Tagged by Leigh yo

Okay, let me give this a try. It will give me writing practice.

Weapon(s) of Choice:

My two Chihuahuas and a pint of oxen blood to smear on the ankles of unsuspecting Trick-or-Treaters. We’ll see if those little bastards show up begging for candy at my doorstep again. Oh, damn, I’m turning into that old grumpy guy that yells at kids when they hit a baseball into his yard.

Relative Psychosis:
Yes, relatives do cause psychosis and tomorrow I will self medicate with near lethal doses of L- Tryptophan and Troegs Hopback. You will find me slumped over the couch watching the West Virginia and Pittsburgh game. Go Mountaineers!

How hard can it be:
After a case of Sierra Nevada and a bottle of red wine it can be damn hard to find your bearings let alone your hotel room which I recently found after my cousin’s wedding in CA.

So, what's next?

Possibly some sort of road trip in which one drunken moment spills into the other and you wake up on a couch in the hotel lobby with a pair of red Victoria’s Secret underwear in your pocket and no recollection of how in the hell they got there…

I'll name that tune in:
Right after I take the scale back I bought last night. The damn thing is a piece of junk. For all its bells and whistles I could have gotten a better reading from a piece of rope slung over a tree branch tied to a boulder. It’s supposed to measure body fat and when I stepped on the damn thing it gave me the fat percentage of a Krispy Kreme addict. In the fine print I read that it isn’t accurate for athletes, bodybuilders, people over 330 lbs or evidently anyone with more muscle than an anorexic junior high girl. I almost tossed the thing onto my compost heap figuring it would decompose in 40 or 50 thousand years but my Chihuahua Uma was sleeping on it. Oh well, she might as well use the piece of shit because it’s not good for anything else…