Jesus wants you to learn to drive

Something has been lurking the rearview mirror of my brain lately and finally dawned on me today. Christians cannot drive.

Why? Lord if I know, but ever person who has nearly killed me on the roadways in the last month has had the sticker of our local Christian shitty rock radio station on it.

Yukon drifting 2 tires over into my lane mid-intersection. Christian radio. Jesus is love! And apparently fucking blind.
Stupid Taurus that changed lanes 3 times in the solid line construction zone without one single blinker? How great is His love and this tools stupid?
Tapping the breaks every 5 seconds down a busy highway and then waiting to the last second to slam them on when riding up on someone? Jesus died for my sins - does that include murdering this stupid ass?

How about this. Stop listening to how awesome your god is, or how awful sinners are, and learn to drive. Jesus or God or the Spaghetti monster gave you a brain, so you say, please fucking use it to operate the 1-2 ton metal thing in a manner that convinces me that God didn't Lazarus Helen Keller and give her a license. Try the basics first like driving in a straight line forward when the light is green. Then take footprints in the sand size steps towards changing lanes without Jesus taking the wheel. Advanced items like proper roundabout usage and using non-suicide turn lanes is only for those right with the Lord and should not be attempted by the recently baptized.

Jesus wants you to learn to drive and goddammit, so do I.

Red Letter Day

I must share this. As soon as it happened I realized that even though some of you out there know who I am, this is too hilarious not to make fun of myself.

Yesterday will be memorialized on my calendar forever. I may have a plaque made, not sure yet.
I, Highlander, farted into my own vagina on July 29th, 2013 at approximately 11:23 pm. Don't ask me how this came about, I won't say, but it is 100% confirmed by my husband and I.
Farted into my own cout. Super special moment, and my life is forever changed. I'm sure there's money to be made with some fetishist somewhere (probably Japan) but I'll pass.

The best part about this and what mandated I blog ASAP? The exchange in the next room shortly have my historic act. I farted again. Shoot me, it happens and it will always be funny.

Husband: Man, if you were a boxer you'd be Gaseous Clay!
Pause for laughter from me.
Me: I've got good buttwork.
Husband: And if you converted to Nation of Islam you'd be  Mohammed Al Queef.
At this point it's almost midnight and I'm doubled over laughing so hard I'm nearly crying and holding in yet another "contribution" that the giggles nearly dislodged.

Sometimes you just can't make this shit up.

Other excellent parallel we've made since:
If I was a painter I would be Georgia O'Queef. Works on two levels, one is pretty art history nerdy.

I'm open to suggestions. (Did you know there's a fart thesaurus? "Bratwurst butt belch" is just one item you'll find on it.)

Lie to tell children: Sesquicentennial is the balls of Sasquatch. If anyone invites you to a sesquicentennial celebration, tell an adult.