Do I really need to see Rachel Ray's husband on their love fest through the streets of Barcelona? Do I really need to see Giada take a lunch-time picnic basket to her husband Todd (or, as I lovingly call him, "f-ing Todd") and make goo-goo baby eyes at him for 20 minutes? I hate it when Food Network (which I love) shoves their stars' love lives in my face. In a way, I'm surprised they didn't show the, achem, after-meal when Rachel Ray and her husband John finished their Tapas in Spain. And what do I really hate? When these lovely ladies marry loser-low lifes. I'm pretty sure if you added the manliness factor of Pussy Todd and F-ing John together, they wouldn't come close to my heroic man-ness.
So, I woke up this morning to the following phone message from my father:
"Hi Alex. Um, I went to shoot baskets this morning at the gym. First time since my [heart] problem. I shot great. Look out, because when you come here, I'm gonna kick your ass. Hope you're having a good day." [click]
I know I make a lot of fun of him and he ruthlessly makes fun of my love life, but I'm thankful for my father. God knows I can't live with him anymore, but I'll miss him when he's gone.
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