I hope you got fat...

I had to hide my love from my first college roommates, they were good girls who didn't understand carnal music, but my second semester gals took the news of my favorite music group being the Violent Femmes with much thanksgiving and jubilation. These gals were my peeps, they understood me and oh the fun we had. Of course now we're all old, married and boring with no recent arrests or sting operations to speak of but whatever.

And truth be told, I can't really listen to the Violent Femmes anymore because their language offends my grown-up ears. Can't do it. But back in the day I LOVED them. I was recently reminded of one of their classy hits entitled "I hope you got fat" (he hopes his ex-love got fat so she'll want to see him come back) when my husband brought home a whole box of my favorite raspberry zingers. "Do you want me to get fat?" I asked him. I can't say no if they're in the house. Can't do it.

Now I know I'm not fat so please don't send hate mail or plan an intervention, but I want to be fit, cut, and sculpted. I want to be a work of art like little Miss Def Leppard groupie pants, or if that's too much to ask I would just like my regular butt back, the one that I had when I moved to this boring, I mean beautifully peaceful little town three years ago. Is that too much to ask? Without the raspberry zingers I'd say no that's not too much to ask, but with them... heck, I think it's time I embrace the new me.

After all Rick loves my new buttonkatonk so why shouldn't I?
Ah, ha! So that's why we have zingers in the house. The sneaky devil.