Could I be cleaning the garage? Sure.
Could I be editing my screenplay, "Murder, She Drunkenly Mumbled"? Yup. (I'm thinking it will be the perfect vehicle for either Sally Fields or Jessica Simpson- I can't decide.)
Could I be perfecting my clogging routine? Well, it could use some tweaking, that's for sure.
Could I be washing my pussy? (get your mind out of the gutter, perv.) Always.
Or, could I be cleaning this ever-present eyesore?
How about this one?
Instead I decided to revisit my former odd fascination with New Kids on the Block.
Yes, you heard right. New Kids on the Block (which, from here on will be referred to as NKotB. Word.)
What's that? You're saying, "But Whiskeymarie, surely you were far, far too old for NKotB to have been age-appropriate! Weren't you like, 35 when they were popular? Aren't you old enough to have sprouted one or more of them from your baby incubator?"
All valid questions.
All questions I am choosing to ignore right now, thank you very much.
Oddly enough, my disconcerting obsession with NKotB came YEARS after the 13 year-olds stopped squealing with glee and started right about when those same girls were awkwardly losing their precious virginity with some dude named Trevor in their dorm room Freshman year of College after a few Seagram's wine coolers.
Have you already forgotten how monumentally uncool I am? Why, oh why must I keep reminding you? Why?
It all started innocently enough. This NKotB obsession of mine.
- I bought a t-shirt in the bargain, bargain, bargain bin somewhere for $4 as an ironic joke.
- Then I got a VHS video. (Again, a joke.)
- Then an orange plastic lunchbox with matching thermos. (Not "ha-ha" funny anymore. More "funny" funny.)
- Then a duffel bag. (Um...o.k. Whatever.)
- Then a sleeping bag. (Yeah- this is getting kind of creepy. Are you off your meds again Whiskey?)
- Then some puzzles. (This is getting "intervention" wrong on 8 different levels.)
But my favorite thing(s) I got were thing(s) I actually used.
For some reason I can't find Donnie in my sock drawer right now. I think he ran off to reunite the Funky Bunch and take his bro's place as the front man.
We can hope anyways...
Here I'm having a make out 3-way with two of my boys:
Here I'm using the current popular vernacular, "Word." As in, "Word to your mother.":
Here I think I was doing some sort of interpretive dance to an Enya song?:
Let's pretend that last one isn't there for now, o.k? Good. Thanks.
I sold most of the crap/cherished memorabilia at various garage sales over the years, but I still have the socks. And, other than one I gave to this sassy broad, I still have two of the puzzles.
Here they are with Mr. T (a.k.a. "Mudbutt"):
What's that you say? You would like one of these 500-piece beauties for your own? You want to mount it on a board and hang it in your living room?
Just tell me why you should have one, and I'll randomly pick two of y'all lucky, lucky people to receive them.* (Well, I'll randomly pick two of you assuming that there is more than two of you that would actually want them.)
I will gladly mail them to you. Third runner up (again, if there is one) gets a mystery consolation prize. I promise it won't be anything gross or smelly.
*Disclaimer: 500 pieces not guaranteed. Winner must be willing to provide some sort of address to mail the fun to. "Fun" is a trademark of Whiskeymarie, Inc, and in no way implies that said recipient will experience "fun." Puzzle at your own risk, lifeguard not on duty.