I'm kind of a jerk...

...which was pointed out to me tonight by two guys I had hired to change the locks on my house so I could make my psuedo-husband my exhusband. Is that ironic? Funny how people develop an opinion of you over a little incident like that.

But...I'd be a liar if I said I didn't think twice about the crap they said about me tonight. They might actually have a point; I'm harsh, I'm crass, I lack an internal filter... and it all made me wonder why anyone still talks to me. I guess I AM kind of a douchebag. Here's just one example:

I mailed out my Christmas cards shortly after Turkey Day. It wasn't much of a surprise when a friend of mine sent me a text message last week asking for my address (obviously wanting to send a card in return). Quick back story: This friend of mine got married overseas in March 2012, held a stateside 'reception' in May of 2012. I gave a nice chunk of change to the newlyweds when I attended the local reception. The story ends there. Unacceptable, and let me explain why.

So....after receiving the "what's your address" text I responded with my address and "Are you finally mailing out Thank You cards?" Yes, it was rude of me to call him out, but with that being said, it's pretty goddamn rude to NOT send Thank You cards to people who gave gifts at your half-assed, "we just want money" reception. I might have been rude by pointing that out, but they are ten times ruder by NOT saying Thank You.

Then I got thinking...this isn't the first time someone hasn't thanked me for being nice. I went to a wedding several years ago where the bride was 7 months pregnant and I gave $100 to eat mac & cheese with plasticwear. I never got a Thank You for that, either.

Here's where things get CRAZY. My sister is NOTORIOUS (yes, it deserves ALL CAPITAL LETTERS) for not only NOT thanking me for gifts, but not even acknowledging they've arrived in the mail in the first place. Really? How is that okay? I mean, okay, I get it, you don't want to take the 1 minute out of your day to call me during your commute (like you would normally do 4 days a week) to say THANKS, but at least have the decency to say, "Oh hey, I got your card/package," so I at least know the mailman didn't steal it. I am at the point I don't even care if I get a "Thanks" or "This Sucks" or "Go to Hell," I just want to know my shit isn't being lifted by some hoarder postal service person with a mental condition.

All of this raging rudeness makes me want to go into business making "You're Welcome" cards, for those rude bastards who are "too cool" to thank you for your time and generosity. Beat them to the punch with a snazzy You're Welcome card! Coming to stores near you...

I guess I'm not sure how this plays out. Am I the rude one for calling out people for their lack of manners? Because I don't think so. And with a new year slowly (but surely) creeping up on us, I'm thinking this is going to be my New Year's Resolution. Everyone Everywhere...Consider this your official warning: If you are going to be rude and/or ignorant, I will unequivocally, 100%, call you out on your piss-poor social skills.

So go ahead and "pretend" you didn't get my gift card for your birthday (Nancy). I will bring it to your attention. Pretend your kids didn't get my holiday cards (sister). I will call you, Rudeness, and point out your lack of manners. And just to take this one step further... Ms Manager of the Team I Work With: You can pretend to care about my "input" on the team's progress, but unbeknownst to you I'm going to blind copy my manager, your manager and a third, "random" manager on that "progress report." Needless to say, you can suck it. Hard.

I'm sick and tired of rude people and people who flat-out don't give a shit. And with that being said...Who the FUDGE puts a gumball machine in a bathroom (refer to picture in post)? Those people will be getting a letter from me AND the PA Health Department. Blind copied as well. Because that's how I roll and if they don't like it, they can suck it. Hard.

I guess you can sign me,

Used To Have Friends in 2012

I pretty much do whatever Oprah tells me to do.

If you've never cooked anything more than cereal, you can skip the first paragraph of this blog. But if you have actually cooked a meal, keep reading.

I made chicken the other night and tossed the scraps into the garbage. In less than 8 hours, you'd have thought I had a 9-week-old dead hooker in my kitchen, it smelled so bad. It reminds me never to murder a chicken hooker, because that's not something you want in the trunk of your car overnight... it's a dead giveaway (pun intended).

Last night I was watching TV and the emergency warning system shut down the show I was watching to warn of a tornado in the area. All viewers were told to go into their basements. I don't have a basement...that's kind of a problem. But it did make me put things in perspective, things like, "Well, I don't have to do laundry tomorrow," and "At least I get out of November's mortgage payment." But there are those other, deeper things, that ran through my mind. Those things like, "I should've apologized to my sister for reading her diary in 7th grade," or "I've always wanted to carve my name into a tree," and especially, "Wow, this really sucks if I die tonight..." (the strange part was, I was compelled to call one person but changed my mind because I thought it would make for an awkward conversation..."Hey, what's up? Yeah, I might be dead in 3 hours...") In case you haven't figured it out by now, I survived. You're welcome.

Life is all about perspective; I guess that's the point. Like the guy I recently heard about who almost lost his hand in an accident. Luckily he didn't, but he still cannot use it. That's great and all, but while he heals there are those pain in the ass things that we don't always think about: Sure, he can wipe his ass but how does he wash one hand? Or, how does he use a shovel? He just became a slower typer. He can't easily pour cooked pasta into a strainer. Ever try to eat a taco with one hand?

Perspective. It's pretty much synonmous with Reality. They are both in our minds. People can object with one another but reality is all about our own perspective. And that's terrifying, especially with crazy fanatics out there. Like people who think Burger King makes the BEST. BURGERS. EVER. Or those crazies who think when aliens invade, they'll want to be our friends. OR the people who think everyone is inherently good (insert insane, screechy laughter here) We know who we are.

Like my armpits. I waxed them last night. Best decision I ever made. You might disagree, but it is only my reality that counts.

And the upcoming holidays. I bet if I spend this holiday season sober, I'll find out football is boring, my dad isn't funny and I really cannot play the guitar. It's all about perspective.

Bored? Call this number: 610-331-0770

I don't know who it belongs to (well, I have an idea of who it is). What I can tell you is this: I don't think I am making their Christmas card list this year. I could be wrong, but considering this mystery number sent me a text saying only: I hate u, I have to assume they're not big fans. Now that I think about it, they didn't use punctuation. That makes ALL the difference, especially with mystery phone numbers. It could be the difference between sleeping with all the lights on in the house with a carving knife on my nightstand *cough* (not that I did that) or feeling bad because a fellow earthling is simply confused. I hate u? (maybe they're on the fence) I hate u! (they get excited about hating people) Or perhaps, I hate u?! (unsure of how to spell their pronouns) In any case, I think it is pretty rude and gutless for people to use someone else's phone to send mean text messages. I get it. You hate me. Join the club, take a number, get in line...there's more where that came from. There are days I hate myself. Granted, those days don't come along often because I am pretty freakin' awesome, but you know...some days, I'd break up with me. I'd use the toilet and not flush. I'd eat the last of my cupcakes without offering to share with me. But I wouldn't send myself an anonymous "I hate u" text message. In all honesty, though, I cannot say I'm surprised. People either love me or hate me; I don't have an "in-between" personality where people are on the fence and I am okay with that. What bugs me though, is that I'm a private citizen and now I get anonymous hate texts? Seriously? Here's what I think: I think if you have something to say, stand up and say it like a man to my face, not behind the cloak of Verizon Wireless from an unnamed cell number (yes, I also lost $9.99 trying to figure out who it was). And because I like to practice what I preach, I am going to tell all of YOU what I really think (better sit down, this one is gonna be a doozie): -Your dog isn't that cute. -Your kid isn't that smart. -You're not funny. -Your exgirlfriend was hot and you're an idiot for screwing it up. -I hate your haircut. -Your sister is prettier. -If I had balls they'd be bigger than yours. -I'm jealous of your boobs. -Relax. -You need to wear makeup.- Don't you feel better? I know I do. So let me be "Frank" (ha ha): I'm too much of a wuss to call that strange number back in order to find out what asshole hates me. But I DO have faith that at least one of you will call that number. If you do, please leave a comment on this blog telling all of us who it belongs to...because that's when the REAL fun will begin. (insert creepy clown smiley face here)

The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter. - Winston Churchill

So how 'bout that new health care bill? I haven't blogged in quite some time because I really haven't had much material. Go figure, I still don't. No, I am not even touching the political stuff. No need to get your panties in a bunch. I only reserve my discussions of politics and religion for my minority friends (I think I am up to 3). Bad segway: I work with a guy who is getting married in a few months and today he told me how he put "fun" items on his wedding gift registry. You know, fun things like a Dungeons and Dragons book, art supplies and a blue ray DVD player. Is that what the kids are doing nowadays? I mean, registering for those kinds of gifts really expose who you are as a person. Are you ready for that? Is the guest list? D&D? Uh, yeah, if I go to that wedding I'm probably going to eat all the shrimp just to piss off the other nerd guests. But realistically, I bet most of them are allergic anyway and the few remaining hate cocktail sauce, so...more shrimp for me. I know, I know, to each his own. If some jackass wants to turn his wedding registry into a Letter to Santa, then that's his perogative. I don't have to like it, but I don't think it's right. In fact, I bet he is the "under" toilet paper guy. Oh, you know who I'm talking about. There are two types of people in this world: Those who put the toilet paper roll on properly, and those who put it on so the sheet sneaks up from underneath. I've done the math on this. I've been places, I've seen things. My statistical brain-math says that 95% of people are "over the top" toilet paper loaders. Then there's that 4%. What are you people, farmers? Who taught you to live? Underneath toilet paper. Riiiight. Next you'll tell me pork isn't a white meat (hmmm?) Lastly, we have that lingering 1% of noncommittals who try to say they don't care if the paper is over or under. Liars!! You are the same people who act like you don't like the taste of beer. (figures they'd be women) Speaking of beer... I came up with a solid marketing compaign for tampons today. Personally, I like to keep mine in the freezer. Nothing helps beat the heat on a hot summer day like a chilly tampon. So check it out: Instead of the stupid commercials with the cute cheerleaders, or the anti-commercials against the cute cheerleader commercials, why not turn a woman's menstral cycle into a party? Let's face it, the one thing most guys would kill to hear is, "Honey, I am NOT pregnant!" PAR-TAY! Let's make it one. Picture it: Hot chicks in bikinis washing cars, maybe a water fight breaks out, beer starts falling from the sky and then the announcer comes in: "Got beer? Don't forget the Tampax!" It may be weird at first, but trust me ladies, this will work. Men will no longer bitch and moan when we ask them to run to the store to grab us a box. Why? 'Cause they dodged a bullet that month, baby! It's time to celebrate! I know, I'm a genius. Thanks for reading.

The more things change, the more they stay the same after all.

For all you non-literary types, that's from "A Separate Peace." Not to be confused with "The Catcher in the Rye." Similar character structure, totally different scenario. In a nutshell... in the first book, a guy lies about how his friend dies. In the second, the guy admits he lies all the time for no apparent reason. The same concept, but different perspectives. Crazy. Both stories remind me of when I was a kid. I got messed with all the time. No, really. ALL the time. I was one of those dumbass, gullible kids you could tell anything to and they would believe it. (funny, I don't think I've changed much...) To get me to take a nap, my mom would tell me that as soon as my "eyes fell asleep", I could come out and play. I bought it every single time. I remember having my grandfather tell me that chocolate milk came from brown cows. That ended up being my very first debate; I was in kindergarten, and my main argument was, "My Pappa wouldn't make that up!" Flash forward to the end of that day when I got home from school and told my mom (in absolute disgust) how the kids in school had the AUDACITY to say all cows make white milk. To which she replied, "Pappa made that up." Whaaaaat? Then there was the cold cement. We would sit on the cement steps leading up to the porch and Pappa would say, "Don't sit on the cold concrete like that! You'll get hemorroids like your grandmother!" Poor Gram... he blamed a lot on her. And then there was sugar. If we were eating too much candy, or licking our fingers and sticking them in the sugar bowl, we were told we couldn't have any more because "buggies will grow in your stomach." You know, I didn't realize that wasn't the truth until around 6th grade when we learned in health class about stomach acids and stuff. But... ...I also thought you could get pregnant from kissing a guy until I was about 15. Until then I hadn't planned on having kids and figured if I got married, I wouldn't kiss my new husband, I'd just shake his hand at the altar. Did I mention I believed in Santa Clause until I was 13? And I'm okay with that, because I'm pretty sure my sister figured it out only the year before (as I throw her under the bus with me...) AND....it just hit me this past holiday season that the song, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" was about the dad BEING Santa Clause! What the fudge!!! I never realized that the song was about Mom kissing Dad. Yeah, I'm an idiot. I admit it and I'm not ashamed. It's an ambiguous song. Sue me. Call me Forrest Gump, but I like that I can't sniff out bullshit from a mile away. I like that I get offended when I make eye contact in the supermarket and say "Hi!" and the other person doesn't respond. Where I come from, people say "Hey." We don't need to know each other. We don't care what kind of day you've had. You say "Hey" because, well, that's what we do. So that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I don't like liars, probably because I believe them. Where I come from, it's pretty simple: If you gotta lie about it, you shouldn't do it.

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on." Robert Frost

Tomorrow will be the 1 year anniversary of when I got engaged. Ahhh, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember studying for a test (I ended up failing), I remember my dad calling me an asshole...the memories. I will cherish them forever. Picture it: A long-haired brunette marries a bad boy. The vehicle for the wedding? A giant pick up truck. Her wedding ring: Platinum, of course. His? Steel. Country music was played at the reception. Their backstories: She was engaged once but broke it off. He had been married previously. She had dogs, he had kids.

The bride's thought on marriage? A quote direct from her: "I've always been very skeptical about marriage, because I only want to do it once; I want to do it the right way." Name that couple... Sandra Bullock and Jesse James. I know, I know, you were gonna say it was me (for the record, hers was a giant, red Monster truck; mine was my dad's big white Dodge Ram). But my point is this: She gave a guy the benefit of the doubt the rest of us didn't. Unfortunately, we were right. It does make me wonder, though, what kind of boyfriend he was? At the very least, we can assume he was a convincing "good" boyfriend. I bet he even provided the first toothbrush she left at his place (I'm guessing). The reason I bring this up is because my sister and I had a discussion about how I am the ultimate bad boyfriend. Okay, let me explain: As you all know, my sister lives in Arizona. The rest of us are in Pennsylvania. My mom goes out to visit at least quarterly and as a result, she ends up leaving personal items behind so she doesn't have to pack so much on her trips. Over the years it has graduated from a toothbrush to make-up, pajamas to regular clothes - pants, shirts, shoes...you name it. I live about 2 hours away from my folks. It is a comfortable distance. My sister asked me once how much crap my mom has left at my place. I thought about it and said, "Well...she left socks behind once and I gave them back." And that's when I realized there had been several times my mom left some things behind and I, in a completely oblivious move, made damn sure she got her things back. No pajamas, no socks...is that a brush? Not in my house! In my defense, I didn't realize what was going down. I thought I was doing a good thing by giving her stuff back. I mean, socks...how many pairs does one person have? Maybe she needed them! I don't want to be blamed for my own mother going sockless. And pajamas... really people, I thought she was being a smartass by leaving them in the hamper. Kinda like a 'Hey kid, now it's YOUR turn to wash MY pajamas for a change." So...uh, yeah, I think it's a safe assumption that if I'm a bad 'boyfriend' to my own mother, I would be a total douchebag to date (if I were a guy). Crazy.

A little sumthin' for everyone (keep reading, you're bound to come up)

Dear Friends, We've been through a lot over the years. Not just with this blog, but in life...in general. So for that, I'd like to say Thank You, mainly for not slipping me an Ambien, strapping me into the back seat of a car and pulling a "Kennedy" on me. So here's my special Thanks for all the good times (and you know who you are): Thanks for saving me from getting hit by that purple car. And for introducing me to the movie "Seven." That was an interesting night and to this day, I still don't know how I found my way home. Thanks for playing Double Dare in the house, even when I almost died on the basement stairs...but I recovered, got the flag and we still got it done in time! Oh, and thanks again for saving my life during orientation. But seriously...she deserved to be called a "pig." Thanks for letting me yell at you for writing sketchy business. That was a defining moment between "business" and "friendship," mainly because you yelled back. And you were right...I had forgotten what it was like to be on that side of the 'biz. Whatever...you were right. Once. Get over it. Thanks for inviting me to lunch. Of course I'd never say No. You terrified me. I would have chewed your food if you asked me to, but (thankfully) you didn't. And look at us now...running 5Ks. Who woulda thunk it? Thanks for being the only guy to treat me like a normal person. Oh, and when you knew the whole "42" thing, too? That was pretty awesome. Probably the smartest thing to ever happen in a Home Depot break room, let's face it. Thanks for cracking me up with your 'random' interogation questions of all the new people at work, mainly the "Are you married, Do you have a boyfriend?" question. That cracks me up. And double thanks for when you wrote the exercise/diet blog...you convinced me not to ever do that (diet, exercise and blog...I was only partially convinced). Thanks for St Paddy's Day and every time we hit the shore. Walking a parade in reverse is the way it should be, and being stuck in a dive motel room because it rained is pretty typical, too. Nothing says "Vacation Fun" like seeing the beach washed out by high tide and downpours. Thanks for having lunch with me during your senior and my freshman year of highschool. Glad your computer nerd stuff worked out for you. :) You rocked the French Horn. By the way, tell your parents the purple door still works! Thanks for being cool at The Silo. I liked your hat. And I'm sorry it didn't work out with that blonde. But really, you should've told me your friend was a douchebag, so you kinda deserved not getting anywhere with that blonde. I'm just sayin'... Thanks for being my fellow reading nerd friend in 8th grade. Sorry we lost track of each other...seemingly twice in our lives... and I'm with you: It's hard to believe Wally became a Bible Banger! Really? He used to be cute... Thanks for teaching me Southern women curse. Even though I practically had a coronary when I heard you drop the F bomb for the first time, it was one of the most defining moments in my life: Insurance companies weren't that scary and Suthern Belles DO swear! Thank you, N.C., for being one of those random, lingering people from highschool who connected with me on Facebook and then decided to follow my blog. I'm not really sure why we didn't talk more in highschool. I don't remember either of us being exceptionally cool...but what's done is done. Glad you're still alive.

12/26/98 - Just 'cuz (lyrics courtesy of "Over You" by Miranda Lambert

Weather man said it’s gonna snow
By now I should be used to the cold
Mid-February shouldn’t be so scary
It was only December
I still remember the presents, the tree, you and me

But you went away
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I’ll be OK
But I’m not going to ever get over you

Living alone here in this place
I think of you, and I’m not afraid
Your favorite records make me feel better
Cause you sing along
With every song
I know you didn’t mean to give them to me

But you went away
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I’ll be OK
But I’m not going to ever get over you

It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone

Cause you went away,
How dare you?
I miss you
They say I’ll be OK
But I’m not going to ever get over you

But I have five, so what does that say about me?

Richard Jeni once said, "I always look for a woman who has a tattoo. I see a woman with a tattoo and I'm thinking OK, here's a gal who is capable of making a decision she'll regret in the future." There's something to think about.

Last week my mom and I flew out to the desert to visit my sister and her family. We find we're more effective as a team: I've got youth on my side, Mom's got experience. Between us both, we can keep those two little boys under control...until one morning...

I was in the kitchen and my sister and brother in law were gone to work. I heard a Bang Bang Bang! "Open the door!" coming from my mom, about 30 feet away, down the hall. Apparently the youngest son, who is just about 3 years old, locked himself in the bathroom with the one dog. "OPEN THIS DOOR NOW!" I could tell she was trying to be authoritative and not show fear, but that kid didn't care either way. He was busy with the dog and all the cool stuff kids find in bathrooms - toilet paper, shampoo, toilets... Poor Mom. Poor dog. But hey, dogs have teeth, right? If it got bad in there, I would imagine survival instinct would kick in. Bang bang! "You better open this door....!" Uh oh, I think she was about to crack.

Right when I was getting ready to walk down the hall and offer my assistance (which just means I'm tall enough to reach one of the spare keys my sister keeps above each door frame in the house), the little dude opened the door, the dog ran out and all was well. We never found out what he did to the dog in there, but she smelled faintly of Oil of Olay for the rest of the day. It was the first time I ever saw my mom drink wine before 9am. Hey, it's adult grape juice. I let her go.

And then there was my big date with my oldest nephew. We went to see "The Lorax" and he was pretty pumped. He's such a good kid. He's one of those good natured, helpful kids that would give you the shirt off his back...but apparently that's where his goodwill ends, as I found out in the theatre. He may share his toys, his popcorn, let you ride his bike (if you'll fit), hell, even offer you the last piece of bubble gum...but try to get even one piece of Chocolate Covered Cookie Dough candy out of his little fingers and you'll have better luck winning the $50 million Power Ball 3 times in a row. Can you believe he waited until the lights dimmed and the movie started before he opened the box of candy? Like I wasn't going to hear/smell him eat them. And afterwards I said, "Hey, I bet that candy sure was good in there," to which he replied, "It was, especially since I didn't share!" And then he laughed at me! Oooo, ZING! He got me good. I have declared him my FAVORITE 7 year old nephew.

Annnd back to the other kid. He has some difficulty saying a strong C. My family's nickname for me is Crissy (which is strange since my name is Georgia...ha ha...but seriously...) Straight from the mouths of babes: To the 3 year old, the kid who struggles to say a hard C, my name was Titsy. Like my real first name isn't stripper-sounding enough, now I've got Titsy as a nickname. Hopefully he outgrows it, and until then I'll be wearing padded bras and heavy sweaters. The best part of being called Titsy, though, is that every time it comes up, my mom cracks up laughing like it's the first time she's heard it. That cracks ME up, and then it's just a never-ending circle of laughs.

On our last night, my sister let the oldest nephew stay up later to hang with Aunt Titsy and Grandma Lady (my family is hell on names). When he was finally being sent off to bed my mom grabbed him for a bear hug. She started saying all those cool things Grandmas say, things like Be a good boy, Watch out for those girls chasin' ya, I love you so much... and then it was MY turn. I gave him a big hug, which started off a little awkward because I grabbed him by the head (we have big heads in my family, what can I say?)... and I didn't know what to say. My mom said all the good stuff. So I was like (huuuuug!), "Uh, yeah, so uh, be good and uh...don't do drugs." And he laughed at me.

So there it was, my big shining moment in being influential in a child's life. The only thing we can do now is see if it sticks.

It's all relative.

I would imagine if you have lived to be at least 25 years of age, there has been a moment in your life when you've accidentally dropped something into a toilet. Now correct me if I'm wrong: The second it happens, the first thought you have is, "Do I really want that back?" followed up with, "I wonder if I can just flush it?" And then there's the, "What else don't I mind getting poop water on to scoop ____ out?"

Let's face it, we see a dog drink out of a toilet and while we think it's gross, we don't think much more than that. BUT...drop a cell phone or toothbrush or even tweezers in that same toilet and the main thought is "I pooped in that bowl a few hours ago!"

It's all relative.

For some reason, when the house temperature is 71 in the winter I freeze, but in the summer, 71 makes me sweat.

And here's a random thought: I think pigeons are really reincarnated Egyptians.

Here's a second random thought: I don't think Michael Jackson ever existed. I just think LaToya got sick of playing two people.

For the record: I am okay with that whole, "Everything happens for a reason," idea...

And 'off-the-record': ...I just want to know what the 'reason' is up front.

Lastly: What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Look at Magic Johnson. He's in the prime of his life.

I want to run for President, and let me tell you why...

First of all, I agree with a lot of what Mitt Romney says. Why is it such a big deal not to be concerned about the extremely poor? A family living at the poverty level still eats better than a college student who works 3 jobs. And that's just the beginning, people. I have a WHOLE campaign set up, and it goes something like this:

1. Legalize all drugs and tax the shit out of them. People won't use more or less drugs based on their legal status. Booze is legal and there are millions of people over the age of 21 who aren't raging alcoholics. Look, I'm not saying we should put drugs on sale, I'm just saying legalize them and make extra money all around. The country will get out of debt AND welfare payouts will decrease with every crackwhore overdose.

2. Sterilize everyone on social security under the age of 55, and anyone on welfare who has at least one child (man or woman). This should pretty much limit the payouts of both funds, not to mention discourage people from bumming off the system. If you want more money, keep your pants on and get a job. Oh, and if you're 'sick' enough to cash in on disability? Tough shit. If this were 1889, your 'crippled' ass would either be dead in a field or you'd have to suck it up and help plant and harvest with the rest of your family. We're bringing Darwinism back.

3. Homeless people - export them to Mexico; consider it an even trade. Gracias.

4. The pink flamingo will be the new national bird. Flamingos are fun and sassy. So will be the United States of America.

5. Secret Service will be fired. Things aren't fun to kill if there isn't a challenge.

6. Four day work weeks for everyone. You're welcome.

So this Presidential election, forget Santorum. Ignore Romney. Screw Gingrich. Write MY name into the ballot and people, we'll get this country rockin'!