Dear Urban Nomad

For the past three nights, we’ve caught some dude on camera rifling through our truck ( we leave it unlocked and don’t leave anything in worth stealing – saves us a broken window).  So last night we had a few cocktails and filled a decorative box with ashes from our fireplace, added a few dog bone shards, put in the truck to be stolen and left a note inside the box that said:

“Congratulations, you’ve managed to steal our Great Aunt Judy’s remains. We didn’t like her much and were debating what to do with her ashes so you’ve saved us the trouble but the next time you decide to steal something from our truck – keep in mind it could be something equally devoid of monetary value such as a really heavy box of mason jars. Or it could be something worse, like a tarantula. You see we’re thinking of starting our own Homemade Jelly Factory/Spider Petting Zoo. We’re sure it could be very popular – come for the delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and stay to stroke the spiders.

For that matter, we may leave our territorial ferret, Sharkey, in the truck to give you a nice welcome. He loves slithering up your pant leg when you aren’t looking and he’s got very sharp teeth. He’s a real People Pherret.

BTW Aunt Judy really liked her gin and tonics so maybe you could just disperse her ashes among the booze bottles you so helpfully removed the other night from our recycling bin after picking through all our garbage. Our neighbors already suspect we’re alcoholics so we were pleased to see all those bottles disappear into your shopping cart right after you tried to break into our mailbox.”

Sincerely,

McBitters – Future Jelly Magnates

PS: We’ve included a picture of Sharkey – isn’t he adorable?

Ferret

Dear SCOTUS

I’m a business owner and I’m still a little confused by your recent Holy Lobby decision. I have just a few questions I’m hoping you can clear up which I’ve listed below.

1: As a business owner can I cancel boner pills from all employee healthcare plans since it causes men to rape and murder women even though there is no scientific basis for my “sincerely held belief?”

2: I also believe that vaccinations are unholy because they clearly cause autism and everyone knows children with autism grow up to be mass murders like that Sandy Hook fellow – does this mean I can eliminate vaccinations from healthcare plans?

3: Another belief I hold dear is that Gay people are infecting this great country with Gayness so can I institute a healthcare plan for (just Gay) employees that only covers Conversion Therapy until they become Not Gay?

4: Since my sincerely held beliefs now trump my employees’ needs and healthcare choices, can I apply this to other elements of their financial compensation? Because I would really like to implement a policy that would allow me to dock people’s pay if they don’t go to church every Sunday. Being raised a Catholic I know failure to go to a church is a mortal sin which mean employees could be at risk for spending an eternity in hell.

5: And finally, does part of my Religious Corporate Personhood include the right to bear arms and Stand My Ground. Because I’m pretty sure some of my competitors and vendors are agents of Satan who could pose an imminent danger and may need to be eradicated.

Thanks so much and I look forward to your thoughtful and (not at all Old Sexist Christo White Man –ey) response.

Sincerely,

 

Old Bitter

Chief Devotion Officer

Dear Friends and Family

As I approach the one year anniversary of my dad’s death and think back on his life, it still irks me that his official obituary was an incoherent word salad that appeared to have been written by either a really smart monkey or really dumb human. (It was the latter)

So I decide to write my own obituary because after I die it will, of course, be too late to avoid the same fate. And here it is.

“McBitter passed away last night. Cause of death is unknown but she (probably) choked on her own rage. Bitter was the favorite child of her father, John and least favorite of her mother, Sue making her a typical middle child. She is survived by her brother Mike, who no longer has to worry she might show up unexpectedly in Singapore and bring shame upon that branch of the family and her sister Lisa, who has (maybe) forgiven Bitter for constantly beating her up when they were children. She wasn’t particularly beloved by family members since she almost always either flat-out forgot ( pre-Facebook) or was months late in sending birthday gifts. Bitter and her husband, Mr. Bitter, were Drunk Married by Fake Elvis in Vegas in 2011. They never had children because they actively disliked any child under the age of 7 – – except their nieces, Lindsey, Lauren, Lainey and Ellen. Together they founded and then quickly forgot about DAMM (Drunks Against Mad Mothers).

Her college career was distinguished by 8 consecutive semesters of academic probation and her family doubted that she actually graduated until finding a dusty old diploma stuffed in an empty Budweiser case with old pictures and a ceramic bong after her death. She was a member of Pi Beta Phi before they kicked her out for non-payment of chapter dues. Her sole achievement was racking up the largest fine in sorority history for skipping Rush Week and heading to New York City with three dudes in a (sort of) stolen car with suitcase full of LSD.

Bitter had a variety of careers including: bartender, truck driver, landscaper, dogsbody, DJ, event planning and worst of all, marketer. Along the way she worked for/with a plethora of loathsome people including a Trust Funder who embezzled from his sick elderly grandmother and (probably) molested his dog and a woman so consumed by jealousy that she pulled a gun and proceeded to shoot up the work place. Despite this, Bitter always said marketing was the most cut-throat job of all. She was so hated by her vendors, it’s surprising she didn’t end up a corpse in the trunk of an abandoned car at the airport.

During the Zombie Wars, she and husband Scott created the Border Collie College, a program to train herding breeds to move mobs of The UnDead towards and over the edge of deep old wells in the middle of nowhere – code named “Operation Lassie.” They also devised a weapon called Buster Gas, inspired by and named after the flatulent family dog. The gas, which smelled like an unconscious frat boy after a 4 day bender in Vegas, was used to lure The UnDead into Zombie Concentration Camps/dilapidated Walmart stores where they were burned for fuel.

Having survived a career in Marketing and the Zombie Apocalypse, her later years were uneventful and spent mostly cocktailing ( thanks to her new liver grown by the Tyrell Corporation)  with her husband at their vacation home on the moon and drunk-posting anonymous content on the newly created Cyberdyneverse 360.

In lieu of flowers and donations – except for Alternative Lifestyle Friends who are expected to send fabulous floral arrangements – please just give that drunk bum on the corner a fiver or the old man muttering, “Get off my lawn” a huge hug. Because that’s what Bitter would have done.”

Please do not put my obit on any of those cheesy online obituary sites where people can openly post comments – even after death I prefer my numerous enemies not be able to have the last word.  No need to worry about an epithet or a tombstone as I’ve asked Mr. Bitter to cremate me .  Sadly, city ordinances prevent me from having a huge funeral pyre which I thought would be fitting since my soul ( if all those crazy Fundamental Christians are actually right) is also destined to burn (in the Flames of Hell).

McBitter

PS: Since I’m still alive for now – let me know if you want me to write your obits as well – thinking about adding “Obituary Writer” to my list of occupations.

PSS: Also, I had Mr. Bitter freeze my DNA so when that new cloning technology gets approved by the FDA, I’ll be baacckkkkk.

 

Dear Criminals,

Thanks for taking some junk off our hands, even though you probably weren’t aware that the power washer, shop vacuum and chainsaw were all destined for the dump because they no longer work.  And that heavy locked toolbox you stole was probably very tempting, but as you’ve already discovered – it was filled with bent nails and old chains.  The only reason it was locked was because we couldn’t find the key ( it’s probably in the toolbox).

However I was most unhappy that you failed to steal the rickety old furniture, destined for Goodwill, that was in plain sight.  In the future, I’ll be sure to put labels on everything that says things like, “Estate sale – priceless Busk + Hertzog chair.  $1,000,000.00” or “Sotheby’s Auction House – Chippendale Chair PLEASE DO NOT STEAL.”  And my collection of Hideous CDs That People Leave Behind at Your House After a Party which included Dido, Super Tramp and Ke$ha (also destined for Goodwill) remained Un Stolen.  What the hell kind of thieves are you?

I was also disappointed that you failed to close the door after cleaning us out.  If the garage door hadn’t been open when I looked out of the bathroom window I would have been blissfully unaware of your presence in my garage for at least a couple more hours and I would have been spared the following experiences:

  • 1: Getting out of the shower and realizing there could be (possibly dangerous) thieves in my garage while NAKED
  • 2:  Throwing on random clothes in order to not get (maybe) murdered while naked
  • 3:  Still worrying about being murdered while wearing ill-fitting yoga pants and no make-up
  • 4: Worrying about catching pneumonia due to going outside with wet hair.
  • 5:  Almost severing my femoral artery at least 4 times with wildly swinging fireplace place poker ( I challenge you to try control two unruly excited dogs on leashes while  armed with an andiron – it requires a lot of stamina and dexterity)

Since you stole the garage door opener, I can only assume you plan to come back.  There’s only one problem with that – the garage door opener doesn’t work – don’t bother replacing the battery, we already tried that.  Which is too bad since I had such an awesome surprise planned for your next illegal foray into our garage.  Don’t want to give too much away but it involves Patchouli gas, the soundtrack to the Lion King, a balloon drop ( but instead of balloons it would be dog turds), indoor fireworks, Silly String and rabid ferrets.

However – if you decide to come back anyway – there’s still a few things left.  There’s the termite infested firewood from our neighbor Bramble Dan, an entire tub of heavy-duty plastic bags, a broken weedwacker, 800 cans of dried up paint, ripped lawn chair cushions, a pair of crocs, a gas grill that a rodent lived in until our vicious hunting dog sniffed him out and a couple of bags of organic dirt.  It’s all there for taking.

Sincerely,

Vigilante Bitter

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

You probably didn’t know this, because there’s a lot you don’t know about my life these days, but very infrequently I write a blog.   Don’t get me wrong, the fact we’re not close isn’t really a ding on you – it just is what it is. I moved 2000 miles across the country and you remarried into another family – people I didn’t particularly like.  Shit happened, feelings got hurt and some relationships were irrevocably damaged.  Not exactly a blissful Brady Bunch merging of two clans, but you seemed happy with the arrangement and in the end that’s what counted.  As I get older, I can appreciate that desire to still feel relevant and useful.  And certainly taking in and taking care of your new wife’s grown-ass children, who always seemed to need something, probably made you feel good. Being the Man of the Hour is a lot more gratifying than listening to your daughter drone on about a place you’ve never been to, activities you find boring, and dog farts. So I get it.  But I resented it.

However, in your last days, those same people I have derided for the last 25 years as grifters, graspers, and hopeless losers have done everything in their  power (however feeble that might be) to make you feel comfortable. For which I am grateful.  And now I have to admit it’s possible I was (just a tad) judgmental.   I know – contain your surprise. But in my defense, I am a middle child – and we middle children excel in distrust, deviousness and holding grudges.  We’re really good at holding grudges.

Since you don’t have much time left, I decided to write you a letter because it’s hard sometimes to say the things you want to say during the course of a regular conversation. And I’m better at writing things down ( hence the occasional blog post)  And because I wouldn’t begin to know how to write about dying with any grace or sensitivity, I decided to write about The Childhood.  I had a great childhood – aside from being grounded most of my high school years – it was pretty idyllic.  I remember living in Virginia and riding a bus an hour every day to the Catholic School where the only hot lunch you got was the weekly “Hot Dog Wednesdays.”  (probably the reason why I’m still scared of nuns to this day, but hot dogs are my Kryptonite).  OK, maybe that wasn’t so fun, but I remember liking Virginia a lot.  Rolling hills and going to the neighborhood pool where you taught me to swim and would let me stand on your shoulders and dive off into the pool.

During the Virginia years, I remember going on those DC trips to see Aunt Joann and all her kids which was great fun.  You adults all got drunk and played bridge while us kids ran wild.  An occurrence that still continues at every Family Reunion.  Did you know the first time I ever smoked pot was at the Dark reunion in Kalamazoo on Lake Gourdneck?  Oh man that was a fun reunion.  In fact all the Family Reunions were fun – I feel lucky I got to grow up with a dad who had so many siblings and a shit ton of older cousins who I thought were the epitome of cool.  Tim Dark taught me how to throw a Frisbee properly (in addition to the whole pot thing)

And I used to love to go to Michigan every summer to the lake.  Sometimes you’d take me fishing – which was boring on one hand – but on the other hand it was great to be out on the lake in a boat early in the morning with my dad even if we never caught many- er – any  fish. Remember that time I wanted to jump off the floating dock by myself, but you said I had to jump into your arms so I turned, ran and jumped off the opposite end?  At which point you probably had to save me from drowning, after all I was only 4 at the time.  At the lake is where I learned to play cards on those rainy days when we were trapped inside together with nothing to do, something to prevent us kids from killing each other. You’ll be happy to know I’m carrying on the family tradition of Drunk Card playing.

I remember those trips down to Florida to visit Grandpa and Grandma McBitter and staying in their house on the canal.  Since I was an incorrigible brat you always had to defend me to Grandma McBitter – let’s face it years later, at Grandpa’s funeral she STILL remembered me as The Worst Grandchild ( out of hundreds!)  And I still remember her as “The Terrifying Grandma with Serious Helmet Hair.” Grandma McBitter told me a crocodile lived in the canal and ate ducks and small disobedient children. And I totally believed her.

When we moved to Indiana, I absolutely did not want to go – I told you I would just live with the Morgans.  But you told my eight year old self that I would like Indiana and that I would quickly make friends with all the kids in our new neighborhood.  And it turns out you were right.  The neighborhood was filled with kids my age and there were a lot of fun summers riding bikes and hanging out at the neighborhood pool.  There were swim meets where the kids would all eat powdered Jello, while the adults were probably all drinking coffee laced with booze because I distinctly remember lots of raucous Grown-up Gatherings in the neighborhood – leading me to believe you were all Drunkards ( must be genetic then)

I remember you fake spanking me in the basement on a couple of occasions.  Because I was always in imminent danger of committing a spanking offense–every once in while you took pity on me and spanked a board instead while I would fake cry.

I remember you teaching me how to hit a softball, this spared me from being that kid on the team that everyone hated – because they couldn’t hit the damn softball!    I remember you teaching me how to sail a boat and not getting mad when I crashed it into the wall at Geist Lake.  I also remember you tying the boat (not very securely) to the top of the family car for one of many lake vacations and spending the many hours in the car wondering if it would fall off.

That was a recurring theme – Will the Shit Dad tied to the Top of the Car Fall Off?  When I was in college you came down to pick me up for a school break.  Debbie and I smoked a couple bong hits before you arrive thinking that being stoned would be a pleasant way to pass the time while you chauffeured us home.  Imagine my dismay when you said you were tired and that I should drive and then proceeded to make me stop at a lumber place so you could pick up some fence posts and tie them NOT AT ALL securely to the top of the car.  As if driving high with your dad in the back seat isn’t bad enough – I also had to worry about the damn fence posts falling off. Watching them sway back and forth was strangely mesmerizing – adding to the difficulty of driving.

And then there was that time you came down to college because I had overdrawn my checking account.  You wanted to  help me figure it out but I told you I had dropped my checkbook in the toilet, rendering it illegible.  Which we both knew was a lie.  In the end you made me take out a loan to pay off my debt but you were good enough to co-sign so I could even qualify for a loan.  This lesson is probably the reason I actually turned out to be financially solvent as an adult.

Sometime after I graduated from college, you sold me Grandpa’s car for a mere $500.00.  That old Chevy Caprice served me very well for a long time.  It had a back seat as big as a couch and could go like 125 MPH.  In addition to selling me the Caprice, you took that piece of shit Buick Skylark off my hands for which I was eternally grateful. I once had to drive to a wedding in a tight long sleeved taffeta bridesmaid’s dress with heat blasting so the Skylark wouldn’t overheat on the 15 minute drive – in August.  In fact I’m convinced you and Mom gave me the Skylark as a college graduation “present” to force me to get a decent job, to pay for all the repairs.  Well played – it worked.

So you see Dad, you gave me lots of useful life skills:

How to swim – something which I am amazed to report – people don’t do well here in Oregon. In fact, my strong swimming ability probably saved my life more than couple of times when we were drunk rafting down the Deschutes River and got tossed out of the raft

That fishing is usually pretty boring – but a good way to spend quality time with someone you like (and it’s more fun with beer but I learned that all by myself)

How to hit a softball: at least until the day comes when I finally hurt myself  because I’m foolishly playing softball in my old age ( then I will probably be cursing you )

The Game of Euchre: What is more fun than having drinks and playing cards with good friends?  Something you can still do it when you get old (and drunk)

How NOT to tie a knot

How to sail:  This hasn’t been to useful yet – but I fully expect to use those skills when I marry Rich Husband # 2

How to drive: Also very handy our here in Oregon where apparently Portland natives learned how to drive from their Great Great Grandparents driving Model Ts

Even though we aren’t one of those families who are always in constant communication about the minutia of our lives and gratuitously hugging one another, it’s important that you know I remember all these things.  And much more.  But I’m saving the “Did someone hear a lion roar” for your eulogy!  Because who doesn’t love a good fart anecdote at a funeral?

Love,

Your middle child from hell ( and also your favorite child even though you’d deny it for the sake of your other less favored and less gifted children)

Old Bitter

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Dear Sad Angry GOP Voters

I’m writing this open letter to request that you stop calling me a “Moocher,” “Taker,” “Teat Malingerer” etc. Yes, I voted for Obama and yeah, I want some of that “free stuff.” But before you actually secede from the union and start your very own Galt’s Gulch – hear me out.

As woman, I want to be free to choose my own insurance plan, one that covers birth control. I see no reason why some boss’s religious beliefs should dictate my healthcare coverage. Why can’t I trade Boner pills for birth control pills? And seeing as how a lot of you all especially hate paying for school lunches and food for poor folks, you should be applauding me- at least I’m not contributing to that whole “Cradle to Grave” segment of the population you keep chattering about.

Which brings me to my next Free Goodie: I want to be free to practice whatever religion I please. Or none at all for that matter. I don’t care how often senile old Pat Robertson opens his mouth hole and proclaims natural disasters are caused by some group of satan loving deviants or some jackass laments the encroachment of a made up phenomena called “Sharia Law.” I don’t care if you want to erect a 50 foot Jesus in the town square – just don’t use my tax dollars to do it. And don’t complain if Hindus in your neighborhood want to erect a giant Rama right next to your Jesus statue. I do not live in a Theocracy, I live in a country that is supposed to celebrate the freedom of all religions. Including Atheists ( or as you know them – heathens).

I want my gay friends to be free to openly serve in the military and marry whoever they damn well please – the same as the rest of us. I don’t care what law abiding citizens do in the privacy of their homes. I can say with certainty my straight marriage is in no imminent danger from gay people. Despite the fact we went to Vegas and got Drunk Married By Fake Elvis, our marriage is still going strong. The husband still kicks off each anniversary by mixing up a batch of Breakfast Anniversary Mimosas , a testament to the enduring strength of our union even though gay people can now get married in some states.

I want to breath air and drink water free of pollutants thanks to government regulations. Even though it’s true I could probably benefit from losing a few pounds caused by an e-coli induced diarrhea diet.

These are just some of the “free” things I expect to get living in a Republic. Now I know you’ll be shocked by this but….despite my newly minted status as Democrat Moocher, I still manage to do the following things.

I own a house (it’s a crappy house, but I do own it)
I pay my bills on time
I pay for food without government assistance
I save money for my retirement
I pay my taxes – as it happens more than twice the rate that Romney paid last year

And speaking of taxes – I’ve been paying into Medicare and Social Security since I was 15 years old – so yeah, I feel “entitled” to “take” advantage of those things too – it’s called an earned benefit. And despite my slackerly ways, I even have enough money left over to donate to charities and create jobs.

That’s right I’m a job creator too…….because my husband and I buy shit. And most of that shit is made here in the USA. We buy a ton of wine – all grown here California and Oregon. We buy booze by the pallet, distilled right here in Portland. We support our local butcher, Farmer’s market, fishmonger and local drinking establishments. (so suck it Applebees). We support our local pet store, vet and schools because we want our entire community to thrive. I voted for Oabama because I don’t want to see Olds in my neighborhood buying 20 cans of cat food instead of real food and my blue collar neighborhood even more over-run with homeless people because we shredded the social safety net so we could give people who already have more money than they can spend in two lifetimes another tax cut.

I don’t begrudge Corporate America their profits or Rich People their wealth -but I do begrudge the idea that only Rich Folks can be job creators and only Rich People have value. BTW – creating jobs in China and other nations that don’t have worker protections and inventing “Financial Instruments” that only line your own pockets while you fleece investors doesn’t really count as the kind of “job creation” most Americans are thinking about.

Because we all contribute……. In addition to keeping the alcohol business running in the black – my husband and I employ real people like the Banjo Nazi, Brazilla, and Bramble Dan. You probably consider these people Moochers even though they work 2 jobs and/or 15 hours a day. Because despite all this hard work – they aren’t rich. The Banjo Nazi, Brazilla, and Bramble Dan aren’t winners in a system rigged for people who already have plenty and yet still feel that their tax cuts should come at the expense of people who can afford it the least. The Banjo Nazi, Brazilla, and Bramble Dan don’t own a fleet of cars and so they don’t buy car elevators and yet somehow our community thinks they have something of value to offer and as citizens we are more than willing to assist them if they fall on hard times. My husband, The Banjo Nazi, Brazilla, and Bramble Dan – we are the face of the Moocher Apocalypse.

So. Despite your proclamations of End Times for America, I’ve yet to read about hordes of Democratic voters lining up for their Free Obama Phones, driving their Welfare Cadillacs over to the wealthier neighborhoods to redistribute their topiary trees or pillaging the country clubs and yacht communities, stealing golf clubs and hijacking private Lear jets. I’m pretty sure no one barged into your home and stole the food off your table. In other words, nothing has really changed. So if you stop calling us Hapless Moochers we’ll stop calling you Heartless Monsters.

Sincerely,

Old Bitter

Dear Family Part 1

Hey everyone!

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First of all a Shout Out to the Singapore branch of the McBitters for once again hosting the annual family gathering – which included a whole lot of females, only4  dudes and 3 generations of McBitters. This year the McBitter Family reunion was extra special for me because of course my husband was able to come.  For the past 15 years he’s had to make the agonizing decision to stay here in Portland and attend the Oregon Brewers Festival and annual Brewers dinner for work.  It should go without saying that it was incredibly hard for him, year after year, to be stuck at home, without his loving wife to remind him to do things – forced to sample beers from all over the world, day after day, because he just happens to be a brewer.

Anyway, it was great to see everyone up at the lake, everyone looked so tan and relaxed, compared to us, sporting the famous Portland Pallor and reeking of stale plane farts. That guy seated next to me must eaten at McDonalds right before he got on the plane. Poor crampy gassy man.

I apologize for getting all polluted at your small intimate neighborhood cocktail party but in my defense I’d been on a health kick in an effort to lose a few pounds before having to squeeze my middle-aged, translucent body into a bathing suit.  Of course it didn’t work, I had to go and buy an “age appropriate” swimsuit anyway ( with that skirt thingie) so I suppose I should also apologize for the fact you were subjected to that hideous site. Due to the “health kick” my tolerance level was well below the McBitter Family threshold, so I’m already training for next year.  But don’t worry, my husband covered for me by telling all your neighbors I had Tourrette Syndrome and an addiction to painkillers so I don’t think anyone knew I was  hammered.  I know it would be a huge stain on the family name if word got out that we McBitters can’t hold our liquor.

It sure was fun getting the chance to watch the girls go tubing – although I’m not sure being gently pulled around the lake on what appeared to be a giant inflatable couch actually qualifies.  In my mind it’s not “tubing” until a few teeth get knocked out and at least one person experiences a summer ending injury, but everyone seemed to be having a great time and no one was crippled for life so it was a Win-Win!.

Also the addition of the “Intoxication Station” or was it the “Relaxation Station?” was awesome.  Who wouldn’t want to drift lazily in a warm lake on a giant inflated sofa sectional? But I feel I should tell you, it states clearly in large letters that “IT’S NOT TO BE USED WITH ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES.”  So maybe you should install a lifeguard to enforce this as clearly everyone was flouting the rules. (preferably a hot guy  lifeguard).  Now I know you’ve already said “No” but I still think a 75 foot water trampoline would be fantastic!  What could possibly go wrong?

Also, I’m sorry I hogged all your Band-Aids, but that toe gouging (and surprisingly not alcohol related) injury was pretty bloody.  In hindsight, stitches might have been a good idea – it finally stopped bleeding yesterday.  I have high hopes I may actually even be able to wear real shoes again in a month or so. I have also written a sternly worded letter to the suitcase company ( and alerted Ralph Nader) about the lethal nature of the wheels on their suitcase and expect that in the future each suitcase will come with a 75 page instruction manual to prevent this kind of toe trauma from happening to anyone else. Yay me!

Finally, I just want Mom to know how much I appreciate your concern for my health. Thanks so much for telling the husband to “Please be sure and check her back and shoulders for unsightly brown spots and hairy moles – she got a terrible sunburn there as child you know.”   I’m quite sure that mental picture is not at all off-putting or repulsive for my husband. And in no way is the power of suggestion responsible for the sudden inexplicable itchy feeling I have on the back of my neck (which the husband assures me looks perfectly normal.)

So cheers everyone – can’t wait to see you again next year!

McBitter

PS ( Also we decided to teach those Blatant Rule Breakers in the house behind you with their excessive illegal water toys a lesson.  We hid Whoopee cushions under all boat seats and wrapped the jet skis with crime scene tape.  I’m sure they’ll never guess the McBitters were the culprits.  Mostly because we framed Britt by leaving a golf cart operating manual at the scene of the crime. You’re welcome!)