Popsicle Jewels

Ok. So me and my girl are on the phone over the weekend. Yucking it up about business and friends. Shoes and bad hair cuts. It’s true, bad hair cuts are a six month nightmare for a girl. BLAH, blah. Just shootin the shit. And then… we start talking about guys. So her dude is in the room. She can’t talk. Because, clearly, she’s going to talk about whatever stupid ass thing his goofy butt did in the last twenty-four hours. Last time he nailed his finger to a pound cake. Sigh. She tells me, it’s 18 degrees outside and he’s got the air conditioning on. You must be kidding me… Nope. Total boyfriend-girlfriend nonsense. What the… Who the hell puts on the air conditioning on when there’s snow on the ground? Rhetorical, people. Don’t answer that.  First order of business… Pick up some gloves from the Outdoor Store. 

Maybe he’s just messing with you? Poke the sleeping mama bear. Why not? Death wishes might be your gig. I don’t know. Maybe he has no circulation? Medical conditions are no laughing matter. Let’s dump him on the wheelbarrow… He won’t feel a thing.

Monty Python’s: The Holy Grail

It’s possible,  he doesn’t feel pain… So.. maybe… he never gets… cold? I’m giving him too many excuses here. My apologies. Most likely, he just needs to be knocked out via frying pan so you can start up the fireplace… All I know is, if you’re wearing a parka in the bathroom, it’s time for some recon. 

Second order of business… Toss all pots and pans to enforce the commencement of the oven ceremony. You wanted eggs, my darling? Aw… We are all out of skillets. Looks like you’ll have to bake  yourself a quiche. Golly. Gosh. Darn it. I’ll be in the sofa, with every blanket we own, In between the cushions… with my earmuffs. This fool ain’t gonna catch me the fucking pneumonia. I cleaned out Walmart’s entire winter stock to bundle my ass up in.. Snow shoes. A beanie. An Inuit. Ooooo… I like that necklace. Oh hell, why not. I can be the prettiest frozen popsicle the morgue ever did see.