Would Blad Clats increase your risk of toxic shock syndrome? Discuss.

Ahoy you crazy blad clats out there in radioland! Well.. ok, I'm not peppy at all tonight. In fact, I am ready for bed and I have nothing to say. At all. But for some reason, here I am. I just poured myself a well-deserved glass of Jesus juice, so maybe that will make the inspiration flow, but really, I expect it to just make me sleepier.
And what is a blad clat you ask? Well, if you haven't heard of it, you don't watch "My Life on the D List". This week, Kathy went to England and before she went on tv they gave her a list of words not to say and that was on there. So, the funny thing was that nobody she asked knew what it meant either. I googled it and got one definition from some "urban dictionary" that said it was Jamaican for "blood cloth", a cloth used to wipe the vagina, and that blad clat is the biggest insult you can give a Jamaican man. So like, if you said "Hey Ziggy Marley, you ain't nothing but a ganga smoking blad clat", you would totally dishonour him. Of course, the definition could be completely wrong because it's one of those sites where people put their own definitions a la something wiki, and the "featured" definition flashing above that one was for a "hot and cheesy" which was some convoluted thing where you wear a sweat sock and get it all sweaty and then apparently you are supposed to fill it with hot nacho cheese and then put your cock in it and then slap someone on the head with it. I don't even pretend that I understand any of it. I don't know what in the hell these kids are up to today - can't they just get really drunk and moon people instead of getting cheese and socks involved in their shenanigans?
So anyway, now that I explained all of that, I have nothing else to say. It started off as one hell of a day, with a huge parental crisis, but I don't have the energy to go into it because the back story would take pages to explain. Anyway, it's all good now. I ended up going for breakfast with my dad and it made his day and that was so sweet. And the whole story has its roots in my nephew, little Lord Fuantleroy, who I was going to email and say what I really have been meaning to say to him, but not right now, not when I am mad, and also because I don't even know if I should stir the pot. Dont worry Chunks, I'll spill the whole story, but just not now because as I said, it's too long and complicated. LOL, I need to find a way to condense things, like soup... because I am always so frigging long winded.
HEY! Did I tell you I've been boycotting Tim Hortons this week? Well, it began last week I guess. I was going for coffee with some former coworkers and we usually go to Tims, but the service is just so shitty that after 10 minutes in line we said "so...... you wanna try the new coffee place?" and boom we walked out and haven't been back. And I love the new place too. Not quite as delicious as Tims, but you know, I am almost cured of that crack anyway. As my homey Michael Moore would say "Its about the caffeine, stupid!"
So Joni's new album hits the stores on Tuesday. Did I tell you I've been privy to it for the past month? Well, I have. It won't win any new fans, that's for damn sure, but it's a damn sight better than most of her output in the past decade, so it's a plus for the fans. She returns to the piano finally, which is awesome. But I am almost more excited for the new Herbie Hancock album, also out on Tuesday, called "River: The Joni Letters" or something - where he does all Joni songs with a bunch of guest vocalists. I've heard Tina Turner's version of Edith and the Kingpin and it's awesome. But none of you care about that shit anyway, so I'll shut up.
I am also reading the best frigging book right now. It was written by the wife of our former mayor, who was raised in a Hutterite colony until she was 12. It's so good and I can't put it down, and I so expected it to be just terrible, and it's incredibly well-written. It's called "I am Hutterite" by Mary-Ann Kirkby. Go read it. Well done, Mary-Ann.
And speaking of Hutterites and all their children, someone asked me the other day about when we are going to have another baby and so I said "I dunno, pretty soon maybe" and then I got the whole "OH! 4 KIDS... blah blah blah" and whatever and I just wanted to say "it is none of your fucking business and I think your only child is fucking cruel" but I didn't, but you know what? I have 3 kids. When you have 3, you can handle one more, and if we decide to have another, it's nacho fucking business, Emilio. I am so sick of people acting like we are fucking Ma and Pa Kettle. I come from 4 kids. It wasn't hideous. Shut the fuck up. And maybe all those people with one kid only have one because they have their fucking blad clat stuck up too far to take out.
Whew, I wish I could say that was the wine talking. But it was one of those things that stuck in my craw.
What else..... I have to go away this week, to Regina, for meetings, overnight. My kids are going to cry. It's always so dramatic...... sigh.
Oh God, I made sloppy Joes tonight, and I keep burping that shit up. Good times. I wish I had stock in a Pepcid factory.
LOL, I am writing this in my basement, on the real computer, as opposed to the laptop, and I havent sat at this one literally since before baby was born almost 2 yrs ago. Anyway, this computer is in the "book room" and you know what I am spying on the shelf? A VHS copy of the Mike Douglas SHow that I bought in Vancouver like 5 yrs ago at that big Virgin Megastore on Robson (which was no flaming shit really - A & B Sound is better, although the Sask. ones went belly up last year). It's from 1974 and features the Pointer Sisters. LOL, I should crack it open tomorrow. I also have 2 volumes of the Battle of the Network Stars I bought off ebay a couple years ago that I haven't watched either. My dream was always to be on there and win everything and kick Chachi's lame ass. I felt very competitive and jealous of Chachi and Leif Garrett. I must have feared they would marry Valerie. Ah well, her commercials annoy the piss out of me now, so I guess it was a blessing I never became the child star I wanted to be.
Fuck, I'd give my frigging foreskin, if I had some, for a bag of salt and vinegar chips right now. Or, as they say in England, a packet of crisps. No idea why I am craving them, but nevertheless, I want them.
Well, I am just rambling about sweet tweet, so I am going to go and try and read some Hutterite tales before I crash, so I hope everyone has a happy Sunday. Remember, when you change your attitude, you change everything.
xo