Nobody wants my hate!

It's been a week and I haven't gotten a single response to my craigslist ad.  Maybe I should have been more specific about my terms.  Of course anonymous sex can be used as a form of payment!

Tamiya - douchey nostalgia

I really love shit from my childhood.  The toys, the cars,  my parents fighting while I watched cartoons. So many good memories.  It's probably why I still have a poster of Samantha Fox on the hood of a Corvette over my bed.  Lately, I have been looking at Tamiya remote control cars with a bit of nostalgia.  Back in the day, I had quite the collection.  While other kids were playing outside, I was in my room getting high on tri-flow. I had to make sure the differential was properly lubed!

I just came across this video and it made me miss the good old days.  Nah, not really.  I dare you to watch the video and not laugh.  It is 100% authentic, yet it feels like it was made as a propaganda movie by white people.  This is what I was told Asian people sound and look like. I swear Godzilla runs across the track a minute in.

 

Job Hunt

Lately I have been doing a lot of soul searching.  Walks on the beach, pensive thinking, that kind of shit.  Mostly the kind of activities that get you in trouble for "alleged" cruising.  The point is,  I've been trying to figure out what my next career move should be. You don't build a resume like mine by not thinking things through.  I am one strategic move away from screaming checkmate or Yatzy.   I'm lazy, never finish anything, and most importantly hate everyone, but does that mean I don't deserve to make three figures?  Exactly.  That's why I've decided to play up my strengths.  I placed the following ad on craigslist today:

My Ad

I should be rich by the weekend.  

Get me a coffin, honky

A little while ago I wrote a post about how George Jefferson had passed on to the great dry cleaner in the sky.  I think he fell into a giant washing machine or something like that.  It was a sad time for our nation.  After months of grieving, I still have a hard time dropping my shirts to be pressed.  Many people might not know this, but George was only buried two weeks ago.  Apparently there was a fight over his $50,000 estate which included his remains.  Yes you read that right, $50,000.  His half brother and some lady he lived with were fighting over the body like the $50,000 was inside it like a giant black pinata.  Thankfully it has all been settled now, and George has been laid to rest and is finally able to rejoin Weezie in the hereafter.

I'm not trying to be a racist*, but I do wonder, why when a famous black person dies, does their family always fight over the body?  James Brown, Michael Jackson, George Jefferson, Larry Hagman, all these famous black people end up sitting in a refrigerator somewhere while their families argue over the corpse.  Am I missing something?  Toss the body in the closest dumpster and clear out the back account with an ATM card.  I mean if it's good enough for my parents it's good enough for Bernie Mac.

*Seriously, not a racist.

Douchebag Advertising

I think in polite society it is best to meet a person face to face before you hate them.  Fine, I'm lying.  I can hate someone just by the shirt they're wearing.  With that in mind, why do people make it so easy for me to show my true feelings.  In the course of a morning, I passed the following idiots:

 

Until I figure out a way to fit NAZI HUNTER on a plate, I just don't see the point.

Rat does cheese

I have vivid memories of my youth.  My parents were deeply in love, New Jersey winters never got below 60 degrees, and Chuck E Cheese next to Bradlees in Hackensack was the shit.  I remember insisting on having my birthday there, year after year, even the year my birthday fell on Yom Kippur (Oct 6th, 1984). I'm Reform so it's ok.

Everything about my childhood might be a lie but this is how I remember it.  Chuck E Cheese was this dark cavernous place that had miles of video games (Zaxon, Star Wars), and a ball pit 8 feet deep.  It was a place where my ADHD was embraced.  Sure, I was yelled at for punching an animatronic rat in the face and for jumping out of a helicopter ride when it was five feet off the ground, but that doesn't mean it wasn't awesome.  It was a time when hand sanitizing consisted of wiping pizza grease on your dad's leg while trying to avoid being ashed on.  Yup, you could smoke there.  There were no bracelets, to identify whose kid was whose.  Hell, if your parents came home with the same group of kids they brought, the party was considered lame.  It was a simpler time.  A time when buying weed off a twelve year old was normal.

With all that in mind, you can see why I would be happy when my three year old asked me to go to Chuck E Cheese the other day.  I finally could settle that score I had with Jasper T. Jowls, while my daughter  learned to swim in a ball pit that surely hadn't been cleaned since the Reagan administration.  Sadly though, neither dream could be realized.  The rabid rat has become nothing more than timid mouse.  Where once stood Donkey Kong lies Mario Cart.  Where once was a ball pit, there is a slide. Where once was a greasy Italian making fresh pizza is a microwave serving stouffer's.  Where there once was darkness, there are lightbulbs.  Sure the animatronic rat is still there, but my daughter felt a wave was better than punch.  What has the world come to?  They stamped our hands when we walked in and asked my daughter who I was when we left to ensure I wasn't stealing her. Come on people, we were the only white ones there.

This really is making me rethink where to have my 38th birthday.



*I just realized, it might have been Showbiz Pizza where I had all my birthdays growing up.  I can't remember anything correctly.

House Keeping

No turndown service.  No mint on your pillow.   Just a couple of quick notes before the real house keeper comes and starts to question why your toothbrush is in my ass.

Due to my lack of posting,  I thought about closing shop, firing all the employees and starting anew in Argentina.  Then of course I remembered, no employees, no shop, hell I'm not even wearing pants. And don't get me started on Argentina.  If for some reason you are still reading, may God have mercy on your soul.

If you really do care, I will let you know a couple of things:

1. I plan to blog more. (lies)
2. Mitt Romney won the popular vote. (no clue)
3. I plan to combine this blog with Barry Ride part douche.  (maybe)
4. Due to the above this blog is going to become even douchier. (true)
5. Steak-umms are amazing. (definitely) 

BTW: this guy is the master.

Who is the Master?

Last year Paul Thomas Anderson, one of my favorite movie directors, got wasted in a Los Angeles bar and bet one of the other patrons $50 that he could do the following:

1. Make a two hour film about nothing except Philip Seymour Hoffman with a funny mustache.
2. Bang Fiona Apple.

Well played Mr. Anderson, well played.

Bigfoot? Captain Caveman? Lewis?

I really wanted to go mountain biking this weekend, but no one would go with me.  Boo hoo hoo. Life is tuff.   Since I refuse to do anything alone and really wanted to do some exercise,  I decided to go for a hike with my brother.  He always asks and I always say yes, but then at the last minute I scream "I'm out!" I liken it to Lucy pulling the football away.  Today though, that all changed at Los Liones Canyon.

I could go into how Lewis insisted we stop for breakfast before the hike or how I had to wait for him to evacuate his bowels while he texted me photos of his movement to give me a timetable of when the hiking would actually commence, but I I think I will focus on what's really important which is my brother has retard strength.  We went to Los Liones Canyon for what I assumed would be a nice little walk.  What I did not expect was that as soon as we got on the trail my brother would basically sprint off into the woods. He was all business. Full speed ahead. Two things made this awful. First off, I couldn't even remotely keep up with him.  It was embarrassing.  For the amount of mountain biking that I do you would think I would be able to walk up some easy trails at a brisk pace.  This was not the case.   I walked super slow in a zig zag pattern.  If you look at the tracks, you would think a coyote was dragging my corpse back to its den.  My right ass cheek and my hip flexors are still burning.  Now the second issue which should be clear by now, is that I don't like to do things alone.  This was lost on my brother. Because of his speed which I naturally attribute to his caveman walking style, I in essence went hiking alone.  Well I wasn't totally alone, I got to walk behind a nice elderly couple in cargo shorts that had ski poles to help them balance.  They were more than happy to ask if I was doing okay and if I hiked alone often.

It wasn't all bad.  My brother did take me to lunch after the hike.  Then again he was looking at his iPad the whole time so I guess I had lunch alone too.

Lewis, thanks for a lovely day.

Camp Harlam - Current Events

I think I've mentioned once or twice that back in the '80s I went to Jewish sleep away camp for six days.  That's all I could handle before I made my parents come pick me up.  In hindsight I guess it's pathetic that I couldn't handle being in a sleep away camp for Jews.  I imagine there was a lot of sunscreen, complaining, and little weak boys standing around a field looking at a soccer ball wondering  what it was.  I try to block out my failures, but today I was reminded of those days in the backwoods of Pennsylvania when I saw this news article.  I guess some hicks from Tennessee decided terrorizing a bunch of little Jewish kids would be a good use of time.  Now I know this is terrible and I shouldn't laugh, but as a survivor of a Jewish concentration sleep away camp I feel I am allowed to be amused at the thought of these little kids in their yarmulkes running for cover as Cassandra here fires away at them with her paintball gun screaming "Go back to where the fuck you came from you goddamn Jews." Just think about the whole scene.  You know it's funny.

No one said I was a good person.  It could be worse.  At least I'm not Dane Cook (has nothing to do with his Dark Knight joke).

Had to get it out of my system

In what I consider an unprecedented move, I took the initiative to go see The Dark Knight Rises for a second time.  This was the first time I 've ever seen a movie for a second time in the theater.  Until now I never saw a need.  Sure you could chalk it up to me being unemployed and having a delusion that I am indeed batman or you could you could say to yourself the movie is that good.  It isn't.  Don't get me wrong, I loved it, but the second time around I started to see the flaws.  If you look closely, you will notice that batman is wearing eye liner.  That's a deal breaker.

It might be time for me to give my batman mask back to the child I stole it from.  I don't think the world is ready for Jewish batman anyway.

Sad day indeed.

Eastside Apartment in the Sky

If you live on the upper east side and need a shirt pressed, I have some sad news for you.  George Jefferson, of Jefferson Cleaners has passed away.  The store will be closed the rest of the week while Weezy mourns.

As I wipe away the tears, I would be remiss if I didn't mention my fondest memory of Mr. George Jefferson.  It felt like yesterday that George was babysitting Mrs. Whittendale's doberman.  They were playing fetch when an errant toss sent the dog souring off the balcony to his death. For some reason my father couldn't stop laughing when George told Mrs. Whittendale that Poochie committed doggy suicide.  That laughter was infectious and I couldn't help but laugh too.  What do you want from me? It was 1982, my father was high, and this was as good as TV got.

Godspeed George.

 

The Dark Knight Rises

On July 20th, I completed my final goal of summer.  I saw The Dark Knight Rises.  It was everything I hoped it would be. I may be in the minority with this, but I liked it better than The Dark Knight.  We could probably debate the pros and cons of both movies for hours but let's focus on what's important.  The movie has inspired me.  I finally know what I want to be when I grow up.  I want, no I need, to be batman.  I don't see any other way for my life to be fulfilled.  I need the suit, the batpod, the cave, and of course the man servant.  What else is a giant nerd who not so secretly wants to kick everyone's ass to do?  I started working on my costume and batpod.  Now I just have to get in shape.  Fear me.

No Credit for Jhen

I have this friend named Jhen.  She is Mexican, not that there is anything wrong with that.  I met her in New York roughly twelve years ago.  She was working as a chamber maid at a Holiday Inn Express that I liked to frequent for the free continental breakfast.  We hit it off right away and have managed to stay friends all these years despite me being a terrible friend, her almost getting deported, and me moving away.  We don't talk that much these days (mostly because Jhen has a burner phone), but once a year, four days before her birthday, she flies to LA to hang out.  She normally stays with me and we spend the entire time eating like two orphans who just got adopted.  On the second day of her stay I ask her when her birthday is and she tells me it is right after she goes home.  I of course completely forget and never wish her a happy birthday.  One would think she would get upset but she takes it all in stride.   This year though she threw a giant wrench in the plan and I don't think our friendship will ever recover.

Jhen had the nerve to bring a Chinese friend with her on the trip and worse than that, she didn't even stay with me.  Jhen and the china girl stayed with yet another friend.  Instead of us having our normal pig fest, followed by nap fest,  I had to actually schedule time to hang out with her. It was terrible.  All we had was one lousy lunch.  Now at that lunch she did pack away a patty melt and a waffle which was impressive, but I'm still mad.  I had a salad in protest of her betrayal.  Here's a picture from the five seconds we hung out.  Maybe she will get it right next year.  Until then I'm fuming.

Happy Birthday Monkey!

Seventy years ago an unwed bitch gave birth to the most important person in my life.  A person who has no equal.  A person who has seen me through thick and thin.  A person who always holds my hair when I throw up.  A person who has always been there to help me bury the bodies and never asks questions.  A person who is able to lick his own junk.  I'm of course talking about my dog, Monkey.  Ten years ago Rooney made sweet love to Xena and nine weeks later Monkey appeared as the runt of the litter.  Yes, I know my dog's parents names and I find nothing odd about it.  Monkey, you complete me.  Here's to another ten years.  Hopefully I'll live that long.

Unemployment has aged me.

Over the last few months I wish I could say I maximized my unemployment by getting in amazing shape or by spending my days writing a new TV pilot, but anyone who knows me, knows that would be a lie. The truth is I haven't done much of anything, but fall apart. I did have an amazing idea for a show that revolves around an old white guy who has a stroke and his young black nurse that helps him get better. Picture John Malkovich as the stroke victim and Mo'Nique as the nurse. I will call it Stroke of Luck. That is a post for another time though and no I did not steal the idea from The Intouchables. 

The purpose of this post is to discuss how I have aged approximately twenty-three years in the course of six months due to not working. Not since the president have I seen a position age a man worse. Have you ever looked at pictures of Bush when he first took office and then when he left? He was beaten down by the job. In this case I've been beaten down by the lack of job. My body is broken from inactivity. Clearly I need to back this up with cold hard facts, so let me begin with my goiter. I lost my job and the first thing I find out is I have some sort of a growth in my neck. If I was employed I doubt it would have happened or at the very least I doubt I would have gone to the doctor to check. Then there's my back. When I was employed I had a herniated disc. I lost my job and the herniated disc went away. I know in this case it sounds like not having a job made me better, but think again. In its place I now have a torn disc. Obviously it's unemployments fault. With the torn disc has come a new ailment called "Give Way Weakness." or as my doctor calls it "Faggot Legs." It's where I will be walking along and suddenly I get the sensation that my legs are going to give out. Sounds fun right? If I was sitting at a desk working, I wouldn't have to worry about my legs giving out now would I? And now the final nail in the coffin, I now have terrible stiff necks. It was either me jerking off in the shower and turning my head to see if I was out of shampoo or I slept on it weird. Either way I wouldn't have been in the shower or sleeping if I was working. Have I proven that unemployment has broken me yet? Jesus this post is long winded for nothing. The point is I went and had acupuncture today to relieve my unemployed neck pain and I wanted to post a picture. Enjoy! I will try to blog more if I can work through the pain.

*I don't think Faggot Legs is a scientific term.
** Shit, look at those neck rolls.  Unemployment made me fat too!

Confused - R.I.P.

I am sad to report that both Ray Bradbury and Richard Dawson have passed away. This may come as a shock to most of the readers out there because if you are anything like me, you assumed both of these men died at least fifteen years ago. I just assumed Richard Dawson died at the end of Running Man. If you watch the following clip it is a logical conclusion. Survey says...

Running Man Part 9
Then there's Ray Bradbury, everything I see online says he died right after creating Dianetics. I am thoroughly confused.

Damn it!! I just used the interweb to learn more about Ray Bradbury. He wrote Something Wicked This Way Comes. Great movie. I guess his book of life was out of pages.  Sad indeed.

Memphis in May

Tomorrow morning I'm taking off for Memphis to eat BBQ and see some concerts. While dreaming about the massive ammounts of pork that I'm going to eat I came up with an invention: "The Baby-Back Bjorn". Basically, it's a baby sling that you can load ribs into so that you have two free hands to drink beer with.

I'm gonna try test marketing it while I'm down in Memphis, if things go the way I expect, Facebook may end up being the second biggest IPO this year.

Stay tuned.

I'm making juice Bitch!

I bought a juicer!
Not that piece of shit that Montel Williams is hawking on late-night TV, but a real deal, hippy wheatgrass juicer that I can make babyfood with.

Part of the reason for this is it's become clear to me that my body no longer gives a shit. I've never been one to eat well, or exercise much but up until recently, my body seemed to take care of itself no matter what sort of crap I decided to throw in it. Sadly those days are over. Looking forward, I see that unless I want to invest in a Rascal Scooter and a colostomy bag, I'm gonna have to be more proactive about my health, hence the juicer.

But more importantly, this isn't just some late 30's health crises, by going of the juice grid, I get to stick it to "big juice". Tropicana and Ocean Spray can go fuck themselves, now that I own an Omega 8003 they'll never see another one of my juice dollars. I can't tell you how good it feels to get their boot off my neck. No longer do I have to suffer under the tyranny of their fickle juice cocktail selections. Orange-Cranberry? Cran-Raspberry? Fuck that noise, this morning I juiced a pack of Fruit Stripe Gum, I could feel the fresh nutrients coursing through my veins.

I love my juicer, in fact, the only thing that feels better than drinking my own juice, is telling people how shitty their store-bought juice is. I can go on for hours telling friends about how the high fructose corn syrup in their "juice" is robbing them of the nutrients and enzymes that their bodies crave, while simultaneously making their asses fat. When that gets tired, I like to talk about how the petroleum footprint of their guava-mango cocktail is leading to the greenhouse gas crisis, while my home-juice supports local agriculture. Do you know what fresh wheatgrass tastes like? It tastes like victory... because if I tell you that I started my day with a fresh shot of wheatgrass you'll have no choice but to proclaim me a superior human in every sense of the word.

The Stench of Unemployment

Being unemployed has been a time of revelation for me. A time where I have grown to learn certain truths about myself. And let me tell you the truth hurts or in this case stinks. First I came to the realization that no matter how hard I try or how much Rogaine I use, as a thirty-six year old man, I will never be able to grow a beard. Fantasies about having facial hair so thick and luxurious that I would have to use heavy condition to get a comb through it were dashed as I hit the three week mark without shaving and all I had was three whiskers growing out of my chin like an old lady reading tarot cards at the Santa Monica pier. When the pain subsided from my lack of testosterone, I tried to make up for it by getting in not one, but two fights. Both have been detailed here so I won't bore you with the details. Sure I kicked some ass, but really should I bring up the fact I am thirty-six again. I am too old to get in fights but too young to grow a full beard. Tragic.

Life is hard and my latest revelation might be the toughest yet. When I lost my job and decided to no longer live by the rules of society, I threw out my antiperspirant with my razor. I figured if I didn't have a job why should I give myself Alzheimer's any faster than nature intended. I was treating myself right. At first I didn't see any adverse affects. In fact it all seemed good. My shirts no longer had crusty yellow pits that the aluminum in antiperspirant caused and I was no longer soaking wet because I put ten times the recommended amount on each pit. It seemed like a win win. Sadly I was very wrong. Within a few days I noticed I smelled a bit pungent, but not overly offensive. I carried the odor of an old person walking briskly through the mall. In the course of a month however that all changed.

There is no good way to describe it so I will just be honest. I think I just went through my second puberty. My armpits smell like the crap that is left in a pipe after you smoke a bowl. I don't get it. My diet hasn't changed other than the enormous amount of granola I seem to be consuming on a daily basis. It's like my showers don't take. Is this what my ancestors smelled like back in the old country when they labored all day? By old country I am of course referring to the Bronx and by labored I mean worked in jewelry stores.  I digress. The most alarming part is my left pit smells ten times worse than the right. I should ask my doctor to ultrasound my pits now that I know my thyroid is clear. Anyway I just figured I would share my latest in the long list of life altering events having no job has caused. If we hang out please don't judge me or sniff the air around me. It will make me feel self conscious.


Thanks

I've got thyroid cancer

Well not really, but here is my story about how I thought I had it.

After six months of stalling, I finally had my annual physical last week. I could say I stalled because I was afraid of what they might find floating around in my body or I could say I was far too busy being an unemployed sloth to have a doctor fondle my balls and tell me cough. Either excuse is acceptable in my book.

When I went in everything started off fine. The nurse took my height and weight. Only a two pound gain since the year before. So far so good. My height stayed the same. Also good. Blood pressure seems ok. I'm not going to stroke out thankfully. After the initial measurements, there were lots of questions about my eating and sleeping habits, and even a few about my bowel habits. Well I might have volunteered that info. After letting the doctor know she could learn more about my regularity via twitter, she began to poke and prod my body. Reflexes, breathing, mole check, and one test that seemed odd to me. My doc took her small hand and held my neck in some sort of kung fu hold while telling me to swallow repeatedly. She did this several times before the physical was over. After the final hernia check, I asked the doc what all the neck grabbing was about:

Doc

Oh, I felt a lump in your throat.

Barry

What?

Doc

You never noticed a growth on the right side?

Barry

No.

Doc

You are going to need to get an ultrasound.

Barry

Should I be worried?

Doc

Let's just get the results then discuss.

Now I have to wonder if I didn't ask would she have said you need an ultrasound? It seemed like an afterthought. The ultrasound was scheduled for 48 hours later so that gave me plenty of time to convince myself I was dying of thyroid cancer. Sure it's treatable. I know at least two Jewish girls who had it in their twenties and survived. I still figured mine would be the rare case that would kill me quickly, but not before stripping me of the little dignity I have by taking my hair. I am clearly not as tough as a Jewish girl.

By hour 47 I was in full panic. I went to the lab to get the ultrasound done and sweat was pouring out of my nose like never before. I figured that could be attributed to thyroid cancer as well. The technician had me lay down as she warmed up the gel for the wand. She then informed me that my doctor would get the results in three days. This made me turn white and sweat even more. I knew the technician would know right away how much time I had left. Why can't they just tell you right then and there? After about ten minutes of the wand being moved all over my neck (super gay), the test was over. As I was wiping the gel off my neck (also gay), the technician said to me, "I shouldn't tell you this, but you are going to be fine. It is just a clear cyst." I was beyond relieved. I have so much living to do. I've been given a second chance. I can't squander another minute. I am just kidding. I'm not going to do anything differently. Right after the test I took a nap and wasted the day.

Final note, why do I have a cyst in my neck? The doctor called me today and said it was nothing to concern myself about, but come on, she is clearly lying to make me feel better. In my medical opinion, there is no other explanation.


If anyone is actually reading this, it's time to rejoice. I am back to blogging.

If all else fails...

Lately I've been wondering what to do with myself if my writing career doesn't take off. I've always been envious of people that have a family business to fall back on. Like an arranged marriage it seems like a no brainer of what to do with your life. You go to school, party your ass off, skip the class on resume writing, graduate, and go become a VP at a business you have no experience at. Of course all the real employees will hate you, but who cares. You earned that position through nepotism and that's awesome.

Sadly working for my parents has never been an option. Any business they ever started was instantly run into the ground because they were animals. If for some reason one of their get rich quick schemes had actually taken off, there is no way I could have worked for them anyway. That much time together would have definitely resulted in parricide. I guess in that case the warden would be my career counselor. Anyway I digress.

My new plan for when my writing career fails is to move to New Jersey and claim I'm the long lost heir to the BJF Sanitation Corporation. I figure all I have to do is say I'm a dumpster baby and no one will question me. If you think about all the babies that are thrown in dumpsters on a daily basis in the garden state, you will realize it's not my worst idea. How can anyone possibly remember every baby they've thrown away? I could be the one that survived which just proves I have the tenacity to run BJF Sanitation. I think my future is going to work out just fine.

Working My Ass Off

Would you believe I've been too busy working to blog? I know it doesn't sound likely, but it's true. Oh, don't get your hopes up that I'm earning a living again because we all know I'm unemployable. For the last month or so I have been working my non-existant ass off writing a sitcom pilot that I know is going to make me beyond rich. I've literally put all my eggs in one basket, but don't worry I know a huge pay day is coming. I have already maxed out my credit cards like I did on December 31st, 1999 because I know my idea is that good.

This reminds me of the time I decided I wanted to be a spy. I applied to the CIA in the hopes of being sent on a mission to kill foreign dignitaries. Shockingly, the CIA was interested. I have attached the follow up letter that they sent me. Sadly, at the time I was young and foolish. They wanted me to answer a bunch of questions about current events, but being that it was 1997, and I was only 21, I didn't have a clue. I never responded. Now if they had asked me where to buy VHS porn, I could have really shined.

Lavender Lill R.I.P.

I am sad to say that my friend Bruce lost his mother the other day. Not the good kind of lost either where she is wandering around Target while he has her paged. I am talking the rest in peace way. Over the years she has provided me with some great material for this blog and I will really miss her.

Now that Lillian is no longer able to sue me for slander, I feel it's a good time to share my favorite Lillian story. This story came directly from her, word for word or something like that.

Roughly twelve years ago, Lillian went to the hospital to visit her husband. After what I can only assume was a loving visit, Lillian walked out to the parking garage only to notice her car was blocked in. Not knowing what to do she went to the hospital reception desk to let them know. Trying to resolve the issue, they announced over the hospital PA system that the car in question was illegally parked and needed to be moved or it would be towed. Two hours went by with constant announcements before Lillian boiled over with rage. With the flick of her wrist her house key came out and in a few short seconds the illegally parked car had new pin striping. Just as she was about to sign her name the owner showed up.

Owner of the car

What are you doing to my car??

Lillian

Where have you been? Didn't you hear the pages for the last two hours?

Owner of the car

I heard them but I didn't want to cut my visit short.

Lillain

I hope they're terminal.

Now the conversation might not be exact but the incident did happen and Lillian was caught doing it. To me the best part is Lillian was close to eighty when it happened. She had that fire in her belly until the end.

She will be missed by all!

On another note I need to mention how much of an animal my brother is. The morning Lillian died, Bruce posted a note on his facebook wall letting everyone know he lost his mother and Lewis immediately clicked that he liked it. He is a savage, but then again he does provide me with great material.

Past Posts:

I need her to pick me some horses

Darth Vader