How’s It Going?

December 29, 2015 in Beth, But Seriously, Funny by Beth Woolsey

I’ve been a little quiet this week because I’m under water.

Not a LOT under water.

Just a bit.

Probably.

Maybe.

Although, to be honest, as a person with mental illness, I wouldn’t really know if I was all the way under water, so I’m historically unreliable on the whole self-assessment thing. I mean, what do I know about how I’m doing? NOT MUCH, friends. Not much at all.

Still, as best as I can tell, I’m just a little under water. Like, the kind of under water where I yelled at Greg on Christmas Day because he didn’t put his pants on fast enough.

Merry Christmas, Greg!
With Love,
Your Sweet and Darling Wife

In my defense, Greg put his pants on really slowly that day. Really, really slowly. As in, really, really, REALLY slowly.

Because it did not matter that the children left the front door open and the dogs escaped.

And it did not matter that those canines were gleefully running roughshod over the neighborhood.

It did not matter that Greg’s wife was fresh from the shower, soaking wet and naked, and therefore not as well positioned as he was to chase said dogs.

Nope; those things were irrelevant, and it was not possible to simply grab pants, throw them on and chase three dogs down the street. That is not how Things Are Done. There is an Order, after all. A Queue in Greg’s scientific mind. A Specific Process from which a properly ordered man shall not deviate. And Pants-Donning is faaaaarr down the list, it seems, after lots of other things that have to be done first.

First, for example, Greg had to source a pair of socks. Not the pair of socks laying next to him. No; he had to find a clean pair of socks as though we suddenly have sock standards at our house. And then a shirt. And then another, long sleeved shirt to go over the first shirt which, turns out, was just an undershirt and not a shirt shirt because God Forbid you chase three giddy, sprinting dogs with dirty socks and without an undershirt. That would be wrong. 

Eventually, Greg put on his pants.

And then he had to find a belt.

And then he latched the belt on the wrong hole so he had to redo the latching of it.

“DEAR, SWEET, BABY JESUS, HUSBAND WHOM I LOVE AND WHOM I SHALL THROTTLE. THE DOGS ARE IN CHINA BY NOW.”

“I only see my slippers,” said Greg. “Where are my shoes?”

“GO. GET. THE. DAMN. DOGS.”

Next time, I’m chasing the dogs naked. So let it be written. So let it be done.

So I’m under water a little, if you gauge drowning on the Yelling at the Spouse Scale, which I do, I guess, even if the yelling wasn’t yelling so much as, you know, me helping Greg. Helping him become a better person, really. I give and I give.

Still, I’m under water a little.

A little breathless sometimes these days.

A little emotionally gaspy lately as I surface for a minute and drift back under, not weighed down so much that I can’t see or participate in the joy which surrounds me, but weighed down enough that I’m not as gentle with my people or with myself as I feel I should be. And not gentle about not being gentle, either.

I have Things to Say, though. Things to Write. Thoughts about the year almost past and the year swiftly coming. Ideas about how we might lay this one to rest and welcome the year almost upon us in ways that are more full of freedom than fear, more graceful than grim, and more mindful of relief than insisting on rigor. But I’m under water a little, so I’m not sure how to start. And I’m metaphorically naked and wet, too, and rather sure someone else should go chase the thoughts that keep running roughshod through my head; certain others are more equipped than me to run them down.

I don’t know how to unstick the log-jam when I’m under water. I’ve never been good at this part. I don’t have neat endings or lessons learned when I’m in this place. The best I can do is kick for the surface every now and then. But I made a promise a long time ago — to you and to me — that I’d write anyway, even from here. Even badly. Even unsure. Even when I’m simultaneously yelly and breathless. So here it is, friends. The truth as far as I can write it from here.

That’s how it’s going around these parts. And what I really want to know from you — my companions above and beneath the water, who sit in the mud with me, and wave in the dark and wait for the dawn — how are you? How are YOU these days? And how can we hold hands in the dark?

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A Quick, Butt Important Question. In Addition to This One… Guess What’s Better Than Pants?

October 27, 2015 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Hey!

I have a quick question for you.

Guess what’s better than pants?

That’s not the question, though. That’s a lead-up to the real question, which is coming. It’s like a prelude to the question. An appetizer question. The processional question as we prepare for the grand entrance of the real question; like the flowergirl of questions, all cute and tiny, toddling down the aisle and lifting her fluffy, tulle dress over her eyes so we see her princess panties while all the guests giggle and her mommy stage whispers Put. Your. Dress. Down.

Still, it’s important so that we set the stage, so I ask you again…

Guess what’s better than pants?

Guess what’s better than pants, friends?

Nope; it’s not yoga pants. Those are still pants.

Nope; not leggings. Uh uh. Those are still sorta pants. Pants-ish, if you will.

You know what’s better than pants, though?

Like, seriously better than pants?

No Pants.

No Pants is what.

I mean, clearly the answer is No Pants.

We all know that, right?

No Pants is superior to Pants.

It was practically a rhetorical question. The answer so obvious it doesn’t require a response.

It’s just that my friend, Melissa Anne, told me she needs new pants because we’re going to Disneyland next week to celebrate a Big Birthday.

“I need new pants,” she wrote. “I have no comfy pants.”

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I suggested, therefore, No Pants. Which I have in writing. Which is important as we prepare for The Real Question I Have.

I suggested No Pants; see?

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In writing.

Like, ELEVEN DAYS AGO in writing WITH A TIME AND DATE STAMP.

And then. Then. Just a few days later, I saw this:

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This mannequin with No Pants.

Listen. Listen, friends. I don’t want to go all Conspiracy Theory or Big Brother on y’all. And I realize — I do — that I am not the first person to invent No Pants.

It’s just…

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…I obviously had copyrighted No Pants (in writing — IN WRITING), and then this guy started sporting No Pants.

Which brings me to my question.

My important question.

Because I live in America.

Should I sue that mannequin for copyright infringement?

I mean, I undoubtedly stood to make loads of money on all the people who bought No Pants from me, but now this guy is trying to edge out my market share.

Please advise.

Love,

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P.S. I realize this could, possibly be a situation like when Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz simultaneously invented calculus in the 17th century. I mean, genius can strike at exactly the same time, so I suppose that mannequin and I could’ve discovered No Pants concurrently. But what are the odds? And did Newton or Leibniz think to have time- and date-stamped proof of invention? NO. Because they didn’t plan ahead like yours truly. So who’s the smarty pants now?

P.P.S. ^^^ That P.S. was me blatantly trying to get into my husband’s pants, and has nothing to do with this post. Drop some historical calculus knowledge?? Sure fire way in, folks! On the other hand, if Greg would just take up the No Pants trend, I wouldn’t have to work so hard. Something to think about, Greg.

 

Why Science is Bad for Children

October 26, 2015 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader, friends, this morning at the front door, prostrate on the threadbare entry rug that desperately needs replacing but won’t get it anytime soon.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader after the dogs, bless their hearts, knocked him into the wall while rushing past him playing their usual morning games of Bark, Bark, Growl and Bite, Bite, Chase.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader this morning, face down, rocking slightly, and expressing the heck out of himself, which we tend to encourage at our house, but I am a GOOD mama and a CHRISTIAN, damn it, so I told him to “knock it off, man” and, “we do not talk like that around here,” which was a lie, but also, “there’s no reason for language like that,” which I figured was true and therefore canceled the lying portion of my response.

“But I am HURT,” he said, and followed that with, “SHIT, MOM,” for emphasis, and also because he’s a punk.

“Still,” I said with Stern Face, “that’s no excuse.” And for once he didn’t say, “But you say it, Mom,” or, “But I learned it from watching you!”

Nope. He didn’t say any of those things.

Instead, he rolled over, looked me in the eye, and said, “SCIENCE, Mom. This is called SCIENCE. It has been scientifically proven that swearing helps with pain. SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN. Watch, Mom. Watch this. … … SHiiiiiiiiiiiiT! … … ” and then he sighed with satisfaction and grinned. “You know what, Mom? You know what? I feel totally better. I am HEALED because of SCIENCE.”

And he popped up off that floor and strolled away, every ounce of his 9-year-old body shaking with laughter.

In conclusion, my child is a butt.

Also, science should be banned.

Sincerely yours,

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Candid Selfies! The Hottest(ish) New Selfie Trend and How YOU Can Master It.

September 23, 2015 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

You know how sometimes you’ve turned your phone camera around so you can take a selfie BECAUSE SELFIES ARE RAD (and also so you can send a picture to a friend of the dot of probable chin cancer that has recently appeared so your friend can say, “Oh my gosh, Beth. You are SUCH A FREAKING FREAKER; it’s a ZIT”), but then your kid starts crying because his brother punched him in the penis because he stole all the Minecraft diamonds again, and you’re all, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THERE IS NO PENIS PUNCHING IN THIS FAMILY” and “PENISES ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN DIAMONDS, YOU GUYS,” and then they gang up on you because they both want to argue that Penis Punching is OK when they’re playing the Penis Punching Game, and it’s the Stealth and/or Punitive Penis Punching that’s not OK, and you wonder how No Penis Punching became an item open for debate and when, exactly, you started ranking penises and diamonds in order of importance, but while you’re pondering that, another kid reminds you you’re late to take them to school so you start yelling, “GET IN THE CAR, GET IN THE CAR, GET IN THE CAR,” and they DO get in the car which is unusual and AWESOME, but they argue over who gets to sit where which isn’t unusual at all, and while you’re trying unsuccessfully to convince them All Seats Were Created Equal and We Believe In Equality Around Here so SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN, you see your neighbor trying to get her kid into her car, and she stops and grimaces at you with barely contained fury and laser beams coming out her eyes and offers her kid to you at a brand new low, low price because her kid is driving her straight up the wall and to the left, and she’s pretty sure selling her daughter is a better alternative than the double murder they’d clearly both like to commit, so you chuckle to yourself while you drive away because OH MY GOSH, YES, you’ve been there; you look around as you’re driving, and, although you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten something at home, you appear to have all the children and your pants, so you proceed as planned and drop the kids off and make your way to work, but coming over the hill you see a gorgeous view of the mountain so you pull over to take a picture and when you turn your camera on, instead of seeing the mountain through the lens, you see yourself because you forgot you had the view flipped to selfie-mode earlier; of course, it’s not your usual selfie-self you see with its pre-planned, flattering selfie angles and nice lighting, nor is it your is-this-a-dot-of-cancer?-self; nope… it’s your SELF self — as in, your CANDID self that you see in that reflection — and you’re all, “OH Mah GAH. I look like WHAT?”

You know how sometimes that’s a thing? When you’re genuinely startled by your own face?

Me, too.

So I was thinking about that, and about how AWESOME it is when we get to see our candid selves, and how Candid Selfies should TOTALLY be a thing. Which is why I’m writing to you today. Because this is an issue of eternal significance.

We LOVE candid photos, after all. Small children running through fields of grass at sunset. Grandma with her head thrown back in laughter. And we LOVE selfies. It’s only natural that Candid Selfies are the next, best photo trend, yes? YES. Obviously.

Of course, a candid photo is one taken when the subject isn’t aware it’s being captured, which may seem challenging when the photographer and the subject are the same person. NOT SO, friends. Not so. I did some experimenting for us, and I’m here to tell you, THIS ISN’T AS HARD AS IT SEEMS. All you have to do, really, is set your camera to selfie-mode and then — this is the slightly tricky part — forget you did it. Granted, it helps if you’ve practiced forgetting things in the past, but, with discipline and focus, it is achievable, and, not to brag, but I’ve truly honed this skill over the years. I’ve forgotten my kid’s graduation; I forgot what time school started for an entire semester; and I once forgot my own pants. So I’m, like, super good at this already, but, most importantly, I believe you can be, too.

For INCREDIBLE Candid Selfies, there are just four easy steps to follow:

  1. Set your camera to selfie-mode.
  2. Forget you set your camera to selfie-mode.
  3. When you turn your camera back on and you’re startled by your own face, FREEZE. Freeze that face. Freeze that angle.
  4. Click the shot.

After you see the amazing shots I took of myself without me knowing, I’m certain you’ll want to join the trend. Here, for example, are just a few of my favorites of me, me, and also me:

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I know, right?!? I look AWESOME.

I mean, sure, we can take the usual selfies still. The ones with the good lighting. The posed shots with the camera angled down to eliminate most of the chins. The photos just the slighest bit prearranged so our asymmetrical nostrils aren’t showcased and our chin cancer is erased. After all, there’s nothing wrong with a classic, friends.

But who wants to look like this…

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… when, with a little extra effort, you can look like this?

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RIGHT?!?

 

Right.

Now who’s in?

 

Parents: Take the School Pictures CHALLENGE

September 15, 2015 in Beth, But Seriously, Family by Beth Woolsey

IMG_6463I asked my kids last night about School Picture Day. “It’s coming up, you know,” I said. “We should make plans! Want to do that now?”

But instead of the cheers and accolades I expected, my kids groaned. And moaned. And rolled their eyes. And schlumped in their chairs.

“Argrhuffslottle,” they said, or something like it, and I was offended. Offended, I tell you, because they were busy griping while I wanted major mommy props for thinking ahead. For planning. For being on top of the school schedule for once. But is that what I got? Noooooooo. I got argrhuffslottle from their ungrateful little selves. And schlumping. LOTS of schlumping down in chairs.

“What’s wrong with Picture Day?” I asked. And I followed that with a powerful, “I always LOVED Picture Day,” knowing my experience as a child is always paramount in their thoughts and super relevant to their experience. I am here to tell you, though, you should not ask questions unless you want to hear the answer, because my kids told me exactly what’s wrong with Picture Day, and apparently it’s me.

ME.

I am what’s wrong with Picture Day, they said, and they told it like this:

“See, Mom, you always make us wear stuff we don’t like very much.”

I do not.

“Sometimes it itches.”

Like a tiny bit of itching in order to LOOK NICE ONE DAY A YEAR is a huge sacrifice.

“Yeah, Mom. We never get to wear our favorite shirts just because they’re stained.”

Well, of course I can’t let you wear something dirty to Picture Day. I mean, GEEZ.

“And you make us not play at recess that day.”

That’s not even a little bit true!

“It IS true, Mom. You tell us not to play at recess very hard ’cause we’ll mess up our hair.”

Oh. Yeah… I do say that…

“Sometimes, Mom,” they concluded, “we just want to look how we like to look. Even in pictures.”

And then they delivered the clincher, “How come you don’t like the things we choose?”

…….

…….

Well… argrhuffslottle. And ppffffttttt.

I was stumped, truth be told. Dumbfounded. I had no idea what to say to them, really. How come I don’t like the things they choose? Is that the message I’ve been sending them?

But when I thought about it — actually thought about it hard — I had to conclude it is. That’s exactly the message I’ve been sending my kids, and I don’t like it. Not at all.

It turns out, I made my kids’ School Picture Days a way for ME to express MYself; kids coiffed the way I like, outfits picked with my brand of parental precision, stains and tears and foibles erased for a day to have a record that reflects what like and who I am, and, if I’m going to do a ruthless inventory of why I’ve done that, I have to confess I’ve used Picture Day as a way to measure my success as a mama; as though I’m saying, “Sure, I don’t have my poo together the other days, but I can pull it together for Picture Day, momrades! See??” Or, “I can send my children to school — clean — for one day a year, teachers!”

Here’s the thing I keep thinking about over and over (and over and over) today: we say we want our kids to be authentically themselves. We encourage them to be the people they were uniquely created to be. We beg our kids to think, to be confident and bold, and to follow their hearts. We tell them they’re the authors of their own stories, and that we need their stories in our world. We encourage our kids to stand up for what they believe — to stand up for kindness and for each other — starting in Kindergarten and even in Preschool, but then we don’t allow them to choose the outward expression of who they are inside; not when it’s going to be documented for posterity, anyway. Not when it’s going in the record books! Not when we’ll look back at these pictures which define their childhood school experience. I guess it just seems a little… off… to me when I think about it that way. A little off, and a tiny bit sad, this mixed message I send.

So I have this crazy idea, parents.

This CRAZY, RADICAL idea, and now I’m wondering if anyone out there is crazy enough to join me.

I’m calling it, “Let’s let the kids look however they want for school picture day.” And, by that, I mean however they want. Like, hair however they want, and clothes however they want; even jelly on their faces if they want.

Look; I don’t want to be extreme or dramatic or anything here, it’s just, oh my gosh, you guys. Oh my gosh! I’m pretty sure I’m onto something.

Instead of a School Picture Day about me, my kids can have a School Picture Day about them. A moment in time that captures exactly who they are, as they choose to be, and to receive the message from their mama — loud and clear — that that’s what I want on record.

Of course, if we do this, our kids’ pictures may look less like this…

 

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… and a little more like this.

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A little less like this…

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… and a little more like this.

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Which, let’s be honest, is the greatest school picture of all time, anyway. ALL TIME. And my personal favorite.

Of course, the BONUS in all this is we don’t have to do JACK SQUAT for Picture Day this year. We don’t have to do JACK, and we can do nothing NOBLY. For a GOOD CAUSE. Because we’re being RAD PARENTS who CARE MORE ABOUT OUR KIDS THAN OURSELVES. It’s a win/win, friends. A win/win, I tell you!

So, I’m on a need to know here, parents. What do you think? Too crazy to do? Or are you doing it with me??

 

For the Mamas Who Don’t Even Have It Together at the START of the School Year

September 9, 2015 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

School’s back in session now, and here’s how I know.

In the last 48 hours, I’ve lost 3 dogs, and I only own 2. I’ve dropped kids off late and one came home early, vomiting. I’ve driven away from my house barefoot and in my nightie. I’ve had way too much coffee and not near enough beer. I’ve spilled hot beverages down my front. I’ve found no clean undies; for myself or for others. And my car started making a ker-lunk, ker-lunk sound which the car repair guy told me is probably a mouse stuck in the heater.

School’s back in session now, and I know because we were organized and TOTALLY READY the night before school started, but once the morning arrived, the dog escaped. In grand, Houdini fashion, the dog escaped and went frolicking in the neighbors’ yards, and I sent the kids out to capture her, which they couldn’t do because she is swift. Swift and sneaky. Swift and sneaky and slippery, I tell you, so she teased and teased them, letting them get almost close enough, but not quite, and she had a fabulous time watching me coach kids at high volume from the porch before I gave up, raced inside, donned my tennis shoes — tennis shoes with my nightie, oo la la — and gave chase myself.

Chase her, I did, in tennies and my thin, blue nightie with too many of the front buttons undone and with the morning sun slanting gloriously through my garment, no doubt, and illuminating that which I did not wear underneath — you’re welcome, neighbors! — but I caught that dog in the end. I did! I CAUGHT THE HECK out of that dog, and I put her inside just in time for her to escape again because, “But, Mom! I had to open the door to leave the house for school.”

Ugh.

Ugh!

He “had to open the door to leave the house for school,” he said. As though we don’t know how to climb through windows at our house. As though we’re not problem solvers who can find a better way like shimmying up through the chimney we don’t have and jumping from the roof. As though leaving out the back door and scrambling over the six foot, unfinished, splintery fence and burrowing through the blackberry brambles is not an option. As though we don’t honor creative thinking like just don’t go ANYWHERE, kid, — SCREW SCHOOL — because Mommy doesn’t want to chase the dog AGAIN. 

But did he think of any of those things? Nooooo. He “had” to open the door to leave the house for school, and so we chased the dog again, and we caught her, and we were only a little bit late.

A little, teeny, tiny bit late, but everyone ended up AT school FOR THE WIN; ready and raring to go! UNSTOPPABLE! And I left for work.

Sure, I spilled coffee on my work clothes right after my car started to ker-lunk and just before an emergency stop at the car repair shop.

Still, READY, RARING TO GO, and UNSTOPPABLE-except-for-sopping-up-coffee-and-a-mouse-in-the-heater.

And then my neighbor texted to tell me to tell me the dog escaped. The other dog this time because, in our family, taking turns is important.

But READY, RARING TO GO, and UNSTOPPABLE-except-for-sopping-up-coffee-and-a-mouse-in-the-heater-and-the-Houdini-dogs, which everyone knows is practically the same thing anyway.

Yes, technicallthe school called at noon to let us know a kid who belongs to us had started vomiting and had to come home early. But otherwise we were completely unstoppable.

READY, RARING TO GO, and totes UNSTOPPABLE-except-for-sopping-up-coffee-and-a-mouse-in-the-heater-and-the-Houdini-dogs-and-the-vomity-kid.

And one high school lost my senior’s schedule and the other high school had classes misassigned for my freshman, but whatever, right?

Whatever, because we were READY, RARING TO GO, and UNSTOPPABLE. 

Except when were weren’t very ready… or really raring to go anywhere except bed… and discovered we were kind of, well, stoppable.

Which is when I realized this school year is exactly like every other school year and the chaos must mean school’s back in session.

I dropped my kids off again at school this morning. Some I drove early, while I was still barefoot and in my nightgown, hunkered down in the driver’s seat in the school drop-off lane, and praying to Jesus I wouldn’t get a flat and have to run inside where I’d be arrested for indecent exposure. And one kid I drove late, after I was dressed and ready and made up and as poised as this mommy gets.

I dropped off that last kid with his medications, which took a while in the office, and so I was in the hall when a beautiful, young friend dropped her oldest baby off for his first day of kindergarten. She was barely holding it together, a baby in one arm and a toddler holding the other, the grief of sending her son into the unknown fresh on her face, and I asked her how she was.

Sheesh — don’t you HATE that? Don’t you hate it when you’re hanging on by a shoestring and someone says, “How are you?” and “You OK?”

She burst into tears.

Of course she did, because I’m a JERK.

So I hugged her and held her for a second and made nonsensical sounds and said things like, “Oh, mama; I’m so sorry,” and then I encouraged her to sneak over to her son’s class and look in the window, even though that’s against school rules.

Truth is, I probably didn’t help her. Or at least not as much as she helped me.

Because I’ve been feeling a little ridiculous, to be honest, for not having All the Things Together these past two days. My feelings. My dogs. My ability to put clothes on my body. The kids’ schedules. God knows, “planning dinner” isn’t even on the horizon right now. And, although I haven’t lost the ability to laugh at myself, I have been quite certain other mamas would juggle this all better than me. With more poise. With more panache. With better plans.

I forgot for a minute that we’re all a beautiful mess. And I forgot how much I needed the reminder that I’m not alone mucking my way through this.

Listen, friends. I don’t know about you, but I’m realizing it’s OK to be both this year. Both/And, right? Both really, really ready for change and sort of broadsided by it all at the same time. Both eager for the next season and mourning the end of the last one. Both excited or what the future holds — reaching out to embrace it — and stunned by the hurdles I find along the way.

Both deep in the mess, yes, and also finding magic along the way.

For all you here alongside me, in the magic and the mess, I’m sending love.

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A Vote for Trump is a Vote for Tuna

August 29, 2015 in Food, Funny by Beth Woolsey

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Greg texted me yesterday with important information about participating in a class action settlement.

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A class action settlement, friends, and not just any class action settlement, like the one where you can get $20 in deodorant or the one where you can get $3.70 because you used a Talbots credit card. No; compared to this one, those lawsuits are peanuts. Peanuts, I tell you! Because this one is a class action settlement for FREE TUNA. Like, $50 worth of FREE TUNA which everyone knows is TWICE as good as $25 worth of free tuna or FIVE TIMES better than $10 worth of free tuna.

I admit, though, it did strike me as a little strange, given how much Greg and I detest anything that smacks of frivolous litigation, that Greg signed onto this settlement. Until, of course, I realized that free tuna would only cost us our conscience and our scruples. Then I was all, THAT IS TOTALLY A FAIR TRADE.

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Now, Greg may not have fully understood the sincerity of my message, mistakenly taking it as sarcasm, so he explained a little more background on the issue.

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And Greg was right, of course, because we cannot continue to be placid bystanders while tuna crimes are being committed all around us! When push comes to shove and fractions of tuna ounces are being omitted, we must stand for JUSTICE and THE AMERICAN WAY. And I hate to get into politics too much on this site, but when the tuna manufacturers betray us, I think we can all agree that there’s only one person likely to solve America’s Tuna Woes. “America’s Tuna Woes” being one of the key social issues of our time.

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HELL STATE. That is what this country is in. A HELL STATE, friends. It is time to open our eyes to the tuna injustices all around us and to realize that Donald Trump is here to rescue us from our own folly.

In case you’re not sure yet that you’d like to vote for a man who belittles women and minorities, bullies people who question his plans and policies, and has, well, the judgement, restraint and maturity of a pickle, I am here to tell you you are wrong. You are WRONG, friends, and it may be hard to hear, but I have GOOD REASONS.

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In conclusion, a vote for Trump is a vote for Tuna.

I mean, probably.

Just thought you’d want to know.

Love,

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P.S. Now that I’ve had a few minutes to think about it, I wonder if I’ve been a bit hasty in my endorsement of Trump as the most pro-tuna candidate. It belatedly occurs to me that we have not vetted each candidate on his or her tuna policy. However, if we’re basing our judgement on the most fishy of all the candidates, I think we can still make our case.