SATAN BALLS

Hey, so guess what I'm eating? Little balls of chocolate, butter and sin. Satan balls. Compliments of the lovely, effervescent as a glass of pure carbonation, Heather. Even her name sounds like soft, purpley flowers in warm summer breezes. And she has cotton candy hair, just like me. Some of you know what I'm talking about (Missy). We really ought to just dye it pink, except then people would likely try to grab a wad and shove it in their mouths when we pass by. But that would probably only be at Lagoon and Disneyland and such.

Anyway, guess how much that bad news is costing us? SEVEN. FREAKING. GRAND. PEOPLE. That's right. And if you've been with me from the beginning, you'll recognize this as an exact carbon copy of this time last year.

And right after swallowing that chunk of glee, poor, dear husband came home with anxiety dripping out of his nose pores, on account of this guy named Jack~last name Ass~goes by the nickname Dumb~heehawing that he wanted his name removed from the records of our business. I KNOW! Like we hadn't already excommunicated Jack eons ago. Moron.

So anyway. That's all I got. Well, that and a gaggle full of blessings that I'm choosing to ignore. Because 'TIS THE SEASON, friends. Even though I have a life full of goodness, I'm sitting on Santa's lap and whispering that it's just not enough.

I want a Red Ryder BB gun, too.

That shoots Satan balls.