Eleven gold medals behind China. But, we’re ranked number one overall in medal count. I was wondering where Canada stood this night.

(You know, after my Jaguars got horrifically massacred by the 1 and 15 Dolphins tonight. The Miami mammals with the worst NFL record last year). I was crying in my sushi.

Canada, you ask? Medal count? Geez. Get this…We’re tied for 25th with Indonesia! Indonesia? WTF? Summer games just aren’t our forte, folks.

Just wait ’til Whistler, y’all. Twenty ten and shit. I’ve already begun compiling my commemorative pins, too! Canada’s gonna put the smackdown on all you, fo’ sho’.

And we’ll just see how your toboggan slides then, beeotch!

PS- Nice going, Phelps! You’ve made us so proud.

Barack Obama.

If you’re a part of the Georgepublican-loop, it’ll be three words; Barack Obama Bin Laden. (Didya notice that our dear George miscounted?) I knew that you did-educated bunch, you are!

Did you also catch his inappropriate smiling during Bob Costas’ interview in Beijing? I for one, was embarrassed for our country. Imagine a leader, (look it up- it doesn’t mean war monger) smiling when asked about agendas. “I don’t need the olympics to advance America’s agenda.” And then there’s this;  “I don’t see America as having problems…”

I do. I see us as having BIG fucking problems, Georgie-poo. We’re not leaders anymore.

If we can’t vote this right, I’m moving left.

Peace out y’all.

Yeah.

My head, like my bed is empty right now. I’m afraid that I must have let go of my, ‘WOW.’

I used to have game, y’all. Really I did. Not so much today, it’s come to the skids.

My weight that has gained, caused romance to wane. It sucks but it’s true, us women pursue…

…We want so much to look like this girl or that. We peer into mirrors and think that we’re fat.

Women are gifted, but I forget this at times. I get trapped by the notion, and the;  “size two”  head crimes.

I’m going so soon, to the land of Ohio. The girls haven’t seen me since I was sooo fly-o.

It’s all good. I’ve warned all my ladies. It’s my humor they seek, or so they’ve told all my maties.

Not such a pirate these days of dog summer, but I’m getting back on my track so it’s not such a bummer.

I’ll chuckle and snicker and make light of the scale, but inside I’ll fret over my mirror’s inner whale.

My bed lies still empty-I guess it’s ok. I doubt that I’d want you beside me today.

I’d roll over to find that you’re still not here. I’ll snuggle instead with my overweight fear.

My bed, like my head, is empty this night. But my faith in Slim-Fast makes everything allright.

G’night all you ladies who harbor self doubt. I’ll take your false mirrors and toss ’em about.

So I was just driving home. It was a long trip, this one. Destin is a few hundred miles of vague, en route memories. Blew out a tire. Again. Such are the normalcies in the road life of Dee. Thank the stars for the three A’s. Towed me into “enemy territory”. Enemy, because the Seminoles are housed therein. Not that I regularly give a shit about the rivalries between the two Florida Universities; it’s taken me at least a decade to know which one is where. (UF is in Gainseville and Fl State is in Tallahassee) But I  feel that I must house an alliance with the one school that the majority of people that I know, go. Or, want to go. So… U of F it is  (Orange and blue, to me and you).

But that isn’t what this story’s about…

It’s about the song that popped in my head along interstate 75.

Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. You know it?

I have no clue as to why this repetitious fodder would pop into my grey matter at that particular moment, other than the fact that driving anywhere in the state of Flat-ida causes the brain to conjour up mundane, ritualistic tunes. (“Ding-Dong the witch is dead, which old witch? The wicked witch…”)

I pondered…

…wondered why;

a) Folks would keep their beer on a wall. Don’t most people store/refrigerate their libations in a climate controlled area? Like a fridge? Duh?!

b) Ninety-nine? Why not round it up to one hundred?

And finally:

c) What makes a bottle;  “happen to fall?” An earthquake?

Shouldn’t we be running for our lives rather than counting down to the next freakin’ bottle?

Nevertheless, I only got to 97 bottles before I exited at that blessed rest stop in Marrianna, Fl.

After all that singing about beer..well, you know the rest.

I directly directed the automatic flush.

No more bottles of beer on the wall…I’m stuck on Gilligan’s friggin’ Island now!