If I were Scott Peterson, I would kinda hope to be found guilty just so I wouldn't have to face my family after they'd heard all those taped stupid lies he told Amber Frey.

The ones that make me laugh most are those surrounding his whereabouts: Kennebunkport, Maine for Christmas... Paris for New Year's. And in reality he was beautiful downtown Fresno, California, or thereabouts.

Can you image even trying to live that down with your family?

If he is exonerated, I'm sure every Christmas for the rest of his life he'll get a good ribbing from someone in the family. If his brother is anything like mine, it may go something like this:

"So, Scott, <insert smarmy sneering tone here> are you going to Aunt Becky's for Christmas brunch or are you going to be in Kennebunkport again this year?".

Oh my gosh, I would be so ashamed of myself.

There isn't much worse in the world than a liar.

Well, maybe a murderer.

This child's bike, interestingly named "Next", was spotted at the KOA Kampground in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Next. NEXT. Next what?

It also says "Misty" on it.

Who thinks these things up? It reminds me of Engrish. It sounded good to someone at the time.

Last week found David and me on American Airlines, traveling between Dallas and Boston.

For those of you who have not traveled on American Airlines recently, we are pleased to share with you the Bistro Bag!

As we boarded the plane, we were instructed to pick up our Bistro Bag from a festive cooler in the jetway. I don't know what type of bistro American Airlines employees frequent, but judging from the contents of the bag, it is run by preschoolers.

The contents was a first grader's dream: a one ounce baglet of substandard hard raisins, a half a yogurt (4 oz) packaged to look like a full yogurt, a very small chewy granola bar. The best part of the meal was the bag with handles, and the plastic spoon with salt packets but no pepper.

Even the flight attendant made fun of it. Prior to departure, the flight attendant came through the cabin with a stash of Bistro Bags in tow for those who had neglected to pick one up. "Who didn't get their steak and eggs?" he called out loudly with a smirk.

We snickered. We liked him.

The yogurt blorted onto my shirt as I opened it's foil lid in the pressurized cabin, but then I am pretty sure that is intentional.

David and I decided that there was no reason to ever refer to a Bistro Bag without adding the word F*#%ing at the beginning. Everytime the flight crew referred to the Bistro Bag, we would repeat what they said, substituting "F*#%ing Bistro Bag". Of course this was all whispered, but the laughter that ensued was not. I laughed so hard that I cried.

On the way home, the F*#%ing Bistro Bags were over packed into the festive little dumpster-like cart in the jetway. The F*#%ing Bistro Bags were all smashed, which was appropriate since they contained some salty fragile potato chip fragments, a tiny packet of tiny carrots, a turkey sandwich for lack of a better title, a packet of a mustard/mayo combo, and a tiny brownie.

The sandwich wrapper boasted that it contained "Purdue" turkey like it was something to crow about, so I was expecting something a little more fabulous than a small dry bun and some bland turkey. There wasn't any cheese, tomato, or anything. Just dry bread and a slab of turkey. Not even a salt packet or a spork. I wondered aloud if Mr. Purdue was aware of the impact of the product that bore his name.

The photos above were found on this cool site, since I couldn't use my camera phone while we were in the air. On this site, you can view the airline meals by airline and accompanying commentary, some of which is hilarious. I assure you that the photos above do nothing but flatter the actual contents of the F*#%ing Bistro Bag.