I get nominated as a funny person for the BOBs by my good friend and possible assassin Kenju, and of course, what happens? Why yes, today's the day I am in a mood fouler than the scent of an unclean abattoir. Fouler indeed than the gutters of 13th century Paris. Fouler than the breath of a thousand pirates the day after a mead bender.
Grrr, pissy Tiff! Grumpy, grumbling, grinchy Tiff.
My frown lines have parasitic twins. The normally lush lips are pursed in a thin white line. Shoulders are stiff. Eyebrows lowered. I need a football field and a receiver to run down, or a pile of logs to split, or a truckload of hay bales to offload. It would be nice if maybe someone needed to be rescued from under a car, so I could run over and lift it off of them. I think I could do that right now.
The curious thing is: I'm not certain WHY I'm ticked off. I don't mean to say I'm not ENJOYING it, because I kind of am, but just can't figure out what set me off.
So, in order to un-gnash my teeth and relax my scowl, I have decided that it's time to play "make Tiff dance!"
This is how it works: you, as commenters, get to decide what I'm going to post about for the rest of this week. You put an idea in your comment, and I'll create an idea grab-bag and start writing about what I pull out of the hat first. I promise, I won't cheat.
See? Easy-peasy! Just go, comment, make Tiff dance to the tune you play!
Oh, and just so you know, I waltz fairly well, and can samba, do the pony, the lawnmower, the air guitar, and the shag. Just don't try to make me dip - it doesn't work out well for anyone involved.
That's all for today. I must go write my Wordsmiths entry before the deadline passes me by!