So many words all saying nothing

I am crying. Tears of joy? Nope. Tears of sadness? Nah. Tears of onions. Every time I slice onions, I'm reminded of just how much I prefer those little yellow ones from Peru. "They're so good, you'll only cry when they're gone." I just made a marinade for Root Beer Chicken. Sounds weird to me, too, but I'm intrigued. If it's good, I'll post the recipe. If it's terrible, I'll post the warning. If it kills us, you know what happened, so go ahead and sue the producers of "Follow That Food."

I was driving by a cemetery yesterday when I noticed a picnic table and a chili roaster set up right next to it. Is that really the best place for a chili roast? Maybe in New Mexico that wouldn't have seemed so out of place.

Somebody ought to let the Wal-Mart employees know that double-bagging things like bread and boxes of macaroni and cheese is overkill. It's ok, guys. They're not going to suddenly get very heavy and start ripping through the bags.

No doubt about it, children are wise and often very well-spoken. My 4-year-old daughter said to me, "Sometimes you burn yourself and get head trauma. That makes a real bad case of the ouchies, and there's nothing you can do about it." It's true.

Be-dee-ya! Be-dee-ya! Be-dee-ya! That's all, folks!


*Update:  Do NOT try the root beer chicken.  Yuck!