Here goes. Last weekend I spied something at the pawn shop that tickled my fancy. (Note: Keep in mind that my "fancy" is easily tickled.) I bought something really cool for my wife. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my sweet girl. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sixed Tazer gun with a clip. For those of you who are not familiar with this product, it it a less-than-lethal stun gun with two metal prongs designed to incapacitate an assailant with a shock of high-voltage, low amperage electricity while you flee to safety. The effects are suppose to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, but allowing you adeqate time to retreat to safety. You simply jab the prongs into your 250 lb tattooed assailant, push the button, and it will render him a slobbering, goggle-eyed, muscle-twitching, whimpering, pencil-neck geek. If you've never seen one of these things in action, then you're truly missing out- way too cool! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the dam thing and pushed the button..... Nothing! I was so disappointed. Upon reading the directions (we don't need no stinkin' directions), I found much to my chagrin that this particular model would not create an arc between the prongs. How disappointing !! I do love a little fire for effect. I learned that if I pushed the button, however, and pressed it against a metal surface that I'd get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs that I was so looking forward to. I did so! Awesome!!! Sparks, a blue arc of electricity, and a loud pop!!! Yipeeee... I'm easily amused, just for your information, but I have yet to explain to my wife whatt he burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, etc. etc. There I sat in my recliner, my dog looking on intently (trusting little soul), reading the directions (that would be me, not the dog) and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh and blood target. I must admit I thought about zapping the dog for a fraction of a second and thought better of it. She is such a sweet pup, after all. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger. I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? Was I wrong to think that? Seemed reasonable to me at the time. So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, tazer in the other. The directions said that: A one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; A two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a loss of bodily control; A three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water... All the while I'm looking at this LITTLE device (measuring about 5 inches long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference, pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy bitsy AAA batteries) thinking to myself, "no friggin' way!" Friggin' way -- trust me, but I'm getting ahead of myself. What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best. I was sitting there alone, the dog looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it buddy," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny lil' ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. (sound, rational thinking under the circumstances, wouldn't you agree?) I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the hell of it. (Note: You know, a bad decision is like hindsight - always 20/20. It is so obvious that it was a bad decision after the fact, even though it seemed so right at the time. (Don't ya hate that?) I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY ****** !!!!! I'm pretty sure that Jessie Ventura ran in through the front door, picked me up out of that recliner, then body slammed me on the carpet over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, soaking wet, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position. The dog was standing over me making sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!" NOTE: If you ever feel compelled to mug yourself with a tazer, one note of caution.... There is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself! You're not going to let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by violent thrashing about on the floor. Then if you're lucky, you won't jam one of the prongs 1/2 inch deep in your thigh like yours truly. SON-OF-A-BISQUIT- EATER that hurt! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at this point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they get there?? My triceps, right thigh and both titties were still twitching... and I swear I smelled burning flesh and hair.. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, as my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs give or take an ounce or two, I'm pretty sure. By the way has anyone seen my testicles? I think they rolled away. I'm offering a reward. They're round rather large. Miss'em.... sure would like to get'em back. It's good to know that the wife will be safe from stupid assailants..... --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carrie, your right. I just took a peek at Renee's, Those are stunning. I especially love her Cajun Rhythm Iris. Everything looks so professionally done. Tammy

here's one from my 82 year old Dad, king of forwards and jokes: I'm sending him the jokes above one at a time, I usually don't have anything for him, thanks . Ed and Dorothy met while on a singles cruise and Ed fell head over heels for her. When they discovered they lived in the same city only a few miles apart, Ed was ecstatic. He immediately started asking her out when they got home. Within a couple of weeks, Ed had taken Dorothy to dance clubs, restaurants, concerts, movies, and museums. Ed became convinced that Dorothy was indeed his soul mate and true love. Every date seemed better than the last. On the one-month anniversary of their first dinner on the cruise ship, Ed took Dorothy to a fine restaurant. While having cocktails and waiting for their salad, Ed said, "I guess you can tell I'm very much in love with you. I'd like a little serious talk before our relationship continues to the next stage. So, before I get a box out of my jacket and as k you a life changing question, it's only fair to warn you, I'm a total golf nut. I play golf, I read about golf, I watch golf on TV. In short, I eat, sleep, and breathe golf. If that's going to be a problem for us, you'd better say so now!" Dorothy took a deep breath and responded, "Ed, that certainly won't be a problem. I love you as you are and I love golf too; but, since we're being totally honest with each other, you need to know that about the last five years I've been a hooker." "I see," Ed replied thoughtfully. He looked down at the table, and was quiet for a moment, deep in serious thought then he added, "You know, it's probably because you're not keeping your wrists straight when you hit the ball."

Exactly Texas Gem. Very nicely written I’m sure what follows will be of no interest to anyone but me. Threads like this always make me sad. Growing up, the “ideal woman” was Christie Brinkley. Tall, thin, pin-straight shiny blonde hair. Me? I was short, chunky, and had frizzy kinky hair that was all over the place. So for decades I tried to make my hair look “ideal.” But because I’m blessed with both frizzy and fine hair, chemicals do quite a number on it. I’ve tried relaxers, colors, straighteners. Doesn’t matter what I’ve tried, I’ve never looked like Christie Brinkley. I can remember my mother (may God rest her soul), sitting at the kitchen table clucking with her sister about the state of my hair. Gee, thanks mom. I’m a straight A student in honors classes, but yes please let’s focus on my hair. As I’ve gotten older and looked around, I’ve come to realize we all too often focus on things which literally do not matter. I am done waging a war with my hair. I do the best I can with what God and my genes gave me and that’s just going to have to suffice for everyone else on the planet. But for some reason, women particularly are often so harsh on other women about how they “look.” If you’re interested in wasting a little bit of time, poke around and see what this white woman’s standard of hair has done to our young black girls. My one big hope is that this standard does seem to be fading. I don’t have children of my own, but in talking with the children of my friends there seems to be much more emphasis on the things that really do matter. Or maybe I’m just deluding myself because the alternative is too sad to contemplate.