Flight Attendant | "Good morning everyone, and welcome to OneHotMess Airlines! We hope you'll enjoy your flight today. In the meantime, relax, those of you who opted for the additional $30 surcharge for seats with 38 inches of pitch. For the rest of you, may God have mercy on your souls."
Hons, I haven't been this popular since everybody in the trailer park found out I knew how to steal cable. Which is to say, I am VERY popular right now. And so are a lot of my friends who are registered Democrats living in the great state of North Carolina.
It's none of my business, but why is Jenna Bush dissing a White House wedding? I mean, a woman's wedding day is the most special day or two or three of her life. Oh, sorry. Was that cynical?
Like Kermit always said, it ain't easy being green. The other day, when a friend e-mailed to ask me to participate in "Earth Hour," I did a double take when I read the hour that had been chosen to "not use any power but rather spend the time changing out old energy-wasting light bulbs or brainstorming with family members on ways to reduce emissions and live more sustainably." Gawd. Saturday night isn't what it used to be.
Singer Billy Joel's wife was sitting on Oprah's couch the other day chatting about her happy life and I just wanted to smack her with my spatula. She's perky and gorgeous and young enough to still have her wisdom teeth from the looks of it.
You have to hand it to the two 18-year-old girls who made such a scene on a Tampa to Los Angeles flight recently they were greeted by the police when they landed in L.A.
Diane Keaton started it. Dropped the F-bomb right on "Good Morning America" just as Aunt Sudavee was biting into her first slice of raisin toast with Promise spread.
Living in a Southern town that has become a mecca for Northern retirees doesn't just mean more choices of bagel flavors than Krispy Kreme varieties, as depressing as that is. No, no. The migration has changed every aspect of Southern life.
I've always been convinced that no one would ever write lyrics weirder than Led Zeppelin's "If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now," which we all sang along to in the '70s because "Stairway to Heaven" was so awesome it didn't matter that the words made no sense.
Duh-Hubby and I have been arguing about when to take the flat-screen, high-def TV plunge. I say that we should wait for our bloated-looking old-fashioned TV to die of natural causes because this is what Al Gore would want us to do.
Maybe it's because I got hooked on watching "Dancing With the Stars." Maybe it's because we've been married for nearly 20 years and the closest thing to a formal dance hubby and I can do is the hokey pokey. And even that's dicey because I often forget to put my whole self in.
Hons, my family's financial future is set if I can just convince my husband to step up and tell the world, or at least "People" magazine, that HE is the real father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.
While everybody else was slack-jawed over lovesick astronaut Lisa Nowak's "she's-come-undone" behavior, I just thought to myself: "Isn't that just like a Yankee to think nothing of getting in the car and driving 14 hours straight to Florida?"
I recently ordered something from one of those "as seen on TV" places. I won't tell you the name because I don't want to be sued or have a shadowy figure in a hot pink velour sweat suit hold me down and staple my skull with a million tiny little decorative rhinestones and beads "guaranteed to add excitement to any outfit!"
So you think you're not too drive to drunk? Let's just see what your Japanese car has to say about that, Bubba.
I've been watching "Deal or No Deal" for the past couple of weeks and I've decided that America's going straight to h-e-double hockey sticks. And soon.
My daughter just brought home a rather long-winded explanation of what is expected of fourth-graders on the upcoming big, fancy state writing test. I've read it, like, eight times and I still don't understand it, which means that either (A) I have the brains of sweater fuzz or (B) This thing really makes no sense.
Perhaps the funniest thing about the trend of Hooters-style barbershops sweeping the country is that at least one of the chains, Bikini Cuts, offers a children's cut for children 10 and younger.
