Even The Best Laid Plans...

So I've been excited since Thanksgiving that The Old Lady and I were going back to Fort Bragg, the place we got married, for New Years with her parents (whom I adore cos they party as hard as I do). Get out of town, stay in the same place we did when we got hitched, go to breweries and wineries, have good meals, walk the beach, drive back celebrating my birthday on the 2nd...brilliant. And better than going out to some expensive whatever with a bunch of fucking amateurs making asses of themselves.

But LO! Here comes Ye Olde Weather God, who proceeds to piss on our parade (read: there's gonna be a SHITLOAD of rain up there this weekend). Storms and 6 hours on windy roads do NOT a pleasant vacation make, so instead of being holed up in our rooms with wet dogs, playing Monopoly, we cancelled our plans. New Years and my birthday will have to be spent here in the Bay Area.

SO CHUCKLES, YOU SHIT-TALKING BIATCH: THE SHIT YOU TALKED IS NOW COMING BACK TO HAUNT YOU. I WILL be around when you are here; I WILL be able to meet up with you; and, oh fucking PLEASE rest assured, I WILL MOST CERTAINLY drink yer ass under whatever table you are unfortunate enough to drink with me at. I hereby even invite you to my humble abode beforehand for a large homecooked meal, cos I don't want you to have any crybaby excuses like "But I had an empty stomach!" when you wake up in the gutter somewhere with nothing but bar receipts and Polaroids of us standing around your passed-out ass in yer pocket.

The ball is in yer corner. Whatcha gonna do?