I’ll take thirty percent down and we can option the rest.

If some sucker bites, I can finally blog from Portugal.

Like, daily and stuff.

Jett Superior, e-mail nazi.

So, ever since the advent of my children’s e-mail accounts, I’ve had the login info. Every few weeks or months or whenthefuckever I can remember, I make a pass through them just to feed my healthy delusion that everything my children see, hear, touch and do is on the up-and-up.

Piper lost her e-mail account altogether a few weeks back. Fuck with me, buddy, and I’m pulling the plug. Period. I swoop in like a Valkyrie and set shit on fire and say triumphant, witty things before riding off into the haze of the evening and never looking back.

Not to mention I make a kick-ass pot of chili.

Anyhoodle, just now I was doing the rounds. I logged in to Sam’s account and there, like a pulsing magical jewel in a dark hovel, I saw it.

My eldest son subscribes to the Official Star Wars Newsletter. Pardon me while I go and daintily dab at my eyes. I’m just so very fucking proud, you people!

There’s always one of ‘em.

I’m hungry. However, before I wander into the kitchen to slap a burrito together, I guess I’d better throw you faithful and wonderful people a bone*.

(I’m gonna stop phoning it in soon, I swear.)

For that asshole on your Christmas list who seems to have it all, there’s this little must-have gem.

*if you’ve already clicked the link, GEDDIT?? BONE??? AHHHHhahaha! I miss you squirrelly bastards.