A Week of Nonsense

This week has been ripe with instances of WTF!?  I would say this odd phenomenon is due to spring fever mixed with a serious case of the April's, however; I think someone pushed the 'skip season' button on the planet's DVD player again.  What other excuse would cause 45 degree weather this time of year?  Weather aside, the level of odd this week is still of the chart.
First off is the level of insult suffered when two married men laugh about your sex (or lack there of) life.  Bite me, you two, we all know married people don't get any! Along the same lines, but on the opposite end of the terrifying spectrum was getting taunted by a big lesbian crack head.  There was a wolf whistle, followed by some comment about a rail and a strap-on.  I won't say I ran to my car in fear, but I totally ran to my car in fear.
Speaking of crackheads, they never fail to entertain when observed from a safe distance.  Case-and-point: Watching a two hundred pound man leap and twirl down the dock while nonchalantly, but entirely suspiciously eyeballing the contents of skiffs.  Presumably for some gas to huff or something of the such.  That sort of image sticks with you.
Despite all of this though I still think seeing an entire house float down the Narrows takes the cake.  Yes, a whole house.  Don't believe me?  Here's a picture:

Romancing the Bottle

Somethings in life are dangerous, like bears, motorcycles, red heads, and whipped cream vodka.  With some of these things the danger is obvious: claws, broken bones and the ability to drop panties with one smoldering glance.  Whipped cream vodka's danger is more subtle, though, more deceptive.
At first glance it appears innocent.  The clear nondescript bottle doesn't hint at it's seductive nature that lives within those glass walls.  It is the catholic school girl of vodkas: just one quick twist of the lid and all hell breaks loose.
The smell is the exquisite mystery of nights I don't remember, mixed with the seductive charm of foreign accents.  In one word: Trouble.
The taste is the sweet nectar of the gods, and ambrosia of cotton candy rainbows rolling across my tongue and settling in my stomach like the soft touch of an attentive lover.
Perfection.

Now could someone please tell me how the hell I ended up with an Angry Orchard hat and a giant bruise on my knee, cause nectar of the gods of no that shit gave me a quick kick to the place that is responsible for logical thought.