Just A Talk Among Friends

Dear One Hour Photo Place,
Hi, How are you today? Me? Well, I'm not well, not well at all. You see, I don't feel like I'm the asshole for assuming that you'd have my photos finished within an hour. That is, after all, directly in the name of your business. It's how you advertise. The three words "One Hour Photo" are displayed all freakin' over your store. Now, because the last four times I've developed with you it has taken at least three hours for you to get my stuff done, I knew when I started uploading my photos that it'd take awhile. I was fine with this. I still had to pack up my scrapbooking supplies and drive the 30 minutes on over to Elk City and then unload my boxes. Sure, the other ladies would have a jump start on me, but I would at least get to hear the sailor talk from a bunch of 30 something mommas. Really, no one does pervy quite like my friends.
Since it was 7 pm when I sent the photos to you, I figured I would run up to your store right before you closed at 10 to pick up my stuff. I mean, that's triple the one hour promise. So, you can imagine my complete and utter fucking shock when you told me that they would not be finished until 1 pm today. Seriously, you open at 8. I realize that I did send almost 200 photos. That's a lot, I get it. But, assuming that you are part of a nation wide chain and that the big dicks in your corporate office are pretty obsessed with the now-elusive profit, I would think you probably have to be equipped to print that much relatively quickly. I mean, "One Hour Photo" is all over your store, surely you would be prepared to handle more than one customer in that hour.
Naturally, I would like to ask you if this is some sort of joke. I don't fucking want to be on Punk'd, Ashton. But, since I know in my heart that you are rather serious, I need you to explain to me how the hell it takes you 8 hours to develop 158 pictures. I sincerely think you should change the name of your service to "One Day Photo." Sure, we crazy old ladies in the scrapbooking posse would all be less inclined to use your business, but I also wouldn't be a big bag of swinging hormones wrapped into a ball of pissed off when I did.
So, even though I wanted to spend my time scrapbooking my family's more recent activities, I guess I will just do some random photos from the early part of last year. Having Christmas done by January would have been awesome, it would have. And, if I would have sent my photos to the OTHER "One Hour Photo" place like Miss Smarty Pants Mollie so wisely did, I'm sure I would have got it done. But, I didn't. Quite ignorantly, I held out faith this, this would the time you got it done in a responsible amount of time.
Suck it, assholes.
Love,
Shonda

Dear One Hour Photo Place (again),
Okay, so maybe I'm the asshole. I don't know why I thought I ordered like 158 photos. Somehow I got that first 1 confused with a 7. My bad. Remember that cluttered mess that was your college professor's desk? Yeah, that's my head.
I'm sure you are a little pissed about all that dry sarcasm in the last letter. Man, I was kind of a dick. You see, I haven't been able to scrapbook the last two times the ladies got together because I was photographing weddings. I still have freakin' t-ball to do from this summer. So, I'm gonna blame my nasty behavior on my motherhood insanity. My boys' books are getting kind of behind and I just can't let them grow up without all the shenanigans being well documented, you know, in case I need to use the whole, "Look at what you boys put me through" to keep my old ass out of a third world nursing home because I don't want to forget a moment.
The young girl who was working last night was not nearly as helpful as you, hard working manager. I'm really sorry that I said I was going to the other place. You know I could never leave you. You guys really do take good care of me and I hope you except my sincere apology. I can't believe you are going to have almost 800 photos done by 11 am. WOW!
So, please, don't suck it. I'll suck it. I'm totally the asshole.
Love,
Shonda

The Cowboy Chronicles, Apparent Home of Naughty Nuns

As I'm sure you already know, I'm not super techy. This blog's mere existence is a profound miracles. As far as miracles are concerned, it goes that time Jesus awoke from the dead, that time Moses parted the Red Sea, a never-ending pool of hood rats willing to make themselves national laughing stocks for a shot at Bret Michael's old bandanna-clad ass and then The Cowboy Chronicles being halfway navigational. That's right, I put the conception of this site above the conception of my kids on the miracle list. That doesn't mean I don't love my boys more, I do, but making them only entailed a little loving and then a bunch of laying around and bitching because everybody else could drink beer while I sweltered into a sweaty, pregnant blob in the Oklahoma heat. I may have done a lot of bellyaching about the swollen feet and heartburn, but truthfully, my pregnancies were a cakewalk in comparison to the early days of my blog.
As I've stumbled through my journey of the World Wide Web, I've periodically learned new things that are apparently as second nature to most bloggers as breathing and backtracks. The first was Twitter. Mollie had to explain it to me like 17 times before I understood what the hell she was talking about. I'm still learning my way around it, though I think I've figured it out. I could go on and on, Technorati, BlogHer, layouts. It was like a completely undiscovered, unexplored village existing and thriving within the Internet.
Most recently I found Google Analytics. I know all you geeky, HTML whiz kids are laughing your techy asses off as you read this. Yes, I have been living under a rock. It's called Oklahoma.
Anyways, Google Analytics may sounding boring and, mostly it is. However, it does give us some big steaming pile of awesome and that would be a full list of what random key words folks type into search engines that somehow brings them to me. Looking over this list, you would probably think I'm running some sort of porn site for the devoutly religious. Of course, I did halfway blog about these subject, so I will link that posts that I think are driving these folks to my blog. If you are a new reader, I guess you should read these and see for yourself if you are on a blog about some quirky, bitchy Oklahoma ranchwife or if you are really on a covert smug site. You tell me.
So, without further ado, I give the shinning stars of my keywords list:

3. sexting examples

4. spongebob conspiracy

16. booby duty

17. catlic girls gone wild

18. charlie sheen (as a cowboy)

19. charlie sheen has hairplugs

23. how schools should handle sexting

28. jason biggs douchenozzle
I really have no idea how my blog came up this, but I did write about Dane Cook being a total asshat.

33. mozel tov hat

37. nuns gone bad

**38. nuns who eat snatch

45. sarah palin hooters


47. bill clinton hummer

Now, if you just happen to be one of the folks who found me from the above-mentioned searches, don't be ashamed. Come on out and announce yourself. Clearly a Greater Power is pulling the two of us together. Maybe it's God, maybe it's your apparent love for naughty nuns and their eating habits and Charlie Sheen's bizarre hair patterns. I don't know, I'm just glad you are here.

Text Messaging or SEXting messaging: The epic journey of one fool and his fancy phone

I guess it wasn't that long ago when my friends and I were leaving the nest and spreading our little drunken wings. I mention this because the first of my friends, Miranda, got a cell phone upon our debarkation for Weatherford. It was for our own "safety," which is code talk for always knowing where the party was. But, at any rate, it was the first time I was ever really around 'em. Well, my mom had one of those gigantic bag phones, but Miranda's was the true granddaddy of this NASA-grade gadgets we are all walking around with now.
Fast forward a decade (I'm telling my age, ya'll), and everybody has a cell phone. I mean fucking everybody. Ty, precious, darling, 7-year-old Ty, has a cell phone. Now, I completely understand his mom's reason. Cell phones do carry a lot of safety bonuses when your kid is away from you. But, still, you get what I'm saying. It's not just for Exxon Execs anymore.
For the first few years of the cell phone revolution, they were pretty basic. Then Dobson started offering something called "Elk City Breeze," which alloted for free minutes to numbers from your town or some such shit. Overnight almost everyone I knew had a phone. And with more phones came fancier phones. It was probably about 7 years ago when the kids I worked with at the Pizza Hut showed me the text messaging. At first it totally bewildered me. I didn't understand if you put in the area code or not. Damn frustrating, if you ask me.
Then my father grew convinced that I would be abducted and/or raped and/or killed by a nomadic pedestrian walking by my house. Not some guy he had spotted with a record of such bloody behavior, but rather, just any man who happened to be on foot. So, eventually in his anxiety to promise my safety, he got me a cell phone. Plus, he could find out where I was ANYTIME he wanted, which was often, so it was on. I tinkered around with all this text messaging, but I always preferred just calling over the mass airway communication.
Now I know some folks who can text message so quickly it is as though their brain waves are somehow buzzing onto the phone's screen. Hell, I'm sure there are phones that offer such a freaky service. And these people just LOVE the text messaging.
Not long ago one of these tech-smart junkies taught a country boy I know all about this predictive texting. There are certainly a lot of perks to this predictive texting, I know. I can't seem to figure it out, but those who can tell me the phone basically does the texting for you. Well, I already think George Bush has put a bug inside my brain, so I don't want a machine just guessing what message I want to send, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
Back to the story. You know I get a little off track when I start thinking about George bugging my brain, transcribing all my thoughts while Dick Cheney cackles like a witch in the background. I'm not saying it was my husband and I'm not saying it wasn't. I am close enough to the situation to know that when this man's wife received this particular text message from him, she didn't know what in the hell he was talking about.
The phone buzzed or twinkled or spit out some rap tune or whatever hell it does when it's letting you know you've received a text.
She picks it up and opens the message.

I want to duck yolk

.

Her head tilted to the side, the same way a dog does to his panting owner or a baby to his babbling grandparent, she was bewildered. She called her husband, who was proud of his predictive texting. After all, she didn't even know where to get duck eggs or what he wanted to do with them if she did know where to get them
Well, he didn't want breakfast or a bird. He was in the mood for something else all together. Something of a romantic, martial nature, if you dig.
So, for all of you who are pushing 30 or have already topped that hill, be careful when you are using the predictive text. These days we can use our phones for just about anything. Rowdy has one of those fancy, schamancy iPhones. That son of a bitch will carrying around all your favorite tunes, let you check weather anywhere on the globe, give you driving miles from anywhere so that bull haulers don't pad up the bill on ya and even connect you to "that world wide web," as Rowdy calls it. But, there are some task you might need to do manually. Otherwise you might end up with a apron-clad woman in the kitchen as opposed to the in-the-buff seductress in the bedroom that you were hoping for.