The Best of Blogs: 2009-2010 by Leslie Thompson (i love reading books .TXT) 📖

done for me.
But I'll be damned if the man doesn't insist on asking me the most annoying and jaw-droppingly dumb questions. Just minutes before I sat down to churn this bit of fluff out, my darling beloved dropped this nugget of intellectual fodder on me:
If I had two choices, would I :
A) Take Ryan Reynolds as my super secret lover for 10 years without the option to unload the man should he turn out to be a jerk, or:
B) Become his red carpet arm ornament with no other contact for ten years.
I assume that this question was posed to me under the delusion that Mr. Reynolds would bother to give me the time of day, or that he would be willing to ignore his spectacularly hot wife for the 5 seconds it would take to give me the accurate time. (Of course he wouldn't! No man in his right mind would ever take his eyes off of Scarlett Johansson for any length of time, if he was married to her! She might escape!)
As amazing as this particular question was, I have to say, there have been dumber. Let's explore a few, shall we?
1) Who is scarier? Darth Vader or Hannibal Lecter; and why?
Hannibal Lecter. With the clothes and breathing apparatus, Vader is
a lot easier to avoid.
2)If I could only have one food to eat for the rest of my life, what would it be?
I don't know, wouldn't they all suck after a few days?
3)Who would I rather be married to, Tony Stark (Iron Man) or Bruce Wayne
(Bat Man)?
No brainer. Tony Stark, he's a super hero, has a drinking problem and he has a heart condition.
I'll get the widow pay much faster.
4)Would I be willing to stand nude in traffic, for a million dollars?
Well Duh!
Thankfully, this is not the only things my husband talks to me about. We do have conversations that are both entertaining and intellectual. But they aren't as funny.

The squirrel mafia

t was a warm summer say in Cartersville. The sun glistened on the emerald leaves of the dogwood trees lining my yard. A warm breeze lifted, making the trees wave and sing their summer song. Next door, the neighbor was mowing his yard for the second time that week. I settled into my favorite patio chair, a thick book tucked into the crook of my arm. I opened the book and began to read, immediately becoming absorbed in the language of a story. Suddenly, violence broke the serenity of the day. I looked up, searching for the source of the commotion. My eyes were drawn to the top of an aging and twisted oak that grew mightily at the side of my yard. I didn't know it at the time, but I was witnessing the beginnings of the Squirrel Mafia, a gang of rodents that will strike fear in the hearts of small mammals for generations to come.

As I watched, gangs of large squirrels scrambled down the trunk of the oak led by a much larger, more imposing creature I could only assume was the Godfather. Then, a smaller squirrel climbed timidly up the tree and met with this vicious gang. I could see its small brown body tremble with fear as the gang slowly approached him. Then as a single animal, the gang jumped on him and began to beat the snot out of the little bugger. They all tumbled en masse to the ground, where the gang continued their abuse. With his beady black eyes gleaming brutally, the Godfather squirrel supervised the beating. The gang removed themselves from their victim, and joined their OG (Original Gangster). The littlest squirrel staggered to his feet. The Godfather made a loud chattering sound and all the squirrels, including the battered one, ran back up the tree. Ah I thought, so this is a jump in, the gang's rite of passage. The Squirrel Mafia jumped in a few more member into their organization, and then the real mayhem began.

The squirrel hit man was the first to become identifiable. He was a lean and ragged looking creature, his tail short and droopy with his fur matted and patchy. He slunk from branch to branch, seeking his marks. Once in a while he would disappear into a leafy branch. Birds would suddenly raise a racket, and fly off in every direction. Then a blue jay would drop to the grass with a dull thud, and lay there stunned for several minutes. Soon after the unfortunate bird hit the ground, a nest would fall in wispy clumps followed by two or three eggs. The eggs splattered hideously as they landed around their helpless parent. Eventually, the blue jay got up and let out a little birdie cry. Then with its home in tatters, it flew away in despair.

Meanwhile, the brutes began to stalk the chipmunks and finches. They traveled in groups, and spent their time roaming across the yard to pounce upon their victims and intimidate them. They collected tribute from the smaller animals, and sent the smaller of their brotherhood off towards the oak tree with their cheeks full to bursting with nuts and various other foodstuffs.

The Squirrel Mafia had a gambling racket too. Acorns dropped from the oak tree, and a collection of chipmunks, birds, and squirrels, chattered and chirped as a pair of scrawny mice ran for them as fast as they could. The winning mouse would return to much celebration, while the loser was knocked to the earth from the top of the oak tree.

I can only imagine what the Squirrel Mafia has in store for the future. Surely the neighborhood will fester and go bad. I expect to see strung out chipmunks and blue jay prostitutes turning tricks on my front lawn. Certainly home invasions will become more frequent. There will be a day when I come home to find all my candy stolen from the dishes and my husband's favorite mixed nuts heisted. The rise in kidnapping will have to be dealt with. After all, what's to stop the Squirrel Mafia from absconding my children's beanie babies and holding them for a king's ransom in pistachios? What will I do when these conniving little rodents start flinging themselves at my windows in an attempt to vandalize my home? How worried should I be on the day I wake up to find a decapitated Eeyore head in my bed?

As the days pass, the Squirrel Mafia's power grows. My yard will never be the same. There is no happy chatter between the birds. The chipmunks can no longer dig holes in the flower bed without fear. Above it all, high in the oak tree, the Squirrel Godfather reigns supreme.

The murder tax

The NRA, weapons manufacturers, and hunters all proclaim, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people!". Meanwhile, lobbyists, social reformers, and the media all scream, "Guns Kill!". Well, I think both are wrong. Guns and people don't kill, bullets do!
Who can argue the fact that a pointy lump of metal, ejected from a long tube at 4,000 feet per second (for rifles) and then slamming into a body, is not the major cause of death in firearm related fatalities? Without these explosive little cartridges, a gun is little more than a paper weight that looks redneck chic hanging over the fireplace.
Rather than continue with the currently futile exercise in gun control, I propose that a Murder Tax be implemented. Simply place a hundred dollar tax on each bullet, and sit back and let everything adjust around it. (This plan exempts the armed forces and law enforcement, of course.)
The result is rather predictable. Rather than pay the tax themselves, manufacturers will simply pass the cost along to the consumer. With a box of 20 bullets now running with a 2,000 dollar price tag, most people will simply quit buying them. Others will think twice when pulling a trigger, and everyone's aim will get a hell of a lot better. After all, who wants to miss their target and waste 100 dollars a literal pop?
I doubt that murder will be any less frequent than before, but at least innocent bystanders and deer everywhere will breathe a whole lot easier.

Grandchildren of divorce

Both my husband and I are children of divorce, a fact that has escaped my son Kwiss for quite some time. It was yesterday when the subject of my biological father was brought up for the first time in a private conversation between me and my second born. I quickly noticed his confusion, and explained to my 7 year old that the man I was speaking of was not the same man he knew and loved and lived in Florida. Immediately, he came to a stunning conclusion, Mom had 2 dads!
True to Kwiss form, he wandered off to play video games and contemplate this new insight to his mother's life. About an hour later, there was a thump in the living room as Kwiss threw the controller to the Wii on the floor. I went to see what the noise was about, and found myself privy to the following conversation between Kwiss, and his older sister, Julie.
"Julie! Did you know that Mom has 2 dads?" Kwiss demanded with the relish of someone with really good gossip.
"Duh!" I could just hear Julie roll her eyes. "Of course I know that. I've known that for years."
"Oh." Kwiss was clearly disappointed. He hadn't been the first to know.
"Guess what else, Mom's real dad died." (Note: My father passed away February, 2008)
"Really?" there was a note of fear in his voice as Kwiss' thoughts went to my step-father, whom he knows well and adores.
"Yep. Grandpa in Florida is Mom's step-dad," Julie explained with the confidence of an older child with superior knowledge. "We never met Mom's real dad. He lived in Omaha."
"Wow," Kwiss murmured relieved and thinking what a magical place Omaha must be. He never met anyone from there, that he knew of.
"Yeah. And guess what else. Daddy has two dads too."
"Really?" Kwiss squeaked in disbelief. "Who is Dad's other dad?"
"Grandpa in Colorado is Dad's real father," Julie explained patiently. "Papa is Daddy's step-dad."
Kwiss was astounded.His mind boggled. "When did that happen?"
"Forever ago."
"How?" Kwiss was very alarmed now. He had never heard of such a thing. I felt somewhat encouraged that my 7 year old had not been regaled with tales of divorce from his friends, which meant that none of them knew divorce either. Julie began to explain, badly and awkwardly, the events that followed a divorce. She really had no idea what went on either. At that point, I entered the kitchen to soothe Kwiss and explain the situation, before the two talked themselves into nightmares.
Kwiss looked at me with wide eyes, and opened his mouth to ask a question. Then he closed it with a snap. His shoulders sagged and he let out a heavy sigh, then shook his head in frustrated confusion. Finally, he trudged toward his room with his hands jammed into his