I like being called "Dolly Angel". So what?

Good morning lonesome echo chamber of the cyber netherworld. How was everyone's Thanksgetting?

I went up to visit my cousins, Peter and Paulie Paruccini. That's right, fuckers. I have Italian cousins up North that'll be happy to sort you out should you come around fuckin' with mine. They're mom still calls me her little "Dolly Angel". Sure I'm a 27 year old man, but I gotta admit, it's endearing after all these years. Especially since the nicknames I get from other close friends and family usually allude to the fact that I'm ornery, lazy, and act like an old man who's mashed potatoes got cold at Country Buffet.

Most people complain complain complain about their family, but not me. I like 'em more than I like anyone else. They're just better people than most, and I feel lucky and honored just to be in their company. Sure they're crazy, but so what? I like it better that way. Besides, what could be more fun than blowing up old vacuums with dangerous Mexican fire works on some farm land out at the foot of the Butes with your brothers and two bad ass cousins? Childish? Maybe, but if you can't understand the allure of mindless destruction via unstable explosives, we're probably not going to be friends anyway, so I won't feel bad about asking you to politely exit stage and commence fucking yourself post haste.

Toodaloo.