I never shoulda lightened up on my post-giggle-text thought-balloonage after her note. But, we larn as we go here in your novice journaler�s world.

The embedded parenthetical text following dem silly bits was as a result of getting hate mail from a few folks with a rather limited view of the world. [This happened on a regular basis from about entry four on. And I lowered the anger-mail quotient by making comments about the various shits and giggles.] Anyway, it appears that there are some who just don't GET my rather slow-witted form of humor. These are pholks DatSauceGuy might call asswipes or ass-swipes (as DaMood varies on me usage of same.) Don't get me wrong. I don't mind the humor free. I just avoid them sometimes, and would prefer that they ignore this diary. But let's talk about those that like to read DaSauce and send him mail where they bitch-up-screamingly-vivid-blue-murder, OK?

For unknown reason, some of your fellow humans are members of a tribe (sorta like cargo cults but without the all the |<3wL floating goodies) whose belief system dictates that all text that arrives on their shores via web pages is deadly serious and thus gospel.

You know, gospel? It is often with a capital G.

Like where DaLord tells DaSauce to KILL DaBoy if he doesn�t mind properly? [Er, looking for the reference. Ah, there: Deuteronomy 21:18] Um, Dear Jah-Ova (or whatever Your name is?) I�d rather take away some of his favorite things for a time than OFF the little guy. He's my son, I love him. He does OK for a five year old. Besides, doesn't that seem a little over the top, Yer Nibs? Thank you.

Or Where DatGodPerson notes that there are ways that a dad can sell his daughter into slavery safely and have St. Peter Swing Open DaDoors and they can party on heaven's tab anyway? Exodus 21:7 [I never shoulda cracked the Old Testament, as now I wanna riff on that. Some other day. ]

Anyway, I got some deadly, acid-spitting grumpy bits from pholks who were phucking completely awash in vitriol and vinegar over my comments about Colostomy Bags.

Listen. I have an Uncle with Crohn�s disease. I know what a pair of butt and crotch sacks do--and why they exist. I also know just how much they stank. He�s lucky to be alive�and those babies are part of the reason his ass is above room-temp at the moment. I dearly and deeply love my father�s brother. So, with all due courtesy? Bite my lower extremities, OK? This was the reason for having intestines on my list of hoped-for cloned-parts. Click Back For Yesterday, Should You Wish.

[Sheesh. I wasn�t making jokes about elderly, stumpy, torso-only strippers doing lap-dances and grinding on me with their warm colostomy bags. Get a humor patch from the Microsoft Downloads Site, please?]

--SauceBagsRus