Down the Rabbit Hole

I had to doublecheck, but this isn't a fake story like the one about the lion-fighting midgets. (Thanks to C. Monks for the tip.) We really are kicking ass, though--kicking the ass of our worldwide reputation. Consider its ass kicked to the curb in a right royal fashion. It's laying there on the curb with a big ol' footprint on its ass, weepin' and blubberin' and beggin' for its mama.

But you don't come here to be lectured about things you already know. No, you come here to read entertaining stories of how I'm slowly losing my mind, such as the following exchange, wherein I described to C-Baby how I helped my injured father get ready for a dinner party:

ME: So since his arm was in a cast, I had to help him get dressed--there was a lot of struggling with the... zip... up... thing.

HER: You mean the zipper?

There were some other funny ones, but guess what? I've forgotten them.

FOR YOUR FURTHER ENJOYMENT AND WULADIFICATION: Here's a story I wrote about Paris Hilton's desire to populate the Earth in today's Cleaver.