I know it's a joke but...

via my mate Oli

knowing people that would embrace something such as this is an even bigger joke.
Yes.

You know the type.

The kind that refer to their dogs as their children, and themselves as their parents. Fairly sure I can't leave my fucking kids outside while I go out for a night on the booze, however, and I'm quite sure that my children can communicate with words, eat with utensils and don't lick their own arseholes.

But, you know, each unto their own...weirdos.

While I'm not the most negligent of parents

I certainly fit the criteria or a negligent blogger. But, you know, meh. I'm sure that the none of you reading this really actually care that I missed the most recent update of "fucked up things katey found on the internet recently"... I hope. Note that if you are genuinely disappointed, I strongly recommend you go get a life. STAT. But then, I suspect we're well beyond that if you're sitting up reading my blog at 3am on a Saturday evening. Yeah. You cool dude, you.


SO.

I am in the deep, dark, murky depths of trying to finish my thesis. Or as I like to call it, my FUCKING thesis. It's ok, it's just...bloody long, and a shitload of work. And thus, I am killing time writing irrelevant blog posts.

Awesome!

from from Ask a urinal

And it's true. Misplaced apostrophes make the baby jesus cry.

Sometimes what we say comes out all wrong

Case in point:

Photo from here, copyright of the original photographer (it's a mouse).

Of course, sometimes we just mean, and say, the wrong thing.



So my (future) mother-in-law was criticising rugby players, saying that it's a thugs' sport, that there was a higher risk of injury (there isn't) and that N specifically wasn't the right body type to play it - that you have to be a certain body type (big and solid, I think). I pointed out that I play rugby, and I don't fit that 'type' to which she said, "well if you're short and squat it's ok".

And also, "have you ever seen a good-looking rugby player?!" (it was a statement, not question) to which I replied "yes, of course" ... obviously I'm not.

So, you know, instead of punching her (or just tackling her white-bread gold-standard arse) and telling her to kindly fuck off, I argued a little and then gave up.
She also criticised our invitations, stating that there was no mention of the W word on there (she actually said wedding, obviously, because she has no sense of subtlety or grace) to which I replied well, you know, people can either figure it out (and let's face it, everyone that is invited should theoretically know by now) or they can call us up and ask.
It's not rocket surgery, peoples.


In addition, I have been running daily (or almost daily). Except yesterday, when I cut my dress pattern out instead of running. Which is almost as fun but not nearly as athletic.