Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

The Strangers

This past weekend I was in Boise, Idaho (my first time!) for a cousin's wedding. I was actually really impressed by how beautiful it was there. Low-key, of course -- I mean, there were far less helicopters and police blockades and gun-wielding maniacs than in my current neighborhood -- but you can't really hold it against them. Anyway, the weather was beautiful, I got to spend time with some of my extended family, and four weirdos picked me up in the bar at my hotel, so it really had all the earmarks of a successful weekend.

I shouldn't say "picked up", because that makes it sound salacious. It wasn't salacious. It was just...bizarre. Anyway, the story is this: the wedding wrapped up and I was hustled to my hotel by midnight, which for me was 11pm, and I was totally not tired at all. So I picked up my book and went down to the bar. Argyle teased me for reading at the bar, but dude? Remember that this is Idaho we're talking about. Anyway, book + dirty martini = :) So I'm reading my book and enjoying my martini, and this shitfaced quartet -- three girls, one dude -- belly up to the bar and start gabbing amongst themselves.

I am from time to time a shameless eavesdropper. I can't explain it, but ever since about the fourth grade I have gotten endless enjoyment out of other peoples' conversations. But only if they don't know I'm listening. Sometimes (read: often) people will have "outrageous" conversations when they suspect (read: hope) other people are listening, and that is excruciatingly tiresome. As soon as someone says to me any of the following dreaded phrases, I write their name down on my list of People Who Suck:

"We're kind of weird!" -- You're NOT weird. You're just like everyone else. Everybody has quirky conversations with their friends, but many of them do not publicly pat themselves on the back for it. Shut up.

"We're probably scaring you, aren't we?" -- No. No, you are not "scaring" me, you are depressing me, both because you clearly wish for me to be scared (by how weird you are) and because you think that being scary-weird makes you somehow a more interesting person, and there is a difference.

"I hope we're not SHOCKING you!!1!" -- Yes you do.

Deliver us from Life Performers. Anyway, these people were so fucked up they had no idea I was paying any attention to them, which made them hilarious. Also, I was pretty fucked up after the wine I had at the wedding and the dirty martini (which I got for FREE, because when I want to I can apparently charm a bartender with the best of them!)(or, possibly, he was leering at the drunk girls and didn't realize that he never charged me.) so for me to notice how drunk THEY were...well, it tells you a lot about How Drunk They Were.

So, in a move that is rather out of character for me, I ingratiated myself with the subjects of my study and we yakked for a time about this and that before I decided it was really time for me to go to bed. We all ended up leaving at the same time, and once we got on the elevator, they invited back to their room for an "after party".

I should have said no. I mean, CLEARLY. But I was drunk and amused, and I said to myself, "Self - this is a story you will be able to write about on your blog," and that clinched it. So there I was, sitting in a chair in some weird peoples' hotel room while they smoked pot and ate sandwiches and tried to force-feed me Babybel cheese, and as I was sobering up by this point I started to play MY favorite game when I meet strangers, which I like to call Make Shit Up. So I gave them a fake name and a fake background, and I told them I was 23, and that I was in a band, and as I was talking I started to think to myself that they actually really and truly were starting to freak me out, and I wished I had just gone up to bed, and I started worrying about how I could gracefully extricate myself. And then, when I was in the middle of a sentence, the dude decided it was time for everyone to go to bed, and literally pushed me out into the hall and closed the door in my face.

I didn't wait around to see if this was a joke, or if someone would open the door in a moment to apologize -- I turned and ran for the fucking elevator. I did not see them the next day, OR EVER AGAIN, and this was exactly as it should be.

The moral of the story, obvs, is DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS.

I Slept With My Sister-in-Law!

That got your attention! OMG, it's been like a MONTH since I last updated. I'm sorry, y'all. I was really busy, and then I was less busy but TOTALLY distracted by other things...anyway, I'm here now to make it all better.

So, my little brother got married. I had to give a speech, which I agonized about for months, but it all went really well in the end and I got to know some of his friends -- a double-sided prospect, to be sure. They were all really funny, but they were also really DUDE-ly, you know? What I mean to say is that my efforts to fit in were both clunky and obvious when they were talking as a group, but I got along very well with them as individuals. Good thing we have alcohol, the Great Equalizer.

Anyway, KillerWorkout is something of a traditionalist. He insisted on tuxedos for the men and a gown for the bride, and some of the other trimmings and trappings that go along with it. For example, he didn't want to see his fiancée the night before the wedding. This meant she had to GO somewhere, and my mother thoughtfully offered the other twin bed in my room. While I was also sleeping there. Bear in mind here that there are two (2) other guest rooms as well as THREE (3!) couches and a (1!!) pull-out sofa she could have used. The intricacies of my mother's mind are myriad and impossible to fathom, but I have to wonder if she wasn't dipping into a bit of her own Great Equalizer at the time.

Anyway, this led to much ribaldry on behalf of the groomsmen, who teased my brother because his wife slept with the best man on the eve of their nuptials. The joke is increased further because the maid of honor sorta kinda accidentally signed the marriage certificate in the bride's spot. So he almost married the maid of honor and his fiancée sort of slept with the best man, and that's the only kind of wedding I ever expect to be involved with, quite frankly, which leads me to ANOTHER exciting story!

Remember Pussy Galore? And how she was going to get married, but then had to postpone it because she got preggers? And then they picked a date, and she asked me to be her man of honor, and she chose a dress, and I started planning a bachelorette party? Well, she got knocked up again and they've had to postpone it a second time. I told her she needs to STOP HAVING SEX. Or whatever it is she's doing. Seems like you just have to say the word "wedding" and she comes down with a case of the babies. This will be number THREE (3!!!) and she hasn't even made it past the church door yet. At least she knows she's fertile, right? I mean, that's a good thing?

Anyway, work has stabilized greatly over the past couple of weeks, which is why I have the liberty to write this now. I have some great pictures to share as well, because I FINALLY bought a new digital camera! I just have to figure out how it works. This could be tricky because of my deficiency in understanding technical mumbo-jumbo, and my aversion to "reading instructions".

Wow! This "writing my blog" thing has been a really refreshing change of pace! I'll have to do more of it. Just...don't hold your breath, I guess.

Flying/High

I hate flying.  To begin with, I don't enjoy being 30,000 feet in the air -- call me crazy -- with nothing to break your fall but 90,000 pounds of fiberglass and aluminum, and maybe, like, a rosebush.  I also hate the fact that unless you are traveling WITH someone, you inevitably sit down next to somebody who wants to be friends.  I do not want to be friends.  I want to read my book and NOT DIE.  This does not seem to me to be an unreasonable request of the universe.

I should say that I had a wonderful Christmas vacation.  I went home, I saw my toddlin' nephew, I taught him how to say "octopus" (he said it like "OW-psss", and then I GAVE HIM ALL MY MONEY), and gave/received a lot of wonderful gifts.  I got to play with my dog and hang out with my friends, and my four-year-old niece invited me to her birthday party.  I told her that, as I live 2,500 miles away, I probably couldn't make it.  Her response?  "Ask your mom!"  I had no more money left, so I gave her my blood.

THEN.  I had to go home.  Ever since I enjoyed this little experience, I have been a...not so good passenger.  I tense up, I sweat, and every jitter of the plane causes me to start carving my last will and testament into the tray table in the hopes that it alone will survive our death drop into the rosebushes.  So I do what all God's children are supposed to do -- I get good and tipsy before climbing aboard, and try to let my buzz dispel the clamor of nerves.  We were maybe a half-hour into the five-hour flight (and I was maybe twenty pages from the end of my book) when the girl at the end of my row leaned over and asked in a drunken stage whisper what I was reading.  I explained, to the best of my abilities.

Drunk Girl: THAT SOUNDS GOOD!

Me: It is good, actually.

Drunk Girl:  I AM TOTALLY STEALING YOUR BOOK!  HA HA HA!  I NEED MORE WINE!  DO YOU LIVE ALONE?

Me:  No, I have a roommate.  A crowded house, actually.

Drunk Girl:  GIRL OR BOY?

Me:  A girl.  But our boyfriends come and go.

Drunk Girl: OHHHHH!  ARE YOU BISEXUAL?

Me:  Um...no.

Drunk Girl (disappointed):  OHHHHH.  SO YOU'RE STRAIGHT-UP GAY?  I'M BISEXUAL.  I LIKE BOTH!

Me:  That's...what that means, all right.

Drunk Girl:  YOU'RE ATTRACTIVE.

Me:  ...thank you.

So by this time, everyone on the plane knew that I was straight-up gay, and that my new best friend liked it both ways.  I was a trifle embarrassed, but tried to communicate that although I appreciated the company, it was reading time now.  She didn't get it.  She proceeded to inform me that she was flying out on an impulse to party with some guy she didn't know, whom she suspected would possibly be picking her up at the airport.  She used some...outmoded terms to describe him, which I will not reprint here because I find them to be impolite and inappropriate.  Just imagine her screaming "high yellow" or something similar, and you have the basic idea.

During the last forty-five minutes we bonded again when we encountered some minor turbulence in our descent that nearly sheared the wings off the plane, and I decided that if we were all going to die I wasn't going to meet my maker until I'd eaten every last piece of chocolate in my carry-on.  I shared, and this seemed to further cement our bond.  At the baggage claim, she was still with me, and still in...high spirits.

Drunk Girl:  I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT STEWARDESS CUT ME OFF!  I NEEDED WINE!  WOOOO!

Me:  When the hell are they going to send out our luggage?

Drunk Girl:  DOES THIS OUTFIT LOOK TOO WHOREY?

Me:  Nope, just whorey enough.

Drunk Girl:  HA HA!  LIKE YOU'D KNOW.  NO, YOU WOULD, BECAUSE YOU'RE HOT.  WOOOO!

Me:  ...where are my bags?

Drunk Girl:  WHY IS EVERYBODY STARING AT ME?  IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRUNK, OR IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRESSED LIKE A WHORE?

Me:  Can I pick more than one?

Drunk Girl:  I LIKE EATING PUSSY.  IT'S THE BEST!

Me:  ...

Drunk Girl:  YOU SHOULD TOTALLY TRY IT!

Me:  ...no thank you--

Drunk Girl:  OH, RIGHT.  NO, IT'S COOL!  YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE COCK YOU WANT!  I LIKE THAT, TOO!

Me:  Oh Jesus, please send my bag out right now.  I will donate to the church -- any church -- just please.  Please--

Drunk Girl:  I SURE HOPE MY RIDE SHOWS UP!

Me:  Yes, we all do.

Drunk Girl:  YEAH!  OTHERWISE I'M GONNA HAVE TO STAY WITH YOU!

Me:  Oh, look, it's my bag!  Bye!  Don't get killed!

And it actually WAS my bag?  But even if it wasn't, I was going to grab the next one that rolled by anyway, take it into the bathroom, change into someone else's clothes and make a mustache out of toilet paper, and then sneak back to the opposite side of the carousel to wait for MY shit to come through.

I am never taking the plane again.

Speechless

My world has gotten a little more surreal.  I got a phone call from my little brother last night to tell me that he and his girlfriend just got engaged.  Engaged.  My baby brother is GETTING MARRIED.

Pause, while I let the blood stop rushing in my ears.

Of course, I am totally thrilled about this, and he's only five years my junior, but I still remember him as a ten-year-old throwing a temper tantrum because my sister was allegedly cheating at croquet (which: probably true, but not the point) and as a twelve-year-old hilariously getting rugburn on his forehead the day before school photos (which: my fault for throwing him off a bar stool when we were horsing around, but still funny).  I'm not sure I'm ready for tuxedo-clad and MARRIED little brother.

Oh my gosh, the blood.  The blood in my ears.  I think I have the vapors.

He asked me to be his best man, and I was absolutely honored to accept.  Then I had to ask him just what that meant, because I have a feeling that I would be hard-pressed to organize a bachelor party befitting a straight man, but he said I just have to "you know, stand next to me, and then give a speech at the reception".

Here's the thing: Dr. No?  Good at standing.  Not so good?  At giving prepared speeches that I have to write myself.  It's either going to be totally dry and awkwardly sentimental, or COMPLETELY irreverent and inappropriate and NOT FUNNY.  ("You've come a long way since rugburn-on-the-forehead, baby!")  Yikes.

BUT.  I would defend this title unto the DEATH.  I will be the most awesome best man ever, I just need to, like, start working on that speech now.  I have a year, folks.  Any tips?

Better Living Through Stuff That Goes On The Fridge

It was my birthday recently.  In the days and weeks leading up to this event, I received many a phone call from my loved ones to tell me to either a) expect a gift in the mail, or b) expect a LATE gift in the mail.  My mother called me about, oh, seventy-five times -- A DAY -- to tell me that she was sending some things in a box, and did I get the box yet, and there's one thing I won't know what to do with, and it should be coming on Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, and I should call her, and is it there yet?  So when the box finally arrived after a month of hype, I was quite excited.

I opened it to find two tiny objects in a handful of styrofoam peanuts.  The first object turned out to be a SHOE SHINE SPONGE (!) in the helpful shade of "neutral", because my mother is apparently worried about how my footwear is representing my upbringing out here on the west coast.  The second object was...well, this:

I know what you're thinking, because it's what I thought, too.  A stapler?  A book light?  Some kind of sonic paper-cutter?  Just so you know, it came with no instructions or significant markings, but it DID come with two AA batteries to be inserted a cavity in the thing's main body.  When I put them in, I fully expected something to light up.  Nothing did.  My mother's card, on which was depicted a beagle in a birthday hat, only urged me not to "pee myself" with excitement.  No help there.

I then realized that there were two pads on the thing -- one on that hinged arm on top, and one on the main body on the bottom.  They connect when you depress the arm, and the pad in the body sinks down with a kind of a PING sound.  I was flummoxed, so Ulrich took it from me and checked it out.  The first thing he did was push down on the pad, yelp, and throw it back at me, cursing about how it just burned him.

So now I know that my mother has sent me a futuristic plastic stapler that burns people.  But wait!  There's more: I realized that the back of it was magnetic.  This means it goes on the refrigerator, which means it is designed for use in the kitchen!  We used it to alternately melt, burn, and cut things until we lost interest and abandoned it.

My mother called me two days later to see if I'd gotten her gifts yet.  I told her I had and asked her, politely, just what the fuck the thing was.  Turns out it's a bag sealer.  Like, in case I'm "eating a bag of chips, but I don't want to finish it, now [I] can seal up the bag without having to use one of those clips!"  And, you know, the fact that I don't really eat chips aside, is this really a more convenient solution than a clip?  Also: my mom sent me a BAG SEALER for my BIRTHDAY.

The woman has been completely hypnotized by home shopping shows.

I Am Baby, Hear Me Roar

I have put in my bid to become Favorite Uncle, and I think I'm starting to see success.  Yesterday, Mrs. Jones brought over my nephew so I could babysit while she got a haircut, and we had the best afternoon; we sang and played airplane, we chewed on my fingers, we waited to soil ourselves until grandpa came home, and then we smiled a lot.  Then, when mommy came home, we horked all over her good coat, soiled ourselves again, and horked a second time on her leg.  So we had a busy day, and were VERY GOOD.

We are using the Royal We now, because this is what one does when encountering a baby.  One assumes part of the baby's identity into oneself, like the Borg , perhaps in an effort to leach some of inconceivable cuteness.  I mean, seriously.  If someone else drooled all over me or stomped on my crotch, I'd probably be upset about it.  Not so, with my nephew.  Who is AMAZING, by the way, and has an ENORMOUS BRAIN.

I have also been spending a fair amount of time with Pussy Galore and her fiance, the soon-to-be Mr. Galore, as well as my little brother and my dog.  It's cold as hell in my parents' basement, so the dog likes to keep me warm.  The dog also REALLY likes the baby, almost disturbingly so; everywhere I went while holding my nephew, the dog pranced around my legs, trying to jump up and get her paws on him so she could flatten the baby.  Whenever I'd sit down, she'd jump up and start licking any exposed baby skin.  I've decided it's a maternal thing, and that she's bathing him.  Rather than, you know, tasting him. 

It's been nice, though, and my mom arrived in town last night, so we'll be seeing each other soon as well.  I also got a lot of cool crap for Christmas, and will have to mail most of it back since it's largely books and other heavy things.  I'm not dragging that shit around with me.

Anyway, I hope your holidays were good, and that you all have plans for New Year's!  I'm going to invite myself to some party or other and try to class up the joint.  If I don't see you before then, have a happy (and safe) night!

My Parents Drink Great Wine

...and now, so do I.  One of the great luxuries of coming home for the holidays.  They don't COOK at all, but they LOVE to entertain, and part of that means fancy olives, breads, cheeses, and fantastic bottles of wine just LYING around -- they're like windfall apples or something.  My mom will be like, "Oh, go ahead and drink that.  Otherwise it'll just sit around collecting dust."  Like, gee, FORCE me.

I flew out on Thursday, as I mentioned on Friday, but the story didn't exactly end there.  Or START there, either, frankly.  My shuttle was FIFTY FUCKING MINUTES late picking me up, and after giving me a song and dance about how all the customers were really late coming down to the van, the guy arrived and there was ONE other person inside.  For the whole ride to the airport they chatted about how airport security is a big joke and no one's actually paying attention and that lady that put her baby through the baggage check was probably "a distraction" while the "real guys" were busy getting through unnoticed.  Then he dropped me off with a really cheerful "Have a nice holiday!"  Like I'll ever sleep again.

I sat on the plane between a very nice -- and VERY CHATTY -- elderly couple.  I don't know why they booked their seats to have one open in the middle (both the aisle and window seats were already assigned when I selected mine, so I have to assume they chose them that way), but there I was.  I would have offered to switch so they could sit together, but I was terrified they'd take me up on it and I'd be sitting by the window, about as far from the bathroom as Mars, what with all the crawling over people and stuff.

They were very nice, but eventually I got tired of the gentleman CONSTANTLY asking me about my book.  I was reading Micky Spillanes I, the Jury, which was published in 1948, and he remembered it.  I would get a couple pages in and then, "What do you think so far?  Good, huh?"  Like, I DON'T KNOW.  I CAN'T SEEM TO GET INTO IT FOR SOME REASON.  Then they were talking over me and passing things back and forth, and asking me about my hometown and what I do and am I a student? and do I want to put my coat in the overhead bin? and I noticed you ordered a diet soda from the stewardess but YOU'RE SO SKINNY!  YOU DON'T NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT!  I think they put me in the middle so I couldn't escape.

No, but they were very nice.  When I landed, I checked my voice mail.  I'd had several messages from Ulrich, of course, just calling to say he was thinking of me, but nothing from my parents.  So I called them, anxious to find out who was going to be picking me up from the airport:

Mom: Boy, aren't you glad you're not flying out of Denver?

Me: Tell me about it.  I'm glad I didn't book a flight with a layover.

Mom: Well, it'll be clear by Saturday.  You know, when you're flying out.  To come home?

Me: ...I'm at the airport, Mom.  HERE.  I came home today.  Like in my email.

Mom: ...you know where the cab stand is, right?

It turns out that although I forwarded her the itinerary, I got the dates wrong in my explanatory email.  So typical of me, actually.  My only excuse is that I was racing the clock against my draining battery and typed it out before I thought about it all the way.

In the cab, I was on the phone with Ulrich explaining about this time that I tried to fly from Chicago to California to visit my sister, but the flights were delayed and I ended up having to go via Detroit, and I sat next to a child psychologist who analyzed and got me to tell her about the dream I'd had the night before, where Godzilla was attacking Chicago and I had to escape on the Orange Line (which is a shitty way to escape, to be honest), and then the cabbie started to LAUGH and LAUGH and then wouldn't stop talking about Godzilla all the way home.

So I earned my vacation.  But I'm here now, and my nephew is in the other room -- bawling his eyes out, no doubt because I'm not there -- my shopping is finished, and things are pretty great.  The holiday officially begins tomorrow (at least in my neck of the woods), so everybody keep your noses clean.

Peace.

Von Trapped

I'm not doing so well.  I've been trying for the last fifteen minutes to come up with the proper opening for this entry, but I guess it's time for full disclosure: I was cooking this huge dinner tonight (story to follow) and poured myself a martini while I was at it.  I haven't seen the brighter side of sober ever since.  I didn't used to be such a lightweight, y'all!  What happened to my iron constitution of yore?  Hell, what happened to my chapstick?  I can't FIND that shit!  I'm trying to PACK, people!  I have a VACATION to go on!

Okay, maybe calling it a "vacation" is a little forgiving, considering all the unemployment and everything, but I DO have a trip to take, and I DO leave tomorrow morning.  My grandmother's birthday is shortly after Thanksgiving, so we're all planning some kind of party.  And by "some kind of party", I do not mean the EXCITING kind.  No guests or fun party drinks or anything -- no, it'll pretty much be just us, doing our regular family crap.  Of course, this still entails singalongs and accompanied performances.  I'm not kidding -- my childhood was just this side of having an ex-nun governess and running from the Nazis.

Not that I'm complaining.  My Very Brady upbringing was a lot of fun.  And I say all this by way of reporting to you that in two days' time, it will finally be Thanksgiving again!  I'm heading back to where to the temperatures are low, but all is compensated for by Warm Baby.  Warm Baby makes everything better.  For reals.  And since Pussy Galore is on her way to Warm Baby #2, and having her baby shower on Saturday, it's going to be a Very Baby Weekend for me.  Oh dear.  That pun was lame even for me.

But I guess it's time to take stock of life.  That's what I do, prior to the holidays.  So, let us pontificate on the importance of stuff, and whatever, and...oh, fuck it.  I'm going to spend the weekend fifth-wheeling around married couples and children.  When I went home in September, I got lectured for an irreverent T-shirt I happened to be wearing.  I am TWENTY-FUCKING-EIGHT YEARS OLD.  I can WEAR an irreverent T-shirt if I FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT.

Anyway.  Argyle unfortunately has no plans for T-Day, and I felt badly about that, so I made her a dinner.  It wasn't all from scratch, but almost everything had at least a "scratch" element to it -- I made her some turkey breast (I wasn't about to roast an entire turkey just for one person), sweet vermouth gravy, apple dressing, mashed potatoes, maple sweet potatoes, and I bought her a pumpkin pie.  She made her grandmother's cranberry sauce, and I'm here to testify that it is AMAZING.  So I think she'll have a happy holiday.

And despite all my kvetching, I know I'm going to have a happy holiday myself.  Here's hoping there's one in store for you guys -- HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Baby Dance

Well, I'm back. And look -- my very first stop is here at my journal! Okay, my first stop was dinner, and then I went home and got some sleep, and then I went to work this morning, but NOW I'm writing, and isn't that what really counts? That I'm here NOW? Forget about pesky matters of "when" I "really" got here, or just what exactly I've been doing since then, and why no one has seen me except for a handful of people from my closely knit and highly suspicious cabal; my presence here and now should be sufficient enough that all questions are put asunder. Just ask Suri Cruise!

But I think that kid's had enough publicity for one lifetime, and I'm not going to ride along any further in the bandwagon. Instead, I would like to talk about an ADORABLE baby who has had almost ZERO publicity, which is a CRIME: my nephew. He is so, so cute, and having him fall asleep while lying on your tummy might actually CURE CANCER. Seriously. With his little round head and his great big eyes and his teeny little fingers and toes. I can't go on. Talking about him makes me sad I had to leave.

I'm also still slightly disoriented. My flights weren't so bad, but after my recent, horrific experience (and then the recent, like, plane-related deaths and all) each little jostle and bump in the air caused my heartrate to spike. That can be exhausting, y'all. I could have taken a submarine back to California through the ocean of adrenaline my glands were pumping out.

Okay, anyway: I have a lot of work to do. It would seem that some editorial remarks I made were misperceived by those in control (ie, my signature trenchant humor has been deemed "unprofessional") and I have to de-personalitize my past reports without letting it affect my daily productivity. So back to the drawing board I go.

Tune in next time when I shall tell you all about the Surprise Mystery Guest with whom I'll apparently be spending some time at the end of this month. TTFN.

My Mom Could Turn Your Mom In

I'm feeling a bit disgruntled today. There are a lot of stupid, minor reasons for this that aren't worth getting into, but it's put me in an 'off' state of mind that I don't particularly enjoy. And since I'm trying to ignore it, I've effectively prevented any kind of catharsis from taking place, and am thus trying to make it disengage in its whole form - like passing an emotional kidney stone, if you will. Albeit a small one.

My mother, on the other hand, has had a wonderful day - if you can judge by the email she sent me:

Life is good. The weather is fabulous today, I'll be going to see my grandson later. I'm having one of those glad to be alive days. Didn't think it could get any better. Then the phone rings and someone from work is calling to tell me that my crazy bitch arch-enemy, whom I busted for embezzling from us, was arrested today. How sweet it is.

I love my mom.