Completely irreverent and hysterically funny, Pamela (Don’t call me Pam) Dayton of The Dayton Time is the mother of 4 and wife to The Mister. She’s a powerhouse of intelligence and calm in a small package (I mean, I’m guessing she’s small – for some reason, she doesn’t list her height on her blog, WTF Pamela?). She also makes a mean granola.

Dear Barbra Streisand,

What. The. Fuck. I was out to dinner with The Mister last night celebrating our anniversary, and out of nowhere, your Super Jew version of Rodgers’ and Hammerstein’s My Favorite Things started blasting. I’m not actually sure how recording this usually peppy, upbeat song about, umm, FAVORITE THINGS in a minor key really conveys the intended message. Because really? Whiskers on kittens are cute, and generally make everybody but Otis T. Catflinger an ooey gooey mess. Also? Christmastime is happy. I know that historically the Jews aren’t always the happiest of people, but throw us merry Christmas-ers a bone, will you? And even if you can’t get behind the whole kittens thing, and warm woolen mittens make even your hoohoo itchy, you have to get excited about brown paper packages tied up with strings, unless you’re the freaking Grinch. And spoiler alert: even the Grinch came around to the idea of merry Christmas.

With a Smooch For Each Cheek,

the boss of things

*****lalalalalalala*****

Dear Person Who Applies the Cream Cheese to Bagels at Tim Horton’s,

What. The. Fuck. And, yes, I’m addressing you the same way I addressed Babs. You should feel happy about that, I’m guessing. This will be short and sweet. Well, maybe not even remotely sweet, but here goes:

I ORDERED CREAM CHEESE ****ON**** THE BAGEL. I DID NOT ORDER IT ****IN THE HOLE**** ON THE BAGEL. If I wanted my cream cheese on the side, or on the INside, I would have ordered it that way. I’m sure they don’t pay you enough to take pride in the pristine application of cream cheese, but they sure as hell pay you to put the fucking cream cheese on the fucking bagel.

So figure it out already.

Flashing the international sign that you’re a moron (just in case you’re Canadian and this is actually an international misunderstanding),

the boss of things

*****lalalalalalalalala*****

Dear Hotfessional,

India, huh? I hear it’s really gross in India. Not that I know this firsthand, it’s just that one time my brother went and said it smelled really bad. But then again, when he comes home to Western New York, he says it smells bad, so he might not be a reliable source.

Here’s a couple of pointers, though, because things are a little different there. First, don’t actually pee in the streets. I know you’ll see a lot of that, but this is no When-In-Rome kind of situation. Wait until you get back to your hotel. Second, don’t bother wearing a seat belt. If you get in a car wreck, you’ll be better off being thrown from the vehicle and bouncing off a cow. And finally, do not, under any circumstances, joke about cow-tipping. Your joke will go right over their heads, or you’ll go right to jail. Or something.

Love and kisses and you’re welcome,

Pamela

—- Thanks Pamela. I promise – no peeing in the street and no cow-tipping. —-

Look! I have friends willing to babysit this site while I’m trying hard to NOT get malaria! How awesome is that? Krissa, from over at HalfAsstic is first out of the gate. She’s the hilarious Texan with a heart of gold and a bathroom full of adult diapers.

HI!

Guess what!? Ree asked me to GUEST POST on her blog and I couldn’t be more excited! I have been trying to think of something special to write about for days. And finally, this morning, immediately upon waking, (at least I think I was awake…), it came to me in a flash. Perfect! Stunning in it’s very brilliance. I lie there in bed not quite fully roused and the priceless bits of wisdom that a person is prone to that early in the morning just kept piling up. The words flowed like water downhill. It all meshed. It all sounded like I’d spent hours in a dictionary investigating every possible adjective and then did a government subsidized study, polling no less than 1000 English speaking Americans from the mid-west to pick the exact right ones.

It was all good.

Coming awake I ran in and rushed to get prepared to do some serious writing.

Deodorant/antiperspirant was applied. (Ree is my friend and I don’t want anyone talking smack about my pits smelling on her blog.)

Clean underwear was donned.

Face washed.

Teeth brushed (huh… Need to make an appointment to get a cleaning…).

Wait a minute! Is that a zit coming up?! NO! I WILL NOT GET SUCKED INTO FACE PICKING! MUST. TYPE. POST.

I arrive at HACK just as the very last images of my brainstorm are fading from above my head like the gigantic brain fart they were.

Now, breaking out into a light sweat with the effort at concentration, I can recall only the basic premise of the soul of my post. Something like…

Soup is hot.

NO, NO, NO! Wait! Is that right? Well, let me think about it…

Yup. That’s it! Now we should probably explore that theory some….

Soup is also cold. SOUP IS ALSO COLD.

This isn’t going like it was in my head this morning before the Ambien had worn completely off. Maybe some personal opinion is needed.

Soup should be hot. Cold soup is just stupid and if you want cucumbers you should eat a salad.

THERE! Ta Da!

—- Krissa’s never one to hide her personal opinion. No, really – go check her out if you don’t believe me. —-