I Did Too Finish My 50,000 Word Novel

I shoulda known that somebody would actually count up the two pieces that make up my 50,000-word novel and say, "That ain't even close to 50,000 words."

Well, I KNOW that, you bozos. What you failed to take into account is my plan to add 48 more pictures, each of which is worth a thousand words. So's there: 50,000 words EXACTLY, more or less, just like I said. It is always tough to put one over on Ol' Hoss.

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My buddy MuzikDude is awful close to 300,000 hits, he says, and he wants to get rounded off. So go give him some love. He's a good ol' Colorado boy with good friends and good philosophy (and a dandy wife). So please go hit him.

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The boy stood on the burning deck,
His feet were almost blistered.
A nail tore out his Sunday pants,
And now he wears his sister's.

Or,

At the bar, at the bar, where I smoked my first cigar,
And the burden of my heart rolled away,
It was there by chance that I tore my Sunday pants
And now I can wear them every day.

And,

"I see London, I see France, I see someone's dirty pants..."

(Boy howdy we had fun with pants in grade school....)

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Judy has told me we need some new rules for living, one of which should take care of this situation:

"I should NOT be the cashier. By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN, pressing 'Enter,' verifying the amount, deciding 'No, I don't want cash back,' and striking 'Enter' again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing up my groceries is standing there eating my Almond Joy. I'd say something, except I've been called to do some cleanup on Aisle 9."

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My favorite word today is leftovers. N., "I've done it again." Def.: The shredded Kleenex pieces you find in the washing machine because your forgot to search your child's pockets.