A Bit of a Rant

One of Jethro's sisters came back from a business trip to Brazil and brought me back a pair of Brazilian panties/slingshot. It says One Size Fits All. That must be because of the ties at either side for easy access. Which is actually a laugh because if you wanted access to parts "covered" (and I use that term loosely), you would not need to waste the time untying them. They are really sexy though. One day I will wear them. In public. To a marching band.

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I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I'm watching my child-molester-next-door-neighbor's kids after school. He has been out of a job for awhile and his wife finally got off her fat ass and got a job. They don't have a ton of money, so I watch their two sons at a discount.

It's strange watching the kids of a child molester. You feel like you have to keep an eye on them constantly and every little thing they do that even hints of being sexual in nature makes you notice. It's not fair to them and I have to make a conscious effort not to make a big deal out of things. But it's a terrible thing for those kids, and I wish it were different. I wish I didn't know.

What sucks even more than the whole "my-father-is-a-child-molester" thing is that their mom is such a batshit loony tune. The youngest son has some pretty serious emotional issues (I know, no friggin' duh, right?). But they are all directly related to his home life and shitty things his parents do.

His mom came to me all teary-eyed saying that he said he was going to kill himself and she was going to take him to a psychiatrist right away and start him on anti-depressants. He's seven. I asked her if he'd ever heard anyone else talking about killing themselves. She said that she says it quite frequently and her husband has actually tried it.

Now while I'm not saying he doesn't need the pills.......actually, no. Scratch that. I am saying he doesn't need the pills. What he needs is for his parents to pull themselves together and stop talking about suicide in front of their children. This stupid bitch was actually horrified that her son would say such a thing. I am fucking horrified that they would say such a thing, especially within their kids' hearing. They seem to think they have no parental responsibilities as long as they take him to a healthcare professional. What they can't seem to grasp is that their kids wouldn't need healthcare professionals if they acted with a minimal amount of decency and respectability.

What I have learned from watching her son is that he has a learning disability. He can't read. I don't think he even knows all his letters and he is in first grade. He is very smart at math, though - far ahead of his peers. (He and Gwennie actually traded services with their homework, which made me laugh so hard that it was really difficult to tell them they weren't supposed to be doing that.) But what he doesn't have are the myriad of emotional and behavioral disorders his mother claims. Every single one of his issues is directly related to his home life and his parents.

But no one is going to listen to me. They're going to drug him up like a little zombie, numb him to any emotion, and he will stop giving his parents trouble. Everyone will go ass up to the miracle drugs without giving any thought to the cause of his problems, not to mention his physical health, and we will all prance along on our merry ways. Fuck every single one of us for this. This is to what we've been reduced. Pill popping cowards. And I don't exclude myself. I've been sorely tempted in that direction both for myself and for Gwennie.

I've tried to talk to Batshit Mom about her kids, but ever time I've tried, her lazy eye glazes over and she starts speaking to me the way she thinks a medical professional would speak to a lay person with a very low IQ. The only problem is that she doesn't have the slightest fucking idea what she is saying. But Batshit Mom is a nursing student. No. Actually, she took a couple of pre-nursing school classes at the local community college. Apparently that trumps all empirical evidence. It doesn't matter, though. That woman is on about 17 different meds herself, from anti-depressants, to painkillers, to allergy pills, and weighs as much as a baby elephant. If this is a specimen of the kind of "help" the medical community is giving people, then fuck them with something sharp. Every single one of her meds costs a small fortune per month. It's just money in the pockets of the medical community and the pharmaceutical companies, and this poor woman probably won't even remember her kids being children. Just very bitter, very pathetic, very high adults.

Realtor Madness

I don't think I've bitched about realtors lately. I've been negligent.

But let me make it up to you. There is one realtor here whom I want to punt like a football. And I could, too. She is about 4 feet tall and very petite. She is always making these trendy, exotic salads in the break room and she carries around a bottle of water that is almost as big as she is. She always condescendingly congratulates me on my healthy eating whenever she sees me with a salad as if we're in some kind of club where she is the Superior Cheerleader/Almighty Ruler of Those Who Are Struggling with Their Weight. "Keep at it, Chubbs and soon you will have a slim (ha! I said 'slim' to her) chance of being half as cute as me. Then I'll let you be seen with me and you can make me look good by comparison." Have I mentioned that I detest her? She reminds me of a little midget rat with tiny little rat paws. All that is missing is the cheese which I'm sure she'll never eat. One bite and she'd probably gain 30 lbs.

Normally (in case you couldn't tell), I'm somewhat jealous of those types of women because I'm rather Amazonian in structure, and yet through the cruel fate that leaves me undefined, 'cute' is about the only complimentary adjective I can pull off. So legitimately cute women kind of piss me off a little. Not this one, however. I will never complain about my stature again because, barring any unfortunate accidents resulting in amputation or paralysis, I could drop kick her if the need overwhelmed me. And it may. I make no guarantees.

Zelda of the Freezing Ninnies

It is cold. I'm freezing my ninnies off and I like it.

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My brother-in-law (Jethro's sister's husband) came over this morning in a dress shirt and tie, which is unusual for him since he lays flooring for a living.

"Who died?" I joked.

"Uh, my brother," he answered, looking surprised that I knew.

My face fell and I mentally started banging my head against the wall. Of course someone had died. There is no other reason on earth that he would be dressed up on a weekday morning. The only times I've ever seen him dressed up were for funerals and weddings and who the hell gets married on a Friday morning?

Turns out he wanted me to print up directions to the funeral home for him because he is completely computer illiterate.

I complied with all humility. I felt really bad. Luckily, he isn't the type to be hurt by it or mad at me for it.

I like my BIL. He comes from a huge native Texan family which means he is part Eastern European, part Native American, Mexican and whatever else got thrown into the soup over time. Most of his family is from La Grange, TX and is made up equally of the wildly successful and the ne'er-do-well. He is a good guy though. He is quiet with a dry sense of humor, he works really hard and takes very good care of his mom. He does not like it when my in-laws try to give him money (which is their way of showing affection and letting you know that you are a lazy incompetent who should be sterilized with all due haste). He is also not the type to tell anyone about anything that is troubling him, so I wasn't surprised to see him alone on his way to the funeral home.

The brother who died had been sickly for years with kidney failure. He was diabetic, overweight, in a weelchair and the hospital had accidently pumped Dialysis Machine Cleaner Fluid through his kidneys one time by accident. Apparently it was all downhill from there. But I'm sure it is still sad and I wish I had known. I would have gone.

Dueling Banjos

I woke up this morning really wanting to take banjo lessons. I know I've mentioned my banjo fetish, but it's steadily getting worse. The banjo is hard though. I've tried it before. It is a really heavy instrument too. It would probably make a better weapon than my acoustic guitar, but that isn't really what I want to do with it.

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Now I have been reading in the comments about people throwing up a little in their mouths (as opposed to somewhere else?) from viewing my links. Contrary to what might be popular opinion, I have no intention of causing anyone any kind of gastric upset/blindness/screaming night terrors, so I have a couple of solutions for those who have been so afflicted.

1. Don't look. If it says NOT SAFE FOR WORK, NOT SAFE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THIS WORLD, DON'T LOOK, or any variation thereof, I can guarantee that it won't be pretty.

2. Self-Censor. If your curiosity is such that you are compelled to look against your better judgement, I have a tactic that might spare you upset. This works for me whenever I go to Big Dick's. Close your eyes. Put your hand over them. Click the link. Wait for it to load. Keep your mouse on the back button so you can click it immediately if need be. Then slowly spread your fingers making sure your eyelashes are veiling the computer screen. Slowly open your eyes until you get the gist of what you're seeing and can tell if you want to see it in full color or not.

3. I don't know that there needs to be a third. If you are brazen enough to click on links without taking any precautions; searing those nauseating images into your brain for all eternity, my hat's off to you. But don't come complaining to me about it when you can't eat or have sex anymore.

Sick mother-fuckers.

Tagged (in a non-sexual way)

Thank goodness. I've been tagged by Holly. I've had a headache all day - the kind where pretty lights start shooting through your head and you become fairly certain than your neck was not meant to bear the weight of a 30 lb. cranium. A blog topic has been elusive.

Three things that scare me:

The possibility of waking up next to a dead person.

tubgirl (***NOT SAFE***)

Paris Hilton's vagina


Three people who make me laugh:

Me

Trashman

this guy (H/T: Big Dick)


Three things I Love:

fiddle music

hockey players (teeth intact)

Elvis


Three Things I Hate:

Hippies

Watered down booze

When I'm going down and choke on a pubic hair


Three Things I Don't Understand:

War

Peace

People who desire either condition


Three Things on my Desk:

an empty yogurt container

a pencil holder made by Gwennie

The Computer


Three Things I'm Doing Right Now:

Attempting to breathe through both nostrils

Thinking about what I'm going to say to the mom of the two boys I watch after school for not getting them until 8:00 pm

Feeling one nipple (bad habit from childhood)


Three Things I Want to Do Before I Die:

Learn to dance as well as my grandmother

Finish something I start

Jethro in the Honda Pilot

Three Things I Can Do:

Cook

Play Guitar

Fuck

(I'm a fucking hippie)

Three Things I Can't Do:

Swallow (in the slutty sense)

The splits

Behave myself



Three Things You Should Listen To:

Cops

Old Crow Medicine Show

A woman in labor


Things You Should Never Listen To:

Oprah

"Spandex is so slimming!"

Fred Phelps


Three Things I'd Like To Learn:

How to dance

How to shoot

How to slap an ass so the sound reverberates


Three Favorite Foods:

Bacon

Mashed potatoes

Bacon and Mashed potatoes mixed together with some cheese and sour cream


Three Beverages I Drink Regularly:

Iced tea

Water

Vodka martinis


Three TV shows/Books I Watched/Read as a Kid:

Shakespeare (no lie)

The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show

The Little House on the Prairie series (books, not the tv show)


Three Blogger Friends That I Am Going To Tag:

Tags die with me.

Bites of Turkey

I know I have people from the UK who read and are appalled by this blog. You don't comment, but I know you're out there. If you happen across this post, and live in the London area, please pass along this information and keep an eye out for this putrid piece of dog waste who assaulted a very cool blogger (Jackie Danicki of Blowing Smoke) on/in the underground.

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Jethro says that if I'm going to go around saying he has a 3 inch cock, I have to put my money where my mouth is and succumb to the pleasures of sphinctral copulation (there is just no refined way to refer to butt sex, but I did my best). He has a point and since I don't particularly care for the practice, I will state now for the record that Jethro is a normal, healthy male with everything being as it ought, at least for the purposes of giving the ladies breathless, twittering satisfaction.

So anyway, Thanksgiving was nice. No family issues, no fighting, just eating. One of my sisters' boyfriends is a Brit who has taken up fishing with a single-minded devotion. I think he and Jethro might take up residence together in a tent on the banks of my parents' fishing pond. They fished while I made the turkey and my sisters destroyed the rest of the kitchen with various vegetarian concoctions. In the middle of all the preparations, there was a commotion at the back door. Brit was flailing around with fire ants crawling all over him.

"GET INSIDE!!!" My sister screamed.

"Well, I don't want to get them all over the place," said Brit, hopping around with a frantic, pained expression on his face.

Now I've been swarmed by fire ants before. I'm surprised he didn't strip down nekkid and streak into the shower. But those Brits are so proper - stiff upper lips made stiffer by stinging insect bites. Still, he is such a sweetheart. I hope my sister keeps him. There aren't enough nice boys in my family. My sisters have a way of eviscerating them and tossing them on the ever-increasing ashpile - kind of like the lady and the dragon all rolled into one.

Pressure Cooker

True to form, I've found something else to blog about. Michael Richards (better known as Kramer from Seinfeld) went psychotic during a performance and racially insulted black audience members who were heckling him. And we're not talking Carlos Mencia stuff. We're talking serious, not funny, ni**er-hanging-from-a-tree-with-a-fork-up-his-ass kind of stuff.

I love racial humor, including risque racial humor, but this doesn't qualify because there was no context and it was very, very weird.

Then came the apology on Letterman. Dear God in Heaven. He is all kinds of crazy. He invokes Hurricane Katrina. He talks about the war. He pays homage to a list of pseudo-liberal catch-phrases and then demands that we believe he is not a racist after chastising the audience for giggling at the awkwardness of the entire situation. I was about to faint from the sheer lunacy of it all.

And this condenses everything that embarrasses me about pseudo-liberalism. It isn't that it is racist, but that it isn't NOT racist. I believe that Michael Richards is truly bewildered at how such things ever came out of his mouth. The problem, in my opinion, is that he has been steeped in liberal sanctimony for so long ("I oppose the war," "George Bush doesn't like black people," etc etc), that he instinctively felt he had risen above such niceties as refraining from expressing a longing for the days of lynching. What people like him fail to notice is that one thing has NOTHING to do with the other. They are anti-war, anti-Bush, anti-"conservative" for their own selfish interests as opposed to any true interest whatsoever in minority communities. They have convinced themselves that if they subscribe to the usual mantra of peace, love and social diseases, they are automatically immune to racist thoughts and feelings. "I'm a liberal. I can't possibly be a racist. Look. I'm going to call Condi Rice a house-nigger. See? No racism. I'm a liberal."

But they are racists. They think everyone but white people need a hand up and white people need to keep their superior mouths shut in order to level the playing field.

Nowhere was this more evident to me than NYC. I had a picture of Gwennie and Emma that I would show people. It was embarrassing to the point of squirminess the way people would try to ask me what race their father was without coming right out and saying. I can't tell you how many times I almost said, "He's a gook with a 3 inch cock. Small, I know, but it's better for anal" just to see their faces melt. Even worse was when Jeth and I were together and people would try to tell us how cool they were with us being married and try hard not to sound surprised that we were from TX. Although no one asked, I know they were wondering if we'd ever had a cross burned on our lawn (it was just a little one). The saddest thing is that I think they would have asked except that they didn't want their preconceived notions of the lands outside their myopic 12 mile radius obliterated.

Now it isn't that I have a problem with people being polite. I greatly appreciate courtesy. But there is something so weird and fake about tip-toeing around race issues. For God's sake. I am aware that my husband is Asian. I'm pretty sure he knows I'm white (although I can honestly say I don't know if he's ever looked above my neck). If you have a question, fucking ask it. But this hyper-racial awareness and condescending racial pandering is like a pressure cooker and it's going to blow in scaldingly unfunny ways, just like Mr. Richards.

Anyway, the hat tip for all of this info goes to Blowing Smoke. And if I haven't shilled for it yet, I've been remiss. This is a great blog. You can link it and check every day since they post quite often and their cultural commentary is sharp, merciless, and really funny - a truly beautiful thing. Jim Treacher is a daily contributor and he has the dubious distinction of making me run for the bathroom with trickles of mirth streaming down my legs more than anyone else on the internet. (That was hyperbole.)

Happy Thanksgiving

I'm going to take a break until after the holiday, which most likely means something hysterical will happen and I will have about 15 blog posts up by then. But on the off chance I don't, everyone have a very happy, gluttonous Thanksgiving. I expect to do some serious weight retention.

A Suck-Ass Kind Of Morning.

I have had the worst morning. It all started Saturday night. Jethro and I did a little shopping. I finally managed to purchase the Thanksgiving turkey after accidentally picking out the wrong one and having to go back and locate the one for $0.39 per lb. which was the proper size. The endeavor held up the checkout line for about 15 minutes during which time Jethro was verbally abused by the waiting customers. But dammit, the store should have marked things more clearly and had enough of the product out for display instead of back in the freezer.

So we purchased the turkey and the requisite $20.00 worth of crap to go along with it so we could get it for $0.39 per lb, including the Cajun Injector (which is a needle and syringe with which you stab the turkey and infuse it with whatever jar of goo comes with it) of which I am not a huge fan. I bought it, however, because everyone else seems to like it (Mmmmmm...it's so juicy!) and I can make my own goo.

We arrived back at the house and I grabbed as many bags as I could. As luck would have it, I had to pee really, really badly. In my haste to get the bags to the kitchen and myself to the can, I tripped and dropped the bag containing the Cajun Injector which subsequently broke to smithereens. I crossed my legs, did a little dance and started to clean it up. Jethro came in and said he would put the rest of the stuff away so I could use the restroom. I did. It was heavenly.

Then we went out for the evening to party which we did. It was fun. Some drunk guy told me that I "have great breasts" and high-fived freaking' Jethro. I said, "What am I? A fucking orphan?" And he high-fived me too with his apologies. I mean really. I'm the lucky one. They're the idiots who will do anything you say just to talk about them in front of you.

Fast forward to this morning.

I lost my keys. I looked for them everywhere, even the pantry. There I made The Discovery. In the tumult of cleaning the Cajun Injector goo, peeing, and leaving the premises to have my breasts ogled, the turkey had been stored in the pantry instead of the 'fridge. It was almost like finding a dead pet.

I'm just going to let it go and be grateful I got a somewhat funny story out of it.

Practical Jokes in the Cold

It's chilly here. I awoke to the smell of the heater burning off all the summer lint. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it makes me chipper because I know it's cold outside and the house will be toasty. And a transplanted Yankee must take what she can get. If she can't have the smell of log fires, she can at least have the smell of burning lint.

And speaking of cold, I forgot to bring a sweater to work. So the whole office is now blessed with the vision of my nipples poking out of my shirt like horns on a Viking helmet. Lucky them. No matter how hard I poke them, I can't get them to stay down. I'm rubbing them real hard trying to warm them up, but to no avail. It's a good thing I work alone. I look like a lunatic.

Anyway, several amusing things happened at work yesterday. Fortunately I started my period, so I can see the humor in them as opposed to cold-bloodedly desiring the torture and death of the perpetrators.

Part of my job entails calling people who have, at one time or another, expressed interest in purchasing home. They email us with their contact phone numbers and we call them and try to convince them they want to buy a home with us. I get a lot of answering machines, and I pride myself on being able to see through a very irritating practical joke where the owner of said machine records a greeting in which they attempt to make you think you are talking to an actual person. It usually goes something like this:

Ring, Ring

Answering Machine: "HELLO?" (cheerily)

Dupe: "Hi! This is Zelda, from Dearest Stepfather's office. Is Ms. Cocksucker in?

AM: "HEEELLLOOOOOOO?" (in a slightly more irritated voice)

Dupe: YES, This is Zelda from Dearest Stepfather's office. Is....

AM: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! We're not at home right now but I bet you thought we were. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! It's too bad we didn't think about the fact that we aren't home to witness your idiocy and discomfiture, but just knowing that it might possibly happen keeps us amused for hours. Well, back to brain surgery! Have a nice day!"

I've had that joke played on me about 5 times before I could tell. I won't lie when I tell you that every time I have wanted to stab someone in the neck.

But now I know. Except for yesterday.

Ring, Ring

AM: "Bueno?"

Dupe: "Hi. This is Zelda with Dearest Stepfather's office. Habla Inglés?

AM: "Que?"

Dupe: "Si. Soy Zelda con la officina de Dearest Stepfather..."

AM: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! La gringa stupida! Viva la Reconquista! Orino encendido tu Alamo, Puta!

I did laugh. I couldn't help it.

Happy Birthday Jethro

Today is officially Jethro's birthday. [LOVE YOU, BABE.] He is 32. I was going to dye my hair blonde for him since he has a thing for large-bosomed, tow-headed, cheerleader sluts, but I just don't think I can bring myself to do it. I'm a brunette at heart and a redhead at best. Red, I think has been my best color so far. I have natural red in my hair anyway, so it isn't that drastic a change. And no blonde has more fun than I do. Maybe I'll just wear my corset and let him take it off. That's a good present.

And now for some help that only the blogworld can provide. I need to by some cowboy jeans that aren't too tight in the crotch. I've decided that's what I'm going to give my stepdad for Christmas, since the jeans he has are atrocious (way too short in the legs and waaaaaaay to small in the waist) and he fancies himself a cowboy. But the thought of buying him sexypants is enough to make me regurgitate a small amount in my oral cavity. Any thoughts?

Woman Complaints - Gentlemen Be Warned

Well, the computer is fixed, but I have a raging case of PMS. I'm a week late (no, I'm fairly sure I'm not knocked-up), so I've had the Syndrome for almost two weeks now. Now while I'm glad I was not on the rag in Austin (I forgot to take that into account when I made the plans to go) I have reached the threshold where I am feeling very strong urges to shave my head bald, dig up some steel toe boots, and kick someone to a bloody, spongy pulp. If I don't start by tomorrow, it may very well be the idiot in the school pick-up line who has a bumper sticker on their car that I can't read and behind whom I always end up stuck. Just thinking of it makes me want to smash out their windows.

Long story short, I don't have the attention span to give everyone the details of our trip they are so desperately craving.

Let me direct you instead to tCj's video of her and I licking and sucking the shit out of Jack's critter pops. tCj is the cute one on the left. I'm the one with the facial tics on the right. I would recommend stalking her for the eventual details. Jethro too. He also has video but I don't think he'll post it. He's a little self conscious about his legs.

And if anyone has a chance, go pester Trashman for his story about the plane. It will crack you up.

I'm going to go play my guitar and think about anal sex. Giving it.

Back from Austin

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To The Vets

Thank you.



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More Dribbles, But Of A Different Consistency

I am not what you would call a morning person. I need about 6 or 7 hours of blank solitude to accept the world around me with something less than a Nazi-like intolerance. Suffice it to say, I'm not at my best in the wee hours.

I was awakened this morning by a plaintive little cry from the central restroom. It has obviously been going on several minutes.

Emma (in a sing-song voice): "Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again!"

Zelda: "Garrrumph!!Hmmmph..chrrrckle...chrrrckle...M'KAY. You can stay home from school."

Emma: "Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again!"

Zelda: "Mommy no wakee. Mommy sleepeee."

Emma: "Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again! Mooooooooommmmyyyy! I have the diarrheas again!"

Zelda (and this is where the poor morning decision skills come into play): "Gwennie, would you take care of that for me, please?"

Gwennie: "Are you kidding? What makes you think I can do that?"

Zelda: "You're a big girl now. You have a loose tooth."

Gwennie: "Just great. Now that's two things I have to do. Get dressed and wipe Emma's butt."

I realized this might not be the most advantageous way to deal with this particular situation, so I hauled myself up and went into the bathroom.

Zelda: "Do you need help wiping your butt?"

Emma: "Yes. But don't look at it."

Zelda: "Why not?"

Emma (ducking her head in shame): "It's green."

Zelda: "That's okay. You probably just ate something that was green. It's no big deal."

Emma: "It's disgusting. I don't like green poop."

Zelda (smiling): "What kind of poop do you like?"

Emma: "Brown."


Duh

Dribbles

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Party Time!

I'll touch briefly on the elections since everyone seems to value my opinions so highly. I'm mildly disappointed, but I think Republican loss was all but inevitable. Note please how I have no intention of hanging myself or moving to another country. I am, however, interested to see if the Dems can put their money where their mouths are and do whatever it is they said they were going to do.

Now on to more pleasant topics. We are going to Austin this weekend for Jethro's birthday. We plan to do a little partying with a few bloggers. We'll let you know how it goes.

Rain and Apathy

Payasita Update

It is a wet, dreary day, and I'm kind of at a loss for things to write about. Anything of interest to me would be incredibly boring blog fodder, and anything of interest blogwise requires more mental exertion than I am willing to give at this point.

So in light of this, let me point you in the direction of my very favorite political blog: Blonde Sagacity. Vigorous debate and no censorship. If you have a burning desire to tell a liberal their brains are the equivalent of cannibal monkey feces, with the feces being the slightly better smelling of the two, then go for it. Just expect the same. It's great fun once you get used to it, and the number of military personnel who let their guard down and say what they think is well worth it.

American Politics and British Porn - Both Ridiculous

Just so everyone knows, British porn is not sexy. I don't even think Brits find it sexy. How can porn accomplish it's intended ambition if a proper sounding naked guy is stuffily saying things like, "Oh yes. You like it in your naughty ahhhsss, what?"

But it is funny.

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So the midterm elections are drawing close with the Democrats receiving the ringing endorsements of Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and the al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. In other words, those groups who still have enough living members to make comments. Call me patriotic, but I really don't feel like making these assholes happy. (H/T: Blonde Sagacity.)

In other strange election news, I've come across a very interesting tactic. The Democrat gubernatorial candidate has spent a great deal of money on a mail-out flyer disparaging, not the Republican incumbent who is leading him in the polls, but an obscure write-in candidate. "Hmmm," I thought to myself. "Why would they waste their money to run against a write-in candidate that no one knows?"

Then I read the flyer. It said things like, "Write-In-Candidate would build a fence on the border and halt all illegal immigration," and "Write-In-Candidate would vote to lower all taxes and cut state spending by 1/3."

Now having lived in Texas for awhile, I think I can speak for the majority when I say that these are not exactly the issues that would cause the population to flock en masse to the Democrat Party. So why would the Democrat draw attention to the fact that he wouldn't reduce taxes or curb illegal immigration? It took me an embarrassingly long three minutes to figure out that he was trying to split the vote between the Write-In-Candidate and Rick Perry.

And why not? It's not like anyone in politics ever engages in anything dishonest.

Mind Wanderings

Sometimes, I am a little bit of an asshole to my kids. And sometimes they get me back for it.

I asked Emma to do something for me and she huffily assented. I said, "Excuse me, young lady. You say 'yes, ma'am' not 'fine.' "

"Yes, ma'am."

"Say 'jawohl, Mommy.' "

"Ya whore, Mommy."

Oops.

Anyway, not much is going on. I completely scrapped my Lifestyle Change for the day yesterday and ate what was likely the equivalent of three Snickers bars. I'm paying for it today in that I feel really sick to my stomach and the mere thought of candy makes me want to vomit copiously.

Gwennie has pneumonia and has been out of school for the week. The poor kid is really sick. I've taken the time off work to clean my kitchen which is now.... well, I won't say clean, but I no longer require a Hazmat suit to cook dinner. Shut up. It's an improvement.

I decided to do Nanowrimo this year. I think I'm just going to have to string together some short stories. I'm not much of a novelist. My ADD kicks in and I can never make anyone do what I want them to for more than a few seconds. I'm much better at anecdotes. O. Henry was my favorite author in the whole wide world and I started reading him when I was about 8 years old. We didn't have television. I think he influenced my writing ideas more than anyone else, and he probably would have made a phenomenal blogger. But we'll see. I don't have terribly high expectations.

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?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

Dementia

I have a MySpace account that I forgot about. I registered almost a year ago because all eight of my sisters have one and I guess I tried to make a vague stab of keeping in touch. But it sucks as a blog forum, so I let it go by the wayside.

The other day, I checked my email and it was from a friend of mine in NY that I have known since preschool. She wanted me to add her to my MySpace "List of Friends." I hadn't talked to her in over a year, so I was anxious to see how she was doing. After much trial and error, I pulled up my page and discovered that I had put up this picture as a representation of myself/my view of life:
















I had also neglected to fill out any of my information, so to all the world I was unmarried, an alcoholic, and never wanted to have children. I also had 30 messages in my Inbox. Two were from concerned friends. Ten were solicitations of some sort. And the rest were from men who wanted help me drink my beer (from right where it was in the picture) and engage in various deviant acts of sexual congress immediately following.

I was more than a little amused, as were my concerned friends when they discovered that I was not a meth addict, and horrible tragedy had not actually befallen me.

"You Like My Boooooody?"

Okay. I wrote my post for today, but that was before I found out the Howard K. Stern, Attorney at Law, is the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.

There isn't much that surprises me in the world of celebrities. I mean someone tries to commit suicide, someone od's, someone crucifies oneself for the seventy-thousandth time (incidentally, how does one hammer in that last nail?)...it's all been done to death and the corpses pummeled, stabbed, and burned for good measure.

But Anna Nicole Smith fascinates, repulses, and surprises me in ways I can't even begin to explain. I thought most people felt the same way. And I felt sure her pansy-assed, sycophantic, yet ethnically understated lawyer did too. In fact, I would have sworn he thought of her as one more Vapid Gentile Bovine for the Jew to suffer through once again for humiliating, degrading sustenance (read television exposure and ungodly sums of money).

So Howard, old boy. Schtuping the meshugeh shiksa? You kiss your mother with the same mouth?

When driving, it is customary for someone pulling out of a driveway to give the right-of-way to the vehicle on the road. This would not seem to be the case in The Orient.

I was driving along at a respectably sedate pace and just about to pass the county tax office, when I noticed a car getting ready to exit said tax office.

In the span of about half a second, I thought, "Surely they won't pull out in front of me," saw the driver was an older woman of Asiatic descent, slammed preemptively on my brakes just as she made her death-defying move in her ancient little Toyota Camry. Now I admit fully that in half a second, I stereotyped that woman and assumed she was going to do something boneheaded because she was 1.) female 2.) Asian and 3.) old. It probably saved her life.

Isn't it Ironic?

War or Crime?

Man. Drop a couple of pounds and just see what happens in the sack. I've seen my bedroom from about 6 new angles. That's all I'm going to say about that.

So the diet is going well. I haven't been quite as strict as I ought to have been, but except for a nibble here or there, I've stuck to it. And I feel much better.

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I was watching Newt Gingrich on Bill O'Reilly tonight and he said something very interesting about what separated the political right from the political left in the prosecution of terrorism. The Right sees terrorism as a declaration of war, and the Left sees it as a crime. Let me know what you think. I promise I won't jump all over you. I'm genuinely curious.

This is really interesting to me because I've been unable to understand the Left's point of view on the issue of terrorism. I do know from my family having been in the Middle East, that if one crazy mullah decides that Muslims must fight against you; his followers (and please notice I do not say all Muslims) will fight you either to the death or until the mullah says to stop. That's the way religious fundamentalists of all stripes are. That's the way many Catholics would be if the Pope said, "KILL." But bear in mind that even the most odious, sanctimonious, distorted Christian has not, in this fight, hung burnt corpses from bridges, or beheaded innocent civilians while chanting "Praise JAYsus!" In fact, the most odious, sanctimonious, distorted Christians would probably be the Phelps family. And they're against the war. And homos.

But I digress. Obviously, from anyone who has read me for more than 5 minutes, you would know that I consider terrorism and the threat of terrorism an act of war, whether it's by pirates, religious fundamentalists, or little green men. The only thing that ought to keep us from aggressively defending ourselves would be assurances backed with indisputable evidence by the leaders of the attacking group that their acts of war are an aberration and they will prosecute the perpetrators themselves in order to protect their good name. Anything less will inevitably lead to war.

Muslim leaders attempt to muddy the waters by saying on one hand, most Muslims aren't terrorists and abhor terrorism and we are racists and Muslim-haters for even thinking such a thing. On the other hand, they insist that investigation of and protective action against suspected terrorists ends up recruiting more terrorists. If they insisted upon the former statement, and left off the latter, I would be marginally more sympathetic. But I'm not buying the idea that action against suspected terrorists leads to Muslims joining the terrorist cause. And you really can't have it both ways.

I read a comment somewhere regarding terrorist recruitment being caused by investigating suspected terrorists and it was so appropriate I have to repeat it. I can't remember who wrote it though, so I won't be able to give them credit. But they stated that if you were falsely accused of a terrible crime, would that make you more likely to commit that crime? Say you were accused of pedophilia and taken to jail and interrogated for hours on end and even held for weeks in custody. Upon your release, would that then make you more likely to rape children? Would it make your family and friends more likely to rape children? So I'm not convinced that fanatical Muslim/Arab nationalist fence-sitters will join hands in peace if we pretend that no Muslim has any ill-intention towards Western society and we turn a blind eye to their murderous schemes. It would be playing right into their hands, and even now they are capitalizing on our reluctance to be referred to as racists, even though it would be the most ludicrous of hypocrisies.

Call me crazy, but I very much doubt that fanatical Muslim terrorist lunatics would like anything better than to plan their jihad for the Caliphate in perfect peace, so they call us racists for even thinking of such a thing while they make bombs to slaughter the infidels.

We're so intolerant of being called intolerant that we are going to tolerate the worst intolerance of all. Against ourselves. Wrap your mind around that while you sleep at night.

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In other news, a True Martyr was laid to rest. They buried Sister Leonella Sgorbati who died after being shot in the back (and stomach and chest just to make sure) by the brave Defenders of Allah. She was walking home from her work at a nursing school in Mogadishu, Somalia when she was attacked. She died forgiving her murderers.

(H/T: Michelle Malkin, Catholic Online)

Tagged

By ALa of Blonde Sagacity.

Were you born before the end of the first Gulf War?

Yes.

Childhood Nickname?

Jules

Historical Person you have the biggest crush on?

Oscar Wilde

Favorite type of candy?

Twizzlers and dark chocolate

Favorite foreign country?

Italia

Fish or Chicken?

Fish

Do you have your own perfume line?

Hell no. I barely wear deodorant.

Have you ever written a children's book?

Yes. It's called Queen of the Pond. I need an illustrator.

Have you ever been in a movie based on a book?

What is this crap? Celebrity Jeopardy?

Ever posed nude for a photo?

Not to my recollection, but define nude and define pose.

Guiltiest Pleasure?

I'm actually going to have to go with blogging. Or The Waltons.

Your best non-guilty pleasure then?

Fishing

What are you allergic to?

Soybeans, something in some cleaning agent but only in the summer, pollen, dust.

Worst pick-up line you've ever heard?

The one directed to me was, "Do you have a little Chinese in you?" "Want one?"

The second, not directed to me was, "How can I take advantage of you if I can't get you drunk?"

Were you bar-mitzvahed?

No. First Communionized

Have you ever cried during a TV interview?

Actually, I have been interviewed. But I've never cried.

If they made a movie of your life, who would play you?

It would really have to be Winona Ryder. She's just loony enough to pull it off.

Pet Peeve

Cliches.
People who use cliches and screw them up.
High waisted pants on fat people.
Low waisted pants on fat people.
Fat People
Referring to dogs and cats as one's children
PETA
Skinny Celebrities
Fat Celebrities
Celebrities

If you weren't doing what you do, what job would you like to have?

Researcher for travel agencies. Or a column writer.

Place you will never be found?

I never say never, but I hope very much that I would never be found in a sewage treatment plant.

Why did you participate in this tagging?

Because no one says no to the ALa

Diet Update

It's going better than I expected. I don't have a scale, but all of my clothes fit better. Pretty soon I'll be out of range of Ted Levine's Buffalo Bill character in Silence of the Lambs.

I honestly didn't expect much. And I was starving to death the first three days. But after that, it was so much easier. Yesterday, I was looking for something to wear and I pulled out this pair of pants that had ended up in the back of my closet. I could still wear them pre-diet, but they were uncomfortable and I would have to take them off the second I got home from work. Yesterday, they fit beautifully and I wore them the whole day without feeling miserable.

I haven't started exercising specifically yet, but I ran around the park with the kids yesterday. It's good to have so much more energy. Now if I can just transfer that energy to the laundry pile stacked to the ceiling in my living room....

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Jethro is so funny with the new Pilot.

Last Saturday, we decided to take a trip down to the Texas City dyke. We are so impulsive sometimes. We packed up Gwennie, Emma, and the camping gear to do a little night fishing. We bought some bait, set up the tent, unpacked the chairs and fishing gear, lit the kerosene lantern (actually we lit the lantern first) and started fishing. Didn't catch a thing. It was too windy. But it was good practice. Our tent is easy to set up, the girls enjoyed it thoroughly and gave us no trouble - they even went to sleep! We were going to stay all night, but someone had their bass turned up and the resultant pounding made sleep impossible.

So while the girls were napping in the tent and the fish were ignoring our bait, Jethro and I decided to get a little action in the new Pilot. It was ridiculously easy and totally hot. It made me seriously wonder what the teen pregnancy rate must be in Texas City. It was the most pleasant night, although we did end up leaving about 3:00 am.

The next day, we cleaned out the car. And man alive did it stink. From the bait. Losers. Anyway, Jethro was none too pleased to have his new car smelling like rotting whore, so he had the car detailed and came back with a little sachet of potpourri attatched to to the steering column. No he's straight. I swear.

Pope Speaks; Muslims Slaughter

Since the Pope resides in palatial splendor in the Vatican, it would be difficult for Somalis to carry out the fatwa issued to "hunt down and kill" him. So the brave Defenders of Allah settle for a 73 year old nun/humanitarian whom they ambushed and shot in the back (and stomach and chest just to be on the safe side). Surely their courage knows no limits.

I watched CNN try to spin the Muslim reaction to the Pope's speech. I guess it's true that if he'd just kept his mouth shut like a good little dhimmi, the Muslims hordes wouldn't be doing what they do best. But at some point, someone must ask the theological questions. We are dealing with a religion afterall, in spite of CAIR's (Council on American-Islamic Relations) demand that Islam and terrorism not be mentioned in the same sentence. I mean, I'd love to comply, but terrorists have this ugly little habit of visiting mosques, reading the Koran, and screaming "Allah Akbar" before they hack the heads off schoolgirls, murder babies in Beslan, and hijack planes and fly them into buildings full of unarmed civilians.

CAIR has it's own dirty little secrets as well.

The point of the Pope's speech was to ask whether a rational God would demand violence in His name. Being a raging academic, he delved into the history books for quotes and came up with quote from a 14th century Byzantine Emperor who was under attack from the Religion of Peace. It wasn't Pope Benedict's quote (not that it matters), but naturally the frothing hordes wish to slaughter anyone who dares to suggest that Islam might not be peaceful and tolerant. I mean it's only common sense.

If someone were to call me violent and evil and imply that my religion is spread by the sword, my immediate instinct would be to slit their throat and slaughter their children. And their animals. No question. People just need to respect the fact that I'm a murderous avenger of my religion and I should not have to peacefully tolerate anyone who calls my God evil and imply that he demands satisfaction through violence. I will behead them and prove them wrong.

All sarcasm aside, what really gets to me is the refusal to hold radical Muslims to the same standards as the rest of the world. I can just hear the internal dialogue of the news reporters: "Well, they live in squalor and they don't know any better. We should make allowances since we are so rich."

I agree with the fact that they are bestial primates but just because they still wipe their asses with their hands and turn to camels for love, doesn't mean they can't be held accountable for their actions. The last thing they need is to have their temper tantrums justified.

***CORRECTION*** The Catholic nun, Sister Leonella Sgorbati, slaughtered by the Peaceful Defenders of Allah was 65, not 73.

No Sex Today

Well, I guess no one wants to discuss Jack Kerouac. Can't say as I blame.

How about transcendentalism? I wouldn't necessarily classify myself as a transcendentalist, but I can certainly see the appeal. It doesn't demand absolute devotion, with Emerson claiming that it wouldn't even be possible. I can certainly go along with that. As long as it doesn't veer off into socialism, it is a relaxing philosophy, if not a virile one.

But I don't suppose anyone (me included) can relax enough to put down their respective swords long enough to give it a whirl. Then again, current events don't exactly make it easy.

Why don't they teach this stuff in school? It's as much a part of American history as anything else. If I asked the average high school graduate if he or she was a transcendentalist, they would look at me as if I had been licking frogs.

I wonder if there really are any true transcendentalists today. All I can find are pontificating idiots who want to solve everyone else's problems. Or hippies who want to reap the benefits without having to put in the actual time to the actual thought processes necessary, but don't believe in the fundamentals anyway.

Spirituality will never die. For whatever reason, we are hardwired to believe in the Supernatural. Transcendentalism seems like a very good way of combatting our human instinct to beat crap out of each other over issues of doctrine. It's uniquely American in it's simplicity and efficiency. I think that's why I am so attracted to it on so many levels.

http://www.themystica.com/mystica/articles/t/transcendentalism.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transcendentalism

Diet is going well. I cheated a little bit on accident this morning. The girls had left one of their breakfast bars in the kitchen and I ate a bite of it before I remembered. It tasted fantastic.

But I made up for it with some athletic masturbation. Satisfied, Jack?

Change of subject.

Does anyone besides me think On The Road by Jack Kerouac was gay? And I don't mean in the homosexual way, although it is that too.

This supposedly defining novel of the Beat Generation would embarrass me a little if I were the author. It swings from innocently joyful to jaded and cynical. I suppose that was part of it's charm. At least it isn't Naked Lunch, which always struck me as being written for the sole purpose of instigating the obscenity trial. Perhaps I'm worn out with beatniks and hippies. They haven't had a new idea in 40 years yet they're still held to be this paragon of intellectual/academic non-conformity.

Kerouac, for all his faults, realized this before anyone else and removed himself. And he really does have the coolest name in all of literature.

Exercise in Futility?

So I decided to start the South Beach diet. After much research, I decided that it was the most challenging, and apparently there is nothing I like better than to set unrealistic expectations for myself. It bills itself as neither low fat nor low carb, when in reality it is both low fat and low carb. They can't pull one over on me. But nutritionally speaking, they're probably spot on.

I started yesterday, and I did ok. I didn't cheat too badly except for about 4:00pm when I became ravenously hungry and ate around 12 packets of dried seaweed. I don't want to hear about it. They were delicious. I don't think I strayed too far from the diet and they did say to eat until you were full, although I don't know if they really meant 12-packets-of-dried-seaweed full.

I had a huge breakfast this morning. I'm not usually a breakfast eater, but the diet insists that you eat breakfast, so I did. I had the generic brand of egg substitute with onions and green and red peppers, part skim mozzarella cheese, and salt and ground white pepper. And a glass of V-8.

I am so full that I think I'll hold off on lunch until around 3:00pm when I get the worst food cravings. I will eat a snack of dried seaweed until then, if I'm hungry.

I expect this diet to accomplish two things, the first being a healthy amount of thigh loss and the second being a rehab of sorts for our addiction to eating out.

Part of the problem is that the basis of mine and Jethro's relationship has been food. He used to take me out for dinner or lunch when I was too broke to afford it, and we fell in love over plates of spring rolls and bowls of Pho. Then we would get drunk and make out.

But where Jethro merely gained some pleasant little love handles which are invisible when clothed and don't look that bad when he's not, I have gained mounds of pasty white rolls of fat that are hidden only by vast expanses of fat lady clothes.

Jethro claims he wouldn't miss the food-part of our relationship if I lost weight and got hot. But I think he would more than he knows. However, I don't really enjoy being fat, so we'll just have to see what happens.

What would really suck is if I didn't lose weight and Jethro was stuck eating diet food and boning a fat wife.

I'll keep the blog updated with any progress/cheating. I don't have a scale, so I won't be able to weigh in, but I will let you know if my pants fall down in public. The late afternoon is always my downfall, so maybe I'll just blog through the cravings.

I must say it would be nice to be hot through my 30s.

Eddie Rowenhorst

In conjunction with the project 2,996, I would like to honor the memory of Edward V. Rowenhorst. He was known as Eddie to his friends and family.

Eddie was a young man of 32 when he was murdered at the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. He had two little daughters, Ashley and Kaitlyn, ages 7 and 3 when the tragedy took place. He also had a young wife, Traci, and a mother and father, Florence and Everett, who waited tirelessly outside the Pentagon for word of his fate. They did not receive confirmation of that fate until September 17.

Eddie was a civilian who worked for the Pentagon for 11 years. In the weeks following that horrible day, he was awarded the Defense of Freedom medal. It is a new medal that was created to honor the civilians who worked for the military and who were killed or injured in that capacity.

By all accounts Eddie was much loved and respected. You have only to see his legacy.com page to see that. He had a strong sense of family and who wouldn't with two beautiful daughters. He was a wonderful dad who would take his oldest daughter to work with him sometimes. It's such a special thing for a little girl and her daddy that I am sure makes his loss that much harder.

But it is a wonderful thing for which to be remembered. At the age of 32, he'd had his job with the Army for 11 years - since he was 21. It is obvious that he took his work quite seriously and had a beautiful family to show for it.

It's an example for us. He lived his life for the simple joys and that is how he will be known.

May he rest in peace, and may God bless his friends and family and give them strength on this most tragic anniversary.



Remember September 11, 2001

Legacy.com Guestbook

Defense of Freedom Medal

9/11 Truth

Paris Hilton Reflux

I guess I'm sufficiently recovered to resume posting. But if you want to hear how drunk and obnoxious everyone was, go to Bad Beth and Beyond and listen for yourself. Jack is the asshole who wants something put on him "real tight." I'm the last asshole to figure out what he's talking about.

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New Topic

There is a website that I count among my guiltiest pleasures. Engrish.com is a compilation of wacky translations from the Asian languages into English. Some of my favorites:




I can't imagine what they're selling, but they have a melting snowman as their logo.








This is a shopping bag.






I actually envy them these signs. They would make our zoo trips so much more fun.






'Nuff Said.



Wait. Don't Stop. Oh Santa!

Continued.....







This has to be my favorite. If you can't read it, it says:

SPREAD BEAVER
Showing the vaginal area


Is it just me, or do you get the feeling that the Brits are fucking with them?


The first time I saw this stationary, I about died. Because seriously. Who doesn't think of Cowgirls and Napalm at the same time?











So now that you have the general idea (if you hadn't before), you will be able to appreciate this gal's ridicule of Paris Hilton. Check out her other work if you have time. She's deadly with a paintbrush and woe to the celebrity who displays his fat head.

Saturday Night Special

I woke up Sunday morning with a smashing headache. The room swirled into focus and I thought, "Did I really let Jack's Ladyfriend pull a soggy cocktail napkin out of my bra with her teeth?"

I rolled over and threw up a bit, then started pondering the previous evening, each memory crashing into the other until Jack called and it was embarrassingly confirmed.

The evening started pleasantly. We met Tinyhands (who has a secret and everyone should dogpile him until he tells it) and Beth (probably the sweetest Jersey Girl you'll ever meet) at a restaurant called Lupe Tortillas which seems to be the standard meeting place for bloggers.

While we were waiting for Jack and his Ladyfriend to show up, Beth and I (or at least I) took the liberty of a margarita or two. Possibly three. I don't know.

I think Jack must really enjoy his air of mystery because I looked up suddenly, and there was a figure in a black hood with a zipper mouth standing before us holding a sheaf of confidentiality agreements. He unzipped the mouth a little to inform us that we all had to sign them and take a blood oath that we would display no photographs of his image. Being a tranquil, yet curious drunk, I figured I would oblige. He removed the hood, and I was glad I did. I cringe when I think how close I came to being courtesy bound to desecrate my beautiful blog with that mug. Ladies, I don't know what you've been imagining, but gone was the golden-mulleted, muscle-bound star of my cop fantasies to be replaced with something resembling this with slightly fewer feathers. Secretly though, I couldn't help but think he could probably give some wicked beak.

Jack sat down and introduced the Ladyfriend, a blog lurker who gives lie to the notion that lurkers are fat, hairy, bearded slobs who have mastered the art of naked, one-handed net surfing. She knew about everyone's blogs, was very pretty - way out of Jack's league - and she was an actual writer. So henceforth, she will be referred to as AW.

Then he asked us how we liked his "ninja" mask. He seemed so proud of it that I didn't have the heart to tell him what it really was. And the only reason I know is because I've seen Pulp Fiction, like, 500 times.

We talked for awhile in the restaurant, then hit another bar in Rice Village. I drank some more and had what I think was a fairly good conversation with AW about her literary career. I came to the conclusion that I'm a blogger not a writer. But I'm very anxious to read her work when it comes out.

Jack, after singing a dirge to Jay with his lighter lit and tears in his eyes, suggested we go to a Karaoke bar. This is always a good idea, so we went.

The rest of the evening is a blur that tastes a lot like cranberry juice and vodka. But during that time I recall having my breasts fondled by AW and liking it, having another girl dedicate her performance of "I Touch Myself" to me (at least I think it was me), lamenting the crowsfeet at the corners of my eyes in the bathroom with Beth, drinking a shot with the kids at the next table, and mooning Jack and Tinyhands while they sang "Stand By Your Man."

We finally left and were making out/saying good-bye in the parking lot when:

POP!.....POP!.....POPOPOPOPOPOP!

I hit the deck on the second pop. I suppose it could have been a car backfiring, but I knew it wasn't. Sometimes I have a certain drunken clarity. Plus, I am a shameless coward. No one was hurt, thankfully, but Jack said he saw the muzzle flash from across the freeway. We finished our goodbyes and I must admit I clung a little tighter to Beth than I might have. It's a shame our visitor ended up with her knees in the dirt for a reason such as that, but hopefully all's well that ends well. And it ended well, I think.

Tinyhands: You are a sneak. Time to 'fess up, boy. And don't think you got away with squeezing my butt no matter how much you think I liked it.

Beth - I'm sorry we didn't get to hang out more. But hopefully you were more pleasantly occupied. And despite the gunshots, I think there will be a next time.

Jack - You are the best sport in the entire world. Thanks for letting me sharpen my claws on you just a little bit. And I sincerely hope you got to see a little more than my blog fat.

AW - You little minx. Don't be a stranger, m'kay?

Jethro - Thanks for staying sober and carting our asses around all night. I hope my brilliant conversation plus the head made it worth it. And don't worry about him, folks. I gave him head for all of us.

How to Wildly Amuse Your Asian, Mel Brooks Fan of a Husband

While it's in repose, grab his male appendage, do your best imitation of Madeline Khan from Blazing Saddles, and say, "Oh, it's twue! It's twue!"