Huh?!

It's December, the, twenny-fish. Wha' happen.

I am not done: not done shopping (not that I'm really doing any), not done doing cards, not even started doing cards...not even for work.

Plus I haven't managed to get my filthy little paws on the one gifty I planned on gifting: Mr. Poo.

Please do not ask me why I need to procure a Mr. Poo.

Mr. Poo is not for you. No, he is not. Noo noo noo.

Mr. Poo? Is a squeaky turd.

Don't ask.

Anyway, I called the pet store, and they are fresh out of squeeky turds.

I know they had squeeky turds, because I saw them there. I probably even made them go, SQuEEKY, SQuEEKY. Yet I foolishly declined to purchase them.

YOU try calling a store and asking if they have any more squeeky turds.

Go on, I double dog-turd dare you.

P.S. I attempted to Google "Mr. Poo" and "squeeky turd" with no success.

Christmas, 2007: a fruitless search for squeeky turds.

Boy am I glad I have not produced offspring, as they would, no doubt, be clamoring for squeeky turds, come Christmas Day. And, knowing my luck, that would be the year squeeky turds were all the rage. Because that is just the sort of perverse, alternate universe that would allow me to produce children.

What are you still looking for, like dumbass?

Tickle Me, Homo? Lego Porn?! What...?!?