According to my site tracker I have folks from the federal government and Washington DC who frequent my site.  What better venue then to discuss my theory on how to correctly counterfeit money.

First of all you can’t possibly counterfeit the new dollar today to perfection.  You’ve got the paper, that lil tracking device, all them lil numbers and the watermark.  It’s hopeless.  Get over it.  You’re a stupid greedy bastard for believing you can counterfeit fives, tens, twenties or if you’re a complete jackass; hundreds.

If you can actually manage a decent counterfeit, which I dunno, maybe it’s possible; please to tell what exactly you paid for all the damn equipment to make counterfeit money with.

Now if I wasn’t so worthless and lazy, here’s what I would do:  It won’t even remotely make you a millionaire, but overnight millionaires tend to send up several red flags anyway.  You can’t live inna trailer and become the proud owner of a brand new yacht.  So not a get rich quick scheme, but it could make you a bit more comfortable.

Are ya ready?

Counterfeit one dollar bills.  They’re the only money that’s yet to have all this tracking crap on it, and who would really care?  It’s just a damn one dollar bill.  A few here, a few there.  I’m telling ya, you’d skate right under their noses.

Last week Mother and I watched Mad TV.  The opening was a parody of a commercial for those annoying lil alarms you attach to doors and they squeal at you.  The best part was the hocker of this product was incredibly Australian. The barrage of screeching phrases all in an incredibly Australian accent was absolute chaos and bloody hysterical -- ever since I’ve been trying to teach Mother Australian.

She tries a phrase or two, but fails miserably.  “You have to speak through your nose.” I told her.  Her next attempt is a bit better by I suggest, “Try to sound a bit less educated.”  Still having trouble I explain, “Look an Australian accent is merely the melding of a Kansas and English accent.”

And now she has it down pat.

Theories abound.

I’m not the kinda gurl who always believes men get a free ride.  However, if I had a penis I believe people would be more apt to accept me.  Not that I have penis envy, I’d just like a detachable one.  Remember that song?  Detachable Penis.  Like Superman I duck into a phone booth or alley and emerge with a bulge in my pants announcing, “I have an opinion and also a penis.”  To be followed by many Oooos and Ahhhhs.  In fact I could even use it as a gag at parties; stick the detachable penis in my eye socket and say, “Crap! Poked my damn eye out!”

Alas no penis; detachable or not.  Well there’s the cute factor.  It’s impossible to be respected and purty at the same time.  So perhaps I should opt for a reverse facelift and dye my hair a depressing shade of brown.  Uglier gals, like feminists, seem to have an easier time voicing strong opinions without an immediate stoning.

The fat obstacle will never do.  It just doesn’t matter who you are; I’m better off being a drug addict.

There’s also the glaring reality that in some venues of life I’m completely fearless.  While I may be an absolute pussy in others I make up for it by not caring about society’s views.  I’m painfully honest and don’t care if it upsets people on multiple levels.  Unlike everyone else in the world I allow my skeletons to roam free as opposed to being stuck in the dank closet, and even on special occasions I allow folks to play with ‘em.  This can also be summed up as envy.

Oh and one more thing: Yes I’m also completely and undeniably selfish, but I think I should receive points for at least being honest about it.  I do care about a few folks on this planet and sometimes empathy for the forlorn rears its ugly head, but for the most part I don’t give a crap about anyone else.  It’s not hatred, just merely indifference.  The salivating mob brandishing pitchforks has the same effect on me as does the mob delivering tissues and hugs – I find no discernable difference in the two.  Don’t take it personally, I’ve just never been one for groups or ever had the ability to juggle a gaggle of friends.  

What can I say?  Alone time rocks and perhaps this is why.

I’ve been reading about the Plantagenets, but admittedly I’m stuck.  For nearly a week I’ve been avoiding the book, The Three Edwards by Thomas Costain.  There’s no denying it, Edward II was a piss poor king at best; in fact he made Henry III look competent.  Edward the Poof could kindly be referred to as slow.  He was boorish, uncivil, and made poor choices in his advisor and companions.  If it weren’t for royalty, Edward II would have made a superb jester. It’s easy to hate him simply for the way he treated Isabella and how he never carried out his Father’s (Edward I, Edward the Great) wishes after his death.

But did he truly deserve such a brutal and grizzly demise?  So here I sit, reluctant to read about Edward the Poof’s gruesome ending