Recently I wrote about how Squirt is going to become a famous filmmaker. It’s true. He’s going to be famous, make a bazillion dollars, and then buy his mom a huge house. On the BEACH.
Some of you said you wanted to see this movie, so I asked Squirt and he agreed to put it on my website. I edited out the beginning and the end, but only because it contained some personal information and not because of the poop jokes, no matter what you hear from my boy.
So here is the live-action part of Squirt’s movie, complete with his Engrish-style subtitles. I think it is very artistic but then I’m biased—thinking about that beach house, you know.
Link for feed readers.
Pretty clever, hunh? The kid did everything himself—I only helped with a few shots where he and the neighbor kid needed to be in the same frame.
Today’s Super Sabádo is about a lot of different things. I was looking for ninjas, but they don’t seem to be a real big topic of conversation at the moment, except in our house.
Not being particularly Sarte smart, that sort of groovy-Guru announcement has always made me lay my ears back and ganesh my teeth.
Bernita Harris on killing Buddhas and other such nonsense and we’re sari, but puns crack us up every time.
Day 22 – 8 days to go
I think I can, I think I can.
The Energizer Bunny that is Erika, who chases after her own little ninjas, takes care of her ailing hubby, keeps up with her blogging and does her NaBloPoMo, too. She makes us tired just reading her blog!
I think I don’t wanna be your friend anymore.
Heather of Life in the ‘shwa, who is perhaps not so much Energizer Bunny as she is more like us.
I’ve noticed that these Italian humans are more wary of dogs in general than British people are. And when they come to the house they don’t want their faces washed. They don’t seem to like having their heads sat upon, either!
Simone, the golden-haired caretaker of Welshcakes Limoncello, describing one of the less obvious differences between Sicilians and the British.
Personally I wouldn’t do it as I’d be afraid of getting stuck and having to have the fire dept come and use the jaws of life to get my ass out of it.
Secret Squirrel, on the potential hazards of frolicking in MacDonald’s Play Place
Im no namby-pamby pinko-liberal tree-hugger but…
Forward, positively speaks out against sneaky submarines. He doesn’t say anything against ninjas, though, thank goodness!
Oh! Here she come. She getting closer. She almost in reach. Just little bit more… Two more steps and Og show her up close and personal just how emppy those damn “squirt” pots really are.
One of Ms. Karen‘s multiple personalities, Og, also known as the Scourge of Clueless Baristas Everywhere.
I could suck on my own toes if I wanted to. I can also curl them under my feet.
The ultra-flexible Lesia, providing us with a rather startling vision of a certain southern writer.
A child – who broke both his ankles over the summer (on a tampoline) – coming home from his friend’s house to tell you he’d been jumping on a trampoline . . . OMG – can you say apoplectic?
Dennie of Dennie’s Thoughts, with a great example of what it’s like to parent ninjas—er, we mean BOYS.
I can do nothing – NOTHING – about what happens to The Boy. When his plane touches down on foreign soil, it will be no different, really, than when he turned 18. I am his mom, and I love him, but the control I have over his life now is nil.
Peacemonger Mom, with a hard fact we parents must face eventually.
My husband about choked on his halibut and I could hear forks dropping around the room as the girls continued their little routine–the only thing missing was the poles.
Robin of Scribbit, for whom a black-tie affair in Anchorage was a little racier than any of the organizers ever expected.
Any stuffed animal resembles his stuffed chicken. Including my shoes.
Kristen of Castle of Chaos, on the dietary predilection of a certain basset mix named Digger.
We celebrated our Thanksgiving yesterday, and you know what THAT means:
PIE FOR BREAKFAST, TODAY! Yippee!!
Groovyoldlady, a woman we feel has captured perfectly the true meaning of the holidays.
… except for those pesky agents and editors and their quest for that “certain spark” they are looking for in their writers. NEWSFLASH: It is time those rejection letters let go of that cliche. See, Im looking for something more in my rejection letters. Something that fits in my house, something with that, well, “certain spark.”
Desperate Writer, taking a swipe at the hackneyed old plot device all the agents and editors continue to use.
Mickey Mouse scrapbook paper
Part of Honey‘s packing list for a trip to visit family. We assume the killer bunnies are for those relatives who ask, “so when are you gonna have some kids?” But what is the Mickey Mouse scrapbook paper for?
Any recipe from the Sandra Lee chick on Food Network. The chick is a lush, her food looks nasty, and her boobs are in a real weird place on her body.
Jaime of Lunacy for Beginners, on one of the many things to avoid this holiday season.
Are you a well-mannered individual with a vintage Charlie’s Angels lunchbox?
Are you SCUBA certified with a pied a terre in Manhattan?
Are you a sassy cat-lover with cojones of steel?
Vaguely Urban, who has an Extraordinary sense of when a commercial can be too eclectic.
It’s Friday and I thought I would update the blog. I drank a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, but I’ll be damned if I could come up with anything.
i finally killed him today.
and got teary eyed doing so.
No need to call the police. It’s only the tender-hearted Cyn, on a recent development in her novel.
…that disgusting book by that disgusting person that killed two people and got away with it!
The not-so-tender-hearted Bonnie Calhoun, ranting about a certain book author whose book deal just got yanked. We’re with you, Bonnie: good riddance!
Wouldn’t you know it but I’m having trouble with the W key on my laptop sticking. Actually it’s not sticking, I’m just having to punch the crap out of it to get it to work. Not a good thing when your name starts with a W.
Wander of Wander’s World, discovering what life is like without our Ws—we shudder in sympathy.