Guess what? Huh? Huh?
Alright (rolling eyes) I will tell you. I got mail! Yes! Someone, in an apparently desperate attempt to revive Chicken’s flagging career as prolific blogger, actually asked me, Chicken, for advice. Oh the folly. Shakespeare would have a field day.
But me? I’m just wildly flattered. And of course, I have answers. Not only do I have answers, but so does Pearl Annabelle LaFleur. Just this one time, I’m going to post both our answers on this page, but going forward (because I know, based on this audition, that you all will have questions), we will post my advice on this page and Pearl’s advice on her page. Two opinions for the price of one and they are both free! And, ah, you know, right, about the tongue/cheek ratio?
First, Lived La Vida Loco writes:
- a rosary
- a bible
- a photo of you at bible camp
- a camp fire
- or a high security mailbox (think Switzerland)
- A copy of your college diploma and subsequent degrees, if possible
- A bottle of vodka or suitable substitute
- All the ingredients for s’mores (optional)
First, take the rosary, the bible, the photo and a copy of your degree. Put them in a battered shoe box marked with your graduation year and labeled “Top Secret”. Leave in an obvious location, like the top right hand corner of your closet. Next, gather all incriminating evidence and hope to hell your kids ain’t as nosy as Chicken’s because otherwise, you’ve been found out, fool.
Second, either set up your campfire or call Switzerland to find out how to get one of them top secret security box accounts like you see in the movies. I definitely recommend the campfire, because then the fun just keeps on coming. Take your beverage of choice and your incriminating evidence out to the campfire. Pour a drink and toast those photos one at a time. Relive each photo before watching it go up in flames (just like your youth!).
When you are done, write down a few alternate memories in a fake journal, as an additional distraction from the truth device. Consider it a memoir of what might have been, if you hadn’t been busy surfing cars an’ boys, and listening to the devil’s music and whatnot.
Then what you do is you toast some marshmallows and your childrens’ futures, knowing your past is beyond progenic inspection, providing you don’t tell campfire stories; or talk in your sleep; or have a husband who talks in his sleep; or have parents who talk whenever they feel like it just for fun and revenge. Yeah, that last one’s the bitch.
Good luck LLVL. Just know that one day you’ll have grandchildren and then? All the fun begins again.
|Don’t let your kids see this