JN here again.

The Lumpier Person has, once again, stopped staring at the computer. I saw that she’s typing about real estate in North Carolina. Honestly. What does she know? I spoke with my homey, JT. He knows all about Carolina. He and I, we’re down, so he gave me some tips.

When I finally cash in (note to self: find large cardboard boxes), I’m going to get myself some NC Waterfront Property, and I am going to live it up. Fine women really love water views, drinking Cristal, and magnolia trees waving in the breeze. They also love when your best friend James Taylor comes by and serenades them, all “You’ve Got A Friend” and “Fire And Rain”. A sure-fire smoooooove time.

(My father and my uncle both tease me about liking James Taylor so much. “You must get awfully sleepy, listening to that all the time,” is one of Uncle Frank’s favourite taunts. But I can’t help it! I just like his music, is all.)

Anyway. Yesterday was lottery day. Of course we didn’t win, since we hardly ever buy a ticket.

When we do buy tickets, though, twice a year or so, we like to imagine what we’d do if we won, say, a squillion dollars. The first thing we’d do would be to take off somewhere nice and hide from the people who’d no doubt come out of the woodwork. Then we’d of course start with our Homes All Over The World. Purely inspired by JT, I’d be sure we got ahold of some Raleigh North Carolina real estate, and build ourselves a place there. Then maybe we’d hire James to come and serenade us. Yeah, that’s what we’d do.

Once I’ve finally escaped this squalor, I could probably make a bundle if I branded myself. Think of it. Who out there wouldn’t want a fantastic Judd Nelson-endorsed luxury waterbed, with, of course, a Judd Nelson poster to hang on the ceiling?

Maybe I could inspire a pair (or actually, two pair, seeing as I’ve got four feet– everyone should, you know) of wicked sneakers. Or some slammin’ sunglasses.

Time for me to call up my peeps to do me up a little market research. Judd Nelson out.

That was close. The Lumpier Person Who Brings The Food came in here just after my last post. She didn’t suspect a thing, though. Humans. Whatever.

I’ve been chewing on some sunflower seeds and contemplating my eventual windfall (note to self: purchase hacksaw).
Obviously I’m going to be needing a bigger crib. My heroes, the James Bond villains, all have villas in Italy. That may just be the way to go. Of course I’d have to have an extra room to hide the lasers and sharks in (especially the sharks with the lasers on their heads), because it turns out the fine wimmins get a bit uncomfortable around them.

Who knew?

Um, I just came into the office, only to find little pieces of hay and wood shavings all strewn about the keyboard.

Very strange.

Anyway. I thought I’d blog now, seeing as, you know, I don’t have much to do today.

When I was in kindergarten, I was taught how to survive in case of a nuclear attack. They showed a movie. I got to sit next to Marc, the little boy I had a crush on until the Christmas concert when he tried to kiss me after our onstage square dance and I was mortified so I pinched his arm and he cried. Yeah I know it was 1981 and the Cold War was over and everything, but I went to kindergarten on a military base, and I guess they figured you had to know these things.

I don’t remember much of the video reel though, except that I should go hide in the basement (or maybe that was an episode of WKRP in Cincinatti) and that our parents should have made some survival kits for us. I’m not even sure what was supposed to be attacking us… Giant Spiders? Zombies? Gorbachev? I don’t know.

I lead a pretty?sweet life. The People Who Bring The Food take?adequate care of me; they bring me the aforementioned food, entertain me with really ridiculous songs, and cart away my poops (no doubt to have them gilded) on a regular basis. Not to mention the fact that I am one sexy beast, with the bitches all wanting a piece of my action. You know it, don’t front. My business cards would have to read: Judd Nelson, Esq.? Renaissance Guinea Pig, hairless. Sexy Beast.

However lately, there has been a rumbling in the back of my mind. The People occasionally speak of things called “Shambling Zombies” and “Spiders”. They seem quite concerned by these. I’ve come to realize if The People Who Bring The Food are ever accosted by Shambling Zombies or Spiders, I will not be living in the comfort to which I have become accustomed. Who will be there to feed me? I really do need my 4 pm carrot and my 7 am orange segment. My poops will remain, unappreciated, piled in the corner of my luxurious crib. The Bitches, they will not want to come over if there’s only the regular food. And the rockin’ tunes! I will admit to the fact that due to my lack of opposable thumbs, I can’t turn on the CD player. Thus the bitches won’t have any rockin’ tunes to listen to while they vie for a piece of my action.

Therefore I have done what I think is best. Death Insurance. I’ve taken out millions of dollars’ worth of death insurance on The People Who Bring The Food. If anything ever happens to them, I’m set. In fact, come to think of it, ?I might be able to wrangle a bit of a better set-up than I have right now, if The People ever kick it. Hmmm.

Hmmm. Gotta go.

I totally slacked off on the paid blogging assignments this week. So the next few (10?) posts, while I’m going to attempt to make them interesting, are going to be paid ones. Just so you know.

I’m about ready to eat my own arm.

Today is parent-teacher conference day and I just now realized that since the kids aren’t here the cafeteria’s not open so I can’t go get a muffin or anything.

Luckily, if I can make it through the conferences without my stomach noises scaring too many people, there’s a gas station/coffee shop across the street.

Mmmm, gas station food.

Happy Anniversary to my parents.

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