Current Events

Something our media think you shouldn't see as it might make you question why the UN would allow the Iranian "government" to posses nuclear weapons.

There are several things about the world body that I do not understand. Let's admit first that it is made up primarily of men. What I want to know is how you can call yourself a man and not stand up to psychotics who would hang a sixteen year old girl (or any woman) for crimes against chastity.
Please tell me how a "strongly worded letter" suggesting that someday the UN might discuss talking about a discussion of the possibility of sanctions is going to halt Iran's human rights abuses and nuclear ambitions. Seriously. How can they go home and fuck their wives, mistresses, or female slaves after having so firmly grabbed their ankles and widely spread their buttocks for the "government" of Iran?

The Iranian government has made no secret of it's devotion to sharia law (the Islamic moral code that controls every aspect of one's life from the food you eat to the clothes you wear to whom you are allowed to marry). What is even more frightening is that it has made no secret of it's desire for Islam to conquer the world. And the most frightening thing of all is that our own media will not report it.

I have my suspicions as to why. First off, I think the media have become so comfortable with themselves as self-appointed watchdogs of the White Male Establishment in America and are so complacent with their ability to make our government bow to their every whim with a casual tossing out of words like "intolerant" and "racist," that they have forgotten what true oppression is (assuming they've ever known).

Secondly, I believe the media have an ingrained left-wing bias that has myopically targeted the Bush administration despite the fact that should our endeavors in Iraq and Afghanistan be successful, a far more liberal world ideal would emerge - one where sixteen year old girls would not be hanged for crimes against chastity, women could prosecute their rapists without being stoned for adultery, men could shave their faces without fear of a public beating, and the list goes on.

But I suppose that goal is secondary to the primary left-wing ideal of a global government who sticks it to the rich (and by rich they mean that disgusting, mediocre cross-section of humanity known as the Middle Class) until everyone is poor, forgetting of course that this ideal has never had even a modicum of success anywhere it's been tried. Show me a country where they have taken people's property by force and I will show you a country with secret police, political prisons, death camps, poverty, starvation, absolute control of the media, absolute control on speech, absolute control of every aspect of the people's lives including those who had nothing to begin with.

But when you truly look at radical fundamentalist Islam, Wahabbism, Salafism, Sharia law, etc...the ideals are almost exactly that of Communism, bearing in mind that Atheism was forced upon the people of the Soviet bloc just as Islam is forced upon the people of Iran. Sure you could practice another religion if you wanted, but there was no guarantee of your safety in the Soviet Union, and there is certainly no guarantee of your safety in Iran. Both countries had/have prisons for that kind of thing.

So back to the UN. It doesn't seem so odd now that China and Russia, despite being ruthlessly progressive (yet staggeringly incompetent) and fundamentally atheist, have aligned themselves with the fundamentally Islamic government of Iran. But it does reek of hypocrisy both from the Islamists, who decry secularism only to ally themselves with the worst possible example of it, and from Russia and China who purport to detest religion (remember Marx's "opiate of the masses?") only to ally themselves with the worst possible example of it.

I am not of the mindset that we have to turn the countries of our enemies into mirrors in order to have peace. But we must implement democracies even if the people elect unfriendly administrations, and we must be firmly committed to the ideal in spite of setbacks and specifically because of what is NOT reported.

We should not allow the media to dictate or compromise our ideals which is exactly what they are doing when they fail to report human rights violations in Iran or when they publish faked/staged photos from Lebanon. The latest scandal involves Hezbollah handing out counterfeit U.S. currency in the form of $100 bills. The actual scandal is not Hezbollah's theft, but the media filming it and reporting it as if Hezbollah was a Wonderful Utopian Socialist Organization delivering it's largesse to the masses. Never once did they think to investigate whether the crisp, new $100 bills were legitimate in spite of Hezbollah's being one of the chief manufacturers of counterfeit U.S. currency. The very best case scenario is that the media are lazy. The worst is almost too terrible to contemplate.



*Addendum*

My family and I had to escape Iran in 1978 just before the Islamic hardliners ousted the Shah. We would have been killed otherwise.

Jethro's family had to escape Vietnam during the fall of Saigon when the communists overtook the city. They would have been killed otherwise.

If the Pants Fit...

I have these pants that I really like. They fit decently, they don't look too repulisive, and I got them on sale for around $5.00. The only problem is that they make me itch in the more personal areas of my anatomy.

"But Zelda," I can hear everyone thinking. "You live in Houston. You have a vagina. It's to be expected."

And that's true, I suppose. But I still can't help wondering whether one of the many individuals who tried them on before they were reduced to $5.00 had the clap.

Back to the Old Drawing-Board

I started back to work with Stepfather. I didn't intend to, but I decided that I was missing the money I used to have in my bank account, so I went back. It was just in the nick of time because he was about to interview someone else.

So this morning, I got the kids off to school, groggily awaited the burden of consciousness to dissipate, washed my crotch in the shower (I'd taken a full shower the night before), and left for work. Without my shirt. I was completely out the door when I realized I was feeling my purse a little more than usual. It just goes to show how much I need to diet when my hands flew to cover my fat rolls instead of my boobs which were protected only by a see-through pink bra.

The first task that awaited me on my first day back at work was to call several other realtors and ask if their clients would lease their properties to a couple with 4 dogs and 5 cats. Truly nothing changes. The first agent I called actually laughed at me. He didn't even tell me yes or no. What he said was, "You really need to hand off that lead." Thanks buddy. Glad you didn't catch me without my shirt.

I felt justified in pretending to call the other agents and then just went ahead and told our client that everyone said no. I think I've said it before, but don't bother trying to lease something if you have pets. And better yet, if you are a renter, leave the nice kitties alone until you own something. It will make your life and mine so much easier.

TGIHitler's

How would you like this looking down on you while you try to eat your chicken fried curry?

Seriously. Some not particularly savvy residents of Mumbai, India wanted to open a restaurant that people will remember. It's called Hitler's Cross.

Even though I'm half-Jewish and I'd be just as dead as any other Jew if I'd lived in WWII Germany (or Poland, Holland, Austria, etc.) and Hitler had is way, it's difficult not to see the humor in it. However, I do resent the caption Reuters/Yahoo news put on it: "It's like if "The Producers" opened an eatery."

First of all, it's grammatically incorrect and while I get that they are attempting a more informal vernacular, it's simply unacceptable for a straight news service.

Secondly, it's inaccurate. The owners are not trying to fail in their business venture and hopefully the result will be exactly the oppposite of The Producers.

Thirdly, it's stupid. I came up with four better ones immediately. Let's see if anyone can beat them:

#1. "Is the SS Curry Chicken supposed to scream in the oven?"

#2. "So what exactly do you put in the special sauce?"

#3. "You tell everybody. Listen to me, Hatcher. You've gotta tell them! The Mein Kampf Burger is people!!!"

#4. "I'll have the vegetarian plate."

H/T: Little Green Footballs

All About Gwennie

It was Gwennie's birthday yesterday. She turned seven. We took her to Build-A-Bear where she decided on a white rabbit which she dressed meticulously. She named her Moze. I don't know where she came up with that name. When I asked her about it, she said she'd heard it on a movie. When I asked what movie, she told me that was classified.

The child makes me laugh harder than anyone else in the world. She is so full of mischief and fun that it is very difficult to discipline her when she needs it. And take my word for it that she needs it. She is so supremely confident. I never see her hesitate for even a moment. It is like pulling teeth to get her to admit she's wrong about something, but when she finally does, she does it in a way that makes you think she's doing you a favor. She lied about something the other day and looked at me so honestly that I almost believed her inspite of overwhelming evidence against her. It was only when I threatened to keep both her and Emma in their rooms until they told the truth that she admitted it to me. And in such a way! "Mommy, well I actually did do that, but it was an accident and I forgot that you told me I wouldn't get in trouble if I just told the truth." *smile*

But when she's happy she's like sunshine. The world is her friend and there isn't a thing she won't bend over backwards to do for you. She'll be the greatest help and the boldest defender to the point that you'll reflect on the argument you had with her a few hours ago and wonder if it wasn't somehow your fault.

But she's a love. No question. And I frequently wonder what good I ever did that made her a part of my life. I can only conclude that it was sexually related, but it seems inadequate.

One Time, At Fat Camp

I am fat. It is unmistakable. I never weigh myself except in moments of complete, self-loathing insanity, one of which occurred two days ago at my parents house where they own a scale. I am not going to tell you what it said, but suffice it to say that I have never weighed more in my life. And I believe I have put on 20 or 30 lbs since I started blogging. Not that I hold blogging responsible, although it probably is.

So I must start losing it. I want to lose 35-40 lbs total. Since I am on the tall side of average and I have big boobs, I don't feel as if I have to be a size 6. But I would like to wear pants and not look like a penguin. And I don't want to have to shop at Lane Bryant. I am borderline right now and I don't want to fall over the precipice. It's very tempting to shop at a store where you fit into the smallest sizes instead of the largest. And once you go Lane, you're never the Same. Feel free to use that one. Also, please feel free to weigh in (pun intended and you can use that one too) with any advice. Is there anyone who has needed to lose weight and found a delicious/efficient way to do it?

Needing to lose weight, clean house, finish real estate classes, and plan a birthday party on top of having a cold that refuses to give up is very depressing. And I have an upset stomach from the pounds of snot I have inadvertantly swallowed for nearly two weeks now. Incidentally, I wonder how many calories are in snot?

I do not recommend having sex after you watch The Apple Dumpling Gang because when you finally, FINALLY have an orgasm, you feel really, really dirty.

Sick Again

This is the third time this summer that I've been taken down by an airborne illness. It does not feel good. I can't talk which is very upsetting. But not being able to breathe is the more pressing concern. I also fear my nose will be nothing but wriggling, exposed cartiledge by the time the illness has run it's course.

But Jethro is the one I feel truly sad for. His very first referral has prostate cancer that metasticized to his spine and he had to tell him. Jethro says chiropracters can go their whole careers without seeing anything like that but that he has seen three such cases since he's started working. So gentlemen, please allow a certified medical representative to stick his or her fingers in your assholes every so often. I know it isn't pleasant, but it can save your life and your wives may find it kinky on the retelling. Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, I am going to have some gruel and feel sorry for myself for a little while before I go to bed. Cheerio and I'll see you on the upside.

Cocksuckah!!

Sorry the posting has been so light. I've gone into what appears to be a summer slump.

But I did want to write about Deadwood - HBO's serial extension of Tombstone - one of my favorite movies ever. Jethro and I have been renting Deadwood from the video store because we're too cheap for anything but basic cable. The sad thing is that we are probably spending more money to rent the stupid series than it would be to pay for HBO for three or four months. That is, however, irrelevant.

The first thing I must say is that I enjoy the series greatly. That being said, I am now going to skewer it mercilessly.

The writing style, while well thought out and very provocative, is terrible. Everyone speaks exactly the same way with only elevated use of "fuck," "cunt," and of course "cocksucker" to help us distinguish between the schoolteachers and the whores, the exception being the Chinks...er excuse me...the Celestials. I just wonder how many coal miners really spoke like Fucking Shakespeare.

Now I could grasp the concept of having three or four characters speaking that way. One well-born reprobate with a high intellect and a foul mouth makes for a thoroughly enjoyable cinematic experience (Doc Holliday) and if they limited that type of speech to the educated types, Al Swearingen, and maybe Calamity Jane it might give it more punch. But as it stands, they have set themselves up beautifully for mockery.



The fucking irony for me is that they talk the way I blog.

Fortune Smiles Upon Me

I am not a terribly jealous person. I joke about other women being hotter or more organized than I am, but secretly, waaaaaay deep down I am confident that I have (am? I'm not sure of the vernacular these days) the best poonanny Jethro has ever had or will ever be likely to get. I say this with all due modesty. The only thing that ever gets me is when Jethro calls a woman "cute." He can call them hot, sexy, fine, smokin', gorgeous, beautiful, exotic, even fuckable. But cute is mine. It's the only thing I can pull off.

So it was with no small amount of joy that I discovered Jethro's #1 dream girl and celebrity he's allowed to do nasty, nasty things to (if she'd let him) is going to be on Celebrity Fit Club Season 4.

Damned if I don't think Erica Eleniak is the cutest woman of all time and I hate her with an almost religious intensity.

I must say this is even better than when Kelly Lebrock, Jethro's #2 dream girl and celebrity he's allowed to do nasty, nasty things to (if she'd let him and I think would) was on last season. I think Jethro's fuckable celebrity list is getting a little dog-eared. But I like to think that I'm so fucking good, he hasn't thought about other women since the early '90s.

Sick People Make Me Nervous

So you know what's worse than living with a hypochondriac?

Living with a hypochondriac who actually has something wrong with her.

My grandmother (visiting from NY) went to the emergency room last week for a bladder infection. While she was there she had a fake allergic reaction to some antibiotic then legitimately had a mild heart attack.

After every test known to man at the insistence of relatives who would rather make demands from 3,000 miles away instead of actually carting their spoiled asses down here to help care for their mom, it was decided that she would need an angioplasty.

To complicate matters in ways that seem to be unique to my family, a vicious stomach bug laid out me, Gwennie, two of my sisters, and my mom. Not receiving the proper attention due to the fact that everyone was retching over their respective toilet/salad bowls, my grandmother proclaimed everyone Deserters of the Ill in Their Hour of Need and said she hoped she died.

I was better by the time Procedure (notice I do not say Operation) Day rolled around. I went to the hospital to see her. I arrived there at 10:35 am and did not leave until the following evening during which time I got the once over by a clergyman with balloons; fielded 42 phone calls from various relatives one of whom actually had the nerve to yell at me for trying to convince my grandmother to sign a release for the doctors to do an emergency bypass if it looked like death was imminent (she refused to sign); valiantly attempted to translate my grandmother's vague kvetching into actual useful information for the doctors and nurses; found a secret waiting room with free real coffee; attempted to sleep on a waiting room sofa while a soon-to-be-bereaved family had a jubilant reunion right next to my head; raped, cut off ears, cut off heads, taped wires from portable telephones to human genitals and turned up the power, cut off limbs, blown up bodies, randomly shot at civilians, razed villages in fashion reminiscent of Genghis Khan....

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

While there are many blog-entries I could squeeze out of the past few days, the funniest was the soon-to-be-bereaved family in the waiting room. It was around 3 am, and I was attempting to sleep a little. A sudden heart attack victim had been brought up to the ICU amid much commotion and accompanied by a vast family. Two somewhat aged gentleman who obviously hadn't seen each other in awhile decided to establish themselves right in front of the only person in the waiting room who was trying to sleep. Me. This is the story that brought me to consciousness:

"There I was trying to eat my dinner in peace when this girl, she must have been Puerto Rican got a call on her cell phone. She talked and talked and talked so loudly I couldn't hear myself think. This went on for almost 10 minutes. And I couldn't even taste my food. Finally I just stood up and went over her and said, "You sound just like a Puerto Rican chicken."

The man beamed as he laid this priceless one-liner on everyone.

"...And boy was she mad. She put down the phone and yelled at me for about 3 or 4 minutes and I just stood there. Finally she walked out."

I started chuckling in my sleep. I thought I had dreamed the whole thing. Comedians joke about situations like this, but you never believe they actually happen in a way that doesn't need to be exaggerated for effect. I still wanted to eviscerate him, but I woke up happy. They, however, were quite sad only a few short hours later and I felt a little guilty for my thoughts of violence.

So now I'm staying with my grandmother in a hotel near my house until we are sure the stomach bug has been defeated. After that, seeing as how I have no husband and children and I abhor sexual intercourse of any kind, she will probably end up moving in with me.


Feeling Like Every Nerve Has Been Pounded With A Jackhammer, But Ever Yours Truly,

Zelda

Update on Zelda's Whereabouts

Zelda wanted me to let everyone know that she is staying with her grandmother. She just got out of surgery for her heart and is doing quite well. She asked for Zelda to stay with her and help her out for a few days.

Zelda tells me she's got lots of stories for everyone to masturbate to while choking yourself with a necktie when she gets back to posting.

Jethro out...or back to work.

The Daily Grind

SUPPORT THE TROOPS

I am leaving that link up until it's over.

---------------------

I have been cleaning my house almost nonstop for the past week. It is looking better. Not great, but better. It now has less of a meth lab quality and more of an insane asylum dormitory feel. I am so much happier now that I can see my feet when I walk. Actually, that isn't quite true. I haven't seen my feet since I was fourteen.

The downside to all of the hygiene is that I have developed hives on the palms of my hands. I think I'm allergic to some cleaning agent. Who would have thought I actually had a medical excuse for my sloth? But seriously. My hands look like a Divine Punishment for masturbation. But I admit nothing.

SUPPORT THE TROOPS

No keyboard yet. After all that, Jethro forgot to leave me his laptop. It's ok though. I got some too.

I figure I'll cut and paste the missing letters for right now. If I miss a few, you'll know why.

I am so excited. I was on the Pat Gray morning show on AM 950. He was nice enough to let me announce a victory rally I am holding to thank the troops for their service. I've never planned anything like it and I have no idea how to get the word out. I was lucky enough to get on Pat Gray, but it was at 6am and I have no idea how many people heard me. If anyone has any ideas, I'd be ecstatic to hear them.

Here is the email I sent out in case anyone who reads this is interested in going.

We will be holding a rally in support of our troops at on Saturday, July 29, 2006 starting at 2:00pm

The proprietors of Jack's Roadhouse (Dixie Farm Rd @ Hwy 3 across from Ellington Field) have agreed to host the event. Our PW group is heading it up and Pat Gray (the morning talk radio host) has agreed to announce it.

As of right now, I am trying to enlist speakers and anyone with any DJ skills/MC skills. I thought we might do an almost open forum in that anyone who would like to speak could submit a sample and be approved for a 5-10 minute speech. The only thing is that it can't be too political in nature - in other words, don't shill for a candidate and keep the message positive and articulate.

I also need anyone with any crafty-like skills to help with making banners and doing decorations for the event.

But mostly we need people to be there. That is the most important thing.

You can find the link to Jack's Roadhouse here. There will be a link on the page that goes directly to information on the event. I'm so excited about this, and I really hope we can get a good turnout. If anyone from the Greater Houston area wants to announce/link the event on their blogs, I would be most grateful.

My keybord is broken nd I'm missing very importnt vowel. There is much I would like to respond to nd write bout, but s you cn see, I'm hving difficulty. Jethro might let me borrow his lptop. But I won't be ble to post until fter the blow job.

And It Burns, Burns, Burns...

Did I ever reveal that Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" was playing in my head when I gave birth to Emma? I didn't have an epidural.

Two years ago, I decided that I was now ready to be married. Luckily I already was, so there was no need for anything fancy. Now I've decided that I want children. Not that I didn't want the other two, but I had very little say in the matter. Emma was actually a greater shock than Gwennie.

I don't have a biological clock, thank goodness. I'm pretty much sure that I will be fertile well into my forties. Possibly my 50s. My family seems to be Natural Born Breeders. That's a good thing though because along with the personality disorders comes great genius and low productivity. Just the kind of person society needs, and I insist upon doing my share which should be at least four when all is said and done.

Just Call Me One-Trick Pony (or would it be a one-pony trick?)

Jethro and I were at our friends' house a couple of months ago trying to decide which movie to watch on HBO. Not finding anything, we decided to browse the porn titles and their accompanying descriptions. If you have a chance to do that, I highly recommend it. I haven't laughed that hard in ages.

On a whim we decided to watch a documentary of sorts detailing among other things a pussy-eating seminar (ovular?) managed by two (fat and hairy) lesbians, and a swinger orgy/campout for, and I quote the outhouse dwelling redneck verbatim, "people who like to camp and people who like to fuck."

The seminar was pretty much just a bunch of fat people watching some gal get eaten out. Boring. The juice, so to speak, was in the redneck swinger orgy-in-the-woods.

I must say I've never been what you could call an environmentalist. I'm more of a conservationist, but I don't think trees have feelings or anything like that. Nevertheless, as I viewed four naked rednecks writhing wildly in a sex swing they'd hung between two trees, I couldn't help but wonder what those poor woods had done to deserve such defilement.

There was a hot tub full of naked uglies and after watching a stringy-haired housewife get rocked by a chubby-bottomed housewife and her cowboy-hatted cabana boys, I came to the conclusion that there is no need to even debate the morality of this. Something this ugly can't be right.

The rain is getting to me.

If I were to actually attempt to recall the event, I don't think I could. The memory returns when I least expect it. A moment of tension during a movie. A certain type of tile. Leaving for the airport when it's still dark. Flashing lights in the sky.

Any one of those things bring back The Memory.

Oddly enough, it's not a bad memory. It's exciting. Something is Happening.

I see myself after I've died being handed the story of my life as if were a puzzle inside a giant eggshell. I'll crack it open, lay it out and all the pieces will be there. That thought is as satisfying as peeling paint off a cracked door.

Happy Fourth Y'all

Strangely enough, it's the words of a Brit that have caught my attention today.

"Faced with a complete beast like the late Abu-Musab al-Zarqawi, who has been trying to kill us for several years, millions of Americans appear to believe that he only appeared in Iraq because in some way we made him upset. Well, even if this was true — which it is not — it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. (What would you say to a policy that made him contented, instead?).

Thus, for a Fourth of July message, I would suggest less masochism, more confidence on the American street, and less nervous reliance on paper majorities discovered by paper organizations.

Happy Independence Day."

~Christopher Hitchens
July 4, 2006




























































"Never in the history of the world has any soldier sacrificed more for the freedom and liberty of total strangers than the American soldier.

And, our soldiers don't just give freedom abroad, they preserve it for us here at home.

For it has been said so truthfully that it is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the agitator, who has given us the freedom to protest.

It is the soldier who salutes the flag, serves beneath the flag, whose coffin is draped by the flag, who gives that protester the freedom he abuses to burn that flag. "

~Zell Miller
September 1, 2004
Republican National Convention

H/T: Michelle Malkin and Little Green Footballs

I am feeling much better. Just when I think I'm never going to recover, I suddenly discover I'm fine. It was all a dream...

One of my biggest fears is that someone will nominate me for What Not To Wear. I think if someone were ever to come up to me followed by a camera and offer me $5,000 for a new wardrobe, I would tell them thank you very much but would you please go fondle yourself with something large and uncomfortable. It's not so much that I like the way I look, but the task of spending $5,000 on nothing but clothes, having to try them on and then have those two idiots touch my pleats...I'd rather get my nipples pierced 5,000 times.

And speaking of butts, Gwennie and Emma took pictures of each others' with my cell phone. Gwennie then set them to wallpaper and screensaver respectively. The child is an evil genius. I had no idea how to set wallpaper on my cell phone. They are so pretty and innocent looking in that unique little Asian way. It's hard to believe it's all a facade.

Man, I'm so out of it. This cold is kicking my ass. I decided yesterday that I would be all better, so I cleaned, shopped, and came home deciding that death could not be as bad as my headache and fever. I took some cold medicine which had the opposite of it's intended effect in that I got all hyper instead of drowsy.

I finally got to watch Crash. I borrowed it from my sister-in-law who loved it. I don't exactly know what to say about it. It was a pretty simple premise: We are all evil bastards, but we usually come through for each other in a pinch. At any rate, I didn't come away from it wanting to sell myself into slavery for being white. Surely that is an improvement from past racially themed movies. But if Crash won the academy award, Brokeback Mountain must have sucked harder than cowboys in a pup-tent.

And speaking of sucking, I think I sprained my tongue during an act of fellatio. Jethro and I had agreed to have some sex, but got into a mild argument over illegal immigration. Mid-discussion, Jethro complained that he could not have sex and talk about illegal immigration at the same time, and it was all my fault for bringing it up in the first place. Resisting the urge to place the blame on him for putting on Fox News as background for the lovemaking, I decided to offer up a little oral encouragement so he would just shut the fuck up and get it done. In my enthusiasm, my tongue went in the opposite direction of my head. I gagged a little, but the mission had been accomplished. He shut the fuck up.

I am now completely in favor of drug legalization. Any drug, and all drugs.

I just came back from my local Kroger and they wouldn't sell me a box of Advil Cold and Sinus because I didn't have my i.d. on me. I am quite obviously sick as evidenced by the greenish liquid streaming copiously from my nasal cavaties, I only want one fucking box, but clearly I am running an eeeeeeeeeeeevil meth lab and all that stands between me and the downward spiral of thousands of hapless innocents into the muck and mire of drug addiction are the brave little soldiers at the Kroger pharmacy.

So fuck everyone. If you want to pump yourself full of toxins and remove your skanky ass from the gene pool early, be my fucking guest. I don't care.

But the government has to forget about paying for rehabilitation. In order for drug legalization to work, we must allow addicts to kill themselves as quickly as possible. That will reduce everything from drug related traffic accidents to prison spending. Basically, it's a self-inflicted abortion. You had a chance at life, you couldn't hack it, and now you are aborted. It's tidy, and no one else is responsible.

A Night Out

Jen, Vince and I went out last night. I won't go into the mental and social labyrinth I had to negotiate in order to get 2 sisters to a date at the ice-skating rink, another sister to blow off two friends in order to babysit Gwennie, Emma and Jen and Vince's daughters, and then loading 6 people into a very cluttered Honda Accord, but suffice it to say the combined efforts of Superman, King Solomon, and Atilla the Hun would have gotten them nowhere.

Jethro had gone fishing, or to be more precise, "flounder gigging," which is what you call it when you hunt flounder with a spear. Or your dick as Jethro claims. Personally I have my doubts. Regardless, he was not around to play a part.

So Jen, Vince, and I scooted around town stopping at three bars. I remember when three bars was a slow, slow night. I had started drinking red wine earlier in the day at a wedding, and I saw no reason to stop. This is what happens when you are preoccupied with the logistics of getting out. You stop thinking. Red wine makes for a nice buzz, but a terrible hangover.

But while we were out we heard the worst pick-up line ever, drove right through the gay pride parade, and saw a transvestite prostitute and a man running after him. In that order.

The worst pick-up line ever was delivered to two girls at the first bar we were at. They were probably about 21 and pretty cute. The deliverer was about 45, hapless, yet under the delusion that if he spoke loud and fast enough, no one would notice that he was old, desperate, and probably not very good in bed. He came over and introduced himself to the girls and asked if he could buy them a drink. They politely declined to which he said, "But how can I take advantage of you if I can't get you drunk?"

We left shortly after. It was too painful.

We decided to hit another bar and ended up driving through a very colorful, sparkly, but utterly disorganized Gay Pride parade. Jen and I tried to talk Vince into rolling down his window and catcalling some very pretty young men in blue glittery hot pants, but he refused. He's an Irish boy through and through.

The transvestite prostitute was kind of tame after the gay pride parade and not exactly an uncommon site in Houston's Montrose/Midtown area, but I've usually been too drunk to notice them. As I mentioned to Jen and Vince, if you're gonna pay for it, you'd think you'd go for the real thing as opposed to the sure thing. And as Jen said, it's really the difference between Dr. Pepper and Dr. Thunder.

Afternoon Delite

We got a little on Jethro's lunch break. It was 1 1/2 hours long but for some reason he waited until the last 15 minutes to proposition me. Nothing like urgency to carry you through.

All the rain has been driving me batty. But when I stop to think about it, I should just shut up and enjoy it. When it's raining, the temperature is bearable and the mosquitoes don't fly. The humidity is so bad in Houston that you are damp even if it isn't raining, so what's a little water when compared with the moist human soup created by sweat, oil and heat?

I want to move back to Callicoon, NY where I grew up. I know I've bitched about my childhood, but if I show you these pictures, you'll bitch-slap me for complaining. No one could have asked for a more beautiful place to grow up.


One of the many houses my parents rented.





The view from that house. I woke up to this each day.




The view from down the road.







The "hideout." We actually had a stick war with some other kids over it.

The playhouse. I married a lot of boys and planned on setting up housekeeping here with all of them.











Main Street











The Water Hole. Spent many happy summer hours here and rescued a younger sister from drowning just off the right bank




The Delaware River and the Catskill Mountains




St. Mary's. Just one of many churches my family frequented.




The view upon entering the town. Quaint, huh?

Floods and Stuff

Nothing much to report here except some flooding in the Houston area. I must say it's fun watching the government monkeys dance and make promises and look on the bright side of things. It's the weather. We live in a basin. Shit happens - especially when you drive through standing water. But we are determined to hold someone accoutable.

For the rain....

I'm in the middle of scrubbing out my kitchen. It's no barrel of monkeys, but it must be done. Secretly I've always wondered what it would be like to just let nature and the sugar ants take their course, but then I think, "Bad hippie. BAD." And I slap myself hard across the face. It doesn't make me that much more hygenic, but it keeps me from going too long without a shower.

Soybeans and Soybean Accessories

What I thought was a terrible case of food poisoning from undercooked edemame last year, turns out to be vicious and thorough intestinal rejection of soy.

I discovered this a couple of weeks ago when we went to dinner with our friends Jen and Vince. I ordered the vegetarian dinner just for laughs and it came with this huge hunk of fried tofu. Very healthful. I ate most of it, but just couldn't quite see my way to finishing it, which is highly unusual for me. Not half an hour later, I was vaguely uncomfortable. An hour later, I was rushing into our other friends' apartment to take care of emergent business.

Now I ask you. Who can't tolerate soy? Soy is what they give people who can't tolerate normal food. It's like having an intolerance to gruel. I suppose it's just one other way that I don't play by the rules. I'm such a rebel.

Peace Offering for the Last Post

I remembered this from when I was a kid. I never thought I'd see it again.

For Kristin (and not for anyone under 18 or with functional ocular capabilities)

I've changed my mind. I have seen the error of my clothed ways and I am now a liberal.









It's the only way he can see his penis these days. Thank God for digital technology and zoom lenses.

















I'm a girl and even I think that looks painful. But maybe that's his thing.



















I know pot is supposed to stunt your growth, but DAMN!


















It doesn't seem to be talking. Perhaps it's preoccupied with the gay porn audition.















Yeah. From her backfat. Let's drop her on the hajis.




















He's convinced me.











Hat tip and major thanks to Zombie. If there were a civilian equivalent of a purple heart, he'd deserve it.

War Blog

I'm back and in the mood to blog some war.

When I found out Abu Musab al Zarquawi had been killed by U.S. troops (which was 2:00am Western on June 8), I was as elated as I have been since Saddam's capture. Probably more because the fucker is dead. It has now been revealed that he lived for 52 minutes after the bomb blasts and died of massive internal injuries. I sincerely hope they were the most brutal, painful, torturous 52 minutes that could ever be experienced by a human being. It isn't enough, but it's a start.

In a baffling attempt to mitigate this victory, it has been circulated through our stunningly honest and accurate media that our soldiers may have beaten the fatally injured Zarquawi. I've stated this around the blogosphere, but I will repeat it here since I will never be swayed from this position.

WHO FUCKING CARES?

Zarquawi beheaded innocent people while they screamed and begged for mercy. He enjoyed doing it. He videotaped himself doing it. Those stupid islamofucks should be thanking Allah it was the troops who found him and not me. Because if I had my way, the cocksucker would have had his eyeballs replaced with his testicles and his severed dick wrapped in bacon, dipped in menstrual blood (which I would happily provide), and shoved down his no-longer-ululating throat. After it had been rammed up his hairy fucking ass.

And as for our marines in Haditha, they are innocent until proven guilty. And if the death penalty pansies can apply that to the point of absurdity to any child-molesting, grandmother-raping, flesh-eating murderer, surely they can find it within themselves to apply it to our marines.

I'm going to go eat a steak and scratch my balls.

Nothing indicates a blissful marriage like cum on your wedding band. Cleaning it off is such a satisfactory chore.

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We are leaving in about 5 minutes for CA. We hope to see Jeanette and possibly Gooch while we're there. We'll be back Monday. Have a great week/weekend.

TV Rots Your Brains

Television is so stupid. It is so stupid it's hard to believe just how stupid it is. I just saw an advertisement for a "provacative" program about America's drug use through the decades. It's entitled, America: The Drug Years - as if they're over.

Usually when the word "provacative" is used to describe a controversial topic, you can be reasonably sure that if it's a good thing like pet adoption, it's going to be criticized, or if it's a bad thing like drugs, the drug addicts who haven't died a horrible death covered in their own excrement are going to wax nostalgic and glossy eyed over the time they spent near death covered in their own excrement. Party on Wayne. Their smug little grins tell me they feel as if they have cheated both Death and The Man. Well congratu-fucking-lations. You're a goddam idiot. Party on Garth.

And MTV is such a cesspool and yet I know every bit of mental sludge they pawn off on an increaslingly addled public. I honestly don't know how since I rarely watch MTV. I caught one episode of that program where they showcase the Sweet 16 parties of Paris Hilton wannabes.

Now I'll be honest. I rarely envy anyone their money. Whether it's earned, or inherited, I simply don't care. If you spend it on things that you truly love, more power to you. And yet. Somehow, I want to rip every strand of hair out of these children's heads along with the still-beating hearts out of their parents' bodies. And as I am wont to do, I overanalyze my reasonings. I think it's because they have such bad manners. I abhor bad manners, especially in children. And I particularly abhor parents who excuse their little monsters and declare their weakness when it comes to denying them things for which they have absolutely no need.

But I wonder if these children realize how close they're going to come to having their throats slit. Not that I'd ever approve of that, but if you insist upon taunting other children whose lack of self-esteem may have rendered them a temporarily unstable, you are putting yourself at risk.

And that brings me to another point. Children who care so much about those who are popular that they would shoot someone over a few petty insults. Once you take out your anger in a bloody way upon someone, everything they've done is null and void, and you are too damaged to enter society. Harsh? Probably. But that's the way it is. Now by bloody violence, I'm not talking about a fist fight, which I actually think there should be more of. No. I am talking about violence that puts someone's life in danger. No excuse for that.

And I guess I'm done with this rant. I had so much more to say, but I'm spent. And I need to pack.

Sorry for not posting for awhile. We've been a little preoccupied with Jethro's family. For anyone who hasn't read Jethro's last post, his grandmother passed away two days ago. It was as easy a death as anyone can expect. It was peaceful and in her sleep and I am sure she is in a better place. We will be going to CA next Wednesday for the funeral in Santa Ana. I am not looking forward to spending the money, but I would like to pay my respects.

Resisting the urge to wax maudlin on the subject, as I became very fond of her over the past month, I won't say anymore about it.

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And since I have very little to write about at this moment, I'll leave everyone with a bit of maritime erotica.


























I always wondered how they did that. Thanks Boris for your insights.

Belated Memorial Day

We went on vacation. It was a last minute deal and we ducked out of a myriad of responsibilities to do it including my sister's graduation and Brighton's margarita housewarming, and another friend's Ultimate Fighting Championship party.

I feel badly about everything except my sister's graduation. I never graduated high school, so I really don't give a fuck. My only excuse is that Jethro's ulcers desperately needed a break , and there were relatives who were able to care for his grandmother, so I could snatch some time.

It was a wonderful trip. The beach was so relaxing and the drive down in a Honda Pilot was actually a pleasure instead of the buttock-clenching nightmare that our previous trips in the Accord have been.

And yet I was melancholy yesterday on the ride back. I couldn't put my finger on it until we started passing cemeteries and the tributes to the fallen soldiers.

Sometimes in a big city, you get caught up in the frenzy of day to day life. There are so many people, so many obligations; there's politics, and church and family. When I was growing up in the Catskills, we lived in a small town. They had a parade every Memorial Day, and it was an Event. Months of preparation went into it and everyone who could find a group joined up and marched in the parade. I marched with the Brownies and Girl Scouts and one awesome year I got to carry the flag.

I remember passing the town barber who was a family friend and a former Marine. He was a very kind man, but he had always intimidated me a little. He was standing on the side of the road watching the parade go by. But as I passed him, he stood up ramrod straight and saluted. I was shocked.

It took a few years, but the seed of that moment finally took root. We are all equal and that flag made it so. The big, tough marine hadn't lowered himself to salute the flag of a little girl. He was saluting the flag of our equality - a concept so important that thousands upon thousands of soldiers lay dead in defense of it. They are not unequal in death. They are the foundation upon which our equality is formed; their deaths entwined with our lives, paving our way and guiding our paths.

These brave souls would scorn the maudlin weeping of cowards and shun the smiling hypocrisies of politicians. Instead let their heroic deeds, big or small, and their heroic deaths inspire us in the lives we live in freedom because of them.

LT SMASH has the best tribute I've yet to see on the internet. If you have the time, take a look at the soldiers who have given their lives. It will make you cry, but it will make you proud.

Conversation With An Elemplary Learning Center Representative

Rita: "Exemplary Learning Center, this is Rita speaking."

Zelda: "Hi, my name is Zelda and I have two daughters that I am thinking about putting in summer classes."

Rita: "Have they had problems in school?"

Zelda: "Not really, but I want them to get a little jump start on the next year. I don't think they are realizing their full potential. My younger one is about to start Kindergarten and she is kind of shy and I think her speech may be a little slow. I'm not really sure about her. She is hard to figure out. The older one is doing okay, but I think she needs to work on her math skills."

Rita: "Well it's good you're getting ahead of any potential difficulties. I'm just going to ask you a few questions about them individually."

A series of questions ensue about both girls that are interspersed with my own unintelligible brand of humor.

Zelda: "As far as Gwendolyn is concerned, I really want her to get ahead in Math. Math is my Waterloo and I'm borderline retarded."

Rita: "Oh my god! I never would have guessed!"

Zelda: "Well, uhhh...I meant I'm just uhhh...borderline retarded at uhhh...Math, not uhhh...really borderline uhhh...

Nevermind. I am retarded."

The Significance of a Big Red Ball

Jethro and I christened the car. Strangely enough, it was individually. I think it's indicative of our own special relationships with it.

Big Dick said in one of the comments that he was glad we hadn't purchased a new cactus. This reminded me of young man with whom I saw a movie during my illustrious dating career. We met in a bookstore. He took a chance on love.

On our way to the movie theater, he stopped by a flower/newspaper stand. He came back with a cactus. It had a long green base and a large red ball on top. And of course there were pricklies all over it.

"This is for you," he said shyly. "It seemed a little more unique that just flowers," hoping he'd get pussy points for his ingenuity.

"That is quite true," I said, after I'd closed my mouth from surprise.

Needless to say, our romance was short-lived, but not because of the cactus. He was always telling me sob stories. I think he thought a pity-fuck was his best shot. But I wasn't giving it up for lust, much less pity, so he really had no hope. Kind of tragic, really.

Auto-Erotica (title change)

PHOTO REMOVED

I was so excited, I had to hump something. Why not the new car?

Clandestine Meeting On A Display Toilet

I think part of the reason my life seems to have taken a serious turn is because I'm staying with Jethro's grandmother. She is so frail that I'm afraid she is going to go any minute. I check every so often to make sure she's breathing and I try to get her to eat when she is awake. She has a morphine patch, so she sleeps a great deal. It isn't difficult, but it's emotionally draining. I worry about her every second - kind of like a newborn. Everyone is expecting her to pass on at any moment, but I think she will hang around for awhile. The doctors gave her 3 weeks and that was 3 months ago. I think she might not have what they say she has. But what do I know?

Anyway, she is a darling little old lady. Ever the hostess, she will set food out for me even as I set it out for her. And she does the dishes. Jethro says to let her do it so she will feel useful. I agree, but I feel a little guilty.

On a lighter note, I got a hair cut and color the other day. No more Something About Mary hair.

The morning of the big Cut and Color, I had not washed my hair because supposedly color stays better if your hair isn't washed. Suffice it to say, my hair was disgusting. I couldn't get the tangles out so I said "fuck it, I'm paying them to deal with it" and I left. The salon I went to was quite fru fru. They asked me if I wanted anything to drink so I had a Perrier. The girl who came out to cut my hair looked like she was straight out of high school. I almost said, "Can I have the fag instead?" but political correctness won the day and I didn't let my prejudice of youth stand in the way.

The girl did a great job on my hair. She was slower, but she did it right. My eyebrows were another story.

I need to get them waxed badly. My mother-in-law usually does them. But she asked me if I wanted to get them colored to match my hair. I said that would be okay, but don't make them the same color - a little darker than my hair would be just fine. Needless to say, I ended up with big, bushy red eyebrows. I looked a little like Animal from the Muppets. I didn't have to pay for it, and they attempted to die them darker, but it didn't work. I guess I'll just have them waxed smaller and hopefully they won't be so noticeable.

On another unrelated note, has anyone ever wondered what it would be like to have sex with someone who just happens to cross your path. I do that ALL THE TIME. It's sick. It's never anyone I know, it's always random men. They aren't necessarily good-looking, they're probably married, and their pants are always of a polyester/acid wash variety. Nevertheless, I always wonder just what it would take to get them off.

Big Dick reminded me of home improvement stores. This is where the curiosity strikes hardest. I always wonder just what might persuade a guy to do it in one of the display bathrooms - right up against one of the display toilets.

The best part about this is imagining the look on each guy's face after I make the proposal.

And while I'm being honest, I've always wanted to do Jethro in a men's bathroom. I don't know why. Ever since a colleague of Jethro's was caught doing his girlfriend in a men's room at the Christmas party, I've always wanted to do it too. It really is baffling because it's not as if that poor girl's reputation was enhanced by the incident. "Slut" was probably the mildest thing anyone said about her afterwards.

I suppose I just don't care. Maybe I can add manic depression to my ADD and OCD. That would be cool.

To Europe: Good Night, And Good Luck

European Nations May Give Iran a Reactor

This seems smart.

In other news of European fondness for self-immolation, Holland is stripping Aayan Hirsi Ali of her citizenship. The brightest, bravest woman in the world shines too brightly for the dim bulbs of Europe. Rumor has it she will come to America, but I don't know that she doesn't shine too brightly for us as well - or at least for our politicians. I hope with all my heart that she does.

I updated Payasita with a post that you'll never find on Google. But it's in the Koran.

Wilt Thou Leave Me So Unsatisfied?

I want to thank everyone who commented on the last post. It's refreshing to hear from so many people who think I'm raising good kids. Only time will tell, I suppose.

It was late when I wrote the last post and I don't think I was as succinct as I would have liked. I am happy. Truly happy. So happy that I feel (given my lack of accomplishments) that it is undeserved. My sense of dissatisfaction is with myself only. By saying my kids are not an accomplishment, I don't mean they aren't my greatest blessing. I just feel as if they are the reward of a good life that I haven't really earned.

That being said, I feel like starting a whole new blog. My life has taken a slightly more serious turn and this blog has been so fun up until now. I hate to kill the mood, because no one can make me laugh harder than myself at myself, so I may start another one so as not to let the serious stuff interfere with the fun.

I tend to compartmentalize. I think that is why I'm not a neat person. I tend to be really nit-picky and I work very very hard at not being nit-picky. Plus, I get overwhelmed when I don't have exact places for things like toys and by that I mean specific toys must have specific boxes and if they don't, they have to be where I can see them until I have a specific box designated only for that specific toy. I've been like that since childhood and I remember almost the exact moment when I gave up and got lazy.

I was about 5 and my mom called me a perfectionist. She meant it as a compliment and to tease me a little. But at that moment, the need for order suddenly came crashing down because I realized that it would never be perfect and that I was going to go mad eventually. But the obsession never went away. It just sat around and festered and developed into a deep, personal dissatisfaction. The realization that perhaps I am not quite right, may be a catalyst to greatness. Who knows? I'm also an optimist.

Reflections

It is a really good thing that Mother's Day is so close to my birthday. While I haven't exactly been lamenting turning 30 (unless you count weeping giant tears into heavily fortified lemonades and cokes that no one even asks to see my id for anymore); I have been brooding slightly more on my accomplishments, or lack thereof over the past 30 years.

My contempt for higher education nonwithstanding, I was at least pretty sure I'd have a college degree by now. But I went another route and had children. And as much as I would like to think of them as an accomplishment, let's face facts. Any lazy-eyed idiot can have a kid. Just ask Trash (just kidding, man. I love you). Plus it seems stupid to claim a kid as an accomplishment since all you have to do to get one is get some. Like that's difficult.

But the little buggers have a way of making life quite satisfactory. I suppose it's pointless to go into any great detail, but they just have a way of making everything better. One of their favorite things to do is climb up on me and get me to say, "I'm covered in babies!!!" This is always good for a laugh. Friday night we took them to hear a band play at City Hall. They both started dancing, Gwennie in a rather wild Mr. Bojangles-on-speed style, and Emma in a funky little groove. I guess the musical style could be called Texas swing, so you can draw your own mental picture from that.

It's the coolest thing to be their mom. But it makes me absolutely paranoid that I'm going to fuck it up.

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And in case anyone is interested, Jethro's gifts for both the momentous occasion of my birthday and Mother's Day, have consisted of a great deal of tongue. The man has a talent, a strong work ethic, and an utter lack of fear. I commend him for this. He's passed out and snoring as I write this. He bravely attempted to cuddle with me afterwards, but it is Houston and the humidity is somewhere near 300,000%. Plus his spikey hair was poking my nipple in an unpleasant way. So I jabbed him in the ribs, kissed him on the mouth, and rolled him into his usual fetal position. He seems happy.

Gwennie On Her Father

(spelling is corrected).

My daddy is 32 years old. He weighs 34 lbs and is 40 ft tall. His hair is black. His eyes are brown. My dad loves to relax by sleeping in bed. He likes to wear office clothes. He loves to cook nothing. His favorite house chore is lying in bed. His favorite tv show is the news. Daddy always tells me I won't die. It makes him happy when I clean up. When my dad goes shopping he loves to buy food. I really like it when my dad screams like a girl.

by Gwennie

The Aftermath

Blogmeet 2006 was a resounding success. Everyone was just as funny and cool as their blogs.

Brighton - As always, the sexiest little trick in shoe leather. She has a very special talent, and it has nothing to do with a pole (although she is quite proficient in that as well). She can gather a group of people and make them feel right at home with each other as well as crack them up. It's a rare charm.

Inanna - The peachiest little peach in beaded earrings. I've never met such a good natured consumer of spirits. I felt a little bad that she gave me the blue ring. At least she tried to give it to me. I made Jethro pay her a paltry little sum, but I still felt like I'd rolled the nicest drunk in town. Let me shill for her for just a second. She is the most gifted beadwork artisan I've ever encountered. She is the real deal with imagination, patience and pure talent. We will meet again, and I will get you drunk, and I will roll you for more sparklies. Conscience be damned.

Tinyhands - I didn't get to talk to him much, but as we do get to see him every so often for dim sum, I didn't feel the urge to flog myself over it. I did compare my hands with his yet again, and gave him mad thumbs up when he gave a giggling Nanner a little twirl under the stars. Jeth and I both had our fingers crossed and indulged in a rousing chant of "Go Tiny, Go Tiny, GO!"

Kristin - My girl. I felt like I'd known her for years. It was sheer joy to make her laugh, and I enthusiastically gave it my all. She can cuss with the best of them, and I greatly admire anyone who can put four letter words to such good and appropriate use. I enjoy using them, but I don't think I'm as polished about it. Maybe she can teach me during our three-way.

Jeanette - The dimples! The humor! And the Giant Cock! [link removed] She is the master (mistress) of innuendo. I loved it. Lu-huu-huuved it. She was quieter than I expected, and I hope my loud, sweaty ass didn't frighten her. But I think all is well since we got to discuss the causes and effects of vaginal farting. In front of men, no less. Shut up, assholes. It happens. And it's fucking funny. She has some very funny pictures (start here [link removed]) of her trip which include several ones of me in which I look rather lumpy. For the life of me, I can't figure out what exactly those lumps are.

Sam and Stephanie were beautiful as always. And as always, I sweated profusely in their presence. I'm resigned. It seems to be the weather which will simply not accommodate my Yankeeness. So I have to settle for Skankiness. I rhymed. That was cool.

And last but not least, my dear friend Jen and her husband Vince. They couldn't stay long because they had gone out with us the night before for my birthday and two nights away from their beloved chilluns was a little too much. We bar hopped and had a blast. At least I did, and I was too intoxicated to tell if anyone else did or not.

My intoxication (fortunately) did not manifest itself in the form of vomiting as it did in college, but rather in a little bit of indigestion, namely gas. While Jen and I were waiting in the car, observing the aftermath of a bar brawl at the stage where the two combatants were hugging each other and declaring their undying love, and waiting for our husbands to finish paying the tabs, I let one go. I had to do it. It was very important. I politely opened the car door to release the vapors, and courteously informed Jen that I had "let an air biscuit fly and it wasn't poppin' fresh."

Oh. My. God. I have never heard anyone laugh harder at anything that has come out of my fool mouth. She screamed with laughter and repeated my line to our husbands who didn't seem quite as amused. They were sober, afterall.

I was slightly embarrassed that my little air biscuit was the cause of so much mirth, but I'm glad I could lighten up someone's evening along with my own colon.

Blogmeet 2006

Jethro bought a new laptop for work. He was so funny. The UPS employee delivered it, and Jethro tore it from his hands making what I call "ethnic sounds." In other words, he sounded a little like Bruce Lee after a particularly impressive ass-whooping.

The UPS guy and I laughed at him for a few minutes, but I don't think he even noticed.

Later that evening, he managed to put it down long enough to give me birthday oral, but I saw him eyeing it lovingly in the afterglow.

So here I am at 30 replaced by an inanimate object (granted with a really cool swiveling screen, but still).

Incidentally, I entered my 30th year with an (outer) snatch full of depilatory cream. I thought it was fitting.

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Blogmeet 2006 is at T-bone Tom's in Kemah, Texas.

The address is 707 Highway 146, Kemah, TX 77565

Their phone # is 281-334-2133.

We will be meeting at 7:00 on Saturday, May 6 - tomorrow.

Any blogger/frequent commenter is welcome. You will know us by the preponderance of large bosoms. See you there!

BBQ

I started this post back in February after a visit to the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo BBQ. I enjoyed writing it, but I didn't have time to do much editing, so it never got posted. So three months later, here it is in all it's glory:

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I have a difficult time explaining the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. As long as I've lived here, I have not yet assimilated enough to give any kind of insider's perspective on the event. So to any natives who might take offense, and any outsiders who may take me seriously, I offer the previous sentences as full disclosure.

The first time I went to the Rodeo, I had just moved to Houston from Skanky-little-shithole-where-everyone-was-on-welfare-and-taxes-were-more-than-your-house-payment-twice-over, NY. It was as close to a life-changing event (where no one died) as I'll ever experience. There were people wearing cowboy hats that actually looked as if they served a purpose. That was my first impression and the confirmation of the Myth of the Cowboy was thrilling. There are no cowboys in NY.

Over the years, my impressions have become slightly less myopic. I can see now that the rodeo is like the Renaissance Fair for rednecks. They can don their fancy cowboy duds and pretend they don't work in construction, or auto mechanics, or software testing. Sure there are authentic country folks who live the life, but mostly it's just ordinary Texans getting their cowboy on. And that's fine. Most of them have history in the country anyway, so it isn't as if it's a total sham.

I'd been to the Rodeo only a few other times before. I went during the first year we had moved here. I remember feeling awkward and out of place because I didn't own any cowboy paraphenalia (not that I wanted any).

The second time I went was with Jethro. Someone had given us tickets to Alabama's last show. I loved Alabama even though I am a Yankee. A teacher had turned me on to them when I was in fourth grade. Imagine being a kid in the middle of the '80s listening to Alabama.

This past year, a friend of ours who works for a beer distribution company, got us tickets to the BBQ. It was a pretty cool set up. All these corporations sponsor tents where privileged members of their workforce and their friends get to eat BBQ and drink all night long. They have bands, and liquor, and more liquor, and tarty cowgirls, and more liquor.

The tent was crowded, and everyone was drinking and dancing. There was hardly room to move, so everyone was kind of wedged into groups around tables. That didn't stop the good folks in front of us from doing some dirty dancing. It actually would have been impossible to dance anything other than dirty. I had to do dirty dancing just to get to the port-o-lets.

But the folks in front of us are what kept me amused all night. There were four or five men in cowboy hats all drinking MGDs. One of them was really hot. Couldn't have been more than 21 or 22. He had sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, and you could tell he was ripped even though he was wearing long sleeves. He was wearing the cutest little cowboy hat you've ever seen. He was too pretty to fuck, but the gals were trying.

There were three of them dressed in varying degrees of sluttishness. And they were doing what drunk girls usually do when four or five guys are standing around drooling over them. They pretended they were lesbians. When you think about it, it's really the most ingenious way of playing hard to get without looking like a prude. I've done it myself and very nearly ended up going home with a woman. Unintentionally, of course.

One of the girls was wearing mardis gras beads decorated with penises and testicles. One of the other girls used it as a prop. I must say, there is nothing like a girl sucking little plastic penises less than an inch away from another girl's nipples to make men thrusty. They were, of course, delighted, and one even high-fived me over the penis sucker's head.

I had a pretty good time. And while I don't get drunk and suck plastic penises too much anymore, I still think it's fun to watch other people do it.

First thing, read Jethro's post. The incident was worth about 10 solid minutes of gut-busting-can't-catch-your-breath laughter for me.

Secondly, I want to thank everyone who commented on my last post. Each of them helped tremendously and I feel much better. I quit my job and I am staying at Jethro's parents during the day so I can watch grandma and finish my real estate classes. My folks will just have to get along without me for awhile.

Thirdly (and unrelatedly), my grandmother was a geneologist. She did much of our family history concentrating on the Irish/Scottish/Welsch branches of the family. I remembered hearing her bandy about the name of Snodgrass saying that we were direct decendants and could wear the tartan honestly if we wanted to. I've always been curious as to what that tartan looked like and now I found it. God bless the internet.

I looked up some history on the Snodgrass family, and I don't think they were ever a clan. I don't even think they ever had a tartan until fairly recently. Disappointing, but still interesting.

They were Lowland Scots, who were apparently darker, older, and less hyper than the tow-headed Highland Scots. But William Wallace was a Lowland Scot too, and his clan lived in the same vicinity as the Snodgrass family close to Ayrshire and Irvine. Perhaps the lowlanders just used their vigor to more specific purposes.

Anyway, it was an interesting discovery and my grandfather's side has more Scottish, I believe of the Highland, clannish variety. That probably accounts for my ruddy complexion. I'll find their family name and see if their tartans aren't prettier. I want Gwennie and Emma to learn about it. They get to wear Vietnamese stuff all the time, but I've had very little to offer them in the way of culture. Besides, I think they would look cute in kilts. But they have to wear their underpants.

Handing Tickets Out For God

So the ankle is better, but not quite up to snuff. It's very aggravating because it is the same foot I kicked Carlos with and fucked up my toe beyond all compare.

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I received some mildly interesting news yesterday. Jethro's ex and my former best friend, Micky (with the hairy nipples, hairy stuffed monkey/cum rag, and that animal she carries around all the time) has spawned. The only thing I could think of was that the monkey will have a twin. Sometimes I'm evil.

But I wish them the best and hopefully the baby will fill the void in her personality that compels her to use a prop to insulate herself from normal human relations.

But enough about her. One day I will explain my animosity towards her, but that's only for a day when I don't feel like talking about bowel movements or transvestites.

I've got other things on my mind.

My mom has had a hard life. Divorced parents, child abuse from a wicked, evil stepfather, and then, of course, The Cult. Then she was widowed with eight children to look after and quickly married a man who was not the right one for her just over a year later. Now, as it turns out, he is cheating, he is verbally abusive, and he treats her like shit. I don't know what to do. She has just had one run of bad luck after another and I don't think she is the strongest person mentally or she wouldn't be in the mess she's in.

I want to quit my job because it is too stressful and I want to get my real estate license and take care of my house. My mother wants me to stay working in the office so she doesn't have to worry about a strange woman becoming his secretary. Now she's asking me to train her to take over my job which is the most pointless endeavor. She really doesn't want to work. All she wants to do is spy on stepdad.

My mother is too reliant upon others to care for her. That is the sad truth. If my father had not died, I think she would be a different person. But my father, even though he was an altruistically good person, was also influenced by this cult. My upbringing was just a little more apocalyptic and a tad more belty than the norm. I blame this directly on the cult. They influenced my mom's and dad's parenting style in ways that I believe were downright abusive - even after they left. And the horrible fact is that my parents were nothing compared to what the cult members did to their children after 1978.

God it's hard to write about this. I can't make it funny.

My parents had unrealistic expectations of us. They made us feel like outsiders to our peers and somehow expected us to be a good influence on them. Failure in this department, regardless of how subjective , was punished. The worst part is that my parents did it out of love as well as fear. They loved us and feared that we would go to hell if we were not constantly driven like cattle down the path of righteousness. It was tumultuous. Perhaps that is why I like the quiet. As much as we may feel that compulsion, you can't micromanage your children's lives like that. It makes them neurotic.

So I'm stuck in limbo. On one hand, I am furious at my mother for being in this situation. But on the other, I feel bad for her because much of it she didn't cause. On the other hand, she could have prevented most of it if she had used her brain. On the other hand, overwhelming grief can make you crazy. On the other hand, I didn't ask for the idiotic parts of my childhood - and how I came out of it without killing myself or someone else is beyond me and I still blame her. On the other hand, her terrible childhood was what left her susceptible to this stupid cult in the first place.

I try not to feel contempt for her because she is a kind, loving person with a good heart. She just doesn't have any sense. And now she seems to be looking to me to sort this all out for her, which means I have to sort it all out for myself, which is something I really didn't want to have to do. It's so much easier to bury the past and let time and love wash it away. But I don't think I can do that. Sometimes I just want to scream "WELCOME TO MY HELL" when she starts complaining about what the cult is doing to her life.

I don't know whether I want to help her or not. On one hand, I want to let her stew. On the other, I think I would feel a real sense of accomplishment if I had a hand in her living the next 20, 30, 40 years free of this curse.

Is she just a little bit of my responsibility? Would I be wrong to take this on, possibly at some expense to my own little family? Would I be wrong to leave her a mess? I'm lost and I need help.

It's the Law of Murphy that the second you sprain your ankle, you will end up having to use said ankle more than you ever thought possible.

But I've learned some valuable lessons this weekend, the most important being that if you try to rest your ankle while sitting on the sidewalk at the finish line of the MS 150 Bike Tour, you will see spandex covering the most interesting and complex of physical protuberances, namely Camel Toes as far as the eye could see before you gouged them out in despair. No two were alike.

But just to be contrary, anyone who says spandex ought to be outlawed will be banned permanently from my blog. Spandex should not be outlawed. It should be required. It never gets old to see it. It only gets old to say it. And as long as you can still feel that thrill of revulsion when a 300 lb gentleman, oozing with sweat, saunters into your line of sight with his spandex shorts pulled up to his armpits and his entire package firmly encased and protruding from his left thigh, let it not be anathema.

However, I think some people ought to be aware that being skinny doesn't automatically mean you look good in spandex. Wear it, by all means. I sit in no judgment and frankly, the comedic value is far too high. But for your own sake, you might want to reconsider the strutting of your stuff when you haven't any stuff to strut.

What was I doing at the finish line MS-150 when I am so opposed to physical exertion of any kind? Well may you ask. It's actually pretty simple. Jethro's sister, her husband, and their cousin participated. For Halliburton, no less. They asked if Jethro would pick them up at the finish line in Austin and I tagged along.

They sucked. They were supposed to finish at 12 noon and we were supposed to leave immediately from there. They finished at 5:00pm. That left Jethro and I with 5 hours of waiting. If I had known it would be that long, I would have called Trashman. But instead, I had to suffer through the heat, boredom, sprained ankle and the insufferable Austinites.

Austin is a beautiful, pleasant city except for the hippie stench that is the equivalent of smog in LA. It's where the old hippies go to die and from the smell of them, they've been dying since the 60s. But at least they haven't moved to California, snort coke from their poolside lounges and happily tell the rest of us how we oppress the poor when we bitch about taxes. Noooo. They haven't sold out.

I think what set me off was when we were on the drag and I thought I'd buy a couple of bracelets for Gwennie and Emma. I was looking through the tables and every one of the unwashed artisans had some anti-American example of their art, from leatherworks of desecrated American flags, to hammers and sickels, to Fidel-fucking-Castro etched in stone. Fuck that. I don't care how old, smelly, or talented they are. They can sing their protest songs and bitch about The Man. I will keep my filthy lucre. No need to make it any filthier by putting it in the hands of those stinking weirdos.

And speaking of filth, I must return to the cleansing of my habitat. It is unfit for humanity.

Field Trip

I volunteered to chaperone Gwennie's field trip. I sprained my ankle, my allergies are killing me, and it is storming.

Y'all have a nice day.

Fear and Loathing in the Mind of Zelda

Gwennie has been having crying spells where she tells me she is afraid of getting old and dying. I'm not quite sure how to manage that one being plagued with fear on that score myself. Then in the middle of Easter Sunday Mass, she looked at me skeptically and said, "But yeah. Who made God?"

Damned if I know, kid. And that just may be the truth.

While I appreciate and even delight in intricate theological questions, I am not thrilled with being thrown into existential crisis at unsuspecting moments. Being a nervous sort, I don't handle it very well.

Now if I may shift gears, what is it with crazy white people? I swear, every time they discover I am married to a Vietnamese gentleman, they insist on sharing with me every aspect of Asian culture they've ever been accidentally exposed to from bedroom slippers to a salad at Jack-in-the-Box.

We have a crazy real estate agent working for us now (a blog post in her own right) and she drives me insane. She never shuts up, and she does everything wrong from filing to writing contracts.

So after having driven away her clients with her endless, banal chatter, she called me while I was at lunch and kept me on the phone for 20 minutes telling me about some Asian salad at Crap-in-the-Box. "You would like it," she says. "It's ASIAN."

Go Away, Crazy Lady. I'm dealing with my own insanity. Must you heap yours upon my already overflowing platter? Truly my cup runneth over.

Tolerance

In case it escaped notice, a pedophile commented on my blog. And I'm not just being insulting. This is the blog he is was from. (Hat tip to Blonde Sagacity). I guess blogger either removed it or they've been pressured to shut it down. I flagged them and reported them to the FBI along with others. But they really are pedophiles, and there was a whole group of them.

The preamble to the blog was this:

"Pederasty, as idealized by the ancient Greeks, was a relationship and bond between an adolescent boy and an adult man outside of HIS immediate family. This is modernized in today's culture as gender neutral by a relationship and bond between an adolescent child and an adult outside of their immediate family. In a wider sense this refers to erotic/mentor/spiritual love between adolescents and adults. Building Bridges!"

It's the standard pedantic argument. The Ancient Greeks did it, therefore it must be intellectually justifiable.

I just wish they'd remember the civilizations who accepted, condoned and practiced "pedaresty" and it's other deviations, ended up spectacularly conquered. I don't think I'm off-base in assuming that if you spend your time planning the seduction of little boys, it makes you just a bit vulnerable defensively.

I've heard the argument, and they round-aboutly made the claim that kiddie porn keeps pedophiles from acting out. In case anyone was in doubt, I beg to differ. Let's pretend for a moment that I love chocolate. The mere thought of chocolate makes me happy. Even when it isn't there, I can visualize it, and crave it to the point where I can almost taste it, my mouth watering and waiting for the creamy sweetness to melt in my mouth. Now let's for an instant (and a very brief instant), pretend that I am 400lbs, diabetic, and if I eat any more chocolate - even one more piece - I could end up in a serious health crisis. Would it then make any sense for me to sit around writing about chocolate? Would it make any sense for me to wander the candy aisles and thinking about chocolate?

But what bothered me the very most about that blog was their claim that since they didn't choose to be attracted to young boys, they should not be discriminated against. They preach Tolerance.

And this disgusts me. The Constitution grants the right of the people (i.e. the majority) to dictate the laws under which they live. This is a fact. Tolerance is not mandated by the Constitution. This is also a fact. This idea that anyone is legally entitled to tolerance is quite dangerous.

We have legally made the decision to not discriminate against anyone based on the color of their skin, nationality, gender, etc. These are things that truly cannot be helped. No one has the ability to change their skin color, eye shape, hair texture, gender (despite the operations). Everyone has the ability and more importantly, the responsibility to control unhealthy urges. While the 400 lb diabetic is legally allowed to harm herself with her lack of control, no one would consider it unreasonable or wrong for her to strictly and strenuously deny those urges and cravings for chocolate. We, as a society, have legally decided that an adult engaging a child in sexual activity - whether it is by force or seduction - carries enough risk to that child to make it a crime. Knowing that a child's safety and well-being are at stake, as well as his/her own freedom, it wouldn't be unreasonable for a pedophile to strictly and strenuously deny those urges and cravings for children.

This site indicated that there is a difference between child rape and consensual sex with a child. Believe me, I am aware of all the nuances of the adult/child sexual relationship even to the point where both the child and the adult believe the child is in control of the situation. But it really makes no difference. And pedophiles are just going to have to accept the will of the people on this one.

For an interesting read, this young man has been dealing with pedophiles for a few years now. I highly recommend taking his insights into the minds of these criminals very seriously. It mirrored almost exactly the arguments the pedophiles made on their blog.

For a personal experience, during Hurricane Katrina, my mother and stepfather became accidental hosts to two New Orleans residents who had been on vacation. They were the uninvited guests of an uninvited relative. The gentleman (who was not a relative) set off my alarm bells immediately. It would be very hard to give you a concrete reason as to why. He just had this pompous way about him as if he were always trying to keep the adults off-balance in a way that would ingratiate him to the children.

I resolved to keep my eye on him, and sure enough, when all the kids had gone to the game room, I saw him amble off in that direction. I had thought that it was my 11-13 year old sisters who were in his line of fire, but when he went into the game room, he made straight for Emma, then 4. Emma wouldn't speak to him because strange men terrify her (than God). I cleared the room like a professional and got between them, scooping up Emma and holding her on my lap. I told him firmly that Emma doesn't like strangers and that he was scaring her.

Then he informed me that there was something wrong with her and I should be taking her to a professional. I told him I was fine with her being shy of strangers and then proceeded to stare him down. He tried to call me out for being an overprotective parent in front of everyone later that evening.

Didn't phase me. I said I'd rather be overprotective than have my children fall prey to someone with ill-intentions. He stopped after I threw out some more barbed responses and wouldn't back down.

There are too many incidents and I know too many people who have been molested to believe this is anything other than pandemic. The pedophiles will try and convince you that it is because we live in a society that is too strict with our sexual mores. But when you hear calls for more sexual liberation, please keep in mind who is making the argument and what their ulterior motives might be.

And now we actually have proof of what he's thinking.

The Turtle

Brighton - Don't be mad, but I had a dream about Travis last night.

For anyone who thinks blogging about dreams is stupid and boring, I mostly agree, and I'm sorry to have to put you through this.

But I had a dream that Travis was auditioning for a movie role where he had to jump from one boat roof to another while they were moving through the water. Don't ask me why or how the boats had roofs sturdy enough to jump upon. So we were all watching and cheering him. He jumped on the first roof and for some stupid reason, there was a turtle on it. Travis screamed. Think Chris Tucker from The Fifth Element. Or Carlton from Fresh Prince. Or a very timid woman who has just woken up with a boa constrictor on top of her (my own personal horror-scenario).

Anyway, I must have found this very, very funny, because apparently I laughed like a hyena in the middle of the night and woke up Jethro. He wasn't terribly happy about that.

I think I'm having an episode. My head hurts and if I were to put my face down, I think my eyeballs would drop out of my skull. And while this might be an interesting sexual proposition for Jethro, I think he would soon tire of having to feed the seeing eye dog.

So Jethro is loving his new job. I am ecstatic for him and am eagerly awaiting his first paycheck. Mama needs her a new pair of shoes. Or at least a new stick of anti-perspirant. I'm licked. I'm crying "uncle" while attempting to breathe the swamy air. I will risk breast cancer for dry armpits.

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I left what I thought was a fairly innocuous comment on a Controversial Issue the other day on someone's blog. They responded to it saying, "I've caught your show on other blogs and I find that I have nothing to say to you."

What the Fucking Hell! That is the singularly most pathetic response I've ever gotten in my entire blogging career and I strenuously object. It's not that I mind it when people don't want to argue about something. Very few people are as argumentative as I am. But to automatically discount my opinion on one issue based on your disagreement with me on other issues (of which you haven't even seen fit to make me aware) seems a bit narrow-minded - and considering the individual, a more than a bit hypocritical. I can tolerate narrow-mindedness to a degree and I can tolerate hypocrisy to a degree, but marry the two, and I find I have nothing to say to you either and I am very sorry to have made the attempt.

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And I'm done bitching.

Next week, ball jokes!

Have a fabulous weekend. I will be watching Jethro hoover down crawdads and suck their heads dry (I've always maintained he could have had an awesome prison career) with Brighton, Travis, Jen and her husband, Vince the Prince.

Zelda Morning

I've had an interesting morning. Bearing in mind that I have had insomnia for a month and am not a morning person anyway, I have been really out of it lately. I can get Gwennie and Emma to school on time (with Jethro's help), but I am invariably going to look like death. I just can't get ready in time to present a decent, nay human appearance.

Today was no exception. I threw on a pair of Jethro's old and crumbling pj bottoms sans undies, decided against a bra and left with Something About Mary hair. I have no shame.

So to make a long story short, as I walked out of Emma's school, I felt a slight breeze. I looked down and the flap of Jethro's pj bottoms had sagged open and there was the pooter for all to see. We're talking a fairly R rated visual.

I think it speaks well of my apathy that I made a kind of half-hearted swipe at it and then just got in the car.

I forgot about it while dodging the inbred morons who are the only ones who seem to be able to get drivers licences.

When I got home, I encountered the next-door child molester leaving for a job interview. I accidentally flashed him.

What? It's not like he's interested.

I am of two minds on the death penalty. On one hand, child rapists/murderers deserve death. Most assuredly they do, and that I do not question. If you can kill an innocent person, your life is forfeit, not only for the sake of justice, but for the sake of safety.

On the other hand, is it fair to put the responsibility for their deserved demise on an innocent person, i.e. the executioner?

This court ruling makes me seriously question whether we can sustain the death penalty. Apparently the lawyers for Michael Morales, the rapist and murderer now on CA (where else) death row, are allowed to have personal information on the executioners, but they are not allowed to make it public. I am skeptical to say the least. You have to presume they are going to share their legal strategy with the rapist and murderer, and there can be no doubt he will make it public. What are they going to do? Send him to the gas chamber?

Forget the lunacy that allows a man who raped and bludgeoned a 17 year old girl to death to claim that having a few needles stuck in his arm is "cruel and unusual" punishment. Now he can threaten the lives of those who are responsible for carrying out his legal punishment.

I am curious as to just how many more weapons we are going to hand over to these beasts, while at the same time, wonder if there is any such thing as cruel and unusual punishment for these individuals. They clearly don't deserve to have their crimes mitigated by reducing their sentences.

I suppose if we could find the collective will to take responsibility for purging these animals from society, I would support public, naked hanging. I just wouldn't eat my picnic lunch too close to the gallows.

Gwennie came up to me on Saturday.

"Mom. Guess what? On Monday they're going to teach us about babies."

"Oh really?" I was a little startled having received no pior word of this little endeavor.

"Yes," she continued. "But they said we can't tell anyone."

"Oh really?!" I was nonplussed. "Just who is going to be teaching you about babies?"

"Mrs. Tom, but she said it's a secret and we shouldn't tell anyone."

"Well, I don't like secrets about babies." I said firmly, imagining myself having an interesting little chat with the principal. "If you have any questions about babies, you can ask me anytime. I will tell you anything you want to know."

I was just gearing up for a good discussion when Gwennie suddenly burst out with:

"Hahahahaha! I fooled you. You know what day it is?"

Folks, I nearly died. She is only 6.

Update on Jill Carroll.