I am in the middle of beer number two, which, for most people, is not so big a deal, but for a person whose body mass index is not on the index, those two beers are like a billiondy beers. I'm falling off my chair and throwing up onto the internet at the very same time.
I know that I have reached my drinking limit when I crack up upon reading the Aflac duck's Facebook posts. Which are not altogether terrible, but are also written by some dude whose job it is to be the Aflac's social networking aviary representative. I don't know if I put all of those parts of speech in the right order. So some guy is pretending to be a duck on the information super highway and writing about it. I am laughing at that. This, I think, is part of what it means to be an American.
This is the part of the drunk blog post where I change topics entirely.
Ever since I married my very special dude, I've considered and reconsidered what it meant for me to have changed my surname. I did it legally -- waited in the social security office, waited in the DMV line, waited in the government bonnet line, whatever. I did some serious waiting work to get it done. And I smelled a lot of urine on a lot of strangers' sweatpants in order to accomplish the task. So right after I got it done, I started reconsidering having done it. And now, because I'm not sure I'm ready to wait in all of those name-changing lines again, I've taken the urine scent-free step of changing my Facebook surname back to my original surname, which is still a surname that came from a dude. Whatever happens, do not let me invent a dude-free surname when I've had one and a half beers because, if you do, it will be Snerfblat.
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