Work today had been typical; I had loads of paperwork and was working my way through it when I came upon a most interesting item, a photocopy of a deposit cheque.
Now, I see these every day, multiple times a day. You may think from my title that said cheque was written: "Reality" instead of the correct: "Realty." I see that (and roll my eyes) all the time.
But no, this one was a real gem.
It was made out to "Remax Relestate."
A person that dumb should not be allowed to purchase a house.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Billy Ivey's Open Letters to Trojan, Part 7
11-18-06
Dear Trojan…
A hormone ate my dinner roll.
We were having dinner the other night — me, my three children, my wife and the fetus — when I asked: “Hey, is there any more bread? I didn’t get a roll.”
You’d have thought my words had been: “I have been thinking about having an affair with the African-American checkout guy at the Shell gas station…”
The look I received was without description. And it cannot be explained. Not with words, anyway.
The fact is, I never received a dinner roll. My oldest daughter ate one. My son dug a hole in his with his pointer-finger and stuck green beans in the middle of it. The one-year old gnawed on hers for a few minutes and I found it an hour later stuck to the side of the fridge.
My wife ate two. I watched her. In fact, witnessing the butter melt over top of the second one is what triggered my initial inquiry…
“What do you mean, ‘Is there any more bread’? You ate your bread…”
No I didn’t.
“You most certainly did.”
“Nope. I had two helpings of beans, but I never got a roll.”
“Yes you did! I made 5 rolls… you must’ve already eaten yours.”
“You made 5 rolls?”
“Of course I made 5 rolls. There are 5 of us in this family!”
“But you had two…”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?”
“You had two rolls.”
“I did not!”
“I promise. I just saw you eat two ro…”
(crash, bang, car noises and then silence)
The kids and I cleaned the kitchen together, I gave them baths and then put them to bed. All in all, it was a pretty quiet evening.
I ended up eating the roll that was stuck to the refrigerator, so everything turned out OK in the end.
My wife came back home a couple of hours later. She said she just needed to get away for a while. She and the fetus stopped for ice cream on the way home.
I asked if she brought any back for me, but I don’t guess she heard me…
*****12-06-06
Dear Trojan…
Her “milk ducts” are forming.
(thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou)
I still do not like you, and I hope bad things happen to you and your company.
*****
12-20-06
Dear Trojan…
Happy Holidays, morons. It’s a good thing Baby Jesus came into the world to save your ashy, black souls.
Dear Trojan…
A hormone ate my dinner roll.
We were having dinner the other night — me, my three children, my wife and the fetus — when I asked: “Hey, is there any more bread? I didn’t get a roll.”
You’d have thought my words had been: “I have been thinking about having an affair with the African-American checkout guy at the Shell gas station…”
The look I received was without description. And it cannot be explained. Not with words, anyway.
The fact is, I never received a dinner roll. My oldest daughter ate one. My son dug a hole in his with his pointer-finger and stuck green beans in the middle of it. The one-year old gnawed on hers for a few minutes and I found it an hour later stuck to the side of the fridge.
My wife ate two. I watched her. In fact, witnessing the butter melt over top of the second one is what triggered my initial inquiry…
“What do you mean, ‘Is there any more bread’? You ate your bread…”
No I didn’t.
“You most certainly did.”
“Nope. I had two helpings of beans, but I never got a roll.”
“Yes you did! I made 5 rolls… you must’ve already eaten yours.”
“You made 5 rolls?”
“Of course I made 5 rolls. There are 5 of us in this family!”
“But you had two…”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?”
“You had two rolls.”
“I did not!”
“I promise. I just saw you eat two ro…”
(crash, bang, car noises and then silence)
The kids and I cleaned the kitchen together, I gave them baths and then put them to bed. All in all, it was a pretty quiet evening.
I ended up eating the roll that was stuck to the refrigerator, so everything turned out OK in the end.
My wife came back home a couple of hours later. She said she just needed to get away for a while. She and the fetus stopped for ice cream on the way home.
I asked if she brought any back for me, but I don’t guess she heard me…
*****12-06-06
Dear Trojan…
Her “milk ducts” are forming.
(thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou)
I still do not like you, and I hope bad things happen to you and your company.
*****
12-20-06
Dear Trojan…
Happy Holidays, morons. It’s a good thing Baby Jesus came into the world to save your ashy, black souls.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
A Little Cross-Cultural Lesson
Next Spring Break our youth group will be joining about 50 other local high school students for a 10-day mission trip to Mexico. We'll be primarily doing construction work.
Lark News has beautifully addressed a common concern regarding such a trip as they detail a letter from Amy; she is seeking advice from a full-time missionary.
(She lives in the States, so there are minor variations, but the same principles apply.)
Q: Dear Missionary,
Help! I took a short-term missions trip to Honduras and really bonded with the people. But one of the boys tracked me down when I got home and wants to marry me and live with my family while he attends college! He has called me several times to tell me I am his family's "angel."
What do I do? What if he comes to visit me? My parents and I are freaked out!
Amy, 19, Memphis, Tenn.
A: Dear Amy,
What a wonderful experience you must have had! Too bad you contracted a bad case of "native-itis." But it can be remedied — with some tough love.
Get out your favorite pen and write a letter to this over-zealous youngster — using a fake return address, of course. Explain that, as admirable as you find his little dreams of a better life, you are not responsible to help him. Be clear: You are an American. He, by chance, is not. You owe him nothing beyond that week of intense bonding and camaraderie you shared in the jungle. If this boy and his family had any manners at all they would say, "Thank you for building the cinderblock church sanctuary for us." And then they would leave you alone.
You see, many non-Americans don't understand that Americans have our own "issues" to deal with, like rising home equity rates, credit card bills, gift shopping at crowded malls — the list goes on. They see us on missions trips and assume charity work is all we do! If only it could be so.
If your letter doesn't work, and his unwanted advances continue, send him the book Boundaries by Henry Cloud, which is available in Spanish. I assume the poor fellow can read. But do NOT send money, or you will attract not only him, but many of his cousins, like cats to a saucer of milk on the backporch. As a last resort, consider that you live in Tennessee, which has a liberal concealed weapon law, if this makes you feel safer.
Good luck and God bless.
Lark News has beautifully addressed a common concern regarding such a trip as they detail a letter from Amy; she is seeking advice from a full-time missionary.
(She lives in the States, so there are minor variations, but the same principles apply.)
Q: Dear Missionary,
Help! I took a short-term missions trip to Honduras and really bonded with the people. But one of the boys tracked me down when I got home and wants to marry me and live with my family while he attends college! He has called me several times to tell me I am his family's "angel."
What do I do? What if he comes to visit me? My parents and I are freaked out!
Amy, 19, Memphis, Tenn.
A: Dear Amy,
What a wonderful experience you must have had! Too bad you contracted a bad case of "native-itis." But it can be remedied — with some tough love.
Get out your favorite pen and write a letter to this over-zealous youngster — using a fake return address, of course. Explain that, as admirable as you find his little dreams of a better life, you are not responsible to help him. Be clear: You are an American. He, by chance, is not. You owe him nothing beyond that week of intense bonding and camaraderie you shared in the jungle. If this boy and his family had any manners at all they would say, "Thank you for building the cinderblock church sanctuary for us." And then they would leave you alone.
You see, many non-Americans don't understand that Americans have our own "issues" to deal with, like rising home equity rates, credit card bills, gift shopping at crowded malls — the list goes on. They see us on missions trips and assume charity work is all we do! If only it could be so.
If your letter doesn't work, and his unwanted advances continue, send him the book Boundaries by Henry Cloud, which is available in Spanish. I assume the poor fellow can read. But do NOT send money, or you will attract not only him, but many of his cousins, like cats to a saucer of milk on the backporch. As a last resort, consider that you live in Tennessee, which has a liberal concealed weapon law, if this makes you feel safer.
Good luck and God bless.
Friday, June 01, 2007
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