I hate forwards for a couple of reasons. 

First, as I’ve said before, I’m extremely lazy.  If I open an email that is more than a paragraph long, chances are I won’t get past the first couple of lines before I’m scrolling to the end to see exactly what the point is. So, you can imagine the eye rolling and groaning that go on when I see that dreaded FW.  I immediately slump my shoulders, grab a cup of coffee, wrap myself up in my Wisconsin Badger snuggie and hunker down for the long read. 

Secondly, you read that right.  I have to read the blackhole waste of time bullshit message even though I’m 100% sure that it will have something to do with:

1. The sister of a friend of someone your aunt works with getting pulled over by an undercover cop who *gasp* is really a rapist (I’m pretty sure this was an episode of Cold Case).
2. Something about someone loving me so much that they had to include me in a group of 50 people they hope is having a good day (I was until I got your email). 
3. Some animated walking stick figure that has already traveled around the world 500 times and needs to be forwarded in order to continue (Your trip ends here, loser).
4. Animals Photo Shopped in people clothes with sayings like “I Hate Mondays” or ”Best Friends” (These just suck).

However, last night I got a FW message that really made me think:

Hello:  Its Me Jesus.  I will be handling your problems tonight.  I will be in control.

Send to 15 people and receive the biggest blessing tonight.

*Pause for reflection*

Ok, Jesus.  Just a few things:

1. You don’t have to introduce yourself.  I know who you are and I totally dig you.
2. I wonder if my spam filter is working, because I don’t remember giving you my email address.
3. If I promise to send this to 30 people can you get rid of FW emails?  Thanks.

Have you heard Oprah’s big secret?  Apparently, she has long lost siblings scattered across America!  As a matter of fact, one of those siblings was found in my backyard in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  Do you know what this means?  It means…I COULD BE RELATED TO OPRAH, BEOTCHES!!

You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of sitting in Oprah’s colorfully dressed, multicultural, attractive audience decked out in my Sunday best (white gloves, Easter hat, and patten leather purse on my lap included), hair ironed pin straight, and make up spackled on just so, anxiously awaiting for the show to begin. 

Well, my friend, no longer will I think that I have a better chance of being related to the Queen of Talk than I do of getting tickets to her show because, there is a chance that I might be related to her!  I can just see myself getting that golden ticket DNA test result:

Maury:   Let’s read the results.  In the case of 33 year old DMTF…… Oprah……….you ARE her sister!

Me:  AWWWWWWEEEEEE YEAH BOOOOOOYYYYYY!!  I TOLD YOU!  I TOLD YOU YOU WERE MY SISTA’!  THANK YOU JEEEEEEEEEESUS!!!!

No more 500 words or less bullshit essays on Oprah.com/tickets for this girl.  No siree. I’m getting my ass on ancestor.com and doing some serious research.  I’ll see you in a few months, Oprah:

P.S.  I hope I’m one of your favorite things.

GREEN BAY IS GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL which means I can relax for a minute before the pregame jitters set in again.  So, in this fleeting moment of postgame tranquility and analysis I would like to briefly reflect on yesterday’s game. 

First, ”WHAT’S UP BJ RAJIIIIIIIIIIII?!”.  Watching you stumble into the end zone was like watching a big baby take his first steps.  Sure, I went hoarse screaming at you to protect that ball, but that TD brought me pure joy and excitement.  It was incredibly cute how your size made it look like you were running in slow motion.  And, your TD celebration dance was just precious.  Those hips most certainly do not lie. 

Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I think the media is being too hard on Bears QB, Jay Cutler.   Listen, knee injuries menstrual cramps are no f-in joke.   The only way you can know just how painful they are is having experienced the tsunami of pain in your uterus yourself.  I once had cramps so excruciating that the pain washed over me like a wave of blinding white heat and for a second I was transported to another dimension.  When I finally came to I was afraid to look down as I was sure that the earthquake of pain I had just experienced had shaken my uterus loose and it was spinning on the ground, Inception top style.

Cutler had all the tell tale signs of a knee injury period cramps, yesterday.  

Hunched over in pain?  Check.

Crying because his uniform makes him look fat even though his friends keep telling him he looks really pretty?  Check.

Feeling like you don’t want to do anything except cuddle up with a box of Chicken in a Biscuit and a Diet Coke, and watch Steel Magnolias.  Check.

I feel for this kid.  I can tell you there’s nothing worse than having cramps and being forced to suit up for gym or risk the chance of having to take it in summer school with the bad girls who finger snap and head bob at the gym teacher while yelling about how they don’t give a shit if they fail because it’s abuse to make them suit up when they feel like they’re going to puke. 

In my mind, I always slow clapped for those girls; usually as I dragged my butt around the track and tried not to puke from my cramps.

Update:

Looks like Cutler may have a “torn MCL”.  I’m sure it’s nothing a little Midol and a good cry can’t cure.