Satan's Egg (The Great Green Olive)

I am one end of the vociferous eel but not sure which. I should create my own screen name so that you can tell one brilliant mind from the other but I am too fucking stupid to figure out the blog settings. So... since I don't know any of you anyway nor do I care very much for that matter, you can all waste your time figuring out who is whom or whom is who.

Update -- For all those concerned, my wife did survive the massive, self-induced annihilation of her gray matter. However, the depth of her humiliation led to the baseless declaration that I tried to assassinate her by way of my potent potables. And to think I lied to the kids and said she had a stomach virus to protect her. Thankless woman.

Funny, if it were the other way around and I was the one drooling on the bedroom floor and speaking in tongues through breath laced with the fragrance of olives I would have been deemed an immature asshole. For this to happen to her though - foul play SURELY must have been involved. Unbelievable, you say? You'd think.

I must go now and get some relief from this double hernia.
TIP: Please remember this... the next time you try to help someone close to you... "passed-out-weight" is just as heavy as "dead-weight"!

The Other End should be gracing you all shortly.

My son felt up my wife/his mother

That's all kinds of strange and pride inducing that title above. I really can't figure out my feelings on this. Shauneen is still out. Cold.

Our wives have just had too much vodka and we're starting a blog

Greg just asked: "Where's Nora?"

She's downstairs, I think. And has been for at least 5 minutes. I would worry, but we're starting this blog.

"Dude, I'm serious. I have never not been able to pick up my wife. If I got married now, I fucking wouldn't be able to carry her over the threshold." He said more. But I can't write that now. It would be really not nice.

We're here. Wilberville, USA. Drinking. Our kids - 4 of them, 3 and 7 each (figure it out, ok) - are doing whatever. We don't really care.

My wife reappears. She's alive. Good. She makes more money.

**************

So, my wife is in bed, pleading that I apologize on her behalf for drinking six-too-many 'tinis. Sinead blares through the old time wrestling of two generations of Marouli and one of my own. Nora, poor Nora, is trying to figure out the most acceptable way to say "Get me the fuck out of here" and I have two children that think that vodka, Green Day and phrases like "What the hell is wrong with your mother?" are acceptable. I fear that our grand scheme of a night of unbridled partying is about to come to a crashing halt. Stay tuned to learn the sad details of how two thirty-something couples spent the remainder of their first Saturday evening together in eons.