The Sheep Don't Like It, Rock The Catbox

This morning I woke up an hour later than usual, feeling not an hour rested. I'm thinking of having words with the Dim Bulb that felt that saving millions in electricity was better than the masses keeping that lost hour of sleep.

Millions, schillions. I'm still not saving money and therefore demand my hour back.

I went online first thing today, because that is what us internet crack heads do when we first wake up. I signed into mail and I see this story about a barn fire claims 40 sheep.

MMM, boy. That had to smell fantastic. Almost as good as a campfire of tires, burning eggs, and body hair.

So in case you didn't know, I research dead people. Don't be alarmed. I don't dig up the bodies or anything. Every spring I get the itch to research more of my genealogy. If it's online or at a library I can find it. I hope someday government peeps can appreciate this and hire me. I can find anyone. I'd be a good secret agent. I've watched "24". I have never shot myself with my pistol, which should be a qualifying factor right there.

Speaking of targets, I was at Target this week. Where else do you go to buy Ibuprofen, tissue, bottle(s) of wine and the ugliest clothes you've ever seen. I also like to go there dressed in khakis and a red shirt just to freak the employees out.

Hey, can you get that bathroom check? I'm on break. Okay. Alright now. Thanks.

The baby girl and I got our miles in by the isles at Target while I window shopped. I buzzed by the women's section and a few items caught my eye. With no employee in sight, I started taking pictures of the ugly because ugly = picture time = blog fodder.

Wouldn't you know it, I started snapping photos and three employees showed up to arrange items in women's clothing.

I'm convinced the buyers for Target are all size zero and start their buying slaughter after yaking up their venti triple mocha breve every morning. Most women in their thirties want to look like they were off to the local hospital to pick up a few hotties while...I don't know....doing a little visual seizure testing.

Feast your eyes on these babies. I did not know this color of yellow existed until now. The reddish purple shirt makes me want to give out flu shots while wearing white rubber crocs and complaining under my breath over the line of medicaid patients.

..cause we all know broke people get sick on purpose.

Horizontal striped anything should be illegal, this especially if you are anything over a size 5T. It's a given you will look like a cow in stripes. The only upside to stripes is everyone will know if you are walking or rolling.

Peach and pink. Seriously, my favorite.

When sporting this argyle wonder, please refrain from using phrases like, "rad" and "tubular". You will also have an overwhelming urge to tack up a WHAM poster in your bedroom. Donning leg warmers over acid washed jeans will soon follow because that sweater is fricken sweet.

Other marvels that are just dying to be snatched off the shelves are shorts that can make you sterile. Or at least guarantee you will never, ever procreate, practice procreating, or think of the word "procreate" ever again. I figure my insurance could have ditched paying the $2K bill for my tubal ligation and handed me these on the way out the hospital.

You could also wear these to the bingo hall assuming there are no seizure prone patrons. Yes, the bingo hall. Could you envision these anywhere else besides under a blowtorch?

If the average American woman is a size 14, why do they design these, or anything for that matter, in these ugly patterns. It makes me want to add to that sheep-fueled barn fire.

~Bee thinks they look baaaaaaa-ad.