Stop Calling Me!
If I have one more phone message from Areola Brown or Ariel Brown or whatever the heck her name is, I am going to scream. I get it , I get it. Your Dad is Scott Brown and he is running against Martha Coakley and blah, blah, blah, blah.
Oh, and just so you know, you had one organization call for your Dad this morning where the gentleman sounded like he had spent several years huffing paint and/or nail polish remover. I listened to his whole spiel just because I was worried he might pass out and hit his head on the desk.
The woman that called this weekend had a very pretty southern accent. And although I found the sexy drawl intriguing, when I asked her Brown's position on gay marriage there was complete silence on the other end of the phone. Guess she wasn't from around these parts.
You would have to be ill, infirm, and living under a rock not to know we have a big election tomorrow here in Massachusetts. My 84 year old Mother even knows - and she tries to cut loaves of bread with the non-serrated edge of the knife. So please stop calling me. Because if I was dumb enough to base my decision on your phone call, I certainly wouldn't be smart enough to know how get to the polls or pull the lever.