This blog was originally posted on MySpace.

Here is just a funny email that I got today that kept me rolling the whole way thru… so read it if you want, but I wont feel offended if you don’t. Was just a nice little break. Ciao!


New Rule .1: Stop giving me that pop-up ad for classmates.com! There’s
a reason you don’t talk to people for 25 years. Because you don’t
particularly like them! Besides, I already know what the captain of the
football team is doing these days: mowing my lawn.

New Rule .2: Don’t eat anything that’s served to you out a window
unless you’re a seagull. People are acting all shocked that a human
finger was found in a bowl of Wendy’s chili. Hey, it cost less than a
dollar. What did you expect it to contain? Trout?

New Rule .3: Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their
hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged. I have a better description
for these kids: lucky bastards.

New Rule .4: If you need to shave and you still collect baseball
cards, you’re a dope. If you’re a kid, the cards are keepsakes of your
idols. If you’re a grown man, they’re pictures of men.

New Rule 5: Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here’s how much men care
about your eyebrows: do you have two of them? Okay, we’re done.

New Rule .6: There’s no such thing as flavored water. There’s a whole
aisle of this crap at the supermarket… water, but without that watery
taste. Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink. You want
flavored water? Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt. That should
be your flavored water.

New Rule .7: Stop messing with old people. Target is introducing a
redesigned pill bottle that’s square, with a bigger label. And the top
is now the bottom. And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his
ass will be in the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you just solved the
Social Security crisis.

New Rule .8: The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the
asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a “decaf grande
half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino,
extra dry, light ice, with one Sweet-n’-Low and one NutraSweet,” ooh,
you’re a huge asshole.

New Rule .9: I’m not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding
my card, entering my PIN number, pressing “Enter,” verifying the amount,
deciding, “No, I don’t want cash back”, and pressing “Enter” again, the
kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my
Almond Joy.

New Rule .10: Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it
doesn’t make you spiritual. It’s right above the crack of your ass. And it
translates to “beef with broccoli.” The last time you did anything
spiritual, you were praying to God you weren’t pregnant. You’re not
spiritual. You’re just high.

New Rule .11: Competitive eating isn’t a sport. It’s one of the seven
deadly sins. ESPN recently televised the US Open of Competitive Eating,
because watching those athletes at the poker table was just too damned
exciting. What’s next, competitive farting? Oh wait. They’re already
doing that. It’s called “The Howard Stern Show.”

New Rule .12: I don’t need a bigger mega M&M. If I’m extra hungry for
M&Ms, I’ll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule .13: If you’re going to insist on making movies based on
crappy, old television shows, then you have to give everyone in the
Cineplex a remote so we can see what’s playing on the other screens.
Let’s remember the reason something was a television show in the first
place is that the idea wasn’t good enough to be a movie.

New Rule .14: No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just
for weddings. Now it’s for babies and new homes and graduations from
rehab. Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for

you isn’t gift giving, it’s the white people version of looting.

New Rule .15: and this one is long overdue: No more bathroom
attendants. After I zip up, some guy is offering me a towel and a mint, as
if I just had sex with George Michael. I can’t even tell if he’s supposed to be
there, or just some freak with a fetish. I don’t want to be on your
webcam, dude. I just want to wash my hands.

New Rule .16: When I ask how old your toddler is, I don’t need to know
in months. “27 Months?” “He’s two,” will do just fine. He’s not a cheese.
And I didn’t really care in the first place. I was attempting to be nice



about moi…

Hi, my name is Cass. I am married to an amazing man who loves me unconditionally. I’m a stay at home mom to a rockin’ 2 year old boy who I call Monkey. I have an 12 year old step-daughter who lives in another state. We miss her daily. We also have two fur babies, Daisy and Jazz, who keep us on our toes. They are awesome!

I am a complete goofball, a photographer and a constant out loud thinker. I am a grammar challenged, vulgar, cursing, sex obsessed Big Mama fumbling through life. Among other things, I battle PCOS causing infertility, Bi Polar, Anxiety and OCD.

Currently I am riding the fertility roller coaster in an attempt to make Monkey #2. This blog is about a little of everything. I hope you enjoy. Read at your own risk!


my photography page:



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my validation!


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