Twice on the Fourth of July, I got called a big fatty. The first time, I was handling my gut -- grabbing handfuls and jiggling it up and down while seated. Putting this in writing makes me realize that it's odd behavior, but I'm sure it was to make some point or other. Amanda asked, "Goodness, you aren't riding your bike any more?"

I feel bad for little Blossom. Last night, Lili detected some creature in one of our bushes, and did her beagle bark (BARROOOOOOOOOOO!!!) for about fifteen minutes. I dragged her into the house, but she just went back out the door and started up again. Blossom is her faithful sidekick, and hung out outside with the crazy beagle.

Last Friday evening, I dropped Mrs. theskinnyonbenny off at the airport. A quick "be careful, love you, yada yada," and I peeled out of the airport loading lane, free for a day and a half to myself.

I got to thinking about Three's Company today. And I've decided that a big part of why it's no big deal for people of my generation to have opposite-sex roommates is that our parents spent so much time in 1979 defending Jack's right to cohabitate with Janet and Chrissy. I know this sounds ludicrous, but I remember that it really was a controversy when that show was a prime-time series.

Three really short stories, but they're all funny.

I really wish someone would run a weekend marathon of old That's Incredible episodes from the 1970s. I bet that show is so over-the-top bad, that the producers are embarrassed to have been associated with it. But when I was in elementary school, everyone watched it every single week. (I wonder what it's competition was. Sure, there were just three channels, but still....)

Like most people, I detest Monday mornings. But it isn't that I dread getting in the car and handling a commute; my commute is only seven minutes. And it isn't getting to my desk and dealing with whatever comes my way. In fact, there has been a crisis each of the past few Mondays. Perhaps I'm jaded, but the client crisis doesn't get me too worked up any more. Sure, I'll try to address the problem right away, but it's not something I sweat. Or dread.

On the Wednesday the week of my Las Vegas trip, I checked out of the MGM (work trip) and into Caesar's (my trip). I had just gotten up to my room in the newest tower at Caesar's when my cell phone rang. It was Sharples. "Hey, what are you doing?"

I give some animals some medicine every month. Y'all will be surprised.

Let's face it. Unless you travel somewhere -- and somewhere doesn't include Baton Rouge -- summer is D - U - L - L, dull. College baseball is over (at least for me it's over), and the NBA will be done pretty soon. Let's not pretend that Major League Baseball is interesting. (At least not the games. The steroid controversies are a little interesting.) I have yet to cut the sleeves off of a collared shirt, and therefore don't have that part of my brain that would also allow me to follow NASCAR.

Yesterday after basketball at lunch, I went to the Subway on Government street. I was in front of him in line, having trouble figuring out what to order. "I dunno... what are you going to have?"

If you know me -- either in real life or just through reading here -- you have probably inferred that I'm not a very political person. You would be right. It's not that I'm uninterested; I find aspects of politics fascinating. The thing is that I don't care. It's just entertainment to me.