. Melle informed me later "you have to work your way up to being a wino." Oops.

Halfway through the bottle I remembered to call MrSteve, who knew I was at the vet and was waiting for the story. I also explained my excessive drinking plan, thinking he would try to talk me out of my self destruction. Instead he said "I have a bottle of Captain just sitting here that I've never opened. I should bring it to you!" I seriously have the best friends in the universe.

MrSteve ended up staying, I think as much to prevent me from seriously injuring myself as anything, and we had a grand old time looking up Monty Python sketches, eulogies, and Bob the Enzyte guy on the internet, as well as MST3K-ing an episode of Numbers. I also spoke to Melle on the phone while MrSteve made pirate noises in the background. Apparently I spilled things a lot. (I do that sober though, just not on other people as much. Sorry Steve.) We took in a little William Shatner music.

I woke up on the bathroom floor. I have been known to do this before. It's a tradition that started at the Christmas Eve Eve Drinking Extravaganza of 1999 (I believe. Kelly? Doug? Simmy?) and continued at the 25th Anniversary of the Birth of TupperDoug party a few years later. Since then I've found that sleeping on the bathroom floor is good because 1) if you have to ralph you are right next to the toilet and 2) the floor is nice and cool which paradoxally helps to keep you from vomiting. Also "and then I woke up on the bathroom floor" is a great way to end a story. I've got the bartender doing it now too which is hilarious.

Thanks to my bathroom tile sleeping ways I did not vomit. This proved to be a mistake the next day when I woke up certain that I was dying. My head, stomach, liver, esophagus and inner ear fluid mutinied. Several other organs tried to escape. I did not even need to swallow any water. I could just pour it on my skin and my body absorbed it instantly. I looked on the bright side - I was obviously not cut out to be an alcoholic. In the future I plan to drown my sorrow by eating an entire block of cheese instead.

I promise I will get to the birthday thing, what with the appearance of the brothers whose last name rhymes with "shmongola" and the forcing people to sing and the light saber appearing as drug paraphernalia. Eventually.

Pimpin' Ain't Easy (With the Flu)

I have been sick for well over a week. I told MrSteve that I had malaria. He was skeptical of this, as I have not been out of the country or anywhere near a river, and all the mosquitoes in Chicago have flown south for the winter, or where ever it is that they go. I looked in my throat in the mirror with a flashlight and found that my flesh most closely resembled freshly ground beef. This, combined with a week of hacking up respiratory organs, was enough to finally convince me that I should have a medical professional look into it.

We have previously established, I think, that I am a very lazy person. Procrastination is my main form of artistic self-expression. Because of this I only go to the doctor when prescriptions expire. And since my dad doesn't live here and can't do things like pick out doctors for me, I have no primary care physician in Chicago. This is the circumstance that led me to seek answers at an immediate care clinic.

I sat in the waiting room and checked out the magazine selection. I had my choice of Field and Stream or Sporting News Weekly. I picked up a two week old Sporting News Weekly and thumbed through it. It predicted a Superbowl battle between the Cowboys and the Ravens. This made me laugh out loud.

The nurse called my name and ushered me into a room. It quickly became apparent that English was not her first language. Eventually I started answering yes or no to her questions at random rather than point out that I couldn't understand half of what she was saying. "Are you on any medications?"

"Yes, Tri-levelen and Welbutrin."

"OK, can you spell for me?" I thought maybe I should make more of an effort to find a private practice somewhere. She swabbed my throat to make sure I didn't have strep (which was my primary concern; my tonsils came out in second grade because I kept getting it) and told me that the doctor would be in soon.

Whatever fears I had about the quality of care at this place vanished as soon as the doctor came in the door. He introduced himself and shook my hand. "How are you today?"

"Sick."

"That's a great answer. If you would have said good I would have known you were a liar."

He took a look in my throat. "Good news!" he told me. "You don't have tonsilitis! But you knew that, because you don't have tonsils."

He had me lay down so he could listen to my chest. When I pulled my shirt up he gasped at my belly piercing. "OH MY GOD! Didn't that hurt?"

"Not really, I mean not much. Like getting a shot." He shook his head in dismay.

"Shots hurt. No piercings for me. No tattoos. I told my wife if I die with more holes in my body than I was born with, that's the hole that killed me."

I took my glasses off so he could tap on my head. "Do you wear contact lenses?"

I feared this might be a trick question. "Um, yes. Sometimes. I mean, not all the time."

"Good. You should wear them. You have beautiful eyes. It would be a shame to hide them behind those glasses." I decided he was the best doctor ever.

In the end he decided I had sinusitis, which is really just a fancy word for the entire upper half of my body is filled with snot. I decided this was not nearly as interesting as having malaria. He prescribed an antibiotic, an antihistamine and two cough medications, and sent me on my way.

It wasn't until the desk receptionist checked me out and I turned to leave that I remembered I was in an immediate care clinic and not at my awesome new doctor's private practice. Sitting in the waiting room, sniffling like it was his job, was a pimp in a bright green pimp suit. Green suit with his shirt half open, matching shiny green shoes, mounds of bling and, for real kids, a bright green hat with a feather in it. He had a gold knobbed walking stick laying across his lap. I almost looked around for cameras. I was sure he had stepped right out of a Snoop Dogg video. Pimps need doctors too I guess. It's hard to keep your bitches in line if you keep sneezing all over them.

Real Friendship

It is vitally important to choose your friends carefully.

You need to have someone who will listen to you when you need to vent.
Someone to cheer you up when you are down.
Someone you know you can count on in any crisis.

Someone who will prank call you at work, play a roaring dinosaur pen in your ear, and then hang up on you. You know, someone like Heather.

It's been 20 minutes and I still can't stop laughing. I less than three you, Heather!

The Obligatory Holiday Recap

Well hello there, internet friends. Long time no write.

Despite the best efforts of the "kids" of my family (you all should have co-ordinated your efforts, It still wouldn't have worked but it probably would have been really entertaining) I spent my Christmas with the bartenders family in Galena this year instead of going to Cleveland. This worked out very well, because I can't get homemade swedish meatballs in Cleveland, and no one in my family is the crazy cat lady so I wouldn't have gotten to play with a half dozen kittens that were so cute I almost threw up on them. Then again, if I'd gone to Cleveland I wouldn't have been covered in cat hair, and also my dad's house doesn't smell like ammonia.

The bartender was born on Christmas Eve, so I baked him a cake with the Blackhawks logo on it (because I am friggin awesome) which we took with us to Galena that night. He decided, somewhat arbitrarily and with no basis whatsoever in reality, that we would be celebrating his 24th birthday, which magically transformed him into being younger than me for a day. We hung out at his sister's townhouse for a while, before retiring to our hotel to watch football. Alcohol was consumed, cheese was heated up at 2 in the morning and consumed on tortilla chips. I think he had a pretty good fake 24th birthday.

I got a lot of great gifts. My parents had sent me a huge box of stuff, including a couple of new nativities for my collection and a cute but weird stuffed lamb that had a card claiming it had slept on top of the baby Jesus in the manger to keep him warm. I found that unlikely because it seems like if you put a sheep on top of a baby the kid would suffocate, but then again I wasn't there. The bartender's sister and her girlfriend bought me an amber necklace when they were in Scotland. And the bartender broke from his highly cultivated "you are not so special and you annoy me" attitude and surprised me with airline tickets to Las Vegas for New Year's.

As far as New Year's goes, Las Vegas is the new New York. About 3 million people come into town for it. The cost of a hotel room quadruples. They shut down the strip at 5:00 so they can fill the street with people who will then watch a spectacular fireworks show at the stroke of midnight.

The bartender and I had gone to dinner with the owner et al. for his birthday at Japanais. While this seemed like a good idea at the time, we were clear on the other end of the strip from where we wanted to be, which was on top of Mandalay Bay at the Foundation Room, where we had been invited to watch the fireworks with the bartender's good friend whom I shall call His Royal Awesomeness because he fills me with awe. (And booze.) With the strip being shut down, and the blisters I had acquired walking to dinner, we were going to have a hard time making it back in time. Actually, as it turned out, it would be impossible to get back in time, because by 11:00 the street was so packed with people it was impossible to cross.

As much as I enjoy visiting Las Vegas, it is a Mecca for stupid asses. No one could figure out how to board a tram, look in the direction they were walking, or keep themselves from blocking foot traffic. As we stood trapped in the middle of the street, surrounded by drunk frat boys chanting "Tits! Tits!" at girls who were clearly not drunk enough to take their shirts off, the bartender observed that people seemed even more retarded than normal, and concluded that Los Angeles had thrown up on us.

We spent the next few days in the sports book watching some FANTASTIC (Fiesta) and some atrocious (Orange) bowl games, plus a bit of hockey. We also eventually stopped up at the Foundation Room where some girl hit on me. Only girls hit on me now. Boys don't any more. I don't know what that's about. We left without anyone else hitting on me, which was very disappointing because one of my main goals for this Vegas trip was to get some ass. Other than that the trip was pretty uneventful - just the usual "go to Fatburger" thing, the usual "drink with His Royal Awesomeness and get extremely hammered" thing and the subsequent "Amber and the bartender get in a huge argument on the last day" thing.

Next up: Amberance's Super Duper Fabulous 29th Birthday extravaganza! which is likely to consist of going to Tai's and getting all crazy, like flailing my arms around and demanding everyone pay attention to me or drinking four ciders instead of three. So pretty much exactly like what I do every week, except that I'm going to make everyone sing to me.

Let the Great Countdown Begin!

There are 29 days until my 29th birthday.

I'm an Idiot Torn

MrSteve called yesterday to complain about his early morning. I took the opportunity to make the conversation about me.

"I was at work at 4:30 this morning," he told me. "I can't work at that hour, I'm an idiot in the morning."

"As opposed to me, who is an idiot all day."

"You're not an idiot."

"I am too. I'm stupid about the bartender."

"You're not stupid."

"What part of my weirdness with the bartender leads you to believe I'm not an idiot?"

"That's not an idiot. An idiot is..." There was a long pause while MrSteve tried to define idiot in a way that didn't describe me. He failed. "An idiot is someone who thinks a situation is a certain way when really it's not."

"Exactly. And that doesn't apply to me and the bartender how?"

MrSteve sighed. "You're not an idiot. You're just...torn."

I like this and I plan to apply it to every stupid thing I do now. Spill something all over myself? "I'm not clumsy, I'm just torn." Irrational fear of bugs? "I'm not being irrational, I'm just torn." Lack of blog updating? "I'm not lazy, I'm just torn."

You Have 1 Post in Your Cart

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate shopping. It embodies everything that I hate: large crowds, talking to strangers, having to drive places, making choices in front of other people. I guess it doesn't really involve spiders, but it is clearly an activity coughed up from the 7th circle of hell. So it should come as no surprise that I am fully on board with the "buy things on the internet" wagon.

The best thing about shopping on the internet, besides being able to do it in my pajamas or while watching Gilmore Girls, is the variety. The internet has everything you can buy in a real store, plus a crap load of things that you can't, such as really offensive t-shirts, or subversive cross-stitch patterns, or Festivus poles. This is important because all of my friends are quite weird, and finding something they would like for Christmas in a brick and mortar store is next to impossible. I mean, I know plenty of people who could really use a marshmallow shooter, but I'm not going to find it at my local Toys-R-Us.

The sheer volume of my internet shopping this year has led me to realize another benefit: home delivery. Almost every day that I come home now, I find a package on my doorstep. It's like getting presents every day! It doesn't even matter that none* of it is actually for me, I still get the joy of opening the boxes to discover what's inside. Also the satisfying feeling of receiving mail that is not a bill. And occasionally, joy of all joys, some free bubble wrap to play with. Today I'm expecting some Hawaiian Blend peppercorns for the bartender's stocking. It comes in a glass jar. The bubble wrap outlook for today is good.

*most

I am Moving Somewhere South and/or West of Here

It was 32 degrees this morning, and it felt like a freakin' heat wave. I'm hoping it warms up further and melts the ice on my stairs so I can stop almost killing myself every time I leave or come home.

The owner is in Las Vegas and had the audacity to call me last night and complain about the weather. "It's cold here!" he said.
"No, it is not. It's cold here."
"No, I mean it's cold for Vegas. It got down to 40 degrees last night."
"It's a desert, ass, of course it's cold at night. There's hardly any moisture in the air, so they can't hold their heat overnight."
"Whatever. But I'm telling you it's cold here."
"And I'm telling you that during the day today, it was like 20 degrees."
"Oh, it was 65 during the day here."
"I hate you."

This Next Post is a Cover

Me First and the Gimme Gimmes played Sunday night at the Metro, and they are really funny:

"We are Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, the best cover band EVER."
"This next song is a cover."
"We chose country music for our latest album because country is the music of tolerance."
"This next song is a cover."
"We started this band because we hate music."
"Before the show I was sitting in the trailer drinking tequila by myself and listening to the new My Chemical Romance album. No, I'm serious!"
"This next song's a cover."

I also met and shook hands with Chicken from Dead to Me, who I have a major crush on, but did not say anything to him AT ALL because that is what I do.

Moo?

Last night I ended up going to a surprise concert with the bartender. The concert wasn't a surprise, me going was. Our friend Hellbilly had been at Guns N Roses the night before and wasn't up to concerts two nights in a row, so he gave me his ticket. The Matches opened for +44.

We got there in time for the tail end of The Matches' set. Neither of us are really Matches fans, what with their girl pants and boring songs and their emo, emo eyeliner. We found a new reason not to like them at the show. Halfway through one of their songs, a guy walked up to the microphone and pulled out a triangle. The bartender looked at me. I looked around for cows. I wondered if perhaps it was dinnertime. The bartender scowled. Because, come on, it's a rock band. How are you supposed to even hear the triangle? It's impossible. And if it were possible we would know, because the guy was really playing the hell out of the thing. As if it were a pinata, or an effigy of someone they dislike. It was way to much effort for something that was completely drowned out by the guitars. They should have gone for some cowbell.

+44 is the current band of former Blink-182 members Mark Hoppus (bass) and Travis Barker (drums). Apparently they have a thing for naming their bands with a one syllable word and then a number. They're, eh, alright. Listenable. The best part of the show was Travis Barker. Travis would have been the best part of the show anyway, because he's a frikkin amazing drummer. But a few weeks ago he broke his hand, and so played their entire set last night with only one arm all Def Leppard-like. Except that he actually has two arms and was holding the broken one up behind his head the whole time like he was at a rodeo. Or maybe fencing because he had a drumstick in his other hand. But way more spastic than that, so yeah, like a rodeo. I was right the first time. Either way it was awesome.

A good time was had by all.

Or Possibly Ravens Heaven

H-Town: I have made a grave error in the letter I am mailing to you
me: um, ok
H-Town: i made the comment "I would've sent you a Kevin mack card, but I fumbled it on the way into the packing box" My brother says I blasphemed Mack, it was BYNER who did that
H-Town: i knew it was one of those two, but forgot which
me: ah yes, you meant ernest byner there
H-Town: so, i'm going to cleveand browns hell
me: that's ok, cleveland browns hell might be the same as bengals heaven
H-Town: which might be nice,
me: actually no, it's probably steelers heaven. you're screwed

Are You Ready to Ruin Some Football?

Is it just me, or does Monday Night Football blow this year? I have seen I think maybe one game that was worthy of the three hours I devoted to it. And I may have just dreamed that one. Last night's turnover festival was almost comedic, if it weren't for Jerramy Stevens' unwillingness to finish running his routes, which just made me angry. And can Joe Theismann and Tony Kornheiser possibly bicker any more? I swear, Kornheiser contradicts everything Theismann has to say just because he doesn't like him.

Suck My Balls and Assorted Other Christmas Stories

A brief recap of my various goings on:

1. Melle dyed my hair green and red on Friday. I have no idea how I finally talked her into that, as she kept telling me it was cheesy. Also she is a big scrooge. It looks awesomely festive, but every time I wash my hair, my hands end up looking like I've slain a muppet.

2. I am somewhat known for the wearing of inappropriate t-shirts, because I think it is hilarious. Some of my selections include "You say tomato, I say fuck you", "Masturbation: My anti-drug" and "I taught your boyfriend that thing you like". I hadn't really realized how much my shirts had become my trade mark until I walked into the salon on day one of The 40 Days of Christmas wearing a "Joy To The World" sweatshirt I had cross-stitched myself. John stared at me reading my shirt for a long time before finally saying, "Oh. That's it? Because you know how you have that shirt that says 'swallows'? I thought there was a trick to it, like instead of saying 'Joy to the World' it was going to say 'Joy to you sucking my balls' or something."

3. After I left the salon, I went down to the bar where I started wishing everyone a Merry Christmas which earned me many confused looks, two hugs and a mint from IHop. I decided to call JoE, the inventor of the 40 Days. "Happy 40 Days!" he answered.

"Happy 40 Days!" I said. "I'm sitting here in the bar in my Joy To The World sweatshirt and ornament earrings."

"Haha! Is that why you called?"

"Of course that's why I called. That and to tell you that everyone thinks I am batshit insane."

"They just don't understand. Listen, I'd love to talk to you, but I have to let you go. We're in the middle of watching 'It's a Wonderful Life'."

Ah, sweet sweet vindication.

4. It is almost as much fun watching the humbug bartender lug my Christmas decorations up and down the stairs than it is actually decorating. He had no objection to my putting little wreaths around his candle sticks in the dining room, but he thinks the festive red couch cover is a tad excessive. I also found a stuffed teddy bear and a snowman in with my linens. "Kristen, here's a teddy bear for you and [bartender], you get a snowman."

"I don't want a snowman," he complained as I handed it to him .

"Too bad! Hug the snowman." He did. I can't believe that actually worked.

5. I am not, NOT a Barenaked Ladies fan. Not that their lyrics aren't clever, but that folksy plain ass sound to their music drives me up a wall. Having said that, if you're into Christmas music and looking for something different, I strongly recommend their Christmas album, Barenaked for the Holidays. It's refreshingly different, including a song about disgruntled elves that try to start a union, a round of "Jingle bells, Batman smells" and a remake of Deck the Halls where the lyrics have been replaced by them repeating "Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young" over and over again.

6. Buckeye football rules. Browns football, not so much.

Tis The Season For Giving

Amberance: i need to think of what i want to engrave on [the bartender’s] ipod
H-Town: oh man, the engraving has to be something classic
H-Town: like "I farted"
H-Town: or "This iPod fits in my ass"
H-Town: all are timeless phrases of joy and love
Amberance: that's awesome. i was totally going to write something all mushy, "BFF" or something but you're totally right
Amberance: "I like poo"
Amberance:"To [the bartender]: I shat this iPod for you. Love, Amber"
Amberance: "Warning: ipod not intended for use in masturbation"
Amberance: actually that's not even true, the one I'm getting him plays videos
H-Town: hahaha
H-Town: "Please Wipe me Off When Finished"
Amberance: I'll wrap it with a box of kleenex
Amberance: and some lube
H-Town: and a six pack

The 40 Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone!

What's that you say?

Why no, I don't think it's a little early. Yes, I know it isn't even Thanksgiving yet. It's The 40 Days of Christmas today. See, back in the day, JoE and Phil, my fellow Christmas enthusiasts, created The 40 Days of Christmas to celebrate their love for Christmas and everything it stands for. Notice that it is The 40 Days OF Christmas and not the 40 days TO Christmas. It's not a countdown. Every day, from November 16th until December 25th, is Christmas. If you're as big of a Christmas spazz as me, it's actually 41 days, because I always tack Boxing Day onto the end of that period.

I'm so excited. I've had a hard time this year waiting for it to be Christmas. On Halloween night, I stopped by Target on my way home for who knows what reason and ended up spend over two hours in there walking through their already set up aisles of Christmas decorations. I also bought a new Christmas CD that day. Because, you know, clearly 30 Christmas CDs are not even close to enough.

Yesterday was the slowest day ever in the history of time. I thought the day before The 40 Days of Christmas was never going to end. I was biting my lip waiting for the elevator after work, when a woman who work for the building came out of her office laden with three giant shopping bags. One of them was emitting a shimmery magical sound and my face lit up like a Christmas tree (har, har). "I hear jingle bells!" I announced. That's how excited I was - I deliberately started a conversation with a total stranger. She grinned at me sheepishly. I think she was expecting to get made fun of for running around with Christmas items in the middle of November. So I set her at ease and explained to her about The 40 Days of Christmas, and my nine Christmas trees and nativity collection and Santa collection and 30 Christmas CDs. She told me that the building was putting it's decorations up the day after Thanksgiving and that there would be musicians in our lobby every Thursday serenading us with Christmas tunes. "Oh my God, Christmas songs every Thursday? Carolers? Will there be carolers? CAN I SING WITH THEM?" I was practically screaming this. By now we were in the middle of a busy street walking to the trains.

"I don't know if there are carolers. You know like when we had the string quartets serenading us for a while? Like that. But if there are carolers, just go ahead and start singing with them if you want."

"I will so be singing with them! I want to go caroling! Maybe we can carol in the building, like go to people's offices. That would be so cool. Will you carol with me?" By now the girl who thought she was way ahead of everyone on Christmas joy could not get away from me fast enough. No one out Christmases me. No one.

I'm not sure how well The 40 Days are going to go on the homefront this year. The bartender's birthday is Christmas Eve, so his birthday has always been overshadowed by Christmas. Because of this he's not so much a fan of my Christmas cheer. Hopefully I can distract him with cookies and he won't kill me.

Guilty or Innocent, This Is In Poor Taste

O.J. to Discuss Killings in Book

Conspiracy?

The bartender finds it very suspicious that there was a business card for a tire shop down the street stuck in my windshield the day my tires were slashed.