Chaos In A Bottle

I wish I could say that I make a living off of this blog, because it’s made of awesome, but I don’t.  Not yet, anyway, even though I have fantasies where I become an instant writing success and can stop driving my 1999 Astro Van.

Anyway, I write for an outsourcing company; I write articles on all sorts of stuff for other folks to post on their blogs or sites.  I’m so made of awesome I’m a commodity, ya’ll!

Thing is, I end up writing on some fabulous topics.  I finished 60 articles on vaginal infections.  I know more about infected hoo-has than any GYN on the planet, which rocked hard except not at all, and I had to do a series on better toilets in the United Kingdom, which reminds me to stay out of toilets in the UK, ’cause now I know what they’re apparently like.  I’ll have to dig a latrine hole on the moors somewhere if I ever get to go to the UK, which won’t happen until my blogging makes me famous, and then they won’t let me in the country because I dissed their restrooms, and I’ll have to spend my entire vacation at Heathrow.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful for the work, and hey, I’m getting paid to write, so even if it’s not about awesomeness like zombies, it’s still writing.  So until I’m famous, you can hit me up for article writing greatness.  Once I’m famous, I don’t know any of you. Except my family, ’cause they’re the only ones that put up with me.

P.S. – Why in the name of all that’s holy does Google put ads for plastic bottles up on this post??  Was it the comment about infected vajayjays??

Ok, so I was reading The Un Mom, because the post was about exercise being bad for you and I’m all about not exercising, and I decided that if I were going to exercise, I needed asbestos shorts, because when I do exercise, my thighs might rub together so hard my underwear catches on fire, and really, there’s nothing weirder than some chick running down the street with her behind in flames, and I have to live in this neighborhood, you know?

So, I decided that I need a pair of these, only made out of asbestos or Nomex or something.  Then no matter how hot my thighs got, there would be no flaming panties, and the entire neighborhood could rest easier without worrying that the lady down the street was going to catch their dogwoods on fire every time she took the dog for a walk.

Now, if I were being chased by zombies, I would totally want my butt on fire because not only would it make me run faster, it might actually take care of the zombies behind me, and then I could slow down and extinguish my hind parts.