Do y'all like my new haircut? Yup, that's me, I'm a sucker. Named so because I just paid 3 fucking dollars and 31 fucking cents (which is a lot on my NC teacher's salary - I should've asked if they had a payment plan) for candy corn. MOTHERFUCKING CANDY CORN! And then I walked over to Eckerd's - you know - just across the way, so I wouldn't have even had to use any gas to get there, maybe justifying the payment of a higher price, and they were 99 cents! 99! CENTS!

I better buy myself an IPOD and put "You Better Shop AROUND" on the playlist. Exlusively.

Dh asked me if they were magic. I guess that makes me JackASS and the Bean Stalk.

Laughing: Today, at lunch, dh and I were eating Japanese food and drinking Kirin (bow, bow, I LOVE you, KIRIN!) talking about GROLSCH beer. EWWW.

Dh: It's just so bad.
TCWH (never missing the opportunity to make barfing sounds at the table): It tastes like it sounds (a little too loudly) GRRROOOOOOLLLLLSSSSCCCCHHHH!
Dh: You're right. And ph? He just loves it.
TCWH: Well, he does like Marmite.

Have y'all ever had this?

Don't be fooled by the McDonald's color scheme. There's no greasy, gluttonous, goodness here. This is a full on yeastful assault on the tastebuds. And I'm not saying that in my "I'm American! I like peanute butter and jelly!" tee hee hee. The jar is opaque so that consumers cannot see what horror lies inside. It looks and smells exactly like what dh and I dumped out of the clogged up garbage disposal the other day. The thought of spooning it out and spreading it on some toast makes me want to grolsch.

And I haven't even talked about what it's made out of. YEAST! Did you hear that? YEAST! It makes stuff rise. What does it do to your stomach? I haven't actually stuck around long enough to experience what kind of intestinal havoc it can wreak on friend and family, but I didn't drive home with the windows rolled up from the all you can eat Mexican buffet, either. Call me cautious. I relish my nasal well-being.

I think that the farther south one lives in this great united states, the more blonde barbie dolls there are per square mile. For one who has spent her summer dining ferociously on whatever happens to land on her plate and drinking her body weight in beer and wine, this is rather discomforting. I want to grab one of the Barbie Clones and yell, "They're called curves, ladies! They are GOOD!" But then I run out of breath as I am waddling my way over to the organic vegetables, so I just grab a bag of candy corn and shoot said Barbie dirty looks. I would love it if I had the fembot shooting boobs ala Austin Powers, because then I could actually point and shoot. Except they would shoot french fries and milkshakes, not bullets. Because you know, we need to make love not war.

Or maybe I should just offer them some marmite.