A new twist on an old game...

Let's play "The Name Game." You must pick which lovely gal of the same name you'd rather "get with" by song lyrics alone.

Fine female #1: Gloria

Do you take Van Morrisson's Gloria?

Did I tell you about my baby?
Well, she comes around
Five feet four
From her head to the ground
Comes around here
Just about midnight
Makes me feel so good
Makes me feel alright

Or do you take Laura Branigan's Gloria?

Gloria, how's it gonna go down?
Will you meet him on the main line, or will you catch him on the rebound?
Will you marry for the money, take a lover in the afternoon?
Feel your innocence slipping away, don't believe it's comin' back soon...

Thoughts to guide your way: Morrison's Gloria will be shorter than most guys, so she definitely won't detract from your manhood by towering over you like an Amazon. But, she sounds like a total booty call. For you sensitive boys out there, a piece of advice: don't get attached. Branigan's Gloria sounds like she just needs a good man. Are you going to be the one to save her?

Fine female #2: Jolene

Do you take Dolly Parton's Jolene?

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I'm begging of you please don't take my man
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
Please don't take him just because you can
Your beauty is beyond compare
With flaming locks of auburn hair
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green
Your smile is like a breath of spring
Your voice is soft like summer rain
And I cannot compete with you, Jolene

Or, do you take Ray LaMontagne's Jolene?

Jolene,
Been so long since I seen your face
or felt a part of this human race
I've been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do

Thoughts to guide your way: Well, Parton's Jolene just sounds like a bitch. A beautiful bitch, but a bitch all the same. She's one of those pretty redheads...but I bet she doesn't carry around the DDs like Ms. Parton does. Mr. Montagne's Jolene sounds like she'd be handy around the house.

The occupancy is three!

Last night, I went over to the new house to help Jables get some things in order. While we were setting up the new shelves I recently purchased, something strange hit the front window. What was it? I'll give you three guesses. No, it wasn't the newspaper boy running a little late on his route. Nope, it wasn't area teenagers egging the new neighbor's house. Yes, it was that robin red-breast, seeking revenge for the murder of her three baby birds exactly one week ago.

You wanna know the saddest part? Jables led me out to the front porch to show me the new pile of sticks she's been collecting in an attempt to recreate the nest that Jables destroyed. My heart pretty much broke. She's been working so hard.

My idea was to put a rubber snake on the porch to scare her away. My Grandma Ree used to buy rubber snakes by the truckload and pay my little brother a quarter to throw them in her trees, so birds wouldn't shit on her sidewalk. She was convinced that this was a successful method. But, I digress...

Josh wasn't sold on the rubber snake idea. He mentioned a BB gun, and I immediately told him I'd back out of the living situation altogether if he tried that solution. I suggested he just let the robin red-breast build her nest, and we'd all live together in harmony...Jables, Quank, Rosey, robin red-breast, and the babies.

To which he replied, "The occupancy is three!" Sigh.

Base brings da Benjamins, baby...

In honor of Throwback Thursday, I want to pontificate a titch bit on my homey Nate Dogg. Eminem tapped Nate's pool of talent (not his bitch's ass, like you might think) on the most recent Slim Shady radio offering, or humongous piece of horseshit song. However you prefer to categorize his music. Now, I realize that "Shake That" is not that new, but please understand that I rarely listen to the radio. I actually stopped and listened to the lyrics for the first time this week.

After getting over the fact that my homey Nate sounds incredibly Satan-like on this pussy attempt at a hip jop jam, I started thinking about his career. I bet he's living the good life. I mean, has anyone seen him on Cribs? He hangs out with his cousin Snoop Dogg and Ludacris. And he hasn't even had a hit solo single. He's just the go-to guy if you wanna win the Grammy for best hip hop collabo. In fact, Wikipedia claims he's been featured in over 60 chart singles.

It's a wonder how much success one can experience simply by having a highly distinctive and recognizable voice. It happened for Peter Cetera. It happened for Nate Dogg. Why can't it happen for me or my future husband?

Watch out, Blue Oyster Cult...I'm coming...

Tonight in my Classroom Teaching and Management class, five people presented actual lessons. They were the teachers, and we were the students. After finding absolute values, adding and subtracting integers, and balancing chemical equations, I was left wondering where all my right-brained peeps were. But then, Miss Albrecht stood in front of the class and took out a box of percussion instruments. A former band geek myself, I was happy to clap my hands to the quarter notes and pause on the half rests. When she started handing out triangles, tambourines, finger cymbals, and shakers, my eyes immediately landed on...you guessed it...the cowbell. I had my fingers crossed under my desk in hopes that I'd have a chance to make glorious music with that mythic instrument. Miss Albrecht saw my enthusiasm from her perch at the podium, and that sweet gal came straight to me when it was time to assign the cowbell. "Yessss!" My friend Amber, who sat next to me, played the wood block. We started a funky groove. Then we did some ensemble work with the rest of the class.

After attempting the opening of "Honky Tonk Women" a few times, I had to part with my cowbell. But, it was fun while it lasted.

Incase you missed it, here's Will Ferrell giving Queens of the Stone Age more cowbell. Rock on.

Red State Conspiracy

Friend Andy drunkenly decided to express his frustrations creatively last night, and started his own blog while under the influence. I'm not sure if he'll continue with the effort, but I like where the first post is going...

www.redstateconspiracy.blogspot.com

If you like Pearl Jam, or more importantly, conspiracy theories, check out his first post entitled "Pearl Jam Where Art Thou?" Granted, Andy (aka Nader lover) got his blue states mixed up with his red states, but you'll get the gist.

Congrats, Andy, on your new baby. I hope you don't kill it.

The ninja and his screamin' eagle...

It's odd how one day can totally differ from the next.

Yesterday, I was late to work because I got a bloody nose literally right before I walked out the door. That knocked me back about 20 years. I used to get nosebleeds all the time when I was a young lass. On my way to work, the wiring around my rearview mirror started smoking. I pulled over on Highway 40 to prepare for the potential bonfire that my car was sure to become. But, I stopped at Schnucks to first buy some ingredients for S'mores. It was only a blown fuse but still scary. I was pretty late to work by this time, and I wasn't in the right state of mind to deal with bitchy customers.

Sidenote: We have a number system in the shoe slangin' store that we adhere to when the business is booming and the traffic won't quit. My least favorite joke is perhaps the one the customers who walk into a dead store, with five bored shoe slangers standing around, tell. "Do I need to take a number? Heh, heh, heh." Wow, lady, I've never heard that one before. Sometimes I actually find myself talking customers out of buying anything. "Noooo, it doesn't look like you need to replace those shoes." Or, "Size 16? The selection is really bad. Go somewhere else." Or, "Chronic back pain? Nothing we have will be cushioned enough for you." I'm in the phase on the track where I just whizzed down the tummy-tickling hill, and now I'm coming to a slow halt.

Today, I woke up with another bloody nose. I thought the pissy mood would continue. But, then I found out my student teaching placement for this fall, and I got my first choice. I hit the mall for some retail therapy. I bought a nice bookshelf for all the good reads I've racked up during my stint as an English/Education grad student. I knocked out a response paper to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in about 2.5. I made a pump [smack your fist in your hand] you up playlist on the iPod and worked out like a crazy woman.

Will tomorrow be a decent thrill ride, or will it make me puke up my funnel cake?

A drinking town with a baseball problem...

Ugh. This weekend absolutely flew by. It could be because I had so much fun. It could be because I haven't been home for more than a few hours since Friday morning. It could be because I was drunk the majority of the time. The St. Louis Cardinals hosted the Chicago Scrubs this weekend for a much anticipated rematch following the Redbirds' sorry outing in the City of Wind a mere few weeks ago. Loads of daytime drinking, friendly rivalry, and yes, hilarity, ensued.

Jables, Dinner, Matt, and I went to the game on Friday night, but the real fun began with a photo shoot conducted on the cab ride back to Matt's home. Upon arrival at the condo, Darren got his hands on my best Goodwill purchase ever: an 80s-looking, stonewashed jean jacket that reads "Dances with Wolves" on the back. He gave us his best Liam Gallagher impersonation. We blessed the rains down in Africa thanks to Toto on the iPod. Dinner and Matt also established a gang sign for "the future of American law." Js for Justice. Throw 'em up.

On Saturday, Matt and I went to the game with good friend Corey and his girlfriend, Caitlin. Jables and Dinner also had tickets. After the game, we all went to Hrabosky's near the stadium. Luckily for us, Matt's roomie Patrick drove down to hang out for a bit and drive our drunk asses home. I passed out the moment I got into the backseat. I didn't wake up until Pat pulled into the Schnucks parking lot across the street from the condo. Once everyone got out, I immediately fell asleep again. The next thing I knew, there was a policeman tapping on the window of the car. I wasn't sure how to fix whatever the problem was. I'm not sure I knew my name at that point. Luckily, Pat then arrived and told the cop that he was going to move his car. It took a lot of concentration for me to ask what the issue was. Turns out, Pat parked not in a parking space but in a space reserved for returned grocery carts. I'm still not sure how his car fit, but I think it was a pretty classic move.

PS - Here is the link to the new Cardinal t-shirt styles you may or may not have been seeing all over town. I bought a "Kiss my Taguchi" shirt for my friend Andy this weekend.

Good going, Jables...

Last night, I went to Jables' new house with Dinner to help him deep clean before the big move on Sunday. Jables found a bird's nest on his front porch. He immediately decided it was time to remove it from the premises. Within two seconds, he dropped it on the floor of the porch, and all three bright blue robin's eggs broke. Dinner reassured me that the mother would forget about her babies within seconds. He said that she wouldn't give them a second thought. Jables said, "That's where the term birdbrain comes from." Oh.

Well, that mama didn't forget. While we sat on the porch, appreciating a few beers after a hard bout of manual labor, that robin kept landing on the porch in an attempt to get to the nest. The boys kept shooing her away. We left before she could peck our eyeballs out from rage and grief.

But, it might be one of the saddest things in the world. Poor robin red-breast.

Thank You For Smoking

Last night, Matt and I went to the Tivoli to see Thank You For Smoking. I think we would both definitely recommend the film.

I know that everyone and their mother, including Ebert, are considering this flick a satire. However, when I left the theater last night, I wasn't sold on that idea. By definition, a satire is an exaggeration of real life to the point of ridiculousness in which humor is then created. I got that from the movie. Everyone is a larger than life character, the chain of events is overly coincidental, and the not-so-subtle details stick out like a sore thumb, albeit a very funny sore thumb. However, another element of the definition of satire is that it's primarily used to promote or prevent change. That's the part of the movie that I wonder about: who's side is it on and what supposed change is it targeting?

I am highly anti-smoking for personal reasons, so I guess I hoped going into the show that it would somehow incorporate a "stop being ignorant and quit smoking" message. But, it really doesn't. I think perhaps, if anything, it calls for the American population to wise up and become educated about all sorts of issues rather than relying on the spin doctors of advertising and the special interest groups of politics to make decisions for its members.

The other thing that amazed me was the role of the protagonist, Nick Naylor, in the movie. He's soul-less and smarmy, and you don't want to like him. But even, I found myself at the end of the movie secretly rooting for him, hoping he'd give those anti-tobacco senators a piece of his mind. And then I felt really guilty. How in the world did that happen? I hate cigarettes!

Has anyone else seen the flick? What say you?

How Josh Stonewater earned a 2nd chance...

Man, a new hair-did sure makes you feel like an improved woman.

After being thoroughly dissatisfied with my cut and color only five weeks ago, I made another appointment to sit in the chair yesterday. The last time I went to visit Josh Stonewater at Stonewater Salon (formerly Josh Malia of Malia Salon) was on March 7, 2006, during the delivery of who we now know as Norah Bridget Holzmacher. I could have been very squirmy that day, waiting for phone calls from the proud parents. Josh could have been very anxious, waiting to learn if the man who he only knows as Tripod Rod offsprung a baby boy, complete with equipment proportional to that of his 25-year old father's. Either way, the cut was jagged, and the color was blah. It was time to suck it up and go back sooner than later.

I sat in a chair for literally four hours yesterday, cause Lord knows I didn't have anything else to do. I didn't do a lot of talking so good old Josh could focus on his work. I specifically described what I wanted. I asked questions. I read an entire Jane magazine and found out that nautical bathing suits are perky and sweet this season, Dirty Pretty Thing might be my next book to buy, and baby wipes are the best way to clean up after sex in public.

Meanwhile, a transformation was taking place. After I was foiled, washed, deep-conditioned, detangled, snipped, razored, and dried, I became a shorter-haired, blonder version of myself.

The whole "more fun" thing should begin minute. I'm waiting. Any minute now...for that fun. Any minute...

Introducing...

Maddie and Emily Starrett, the two best girls in the world. I was very happy to reenter the realm of Play-Doh, scavenger hunts, Uno, Barbies, and dying Easter eggs this past weekend. Happy 7th birthday, Emily!

Help! Southern Illinois is in a nutshell!

Larry was feeling awfully depressed because he recently found out that his wife had been cheating on him. Completely dependent on his relationship with her, he was miserable at the thought of divorce. Instead of holding his head up and walking through the damage, he decided to commit suicide at his home.

Larry found a long rope and created a noose. He went to a tall tree in his backyard and tied the rope onto one of the middle branches. He climbed up.

Little did Larry know that his nextdoor neighbor was watching out of his back window the entire time.

Larry put the rope around his neck. Right before he jumped off, he heard his neighbor yell, "Your rope's too long!" Larry couldn't stop himself, though. He jumped and hit the ground with a thud, breaking both his ankles.

As he sat there in pain, he heard his neighbor yell, "Next time get a gun!"

Larry is still alive today.

Postcards from the edge...

Happy Easter!

Or Happy...anything else that you might celebrate. I'll be travelling to C-town tomorrow for Easter, and I won't be back in the Lou until Monday. So, brief hiatus on I'm a Walking Contradiction, but I will return...have no fear. My wonderful family from Dallas, Texas, is heading to Southern Illinois to party it up with good tunes, lots o' booze, Trivial Pursuit, and deviled eggs. Should be very good times!

There is sooo much crying in baseball...

Yesterday was the Cards' home opener at the new Busch Stadium, and I was fortunate enough to have a ticket. I literally don't even know how to begin to describe my mixed feelings of anticipation, excitement, wonder, and bittersweetness (I think I just made that word up) surrounding the new stadium.

For some reason, the tradition of baseball, especially Cardinal baseball, has always severely tugged at my heart strings. It makes me cry. I cried when Eck struck out the side to clinch a playoff birth in 1996. I cried everytime I saw the Ozzie farewell commercial on television during his last season before retirement. I cried when McGwire hit #62. Needless to say, I cried over Darryl Kile and Jack Buck - a lot. I cried during the entire goodbye to Busch video montage after the last game played there (Game 6 of the playoffs vs. the Astros) in 2005, even though they played horribly cheesy songs like Phil Collins' "You'll Be in my Heart" and Sarah McLachlan's "I Will Remember You." I cried when I drove over the river and into St. Louis a few hours after they imploded the old Busch and I saw what was missing. And I definitely welled up yesterday when I passed through the turnstyle and entered the new Busch for the first time, partly out of sadness, partly out of extreme pride.

The new stadium is nothing short of amazing, and I'm sure after just a few outings, it'll feel like home again. The opening day festivities welcomed old faces like Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Stan the Man, Ozzie Smith, and my personal favorite Willie McGee in order to make the newness of it all a little more familiar. Plus, there are so many traditions rescued from the old Busch that immediately allow us to pick up right where we left off...for example, the crowd singing "The Star-Spangled Banner" a capella (Buck's favorite way), those age-old celebratory songs like "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang and "The Heat Is On" by Glen Frey, Fredbird, Mike Shannon's voice, the Budweiser Clydesdales, red and white fireworks after big homeruns, and Ernie Hays on the organ.

Sidenote: The details that the design crew incorporated into the construction are unbelievable. If you want to see more pictures than what I've posted here, I can e-mail them to you. I was a big photog yesterday. Also, if you want to check out some cool Cardinal gear, click here. I highly encourage you, Cardinal fan or not, to check out many awesome old Busch stadium video memories. We aren't the best fans in baseball for nothing (sorry Cub fan readers).

We did some tunes. We got weird.

Remember when I had the funnest weekend ever? I do. Cause it was this weekend. Minus the 16 hours of work between Saturday and Sunday, April 7-8, 2006, goes down as the best weekend in history.

What I thought was going to be a quiet little Friday evening turned into a singalong party when I took my parents to Van Gogh's to meet up with "the gang" and listen to Pierce Crask do what he does best. One drink turned into many, and we ended up getting home around 1:30 AM. That's late for my parents. Jables danced with Jude to a Johnny Cash ditty, Rick made friends with Pierce's 2nd guitarist, Darren amazed everyone with his moustache (aka the Dirty Morrison), and I quickly forgot about my desire to have a easygoing night at mi casa. Good times.

On Saturday evening, friends from the Lou and C-town gathered at Blueberry Hill before heading to The Eagles of Death Metal/The Strokes concert at The Pageant. I think we may or may not have made it our mission to drink the state of Missouri dry. I had to switch to Caucasians mid-concert.

After the concert, we walked our happy asses down to Pin Up Bowl where we met up with friends who did not attend the concert. We're talking, we're hanging out, when all of a sudden we hear a rumor that the guys from both bands were bowling on the first two lanes, about fifteen feet away. That's when the casual intermixing began. We tried to play it semi-cool, so no pictures of The Strokes, but I know some of the guys (Matt, Darren, who else?) did a shot with Albert Hammond since it was his birthday. Britt said that Rodney tried really hard to ask Fab Moretti about his girlfriend, Drew Barrymore, but was so drunk that he couldn't put together sentences. I chatted with The Eagles' guitarist, Dave Catching, who mesmerized me the entire show because he is, simply stated, an amazing human specimen. In addition to rocking a thinning mini-mohawk and Buddy Holly glasses, he wore a jean jacket bedazzled with "Diamond Dave" across the back, but alas, no pictures of that denim miracle.

At left, you have the wonder that is Ricky, Benji, J. Devil Huge (the lead singer of The Eagles of Death Metal), and Jables. Darren's moustache has officially been rivaled. To quote The Devil, pertaining to a prior show (unfortunately not the one we saw last night): "The crowd got a little wild at the last show, but that happens when they see this moustache." Indeed.

I hate George Costanza...

I am watching the Seinfeld episode in which George needs to read Breakfast at Tiffany's for his bookclub, but instead he decides to watch the movie. When he goes to the video store to check out the film, it has already been rented. He then goes to the person's home and asks if he can watch the movie with the renter and his daughter. This episode is a perfect example of why I hate George Costanza. I mean, my God. He is absolutely exhausting to watch; I just don't get it. Guys love him, think he's a great character. Women hate him.

This is an inherent difference in the sexes, and I'm convinced that it can all be traced back to our DNA makeup. I am missing the pro-George Costanza chromosome. All women are.

Give me a swift kick in the ass...

During the last two months of my senior year at the University of Illinois, I was the epitomy of senioritis. If you looked up the term in Webster's, there I was, smiling at you with a beer in both hands. God, it was great. Four classes, 2 online, nothing on Mondays or Fridays. I had those cool TAs who met with their students at Gully's during happy hour to discuss the upcoming tests and the professors who treated the entire class to beers and burgers at Murphy's after the final exam. I was broke as a joke. I ate Ramen noodles twice a day, and I sold my clothes at Plato's Closet just for more booze money.

I know it's not the same, but right now, I'm experiencing a minor bout of the disease. I'm on my final leg of classes, with zero to take this summer. I'm clearly unmotivated.

Let's get physical...

Informercials have always amazed me. When I was in junior high, I'd stay up late on Sunday nights just to watch Ron Popeil work his magic. I loved the dehydrator and the juicer. Remember the spray paint for bald men? What hasn't Ron thought of?

Not too long ago, I gave in and bought the Windsor Pilates tapes after watching the informercial about 754,710 times. I'm not sure if it was Daisy Fuentes or Danny Glover who ultimately sold me on them. Really, the idea of low impact plus major toning sounded appealing.

I busted out the 20-minute workout last night after a nice little cardio workout on my clothes hanger...ahem...treadmill. Let's just say I'm feeling the burn today. My neck, my back, (I'm not going with the rest of that nasty song, perverts), my abs, my legs, my everything is sore.

I'm endorsing Pilates here and now. I forgot what they were all about, but now I'm back.

It's a living (for right now)...

While my job at the shoe slangin' store is in the retail arena...there are some really good/interesting things about it, other than the obvious discount on gear.

1. The TV is tuned into sports all day long. So, if I'm at work, I can still watch televised Cards' games, March Madness, and SportsCenter until my heart's content. My boss understands - even promotes - lingering at the screen while Pujols is up to bat before heading back to the stock room to grab a customer's shoes.

2. We have satellite radio in the back stock room. Most of the time, the station is on classic rock. But sometimes a co-worker will get a wild hair and tune into the 80s station. Then, we have Dance Party USA in between customers.

3. You never know who you are going to meet. I've sold shoes to Tino Martinez and Tori Holt. I once slanged to a man who tried to create a Marketing position at Purina for me. It didn't work, but it was a nice gesture.

4. You never know who you are going to meet...and what that person's ailment might be. Just yesterday, I helped a man who took his entire prosthetic leg off so I could put a shoe on the foot and lace it up. That was sort of surreal. Diabetes, braces, broken bones, hammertoes, missing toenails, arthritis, walkers, wheelchairs, stanky feet...I've seen it all, and amazingly, it has become no big deal.

5. Moms come in with their kids, and I love to dive in and whisk them off to the toy bin in the corner. Last week, I had a 2-, 4-, and 6-year old surrounding me while I read them 101 Dalmations. I was in kid heaven. You know, without the incessant crying, boogers, and dirty diapers.

So, aside from bitchy customers who make it their mission to put me in an awful mood, the job isn't too bad. Being a full-time grad student, it's hard to keep up with the rest of my life because I work, but I feel as though I must. So, why not slang shoes?

Up with virginity...

I'm Catholic. By choice at the age of 22. I have to say that I don't understand a lot of the traditions that my denomination promotes. Instead, I blindly accept what I'm supposed to do. So, I don't eat meat on Fridays during Lent (except when the archbishop proclaims it's ok on St. Patty's Day), and I...let's see...hmm...that's about it. I give up meat on Fridays during Lent. I give up some other junk too, but mainly because I feel like it's the only way I can stick to a diet. I guess I'm a pretty bad Catholic.

But so many other rituals and rites in Catholicism just totally blow me away, especially when you stop and consider what century we are living in. Here is a link to an article I recently read in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Miss Cathy Maley decided to become a consecrated virgin via a very rare ceremony held in St. Louis over the weekend. There are only 175 consecrated virgins in the United States. These are women who "commit themselves to a life of chastity, prayer, and contemplation." Sounds decent enough, right? Well, in order to become one of these CVs, you have a ceremony in which you wear an actual wedding dress and veil and pretty much...marry Jesus. Um, what?

Here are some of my favorite lines from the article:

1. Maley knelt at the altar, two women friends by her side, and spent much of the ceremony gazing over Burke's shoulder at an image of her bridegroom.

2. "Jesus was a secular person, he was out there with people," Maley said after the ceremony, as her friends nibbled on sandwiches and cookies at the reception.

3. Maley wasn't nervous before the ceremony but spent much of Friday night worried about details of the ceremony and whether the buttons on the back of her dress were right.

4. After the reception, Maley planned to celebrate with a glass of champagne at a hotel where some of her out-of-town friends were staying.

The benefits of becoming a consecrated virgin versus a nun is that you get to live and interact in the regular world. Also, the Church does not offer its CVs any form of monetary aid. They must work and earn an income like the rest of us sex-having scoundrels who have already signed our tickets straight to Hades.

Let me wrap up this portion of the post by reiterating the fact that I am Catholic, which gives me the ultimate right to poke fun at this ancient ritual. If you weren't Catholic, and you made fun of it, I would want to hurt you.

In other virgin news...

There is a growing trend in plastic surgery called hymenoplasty that actually constructs a new hymen for women looking to present their boyfriends/husbands with the gift of defloweration later in life. How fun. The procedure costs thousands of dollars, and it makes the sexual experience feel like it's happening for the very first time. Winces and tears of pain are free.

TYPING IN ALL CAPS DOESN'T EVEN COME CLOSE TO REPRESENTING MY THOUGHTS ON THIS ASININE PROCEDURE. This might be even more ridiculous than marrying Jesus. If this really makes women feel better about losing it to Billy Bigman under the bleachers after he screwed the pooch at the championship game earlier that evening, then these ladies need to think a little harder about what really matters in life. Take that $5000 and send your kids to college. Donate to a charity. Donate to the Catholic Church.

The Leprechaun

You might have seen this already, but it's worth a second viewing. And, I realize it's April Fools Day, but sadly, the news report is 100% real.