This has nothing to do with Michael Jackson

I feel the need to buck the trend today and not to say anything at all about a certain one-gloved wonder who may or may not have molested children at his bizarre carnivalhouse. Instead I will blog the first thing that comes into my head at this moment: grass! I love grass! Grass grows, it's green, and according to my brother it tastes like salad. He was promised a dollar to eat some grass at the Sweetwater tournament and he is without that part of the brain that allows a person of ordinary intelligence and social savvy to say no when money is offered for inane undertakings. If you ever meet him, you should ask him about the cup of feta dressing and tartar sauce. If you have a strong stomach.

In other news, Moxie is feeling poorly today. She was pissed as hell at me for boarding her while I traipsed off to Ohio to get my fill of ultimate and chicken. She likes both those things and doesn't understand that sometimes Mommy needs a little me time. So she's staging a protest in the form of hunger strike. That girl, I tell ya. A chip off the old block. Not that I would ever have the wherewithall to actually make myself not eat. Nope. Not me. BIG fan of eating. Big. Hensley says that the only protests dogs make is having to relieve themselves outside by doing so in your shoes and on your rug. But my dog is special and different and classy and has social issues to protest. Like putting dogs in kennels. Well, I hate to tell her this, but like most protests, it has fallen on deaf ears. I predict the Moxster will be put in a kennel yet again. I'm like Mommy Dearest over here. Who knew?