It's been a bit of a crappy week.
The cat's still deciding whether to live or die.
Others didn't get a chance to decide.
Ex husbands shouldn't get a chance to decide, three strikes automatic.
A death notice should go in the paper immediately.
It shouldn't go in a week later, like an afterthought.
It shouldn't read as though a robot from Mars wrote it, in Antarctica under an ice floe.
It should not read as though the Blonde is the mother and grandmother of my children.
You, Bastard, should not have used the quotation from our son's grave because that was mine.
Now to other important matters, Brownie has been having trouble with penis enhancement spammers, too many of them. I, on the other hand, aren't getting enough. Well, not enough of the right kind. I'm after a penis reducer. A nice little pill or liquid or patch that would gradually cause the member to retract up past one's balls, if one still has balls (debatable) and finally come to rest in that part of the brain (again debatable) that triggers spontaneous combustion.
I could bang up a spell or two but with the arthritis and global warming, it's hard to know where they'll land these days. Plus there's probably a lot of fat four-eyed gits out there that could get hit in the crossfire. So keep sending the spam you lot but remember the word is reduce, get it.