The Re"butt"al to Timmy Boyle

Wednesday Greetings,

I realized I had a coNUNdrum yesterday as I was trying to formulate a re"butt"al to Timmy Boyle's Blog. You might be wondering why I would need to do such a thing, so I'll show you why.

An interesting thought process took him there, and you can read about it HERE. But that doesn't change the fact that we ended up on the back of his shorts.  Let it be known, I'm not a prude, yet I have a special aversion to "princess" sweats and trashy clothes. This image left me absolutely dumbstruck, a feeling I have only felt one other time.


It happened about fourteen years ago with Annabel, our coonhound from the animal shelter. She was a "runner"—and when you live in open farm country, that's just not convenient because you never know where they'll end up. Therefore, when the vet called, while Annabel was getting some procedure or other, and told us they were now offering "tattoo" services, and could mark her with my social security number so that if she ever got lost we'd have an easier time retrieving her, I said yes. Even though, I NEVER give out my SSN anywhere else. I'm sort of . . . well . . . anal about it. But I'd recently read an article about how they tattoo the dog at the armpit with the last four digits, and that it's miniscule enough that you practically need a magnifying glass to see. Ergo, as I previously stated, I said yes.

Oh, the horror and fascination (isn't that what being dumbstruck is?), I experienced when I turned Annabel over to check out her armpit tattoo, and instead found all nine numbers of my SSN scrawled from the top of her chest down to her groin. The size of the individual numbers varied from two to four inches, and looked like the work of a four-year-old. There was nothing neat or uniform about it. AND IT WAS MY SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER.

There were no words.

That's the reaction I had yesterday when I spied our name on Timmy Boyle's butt cheeks.

There were no words.

What to do? What to do?

I finally landed on emailing Heidi, his lovely wife. I had met her at the FaithWriter's conference, where we had hit it off. How could I not love her—we were both married to men who thought they were funny. We both shake our heads at our husbands on a regular basis. The major difference is that Heidi's husband is a professional, while mine isn't. Sorry Sam—and don't quit your day job.

Anyway, Heidi sent me the following "embarrassing" photos to use today, and that's when the realization of the coNUNdrum I mentioned at the beginning of this blog hit me: it's rather IMPOSSIBLE to embarrass a comedian.


Sigh.

A Parade? A Rally?  I Have No Idea



In Fine Form at the Conference





And what happened to Annabel? We ended up giving her in all her SSN'd glory away to a family with a fenced yard. She ran off, though, and no one's heard from her since. We keep tabs on credit card statements. What's the life expectancy of a coonhound?

And there is nothing I can do about Timmy Boyle's shorts, either. I can't help that Maddie and I endeared ourselves to him. It's a cross we'll have to bare. In the meantime, I console myself with the fact that it could be worse. We could be loved by a rotten comedian. But Timmy isn't rotten—he's REALLY funny. He had us all belly-laughing at the conference. In fact, if you need an "Upstanding" comedian for your next function, contact him HERE.  Really, go check it out.  You won't regret it—pinky swear. 

And how about signing up for his BLOG and new VIDEO series? It's a great way to show support for something that's CLEAN and FUNNY. I know I appreciate all the support he's shown (and hasn't shown, if you know what I mean) to Maddie and me and other bloggers.

Under all that funniness, Timmy Boyle actually personifies"Connecting Now" in the real sense of those words. And because of that we are giving him Stainless Steel Status.  Congratulations, Timmy!

In the final analysis, I feel strangely honored, in a dumbstruck sort of way, to be on the back of his shorts.


Thanks, Timmy.

The lines are open for your endorsements of this comedian and to answer this question:  why are men (Timmy, Sam, Aaron, et al) so proud of their behinds?  Just wondering.

P.S.  I couldn't let Maddie touch this post with a ten-foot pole--when I left her, she was splicing together an image involving cheeks with the word "boil" superimposed. Or something like that.