Beer and Royal Wedding and Shit

I'm having my afternoon beer right now, and because I'm six feet tall and two pounds (it's true -- sometimes you can roll up your cheap date like a Fruit By The Foot. Although things can get weird when you take her back to your house and peel off her wrapper), I'm feeling a little tipsy. Which makes me want to do this on the keyboard: asdkfa oweiur w[oeifja[sdfjawefkjwqpoeifjalsdkfj. Can you believe I included punctuation at the end of that mess? I'm proud that, even while intoxicated, I will end a motherfucking sentence corrrectly. But then I will put three r's in "correctly" two sentences later and be totally cool with it.

Royal Fucking Wedding. [Alcohol makes me so damned cussy]. I think Will and Kate really missed out on something seriously fantastic by not including "Fucking" in their wedding invitations. Although, what do I know? I sure as shit wasn't invited. But I guarantee that if I was I would have put a perfect litttle check mark next to "chicken". Right. Like the a Prince of England has ever even seen a chicken. He probably thinks commoners are chickens and that he eats a butcher or a baker once every three dinners (because the rotate in England -- chicken, steak, veggie patty).

All the royal wedding nonsense absolutely forced me to grab Levi, pull him close to me, and tell him that he's my prince. So Levi, in our tiny house, starts jumping back and forth and says "East wing, west wing, east wing, west wing." I thought it was funny. Levi deserves an extra colorful bar on his hoody. Something that'll go with the epaulettes.

Once again, a totally meaningless post. Beckause. I'm doing a good job.