Very near to you, actually, as I'm talking about this one you're reading right now.
After yesterday's post angered someone who happened upon my blog because she set a Google alert for Twilight -- crap, that won't bring her back, will it? Pass me a silver bullet or wooden stake, will ya? -- I spent the day wondering who I could annoy next with a pot shot here and a pot shot there.
Truthfully, I spent zero time because, firstly, I clearly don't spend any time thinking of posts nor writing them and, b, I had thought of this Wednesday night and, in conclusion, it underscores what losers I'm raising because of my poor parenting.
In addition to being forced to read the Guinness Book of World Records, my kids are also forced to discuss their lives every night at dinner. [Yeah, I know, how horrible am I?] Daughter mentions that the middle school's planner shows Zac Efron's birthday but doesn't show Kelly Clarkson's birthday in April.
"That stinks!" she says.
The conversation with her and Eldest and me centers around my outrage -- there's that damn word again -- over the fact that celebrity birthdays are noted.
"Couldn't they tell you when George Washington was born?" I bemoan.
"February 12!" the seven-year-old wunderkind shouts.
"Or Abraham Lincoln?" I go on.
"February 22!" wunderkind shouts.
"Or Galileo or even George W. Effin' Bush?" I plead, screeching by this point.
Both middle schoolers roll their eyes and turn to page 342 in the Guinness book. To commiserate, I pop open a Guinness and join them.
[Photo courtesy of the Dailymail.co.uk. You get it, yeah? World's biggest dog meets world's smallest dog? I didn't have to spell it out for you, did I? See. Spot. Run.]