Next time you feel me up in Walgreens I'm going to kick you in the Cadbury Eggs

I ran out of toothpaste again this morning, which is like the second time in two weeks. I go through a lot of toothpaste because I squeeze out the first two inches before I use it in case it is poisoned.

So I stopped at Walgreens on my way home from work and, as usual, started buying all kinds of crap that I never planned on buying to begin with. And because I only planned to buy toothpaste, I didn't grab a basket or one of those weird little tiny shopping carts they have there. This meant by the time I made it up to the cashier I had my arms full stacked up to my chin with bullshit like light bulbs, Q-tips, and Shamwow cloths.

While waiting in line I saw some Cadbury Cream Eggs for sale and of course I had to get some. I reached out like an idiot and half my shit went tumbling to the floor. I couldn't bend down to get it without dumping the rest of it too. There was this old couple behind me, maybe late 60's, and I kind of gave them a half-smile like "sorry, I know you fuckers are old but do you think you could bend down and pick up my shit?" This was apparently a great strategy because the old man immediately bent down and retrieved my batteries and Glade plug-in refills and started stacking them back on top of the rest of my useless crap.

What a nice old man right? No! Dude blatantly rubs my right boob for like 3 seconds while stacking my stuff, right in front of his wife! I couldn't believe it! My shock was so great that, of course, shit just tumbles right out of my arms again. I thought, no way is he going to do it again, but yes! He did! Boob rubbing part deux! I think it was even longer the second time because in my panic, I had dropped a good portion of my stuff. He rubbed the boob with the back of his crusty old fingers for the good part of a minute. I almost threw up.

So what is my reaction to the good, yet pervy samaritan? Do I get indignant and tell him to keep his hands to himself? No! I THANK him. I thank him! For rubbing my boob! I didn't know what else to do. This creaky old fucker is blowing out what is left of the cartilage in his knees to bend down and pick up my stuff, twice! Granted, he is totally molesting me in front of his wife and about 3 other Walgreen shoppers, but seriously, what choice did I have? I could have kicked the old bastard in the balls or something, but I would have looked like a crazy person. "Pick up my stuff old man and then watch as I haul off and kick you right in the balls! Take that!" I probably would have been arrested.

After my second molestation was complete, the old man's wife says to me "look, you dropped your toothpaste too" like she WANTED him to be rubbing my boob. I was like, no way old lady, go get your kicks in some other drug superstore, this bitch is closed. So I had no choice but to lie and say it wasn't my toohthpaste. The old dude was already bent halfway down again to retrieve it so I quickly turned around, basically threw my stuff at the checkout lady, and got the fuck out of there.

I was too traumatized to stop at another store, so I'm going to have to borrow my husband's toothpaste tonight to which he applies zero safety standards and has allowed whatever poison may have been inserted to seep throughout the whole tube. Great. I'll probably be dead tomorrow.

Happy Valentines Day!

Greg Hanson ruined the Superbowl and trades slaves with Ragnor the Viking

So before the Superbowl I started writing this post about the time my super cool brother Keith and I went to a Notre Dame bowl game in Jacksonville and got chased down some dirt road by couple of homeless people. It was totally funny too. I was going on about how I kept yelling at Keith that I was sure the homeless people were going to stick us with needles and how we couldn't remember where we parked the car because we left it at some abandoned carpet factory or something. Yeah, totally awesome. Well I let too much time pass and now what could have been a relevant post relating to a current event (i.e. the Superbowl) sounds lame and random. In it's place I will tell you about my arch enemy, Greg Hanson, of Greg Hanson & The Backroads, and how we came to be pitted against one another. It is not random at all.

My husband and I moved into our current place in September of 2007 and shortly after set up a new home phone line. Almost immediately we began getting calls for a Greg Hanson. At first it was just one or two a day. "Is Greg Hanson there?" We got off with an easy "you have the wrong number." However after about a month the calls started getting more and more numerous and got kinda shady. "Is Greg Hanson there? Well when was the last time you saw him?" We were like "We don't know the dude, you have the wrong number."

A few months into it we started getting close to 20 calls a day from various flooring dealerships asking for, you guessed it, that rat bastard Greg Hanson. When we asked to be removed from the list the people would tell us that someone named Greg Hanson recently went to a flooring expo and put his name and number in the main box to be contacted by every flooring vendor in the tri-state area. Motherfucker.

A couple of months and hundreds of calls later the flooring assholes stopped calling. Yes, I know we could have simply changed our number, but I wasn't going to let these flooring jerks and the evil Greg Hanson determine my fucking destiny. I had stood up against my tormentors and had emerged victorious. Or so I thought....

It was at this point that we started getting downright harassing phone calls. They would call and ask for Greg Hanson of course, and when I told them they had the wrong number they would say things like "Are you sure you don't know Greg Hanson? This isn't Greg Hanson's mother?" And I would be like "no, I wasn't lying the first time, YOU HAVE THE WRONG GODDAMNED NUMBER!" To which I received a reply like"We know this is you Mrs. Hanson, we need to talk to Greg now." I couldn't believe it. I said "listen you fucking bitch, I'm only 30 26 years old. Any kid I could have would not be old enough to be getting phone calls from whatever gestapo you represent. I am not Greg Hanson, I am not Greg Hanson's mother, I have no idea who Greg Hanson is but I swear to you and to Jesus Fucking Christ that if I ever meet that son of a bitch Greg Hanson, harassing phone calls from little 'I only finished the 11th grade' bitches like you are going to be the least of his problems! Now stop calling!"

After this I decided to make it my personal mission to find this Greg Hanson and take him down personally. I figured there must be some kind of reward for his head, and at the very least I could stop cursing people out on the phone in front of company. My first stop was Google of course. Google that I love with every inch of my Greg Hanson hating being.

The first few results were promising, although somewhat intimidating. Dr. Greg Hanson is the US Senate’s first Chief Information Officer. Well I'm not going to fuck with anyone in charge of my information. I once screamed at a lady at the drivers license place and subsequently failed my vision test seven times in a row despite not needing glasses. Dr. Greg was out.

The next candidate for my plan of vengeance was Greg "Digger" Hanson, a Hollywood stuntman who has worked on such film gems as "Good Luck Chuck" and "Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed." He seemed like a possible match since those films were huge flops and probably left him without much money to pay off his creditors, but then I realized that stuntmen are typically testosterone fueled idiots and would not need to hide behind a wrong number if he had done someone wrong. He would accept, no seek the confrontation that would arise from him being a deadbeat and not paying his bills. Again I was left without a target for my rage.

The third Greg Hanson I found was a lawyer in Minnesota no less. Who could be more likely to receive a bunch of pissed off phone calls than a lawyer with cheated clients? I felt like I had found my man and began leaving him threatening messages in earnest. "Greg Hanson, attorney at law! After almost 2 years of harassing phone calls from all the people you have pissed of, you leave me no choice but to challenge your ass to a duel. If this is THE Greg Hanson, meet me by the Spoonbridge with the giant cherry on it, downtown Minneapolis, Friday at 9 o'clock! Don't fuck with me Hanson!!!"

That Friday I got to the Spoonbridge early so I could set up a trap. I know all lawyers like Life Savers candies so I set a trail leading to a spike pit that I dug that morning. I sat in wait for what seemed like hours. By 12:30 I knew Hanson wasn't showing. I figured I had the wrong Greg Hanson because I explicitly told him that if it was THE Greg Hanson, he'd better be there. I went home and sent him a letter stating that I must have the wrong guy. I even included some of the Life Savers (I wiped off most of the dirt first) as a peace offering. I didn't hear back from him, but I think he forgives me.

The only possible Greg Hanson left was a country singer. Greg Hanson of Greg Hanson & The Backroads. At first glance this looks like your normal average country band. Until you get to their drummer.

WTF? This dude is no country band drummer! He's no drummer at all. He looks like a 1989 IBM programmer with bad, photoshopped long "drummer" hair.

It all began to make sense. This "band" is obviously a cover for some seriously dark, underground shit. His clearly phony band members, his cliche list of favorites, (seriously, your favorite way to relax is to "Ride the 4-wheeler or horse through the pastures on parent's farm near Wilmot." How fucking naive do you think I am Greg Hanson?!?) along with his association of LeRoy VanDyke, a known fast-talking auctioneer leads me to believe this Greg Hanson is running some kind sick, illegal auction. Maybe even a human slave trade auction. Yeah, that's probably it. Well I'm on to you, you sick fuck Greg Hanson. I will bring down your dirty human slave trade if it's the last thing I ever do! I brought down my Girl Scout troop leader in the third grade for skimming the top of the cookie sales, don't think I can't do the same to you!

And for any of you that doubt me, here is the proof. A picture of Greg Hanson with Ragnor the Viking, who is the Minnesota Vikings mascot, and also suspected of being a trader of humans.

*Update- The date stamp on my blog is clearly fucked up because if I had posted this before the Superbowl took place it would not make any sense. Unless I am traveling through time without my knowledge which totally makes sense because I never know what day it is and frequently find unexplained bruises on my body. That could also be explained by all the drinking.