Just look at this shit someone attached to our refrigerator.  Apparently, I like to wear purple and blue britches on top of each other, like Punky Brewster or a homeless person, and I hop around all day on my giant johnson.  Oh, and I’m pregnant.

My bride has pink hair, is also pregnant, and appears to be jumping about on a giant johnson as well.

And then there’s little Maddie.  She’s wearing purple for this grand johnson-hopping event, has a horseshoe hanging on her head, and is also pregnant.  In the background are crosses, because we apparently live in ancient Rome on Good Friday.

This is what we get for taking our 3-year-old to the church nursery.

And then there’s this kid:

He’s hanging out in the bath tub.  He’s chill.  All’s right with the world.

But then:

Found something there, didn’t we?  Oh yes, you did (to be contrasted with “oh no, you didn’t”)!

He continued doing whatever he’s doing with the blue plastic rod until way past the point at which the bathwater became cold.  Now that he’s asleep, I’m totally taking that blue plastic rod into the shower with me to see what all the agape expressions are about.

My in-laws gave our 3-year-old daughter an art easel for Christmas.  Most every day that the temperature is above 20 degrees, she wants to go onto the patio under our deck–the area she refers to as “my yard” (since it had grass up until a few months ago)– to paint.  That, or she wants to pick up her little lime green plastic bucket full of Easter-egg-colored chalk and draw pictures on our sidewalk:  of herself, of me, of her siblings, of the dog, of the sun.  Sometimes, she makes me lie down on the sidewalk, so she can trace me, like she did today.  She colors, too.  Sometimes on the walls.  When we’re trying to sell our house.  That makes the realtor and me happy.

I think all her artwork pretty much sucks.  I’ve never thought myself artistically talented, and I assume my progeny will not be artistically talented.  In fact, I’m not sure I want them to be.  But Pretty Bride seems to think this shit is good for a three year old:

After she finished, she put her paintbrush into the little plastic cup of water and said, “Look, Daddy, it’s you!” and smiled like only an innocent, not-yet-jaded child can smile at her father.

Me: “Why am I hitch hiking?  Don’t you think Daddy can afford his car insurance and gas?  You think I’m a fucking deadbeat, don’t you Maddie?”
Maddie:  “Look!  You’re red and green, because Christmas is red and green, and Christmas makes me happy, Daddy!”
Me:  “But if I’m walking around Atlanta hitch hiking, how the hell do you figure you’ll get anything for Christmas?”
Maddie:  “Silly Daddy.”

I don’t particularly want Maddie to be artsy.  I knew people growing up who were artsy, and they spent their twenties in art school and then rehab and then multi-level-marketing seminars and then the unemployment line before finally giving up and getting GMAT or LSAT study guides (often after an out-of-wedlock child).

Every time my daughter touches fake horsehair to butcher paper, I see her going off to Savannah College of Art and Design, leaving during her junior year for a semester abroad to study some obscure portion of the Renaissance, only to meet some hostel-hopping drifter named Lars living off a Russian oil tycoon’s trust fund and spending the night talking about dada on the Charles Bridge among patina-covered gargoyles and then emailing me to say how bad American coffee is and how much better “Super Bud” is than the horse piss we call “Budweiser.”

Fuck that.  I need someone I can sell my practice to in 20 years.  So I can sit among gargoyles and drink good coffee and beer.

That got me to thinking about a blog post:  “All About My Mother” but without the transvestitism.  Or, better yet, “Things My Mom is Better Off Not Knowing.”  That’s a little better.

1)  When you told me my name would have been Melanie had I been a girl, I thought you were an idiot.  Melanie?  Named after a fruit or a euphemism for boobs?  I totally would have been a hooker (but spelled Mellony).

2)  You weren’t real popular among the neighborhood kids.  It could’ve been your willingness to drag someone else’s kid out of a church service for a spanking.  Or your willingness to spank a neighbor’s child in our front yard for pissing on your azaleas.  Or your willingness to pull out the white plastic cutting board and spank your own son in the middle of a backyard football game.  It’s hard to say.  But one afternoon after watching “The Breakfast Club” on TBS right before I went to college, I walked across the street to the woods where I’d spent much of my childhood to look for the giant tree on which we’d all carved our names in 1984.  And, I saw someone had carved–on the back side of the tree–”Mrs Muskrat is a bitch.”  Don’t worry, though…I pulled out my pocket knife and scratched it out.

3) One time when you were screaming at me for being on the phone instead of doing my homework, I taped it.  I played said tape to everyone on the back of the bus during the 11th grade field trip to Washington, DC.  It got a lot of laughs.  I still remember such great lines as, “You’re not gonna step foot out of this house–except to go to school and church” and “No!  The only thing that’s queer is your attitude!”  I’ll have to remember that one for future use.

4) When y’all moved my bedroom to the other side of the house, where my window was 7′ off the ground, so I wouldn’t sneak out at night, you underestimated how easy a pull-up is for a boy with a pull-up bar in his doorway who did 30 every morning.  When I’d say, “I wonder who rolled so-and-so last night?” I really knew who had.

5) I came home one night in highschool and heard you screaming a bunch.  I thought you and Dad were fighting for about 10 seconds until I figured out y’all weren’t fighting, and I went to the toilet to throw up.

6) After a couple months of college, all of us pledges were sitting in a meeting with our pledge trainer, Steve, and he singled me out and asked if I had strict parents.  A friend who’d grown up with me gave an emphatic “Yes.”  Steve said, “It shows.  Dude always shows up on time, does a good job at post-party cleanups, and seems to be making his grades.  As for the rest of you fuckups…”  For about 5 seconds, I was actually glad you were a Nazi for the 18 years I was under y’all’s roof.

7) Before I knew about blogs, I used to send a couple emails every week to a friend from highschool at his university.  He’d print them, bind them, and give them to me at Christmas and summer breaks, so that my college experience would be memorialized.  Anticipating that I’d be sent to Iraq in 2003, I went through every page with a Sharpie and redacted anything I didn’t want you to read if I were killed, since I knew you’d be the one going through my things.  I didn’t want you to feel like you’d failed.

In any event, thanks for always being there, even when I didn’t particularly want you to be at the time.  In the words of a Vanderbilt football fan, “There’s always next year.”

My trip started with my de facto partner’s missing the flight.  Jackass.  Who leaves his house too late for a trip to New Orleans?  Not me!  I arrived right BEFORE they shut the escape hatch (and before the airline realized that I have two cases in litigation against them right now–which is why I used my military ID instead of my GA drivers license…you know, as a diversion).  Luckily, two guys in business class were other attorneys I knew, and they split the shuttle to the hotel.  I tagged along.

The conference on the first day was good.  I think.  I sat in on a session or two and then started eating oysters and drinking beer at The Acme Oyster House.  We returned for the afternoon session and then went to a bar at The Roosevelt.  Because that’s what classy Southern barristers do at 4pm.  We ate somewhere and then went to some bars.  My Twitter stream indicates I was sending messages to Katy Perry at 4:44 and still at a bar past 5.  I remember seeing a street covered in garbage and fire hose streams as the sun flirted with the horizon when I hit the hotel elevator.

Lunch was Friday’s first meal.  I sat in on the latter half of the seminar and then went out again, stopping at Galatoire’s Restaurant for dinner:  truly a “to do before you die” dining experience at an establishment over 100 years old.  I even refrained from acting an ass.  Sort of.

We went out to a couple bars and then greased a bouncer’s palm to get a balcony to ourselves above a bar called Cats Meow, where I once went onstage to sing “Sweet Home Alabama” on a trip during undergrad 15 years ago, because I like nostalgia and a good view.

I mean–does this not personify class?

Of course it does.  I signed up to perform in front of the throngs but apparently got too distracted to hear them call my name.  I signed up again but got forced out by my companion at 2am over–I was told the next day–great, profanity-laced protest.

I attended the seminar the following morning while my companion rode on a float in the Tucks parade.  I attended a crawfish boil by a vendor but had to leave because of my uncontrolled shaking and general misery.  I began to worry that I had not adequately trained for this event and that I might very well die.  I walked Bourbon alone for a half hour or so before returning to the room for a nap.  I was defeated.

Just as I thought I might actually fall asleep, roomie busted in the room and demanded that I don my gay pirate outfit and sneak into a Mardi Gras Coronation Party.  I walked up to the bouncers; they checked everyone’s wrists; I was in the middle of a pack; I got through.  MTV was there filming these guys.  I’m probably in the background with a chicken leg in one hand and a bourbon in the other, trying to regain some semblance of coherence with that dog hair trick everyone talks about.

Then, it was time for a conference-sponsored costume party on a Bourbon Street balcony.  I was in such disrepair that I stood in front of the bartender for a full 45 seconds before finally requesting a water.  20 minutes later, I stood in front of him another 45 seconds before requesting a Crown and Coke (I never drink Coke, but I felt caffeine was a must at this point).  He just shook his head and poured.  It was 7.15pm.

7 became 8 which smacked into 9 then melted into 10 before molding into 11 and collapsing into 12 prior to colliding with 1.  Party over.  Time to shuffle back to the hotel to get ready for an early Sunday morning flight.

One last look out the window Sunday morning, and it was back to the airport.

And back to this:

Thank God I can go back to work and be a normal person for 4 days until I go to San Antonio this weekend.

It’s been 10 months.  3 months after my 7 months status post.

I didn’t write down any goals when I started like all the motivational books say to do, but I had a few in my head:

1) Bring in about the same amount of income in year 1 as I brought in the year before while working for a firm.
–Did that by month 7 (though months 1-5 brought in next to nothing).  This was the goal others thought was crazy.

2) Get asked to speak about my unorthodox marketing ideas.
–I’ve had about 10 attorneys ask me to lunch or happy hour to discuss how I started my firm, marketed it, and got it to work.    Today, it was an architect.  Tomorrow, a law student interviews me for a class a local law school is doing on entrepreneurship and “going solo.”  He’ll be shadowing me from time to time the next couple of months and will then write a paper.  I can’t wait to have him bring me coffee and open the mail, as I’m sick of doing both and am too cheap to pay someone to do it.

3) Have enough flexibility to attend events at the little ones’ school.
–I’m finding that preschool doesn’t have a bunch of “events,” but I did go to the Halloween costume parade.  It was adorable.  Sometimes, I take them to school in the morning and meet their teachers.  No one tells me I have to stay late or come in early for meetings or corrections to TPS reports, so I almost always have breakfast and dinner at home with the little ones.  Perhaps “flexibility to attend events” really means “be a part of your children’s lives” right now.  My dad was a pilot and would often be gone for 2 weeks straight.  That is why I never considered becoming a pilot.

4) Travel on my firm’s dime.
–This is where I have excelled.  A friend who’s also a recent solo shares office space with me.  Shortly after we started our firms, we decided our area of town needed its own bar association–sort of like a fraternity for young(ish) lawyers who like nice restaurants and bars.  We called the right people and made it happen.  At our last meeting, we ended up at the same bar as the Black Eyed Peas.  We’re going to New Orleans in 2 days.  We have a conference in Nassau in a few weeks.  Later this year, trips to New York, Destin, Asheville, San Antonio, Houston, and Seattle will be firm expenses.  I love firm expenses and the sections of the Internal Revenue Code that facilitate them.

5) Derive intrinsic satisfaction from the “big picture” aspects of what I do.
–That took a matter of seconds.  Fighting for individuals who are getting screwed is way more fulfilling than fighting against them to save an insurance company money.  That being said, I don’t want to help someone defraud an insurance company or small business.  I think handling several hundred cases from the other side helped me gauge the liars.  I turn down those cases.

6) Have fun.
–A couple friends IRL have opined that I have too much fun, but I get a lot of work from folks with whom I go out a night or two per week.  Don’t hate.  I’ve been to more than my fair share of funerals the last few years.  I’m gathering rosebuds.

There have been a few unforeseen downers, however:
1) Banks don’t lend money to folks if the loan can’t be sold, which means the loan has to meet Fannie Mae guidelines, and two self-employed people don’t qualify.
–Regardless of income and credit scores.  So, I’m giving a big “fuck you” to the banking industry and have put our house on the market with the goal of renting for a year or two while saving up to pay cash for a new home that will fit all our babies (that or get a small portfolio loan from a local credit union, but only for 10 years).

2) There is no “unplugging.”
–Whether on vacation, a weekend trip, or the shitter, I’m always thinking about work, checking emails and voicemails, and going over what needs to be accomplished the next day in my head.  I don’t relax unless I’m intoxicated, which has led to an increase in my drinking.

3) Imitation may be flattering, but it can be discouraging.
–In the last year, I’ve seen a huge increase in the number of older, more established firms in my market increase their web presence and start using social media for promotion.  They have deeper pockets than I do, so while their efforts lack my wit and personality, they’re more visually appealing and professional-looking.  I still believe the internet is an arena in which David can beat Goliath.  Hopefully.

Summary:  It’s worth it.  And I’ll continue to promote chasing dreams and being unorthodox to anyone who asks.

I had Saturday, January 30th marked on my calendar for several weeks:  we were going to the zoo at 10, a 40th birthday party around 3, a wedding reception at 7, and a “twitter meetup” at some point that evening.  See the picture?  Proof I don’t make this stuff up.  And yes, I have itineraries for Saturdays.

When the temperatures were 20-something accompanied by freezing rain, however, the zoo plans were scrapped.  Instead, I spent several hours on the phone or in the yard talking to neighbors about a possible lawsuit we’re filing against the city…but I probably shouldn’t write about that.

As the day progressed, I just didn’t feel like hanging out with a bunch of peeps from lawschool or peeps from our church.  So, I skipped them and went to Manuel’s to wait on these people:

And I wasn’t really sure why.  Sure, it’s probably my favorite bar in Atlanta.  The place where this happened and where I had my “I made it back alive from war” party in 2003, and where I spent countless Thursday nights after class in lawschool.  But I’ve found myself doing more and more ditching of friends IRL to spend time with strangers whom I know from twitter or blogging.  I did the same thing last time Dave came into town.

This actually bothered me yesterday enough to give it some thought.  I don’t want to become one of those people whose friends are all online.  I came up with a few hypotheses:

1)  I like visiting with folks who are from out of town and will let me choose the venue.
2) Because most of these people are from out of town, I feel like I should work harder to schedule seeing them (even though there are plenty of folks I know well who live within the 20-something counties that are “metro Atlanta” whom I only see at weddings and funerals).
3) I like beer, and most of my online friends do, too (though a couple have given it up recently).
4) I like getting to know new people who are from different backgrounds, countries, professions, etc.

But more than those 4, I think it’s

5) I’m more honest online than I am in real life and, accordingly, enjoy hanging out with funny, interesting people who know a side of me I often keep concealed.

Which is ironic to normal people who don’t waste spend time reading and writing blogs.  For instance, when I told my part-time assistant last year that I was going to Chicago to meet a bunch of blogging friends, she made a scrunched up “who just opened the diaper pail?” face and said something about how people lie when they’re online and put on airs and that I should expect to be disappointed.  I tried to argue that I thought it was just the opposite–especially in the “parenting blogging” arena, because everyone’s got kids and is married or was married and has no real incentive to try and engage in puffery, but she wasn’t buying it.

Of course she was wrong.

But back to the “more honest online” bit:  I wrote on here before I told anyone IRL about quitting my job, my dad’s cancer diagnosis, our unexpected pregnancy, the gender of the last 2 children, etc.  And then there are those stories from childhood involving public excretion.

So why stand up a bunch of folks I’ve known 10 years for avatars I’ve known 10 months?

Because Clay, Katie, Apryl, Ali, and Janet are way more attractive in person than they are on Twitter.  Especially after 8 beers.  I mean, have you seen Clay?

One of my twitter friends mentioned a few days ago that Rob Kroese’s “humor blogs” site was down and then wrote a blog post about it.  I visited myself and saw this (go ahead and check the link).  My heart sank.

I thought about how when I first started my blog and had a “.wordpress” in the middle of my URL and wondered if anyone would want to read my stories from childhood and child-rearing after enjoying this activity called “blogging” with surprising success during my deployment to Iraq a few months earlier (thanks, New York Times!).  I wrote every day and hoped the readers at the “humor blogs” site I’d found on accident (which had >1000 blogs on it) would vote favorably on the level of humor in each post, and after a couple months, I was on the first page!  Top 30!  A few weeks later, I was top 10, and then top 5 for several months.  I think I actually called Pretty Bride from work on the day I cracked the top 5.  I was such a dork back when I was 33.

Participating waned a bit when my work situation changed, but I still enjoyed the blogs there, especially last July when they became tangible after I met Margaret, Kathy, JD, Anna, and Meg in person.  I could tell they thought I was as funny-looking as I was funny-reading.  We bonded.  Humor Blogs suddenly became a smaller place.

So, now that my posts aren’t automatically sent to H-B for voting on whether they’re funny or not, should I start being more serious?  Turn this into a “personal blog” or “daddy blog?”  Or try to stick with “humor blogging?”  Or give it up and concentrate on other activities (i.e., something that pays well)?

I’m not sure.  Probably a hybrid.  I enjoy being part of the blogosphere.  Hell, I’m meeting several twitter friends this Saturday night for the first time for a night of debauchery (unbeknownst to them).  I’ll probably take them to the bar where I did this:

I have no recollection of how I met the guy on the mic with me.  I don’t think I want to know.

I’m planning to go to NYC in August for BlogHer 2010.  I’m entertaining Adam when he comes up for a wedding in May.  I’m debating South By Southwest with Johnny Truant.

Okay, internet.  I can’t quit you.  I’m just not sure what will follow the “form of ….” command after I tap fists with my Wonder Twin. Whoever the hell that is.

On Day 3, I ditched the rental’s keys and boarded a tourbus for Arenal Volcano National Park.  Five minutes into the trip, my bride asked if I was enjoying this traveling better that the previous two days’ journeys.

Me:  Infinitely.

See?

We befriended folks from such foreign lands as Puerto Rico, Poland, France, Denver, and Indiana.  We learned about what we were passing instead of wondering about it.  I didn’t give a shit about traffic or young pedestrians.

We passed the extinct Chato Volcano, which is part of a mountain formation called the “Sleeping Indian.”  I renamed it the “Sleeping Indian with Morning Wood” upon closer inspection, however:

After a stop that allowed some shopping for local goods (to include cigars for me), we went to the hot springs at Tabacon:  a series of heated pools and water falls below the volcano.  They were wonderful.  So much, in fact, that I actually got out to piss behind some palm trees instead of going in the water, because I didn’t want to soil the wonderful creation around me.

Damn right it felt good.  We stayed in the hot water for 3 hours before a pretty good meal and then a trip to the base of the volcano after dark to marvel at the glorious eruptions of rock and lava and fire storms to follow.

But we were there on one of the 80% of evenings in which the cloud cover prevents seeing anything.  So, we stood in the dark with a bunch of strangers and stared into the blackness and nothingness for 15 minutes instead, while I made out loud observations about how screwed we were if the tourbus didn’t return to pick us up.  Luckily, the bus came.

The next day we boarded another tourbus at 7am to try, again, to see Poas Volcano National Park.  This time, it was clear:

We did some hiking and took pictures.  On the way, we stopped at the Doka Coffee plantation for a tour and the chance to buy 7 bags of damned good coffee.

And after the volcano, we saw La Paz Waterfall Gardens (we actually found it this time, when someone else was driving).  An earthquake rendered part of the hiking trail to 3 additional falls impassable, but we were able to see 2 of the waterfalls and a bunch of wildlife.

We headed back to the hotel, and I begin to notice something odd.  Just about every home or business we passed was surrounded by bars, fencing, and/or concertina wire.  It was as if everyone was Scott Stapp and created their own prisons.

Blue bars?  Really?

Good fences make good neighbors, right?

What if there’s a fire?  Damnation.

Just in case you thought you’d climb the wall to visit this place (which wasn’t a prison, by the way).

Even the friendly neighborhood abogado and notario need bars on the windows!  Sadness.  I reckon it’s to keep out the clients.

We got back to the hotel just in time for deep tissue massages before going to bed.  I think the woman rubbing me was blind, like in that shitty Val Kilmer movie with Kelly McGillis.  I was sore for 2 days.

All in all, a pretty good trip, considering the difficulty in “getting away” when both parties are self-employed and Type A by nature.  And the whole pregnancy thing kept us from the white water rafting and zip lining I wanted to do.  Maybe next time.

We’re talking about bringing the children with us on a vacation sometime soon, like summer ‘11 (something we’ve never done before–we prefer to ditch them and travel alone).  God help us.

Feel free to check out additional pictures on my flickr page!

A few weeks ago, when I decided we needed a “babymoon” and to use some of my USAA points before they dropped in buying power on April 1, a few friends and a neighbor suggested Costa Rica as a warm and relatively inexpensive January destination.  But, they advised me that I should not drive.

Me:  Why?  I’ve driven in Puerto Rico, Kuwait, Iraq, New York City, and Atlanta.  I’m not afraid of a highway.
Everyone Else: The roads suck, and the other drivers are crazy.
Me:  Fearing ‘other drivers’ is for pussyboys.  I fear nothing.

We arrived late Wednesday night, and first thing Thursday morning, I went to the concierge to arrange for a rental car, so I could go explore San Jose and some volcano thing called Poas at a park up the road.

It was a Suzuki with no shocks.  It sucked.

After two hours of traffic in a stick shift, I was eager for this to be the best damn hole in the ground I’d ever seen.  I pulled up to the park entrance.

Ranger-looking-dude:  Bad news.  I must tell you–the clouds are in the crater, and you can’t see anything today.  I’m sorry.
Me:  And I must tell you–kiss my ass.  Do you know the hell I went through to guide this piece of shit up the God-forsaken trail you people call a street?
Ranger dude:  I’m sorry…you can go hike there if you want, but there is no view.  Just down the road are some waterfalls, though!

We headed back down the mountain to look for a Shell station and a dirt road that lead to a bunch of falling water.  Two hours later, we were lost and were nowhere near a bunch of falling water.  But we did find a butterfly farm!  By the time we stopped, neither of us was speaking to the other, my left arm was sunburned, and my left hand was calloused from holding the steering wheel in anger for the past 4+ hours.  But we toured the butterflies and learned some stuff about pupae.

We then tried to find some jade museum thing that was closed when we arrived.  I declared alcohol a necessity and plopped down in a martini bar we found after walking 5 blocks to a restaurant site that had gone out of business 3 years prior, just after our tourbook was published.  The TV behind the bar was showing MTV2.  At that point in our vacation, having martinis and watching 80s videos was the highlight of my trip.  I didn’t want to leave, but Pretty Bride was concerned about the parking attendant I’d paid for 1 hour of parking 2.5 hours ago, so she insisted on leaving.

I sat in the outdoor hot tub for several hours that night and wondered what I’d done to piss God off so royally.

The next day, I thought it a good idea to drive 7 hours roundtrip from San Jose to Manuel Antonio National Park.  Through the mountains.  With no painted lines, signs, reflectors, or guardrails.  But plenty of 18-wheelers, bicycles, ATVs, and motorcycles.

We liked Manuel Antonio.  Our guide found sloths, a frog, some spiders, a crab, several birds, and some frighteningly large insects along the trail to a beach filled with monkeys!

It was over 90 degrees that day (a welcomed heat after a preceding weekend of snow and ice in Atlanta), making the Pacific’s cool waters a welcomed conclusion.  Dinner was at an old C-123 from the Iran-Contra affair turned into a restaurant before we began the harrowing drive through the mountains at night (after pulling over to watch the sun set).

The next morning at 7, I walked up to the concierge with my Suzuki keys and rental agreement.

Me:  Hello.  I’d like to return my car two days early.  I don’t enjoy driving in your country.
Concierge:  hahaha!  *backs chair away from desk to allow for more hysterical laughter* hahahaha!
Me:  No really.  I don’t know where the little car rental dude is, but I’m putting this shit in his chair.  I’m going to find a tour bus now.

At this point, my questions are these:
1) Why have I seen no advertisements for abogados?  Do I really want to spend time in a country with no lawyers?
2) Should we have gone to Dollywood instead?

To be continued…

There’s nothing quite like the hysteria a military unit will feel (during peacetime, anyway) shortly before a general officer is slated to visit.  There’s mopping of floors, straightening of furniture, and polishing of boots going on throughout the building instead of any of the work that’s supposed to be observed and commended.  I’ve always thought it a bit lame.

Yes, I can appreciate the tenacity and expertise required for one to get a star or two on his or her epaulet, but am I going to stop working so I can push a broom around?  No.  But here’s what I did instead.

See that window above?  That’s my office’s door.  Long before I moved in, some dildo stuck a metal door on the glass and wrote “PRIVATE” on it, using velcro to affix it to the glass when it’s shut.  Really?  Is that what we need in the wake of the rampant sexual assaults going on across the services the last couple decades?  A stepping stone?

So, I doctored the sign like this:

And in case you can’t see the note at the top, here’s a closer look:

Then I shut the flap across the window and closed the door, allowing everyone who walked by to assume that I was furiously touching my privates inside.

Lastly, I changed all the clocks to show this:

And I do mean “all the clocks.”

Then I wait for Mr Two Star to come in while everyone under my command remained absolutely horrified (or tremendously entertained…mainly the latter).  But dude never did.

He apparently bypassed my hallway before addressing our group in the conference room.  Must’ve been scared of the team of masturbating pot smokers.

Yellow belly.