Democrat Meltdown #....Well, Who's Counting Anymore?

Click on the title of this post for the worst political blunder quite possibly of all time.

John Kerry really needs to stick to eating-out rich widows.

If I were a Democrat, I'd just go ahead and shoot myself. It's less painful than running in an election, and they can always apply for a purple heart.

Kerry's now trying to say that he was talking about Bush, but I'm not sure how anyone is supposed to believe him seeing as how he didn't mention him in that statement, and Bush is in the White House, not Iraq. But really. Who are you going to believe? Him or your own ears?

I quote Mr Kerry: "If anyone thinks a veteran would criticize the more than 140,000 heroes serving in Iraq and not the president who got us stuck there, they're crazy."

Mr. Kerry, no one is under the illusion that you were not criticizing the president. Believe it or not, we have been made aware over the course of the last two years that you disagree with him.

And I wouldn't have thought it possible, but it would seem that a veteran is not only criticizing 140,000 heroes, but insulting them as well.

Ah well. Benedict Arnold was a veteran too, so it's not entirely without precedent. Then again, neither is hanging.

Saturday night, we met up with a former classmate of Jethro's and his wife. They'd come up from the Valley and wanted to go hang out. Our friend, Corin, who we've both written about, is going to be shipping out to Afghanistan in the next few weeks, so we thought we'd meet up with him too. He brought along the sweetest boy from his platoon, who is going also.

The kid damn near broke my heart. I had tears in my eyes more than once throughout the evening. He is so very young and had just met the cutest girl, whose picture he showed off quite proudly. It was such a classic movie moment. Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy goes to war. And they're both virgins. I shouldn't know that, and I wasn't the one who asked, but it came out over shots of tequila. The guys were talking about ways he could sneak around the girl's very strict mother, and the other girl was telling him that he should wait until he was married. I reserved judgment. I just want him to come back in one piece.

I would also be remiss if I failed to mention Proud American 9/12. He just finished training for the Air Force and is engaged at the ripe old age of 18. He is a great guy. I've known him for awhile now. He was a big part of Protest Warrior back when the Lefties were doing stuff and he brought a powerful voice to the table. I am so very proud of him. If you have a second, go give him some love.

But in observing both of these individuals, I thought about myself and the people I knew back when I was their age. I will be the first to say that I probably had more responsibility than most kids my age and no safety net. But I wasn't facing a war. We complain about kids today and how soft they are; lazy, spoiled, and parasitic. But they're not. You meet any kid who has joined any branch of the armed forces and you will find one who has chosen adulthood with courage and conviction - far more than the Cobain-mourning, gender-bending morons of Gen X.

I don't know if there is any way to express just how much I admire them, but I do. I wish them the best especially during this holiday season when they will be going without so the rest of us will not have to.

I'm sitting here like a good wife after having released my husband to a blue collar bar somewhere so he can play darts. I'm awesome. And I have huge tits.

The Usual Halloween Dilemma

Inspired by Big Dick

Who here thinks I could convince Jethro that we should go as Dr. Frank-N-Furter and Rocky for Halloween (him being Dr. Frank-n-furter and me being Rocky)?

While I would love to be the Sweet Transvestite, Jethro has the better figure for it. But I could go as Rocky. I could get this muscle shirt and wear some gold shorts. I think that would be hysterical.

What say y'all?

"Hell Is Other People"

Why is it when I tell people that I am ill, they feel the need to carry on a conversation with me? My neighbor, knowing I was sick, said she would let me go only to keep me on the phone for another 10 minutes telling me all about some stupid house-boat-anniversary-dinner her parents-in-law are having on an inconvenient Monday night. She's mentioned the dinner and the inconvenience of the time a total of 3 times now in the past 3 days. I know she's fat and ugly and high all the time, but for the love of Pete, get out of the house once in awhile so you don't have to keep repeating the details of the most boring event of the social season to someone who goes to titty bars when she can't think of anything better to do. Please people. I am pretty easy. You can be a 700 lb. glue-sniffing donkey-prostitute and I won't judge you as long as you keep me entertained.

What's Your Stripper Song?

Your Stripper Song Is

The Bad Touch by the Bloodhound Gang "Sweat, baby, sweat, baby sex is a Texas drought Me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about" When it comes to dancing, you let your freak flag fly!

What Song Should You Strip To?

I think I ended up with that song because I would have dressed like a pirate.

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Jethro awoke Saturday morning and he was pissed off. He had a dream some dude made a pass at me and I rather readily acquiesced. Every so often we dream about the other cheating. We're normal.

He was laughing, but he seemed a little annoyed as he relayed the details. "Don't worry, honey," I said groggily. "If anyone came onto me like that, I'd punch them in the face after I complimented them on their good taste in women."

It was only later while speaking to a friend that I realized what I had been dreaming about at the same time.

While he was dreaming about me orgasming on some guy's hand, I was dreaming about me orgasming on a coconut cake covered in raspberry jam. Well, I wasn't exactly orgasming on it, but I was orgasming while I was eating it.

I think there is a high likelihood that I have taken The Diet about as far as it can go.

Anyway, I dreamt I had to make a cake for the Food Network, so I made this light, fluffy coconut/Tres Leches concoction layered with raspberry jam. I luh-hu-huuuv raspberry jam. In the dream, I had to eat a piece before I gave it to the judges. It was so real. I scraped the jam off the cake and let it linger in my mouth before I swallowed it. I let the bite of cake hover on my tongue before it dissolved and slid down my throat. It was so delicious, and the dream was so real that there is a good possibility I was smacking my lips and making noises.

It's a classic case of denial. I am denied anything even resembling a coconut/Tres Leches cake smothered in delicious raspberry jam, so naturally I have the most sensual dream about it.

It reminds me of when I went to High-Minded Liberal Arts College in NH and wasn't getting any. And by any, I mean ANY. Not even of the self-inflicted variety. If you were caught (and that was a near constant possibility as the dorms were very small), you wouldn't be considered an Intellectual. And if that happened, you might as well have slit your own throat. Anyway, long story short, I ended up having a very erotic dream in which my curtain rods played a very prominent role. I think I woke up dry-humping my bedpost or my reading lamp or something.

And those were the best years of my life.

It's a rarely fabulous day and I'm going to take in some sun before I drown.

Have a great weekend!

Tweaks

I think I have stalled a little bit in my quest for hotness. It's the Drink. I should really start exercising, but I don't have time what with children and sinus headaches (get out of my head, Jack and go find a new girl with a mental illness to torment, since you seem to find it so amusing).

Speaking of headaches, I had a bitch of one last night and all day today. It has been raining in the Houston area for about a week straight, and I'm pretty sure there is a garden growing in my sinus cavities. That would make for a marvelous -ectomy now, wouldn't it? "Doctor, could you please remove these sunflowers, turnips and pomegranates from my head? I'll pay extra if you can reach the corn."

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I wrote the above under the influence. I had to tweak the grammar a little, but other than that, I left it intact. I thought it flowed so wittily last night. I was wrong.

Anyway, there isn't much going on right now. I have a sink full of dishes that refuse to get done no matter how hard I stare at them and think positive thoughts. I insisted on getting boned a few times since our last communication. Doggie-style seems to be the soup du jour although I wouldn't say it puts me in the best light. I'm actually quite glad that men are such simple creatures. If you just want to get laid, you can be sure they rarely turn down upturned ass. Cuddling afterwards might require some negotiation.

Anyway, have a wonderful day and keep the ass freshener handy just in case.

Kinky for Good Shepherd

'Tis the season for politickin'. Fa la la la laaa... You get the idea.

I can't even bring myself to discuss what's going on in Washington DC, so I'll have a go at the Texas Gubernatorial Candidates. I'm not voting for any of them.

I'm not even going to bother running down the Democrat, Chris Bell. No Democrat will get another vote (or link) from me until they decide they wish to fight terrorists instead of worrying about whether said terrorists are getting too fat and having their diapers changed often enough down in GITMO.

So I'll just stick with the candidates who had a chance to win my vote.

Rick Perry, the Republican, is a pretty boy/socialite who thinks he's running for prom queen. He lost my vote years ago because he takes it for granted and Austin just seems like one big frat-party to him.

Carol Keeton Strayboobs, or whatever her crazy name is, is an Independent who wanted to have her name changed on the ballot to "Grandma." In this day of terrorism, war and nuclear proliferation, where in the name of fucking balls does this idiotic woman get the idea that people want to vote for someone named "Grandma?"

I was okay with Kinky Friedman and even considered voting for him despite the ringing endorsements of both Willie Nelson and the Dixie Chicks. I mean, I love Willie, but I find myself compelled to disregard his statements on anything except music and how to roll a fat finger. The Dixie Chicks have seriously degenerated. They're starting to sound like Vanilla Ice's comeback album with all their "I'm not ready to make nice" doodie. Play your nice little fiddles gals, and shut the fuck up already.

But I have gotten off track yet again.

I was considering voting for Kinky Friedman until I saw his campaign ads . Of all the reeking piles of condescending crap. They start off with this corny guitar that sounds like a Taco Cabana commercial. I expected to hear a gravelly voice say, "This old porch is just a steaming greasy plate of enchiladas." (h/t: Robert Earl Keen). There was nothing in them about what he actually wants to accomplish and even less about how he wants to do it.

Cowboy Way is replete with good ol'Texas bullshit including a reference to dogs and, of course, cowboys, with Kinky insisting that he knows how cowboys get things done. (Incidentally, do cowboys let their dogs lick them on the mouth? I'm genuinely curious.) Then he bitches about his opponents' bitching. Ballsy.

The Good Shepherd is even worse. Kinky Friedman is a Jew. Nothing wrong with that unless you try to quote from the book of John (New Testament) and accidentally start running for Jesus instead of governor of Texas. And while I realize there are some Texans who don't know the difference, they are few and far between because if there is anything Texans know - especially the Texans to whom old Kinky is trying to appeal - it's their Bible.

Besides, if Kinky becomes the "Good Shepherd" what the hell would that make us? Sheep? Kinky sheep? I'll pass, thank you.

Somewhere Between Madonna and Whore

Jethro and I went with a couple of bloggers to a titty bar Saturday night. I won't tell you who they are just in case they don't want their pristine reputations sullied. But if they so allow, I will let you know.

It was an amusing evening. The Diet says that if I must imbibe, which it does not recommend (fucking Puritans), it should be either red wine or a liquor such as vodka or gin. I'm sure they'd cringe at the thought of five vodka martinis, but I've been a good girl, and I think I deserved it. Plus, you just can't be at a titty bar sober.

I have several observations to make about the evening in question, but I must finally confess to my real reason for going to titty bars at all. I want to observe men. It's not as if they are any mystery, but I like having a look at what they do inside establishments that women like myself don't frequent on a regular basis.

I mean, I think women are beautiful and I would much rather see them dance around naked than a bunch of greasy man-strippers on steroids, but I can't say I have any sexual attraction to them. As far as I'm concerned personally, a titty bar for the purpose of sexual arousal/gratification is simply wasted money. And it fucks with my head when I'm trying to have sex. Instead of flipping through my mental rolodex of perversion, I see strippers. And quite frankly, they are pretty tame compared to my vivid imagination.

But I do digress.

One of the girls was a very energetic young sistah. She worked that pole like I've never seen it worked except by one other girl in New Orleans. But she wasn't getting any tips. Blatant racism. Jethro, being of a non-racist, conservative persuasion, hates to see hard work go unrewarded, so he went up to give her a dollar. How was Young Sistah to know Jethro is a tit-man and slightly terrified of booty? She (on all fours) wrapped her legs around Jethro and slammed her big ol' booty right into his chest after shaking it like a dog in the rain. Jethro claims his ribs were bruised.

But who knew I had a jealous bone in my body? For one infinitesimal moment, I imagined myself triumphantly waving around a bloody scalp full of hair extensions. I'm actually relieved I had those feelings. You can't manufacture jealousy, and I was starting to think I was an arrogant bitch who might, in her overconfidence, launch her husband straight into the arms of temptation. Turns out that I'm not a total moron and for my own security, I have to jerk the leash once in awhile.

There was another interesting occurance as well. One of the strippers was assaulted by a patron. The patron was female. I didn't see the whole thing because I was in the restroom, but I was told that Psycho Girl came up to the stripper, dollar in hand, and started beating her ass - as in literally beating the stripper on the ass with her hand. I saw Psycho Girl and she was flying high on something. I have no idea what, but it seemed vicious. When I got out there, Psycho was still zooming around, waving her dollar bill. She tried to go up to the stripper again and when the stripper moved to get away from her, she started frenziedly beating her own ass. I was surprised the bouncers didn't launch Psycho out of there, but it in a way I'm glad they didn't because no one got hurt and it was pretty funny.

Another thing. No matter what gentlemen say about how savvy they are to the game, they are all suckers in a titty bar. I don't hold it against them, mind you. I mean it's fun and it's probably safer than picking up some strange and doing it in the back of your Dodge. Still, it's not possible to go to a place like that and participate in any way without buying into the scam at least a little. But you can't rape the willing, and I didn't see anyone's arm being twisted, so there you have it.

And it's fascinating to blog about if nothing else.

At Least I'm Not As Weird As Trashman

Michelle tagged me to name 5 weird things about myself. I'm going to have a hard time since I'm so fucking normal. But here goes.

1. In using my breasts to get reactions from men, I've discovered that men are so easy that I can tell them exactly what I'm doing and they'll still do what I want. Mostly.

2. If you pinch me with your bare toes, I might kill you.

3. I don't mind Bob Dylan's voice

4. I have a thing for banjos.

5. Given my bad habits, it would be far more logical for me to be a liberal than a conservative.

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty. I Feel Witty and Pretty and Surprisingly Heterosexual.

I couldn't stand it anymore. My pants looked awful; baggy and clownish and they were not staying put. So I decided to buy some new ones. I haven't tried any on in stores since before The Diet. I took the size I thought I was off the rack. Then I thought, "What the hell" and grabbed the size beneath. Long story short, the smaller size fit better. So now I'm about a size and a half from where I would like to be. And that rocks.

Anyway, the last post wasn't meant to sound bitter or depressed. I'm not. I was for a long time, but I'm not now. It's life. I'd been dealt some shitty hands for awhile. But now I've been dealt a great one. The most important thing however, is that I don't take it for granted. Biblically speaking, we're to count our blessings.

But I think Shakespeare outdid the Bible on that score. Romeo and Juliet Act 3; Scene III: When Romeo, after killing Tybalt, is crying like a little girl in Friar Lawrence's cell, Friar Lawrence implores him to get a grip:

""What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt. There are thou happy too.
The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend
And turns it to exile. There art thou happy.
A pack of blessings light upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love.
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable."

I just don't feel like dying miserable is all.

"DEATH COMES UNEXPECTEDLY!"

"And the God, Jehovah will execute His vengeance on ye who despise His Thine love and trample it underfoot."

This was the beginning of Karl Malden's sermon in Pollyanna. The "God, Jehovah" part means nothing. I just wanted to prove I could quote it. Oddly enough, that sermon was my favorite part of the whole movie. I was a weird kid.

There are several couples of Jethro's and my acquaintance who are having marital issues as we speak. I would never presume to act as if I know who is right and wrong in any given situation. I have my opinions, no question, but I hope I've learned enough in 30 years to know that my opinions don't mean shit when it comes to someone's personal life.

But this is what I do know.

DEATH COMES UNEXPECTEDLY.

And when it does, we'd give anything for one more day, hour, or even minute with the ones we love. And even then, the only thing we care about is that they know how much we love them.

I remember when my grandmother was dying of lung cancer. She was on oxygen and under pretty heavy sedation. Her eyes would flutter open once every few hours. Every time, whoever was closest would rush over and tell her they loved her. No one would say, "Why didn't you quit smoking?" or "Why didn't you finish that painting?" or "Why did you marry that man who beat the shit out of me?"

Life is brief, and no one is perfect. No one. Everyone makes mistakes. Huge, horrible, ghastly mistakes. But if you had one last minute with anyone you love, would they really make a difference?

If I had one more minute with my dad, I wouldn't be telling him how insane his parenting tactics were and he wouldn't be telling me what a wretchedly difficult child I was. I'd hold him and he'd hold me. I'd tell him of the good things and he'd tell me he was proud of me. He'd know I'd forgiven his heavy-handedness and I'd know he'd forgiven my stubborness and bad temper. I'd be at peace and he'd be at peace. And nothing would matter then but love.

A positive thing about losing weight (for me) is that I get cold easily. I like being cold. I hate being too hot. I know. Houston is perfect for me.

Anyway, I woke up freezing cold, so I wore a sweatshirt to work. It's not professional to wear a sweatshirt to an office, but I have a feeling it's even more unprofessional to wear one that says U.S. Beer Drinking Team on it. It also has a white outline of a hand holding a beer mug against a red and blue background. At least no one can say I'm not patriotic. Except that I don't like beer. I prefer a red wine boasting a deep claret hue, with an earthy undertone and just a whisper of chamomile.

*Pinky down*

I even paid money for this sweatshirt. It was only about $3.00 or $4.00 (I'm half Jewish and nearly half-Scottish. I don't have a prayer). But it was either the USBDT or a very lame football team. I went with alcohol.

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I was talking to Jethro the last night about human intellect, natural selection, and genetics. We were mulling over the idea that perhaps the evolution of the human intellect is our best defense against nature. And genetically engineered food products are the result of our intellect and the excess strength/weight derived from it, may sustain us through whatever nature might have in store for us. I don't know. We have no real answers.

This conversation evolved into a discussion of survival tactics, which led to the inevitable husband/wife discussion of what exactly we wish to do with our lives. Jethro wants to open his own clinic/sports rehab center and I said (if I had the financial ability) I would like to found a college. This is my fondest dream.

It would be a liberal arts college with an emphasis on the classics and a core program of philosophy, political science, and literature. The curriculum would be modeled after the college I went to in New Hampshire. But in addition to the Humanities, I would have an ongoing organic agriculture project and have the college run a store to subsidize some of the costs.

I would love that so very much that it's hard to gauge just how unrealistic it is.

Every geek on earth has been raving about Battlestar Galactica. This doesn't turn me off, but I don't have a lot of time to get into television shows. I finally caught an entire episode and I am extremely interested. In the episode, two female pilots were having a pissing contest (figuratively speaking) and it ended with them destroying an enemy ship. In between one of them had a bit of an emotional break-down, tried to get laid, went too fast for the guy, then drank heavily. It was cool.

I usually hate it when female characters are pilots, astronauts, or in traditionally male roles. It's not because I don't think they exist or shouldn't have those jobs, but on the screen it's rarely believable (Starship Troopers, the movie, comes shudderingly to mind). On this show though, I totally bought it.

So I like. Or at any rate, I've seen worse.

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Random Flashback to a Simpler Time:

Jethro and I used to watch King of the Hill pretty regularly. So much so, that I ended up with a very good Hank Hill impression, and Jethro came away with a killer Luanne.

Zelda: "You're not going to cheat on me just because I'm fat?"

Jethro: "Of course not!"

Zelda: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Jethro: "Oh. You're not fat."

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I take what I can get.

No Suicide Today

Okay. When I said I was useless, I didn't mean worthless. God forbid anyone think I'm buying rope and a shower curtain.

So just to prove I'm as egotistical as ever, I will now write a tribute to my unlimited arrogance. As I have related in previous posts, I have started the South Beach Diet. It's going swimmingly. I lost a few pounds. Somehow this makes me think I'm entitled to wear an orange courderoy mini-skirt. And while I don't look as repulsive in it as I did 10 lbs ago, I don't think it's ready for prime time. To compound the matter, I forgot temporarily that I'm on Daylight Shaving Time, which means that anything above the knee is not considered necessary for removal. Plus I forgot one knee. So to recap, I am wearing a short skirt that's just a bit too small and I have patchy legs. And I don't care. Because at least I'm wearing underpants. And that means I'm going to heaven. Right Angi?

Chunks of Thought

Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already.

~John Hodge
Trainspotting


Sometimes I'm so sick of myself. I almost wish I had an addiction so there would be some excuse. Adult ADD? Probably. What difference does that make? Regardless of the cause, I am an utterly useless person. And that realization is irritating especially to someone like me who has trouble realizing the world does not revolve around them.

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In Blow Job news, someone said to me recently that she would never go down on her knees in front of a guy. It was too degrading. I can see her point, but I think it's somewhat empowering to hold someone's entire sense identity and self-worth between one's teeth (not that one should do anything other than what's expected).

But that's why I can never understand men's desire to receive oral affection from someone they don't know. It's one of the mysteries of life, I suppose.