I'm Not A Racist. That's What's So Insane About This.

Yeah I know it's been awhile. I've been working on my real estate classes. They are extremely boring, but now, thanks to the ethics portion, I am able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Except when a non-white person complains. Then I become automatically wrong and I need to shut the fuck up and be grateful that I'm white. This is going to make arguing with Jethro somewhat less fun than it has been in the past.

Now I'm not one to quibble, but I am really getting tired of being called white. I am pink. PINK, dammit. And red in some places. With blue and green poking through. Acknowledge.

Hey There

I've come to the conclusion that I am tired of tickling balls for nothing but debt. I'm no knock-out, but I have huge tits that can defy gravity with the right amount of sturdy, underwired encouragement, and that has to count for something.

So I've decided to whore myself in a constant, persistent, hopefully non-homicide-inducing fashion to the idea of Jethro's Practice.

We can bitch and moan all day about his boss and her inconsistencies, tirades, baffling business decisions and utter lack of fashion sense (three words: Pleated, Tapered Pants. Belted far above the waist. And when I laid that line on someone, Jethro muttered, "That's nothing. You should see her Pleated, Tapered Jeans). But when it comes right down to it, it's her business, and she can call all the shots. If she wants to alienate her employees, inconvenience her patients, soak Jethro for as much work for as little money as possible, and dress as if she drives a Delorian [updated link]; it's her incontrovertible right, and I will not dispute that.

As we say in blogworld, "If you don't like it, start your own."

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

So everything else is going well. I am in a very upbeat, positive place. I think I might be on the cheerful side of a manically depressive mood swing. Or maybe I'm just feeling better from my kidney infection.

Dribs and Drabs

I have a kidney infection. I could probably use that as an excuse for not blogging, and in fact, I think I will. It hurts to sit up for too long and it hurts to lie down for too long. If I curl up a certain way on the couch, it doesn't hurt quite as much. I am taking antibiotics, but they make me nauseous, so I just have to suck it up (or down as the case may be).

I've also been tied up with family. I've come to the conclusion that I can't really do anything for my mom, but I can work on my relationships with my sisters. Now that we're all in the same state it should be easier. I feel as if my relationships with them have really suffered throughout the years and I see more hope in repairing those than I do in repairing my mom's life. One sister in particular is going to be a challenge. She has been severely damaged by events in the past and I am hoping she is not too bitter to help repair our family.

Anyway, none of this is life-threatening, but it does put a damper on my blogworld. So to tide you over until my next riveting post, check out this website courtesy of Jim Treacher at Blowing Smoke.

hotchickswithdouchebags.com

Methinks Gooch will particularly enjoy this concept.

Because You Need To Know

I was tagged again (in the bloglical sense) to name some more weird things about myself. Happily, I have a limitless supply.

1.) Fairly recently, I realized that I'm in the habit of holding onto my earlobe while I sleep. I sleep with my face on my hand and my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger. I don't know if this is recent or if I've been doing it for years, but I noticed it just after I posted the last list of weird.

2.) Since we're on sleeping arrangements, I must also confess to sleeping like Peter Pan, with one knee raised almost to my chest and the other leg flung outward. I'm a weird sleeper.

3.) When I was pregnant with both girls, I had a bizarre craving for foam. I didn't want to swallow it, but I would take bubble baths with a lot of soap and swish the suds around in my mouth. The foamier I got the better I liked it. Brushing my teeth was almost orgasmic. I would sit in the bathroom and scrub my teeth, making sure to generate as much foam as possible. I'd lean over the bathtub and let it drool out, but I wouldn't stop brushing. One time I brushed my teeth for over 30 minutes.

4.) I have a very hard time standing up and speaking in front of a group of people, even if they're all my friends.

5.) I used to claim I didn't like cauliflower when I was in grade-school because I thought I was weird for having almost no distaste for any kind of food. I figured I could give up cauliflower for the sake of appearing normal - a completely useless endeavor, I might add.

6.) I told my sisters an ongoing story when we were little. It was about 3 sisters and their little brother. The oldest girl was named Wendy and she was the hero. The second sister was named Clara and I made her such a priss, much to my second sister's irritation. The third sister was named Anastasia. She was kind of whacky. I didn't really have the stamina to develop her personality very well, so I made her a combination of first two to the point of schizophrenia. Three and a half days a week, she would be an adventurous tomboy just like Wendy, and precisely at 12:00 noon on Wednesdays, she would transform into a snooty little goodie-two-shoes just like Clara. The little brother was named Thomas and he was borderline psychotic. I didn't have any brothers, so I didn't really know what boys were like. I went with evil and violent.

You're Such An Idiot, Dad. God.

I never dreamed I would feel in any way badly about the death of a person such as Anna Nicole Smith. But to my utter astonishment, I do. I'm going to miss all the crazy. She made me laugh if at nothing else, then the utter inanity of the human species. Sometimes we take ourselves too seriously.

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

Anyway, we finally got to have a little birthday party for Emma. Oh. My. God. This is the last birthday party I'm having for them. I'm no stickler for etiquette beyond just a general sense of politeness and tact, but I'm going to have to bitch for a second.

We had Emma's birthday at a little pastry shop close to our house. It's has a very cutesy decor with a giant inverted cupcake on the ceiling, and some very professional decorating. All the kids get to make their own cupcakes, which is cute. It's a great place for a little girl's birthday party.

A gentleman dropped off one of Emma's friends from school, then proceeded to tell me that the place was not very manly and he was going to take off and do manly things for awhile. Then he asked if he could leave his older daughter there. I wasn't terribly happy. First he insults the party and then he wants me to pay extra so he can leave his other daughter there and go pretend he's a man? He lives in the suburbs. It's not like he's going to suddenly grow a pair.

I'm not one to be rude in front of children so I smiled and said that I thought we had an extra place for his daughter and if we didn't she could share with her sister. He eventually ended up taking his daughter, but not after saying that the party wasn't really her thing. No duh, brain surgeon. She was in 4th grade and the party was for Kindergarteners. But what a thing to say.

I saw him again today while we were picking our kids up from another birthday party for another kid in Emma's class. He had managed to dump his older daughter off successfully at this one. I noted with a sense of smug satisfaction that he had food all over his face.

Good manners aren't for ladies and little girls. It doesn't make your dick shrink to act like a gentleman. And just because fathers/husbands are portrayed as fat, slow, simpletons in pop culture, it doesn't mean you are required to enforce that particular stereotype.

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

Anyway, that's about all. There is something wrong with my computer, so I have to use Jethro's laptop and I'm still congested from my cold, so it's difficult to give him the blow jobs that are required to use it.

Back In The Saddle

Okay, Phlemfatale beat me to all the funny observations, but this has to be the best story to come down the pipes in years. I mean it has it all: love, obsession, attempted murder, travel .....diapers?! I mean, if I was going to murder the lover of my obsession, I'd want to do it after I'd soiled myself. I'm just sayin'...

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

I've been sick again, so I haven't felt like doing anything except feeling sorry for myself lately. I still have a bad case of laringitis. Even Bobcat Goldwaithe has abandoned me to dulcet tones of a dying seal. It makes for an intersting love-making experience. I sounded like a badly dubbed anime porn character - male.

Perversely, I've needed my voice more than ever these last few days.

Jethro's job situation is looking tentative. I refuse to see this in a negative light. He needs to go out on his own. It is time.

My family situation, to which I have been alluding, but haven't actually blogged about, came to a head also. My mom, after many agonizing months and mind-numbingly excruciating thought processes (sparing me exposure to not the minutest detail), has finally filed for divorce from my Stepdad. Whether she will go through with it remains to be seen.

I have a million things to blog about, not the least of which is a little gift I received in the mail from a total pervert and his total pervert fiancee. But I outperved them. Oh yes I did. The details will have to remain forthcoming until I find the time to do them justice.

If Anyone Wants Me To Tell Them Where They Stand, Let Me Know

I've been working on this list for awhile. The various subspecies of man have been in dire need of classification. Men try in their unsophisticated ways to classify women all the time, but what usually emerges are overgeneralizations about shoes and maternal instinct. I was going to do women too, but I'm too close to the issue, and I know I would end up trying to make the coolest women sound like me which wouldn't be honest. Men are easier in every sense of the word.

Just a quick note before reading: It is possible and even likely that most men fall between classifications. For example, somewhere between an Asshole and a Real Man is a Real Asshole.

And I would dearly love some feedback.


Asshole: Universally hated, but doesn't realize it. Has a way with damaged women. Uses any means at his disposal to get laid. Thinks this makes him a stud. Likes manly things to the point of obsession, but is not terribly proficient in their use. Thinks sympathy is for pussies. Has a bad temper due to feelings of inadequacy. Chronically broke. No one will hire him long enough for him to make any money. Very stingy except when he's trying to derive power; then he's grandiose. If you are unlucky enough to be obligated to him in any way, look to have your life made miserable for it's duration.

Real Man: Not mean-spirited, but sometimes insensitive. Usually good-looking, but not always. The ugly ones make it seem tough. They are good at business and comprise the Good Old Boy Network. They like women in general, but often mistake high-maintenance for confidence. They go for trophy chicks, but will slop a pig if that's what's available. Usually has quite a few to choose from. They like guns and dogs and working out and steak and beer. Usually pretty even-tempered as long as he can play with all his toys in relative peace. He sows his wild oats, but usually settles down in the end because women in general confuse him and one is less confusing than many.

Gentleman: Smart, good manners, well dressed, always polite, generally good-looking. They usually have quite a panty collection. They're probably total perverts and if they're rich enough, have whole rooms dedicated to nasty sex. They are good at business because of their smooth moves, so they have money too. They have to fight off gold-diggers, but unless they're very unlucky, they don't end up with them. They like calm, smart, sophisticated women - someone who can challenge them without taking advantage. But they still like to win. They like taking trips into the outdoors and buying the latest equipment to facilitate their sojourns into nature, but they use it to enhance their urban existences as opposed to actually enjoying it for anything more than a week. They get along well with other men, but are not immediately trusted.

Good Guy: Sensitive, unselfish, and indecisive. Tougher women like to keep them as pets. They aren't terribly exciting, but they're kind and simple and reliable. They are highly employable, but tend to get passed over for promotion. They do regular boy things, but usually aren't very good at them. They are fairly intelligent and make better artists. They probably draw comic books and design video games in their heads. The ones who play guitar get laid more. They're good at the supportive aspect of relationships, but not very good at romance. They usually get along well with everyone.

Dandy: They are completely intimidated by other men, but try to hide it by insisting they are sophisticated as opposed to weak. Their voices are usually a little higher-pitched and softer than most other guys. They get under people's skin because they brag in those effeminate little voices almost without stopping. They drive complicated cars, get manicures, like fancy drinks and club music, and live far beyond their means. Gold-diggers will clean them out and leave them to die, strangled with their own gold chains and wallowing in vomit and blow.

Mama's Boy: Thinks he is a Good Guy, but he's not. He's slovenly, bad with money, probably grossly overweight. He whines a whole lot about women only liking assholes, and how good guys never get a break, but it usually falls on deaf ears. Usually gets taken advantage of by extremely large, brazen women who degrade him to anyone who will listen. Always begging for loans or handouts and always has a beautifully thought out hard-luck story to go along with it. When he works, it's usually in movie rentals or pizza delivery.

Nancy: Gay/Bi. This would involve a whole other set of classifications and I have neither the time nor the knowledge.

Slice of Life

I don't think I am a good person to have sex with if I'm in a certain humorous-type mood.

Over the weekend, I was dicking around on the internet while Jethro lounged in bed. He awoke in a state of excitement, and requested some alleviation. Sex was the farthest thing from my mind since I had been looking at coat racks on ebay (come to think of it, sex should not have been very far from my mind), but being the kind, acquiescent wife that I am, I agreed to the suggestion.

I got nekkid and said, "Proceed, sir" which is a line from Tombstone. It was funny and made me laugh. It didn't help tremendously with the proceedings. Jethro asked me if I wanted my vibrator. Now this part is accidental. I said, "Do you want me to have my vibrator?" which unintentionally came out like The 40 Year Old Virgin saying, "Do you want me to be retarded?"

I started laughing. Jethro grinned and rolled his eyes. I asked him if he minded if I blogged about it, and he said "Anything. Just shut the fuck up already."

Caffeine/Advil PM Induced Mania. Buckle Up

I'm currently working on a post categorizing men. There are plenty of lists that categorize women (because women are fond of analysis), but very few for the male gender. It should be fun.

But I can't concentrate because first off, I'm terribly busy at work, I have a massive headache, and I have an enormous erection which is weird because I don't have a penis.*

I am also worried about Jethro's and my financial situation. I have very little job security and I am beginning to think his boss is somewhat unwell in the emotional sense. I hate like the devil being dependent on others for an income. It is bullshit, especially when I know that Jethro can do better on his own.

So right about now I want to bash my head into a wall, except that it would hurt and I don't much care for pain except in certain controlled circumstances involving neckties, a couple of hair clips, some mentholated petroleum jelly, and an insistant verbalization of 'LEGITIMATE' (highlight the entire linked post for explanations) when things go a little too well.


*I don't actually have anything resembling an erection. I'm too sick to even be horny. But I've always wanted to say it, so I did. Like I care what anyone thinks.

Swing Low

The Lord hath apparently stricken me with Plague, and cursed me with a voice that blends the melodious tones of James Earl Jones with Bobcat Goldwaithe, which, to combine the gratutious insults of two dear friends, would be sexy if you were into elderly black men and harbored secret prison fantasies.

The upside is that I am now able to sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot as never before.

On Loaves and Fishes

I was reading my FFNH's (friend from New Hampshire) blog today. I wish I'd been able to put it that way a year ago. (But then again, if I was registering no suprise at Emma shitting diapers at 5 years of age, it would indicate that I had somewhat more severe psychological problems than originally suspected).

I wish I could properly explain my feelings on religion and faith. I have faith. I am even pretty sure I'm a Christian. But I don't go to church anymore. I get nothing out of it. Nothing. I sit there and I think, "even if this is the actual, literal body and blood of Christ, what is the point?"

Streamline things for me. Please. I used to think the ritualistic aspect of Catholicism was cool. I thought it was a connection to the Ancients with the Answers. But really it's just the World's Largest Secret Handshake Club (not my own phrasing, unfortunately). I know every trick of the trade. The True Believers will tell me that The Devil is putting those thoughts into my head to keep me from partaking of the Divine Grace of Our Lord, blah blah blah blah blah. More likely, it's The Devil convincing Them that it's okay to lie as long as there is one more ass in the pew guiltily handing over their money.

And don't any Protestants think they're off the hook because they've "streamlined" things. You haven't. If anything you've made it worse. Don't like what the peacher said? Start a new church. Don't like the new one? Start a new one. The phrase "Are you a Baptist?" is a trick question.

Jesus gave up the carpentry business, so I don't see any reason to force him into a building every Sunday.

I'm going to do something different on Sundays. I'm going to make dinner and have some conversation. It's an ambitious project for someone such as myself for whom sloth is almost an art. But why not? Take a seat. Have some loaves and fishes. Drink some wine. Talk about God. That's old school, baby.

I don't know if I'm going to Heaven or Hell. I honestly don't. And frankly, I don't see how it is any of my business anyway. I didn't ask to be here. I am the sole responsibility of the Great Intellect.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad to be here and I'm not out killing anyone yet. But what comes next is Their decision.

If You Can't Be With The One You Love, Bash In Their Skull And Hope They Only Remember The Good Times

I'm not one to leave loose ends. I wish I was because it would make me far more interesting and sexy. But I like things wrapped up in tidy little packages, tied with tidy little bows. Or maybe knots. So for anyone who thought my last post was too cryptic (*cough* Trashman), allow me to clarify.

Two lovely people who are married and with whom I am rather closely acquainted, have decided to part ways. This did not come as a huge shock to me because a few years ago I was at their house staring in rather horrified surprise at the songs the husband had downloaded from Kazaa.

There was only one song on their list.

The refrain has a certain charm, to be sure. But if you're just loving "the one you're with" I can assure you that "the one you're with" will be the appendage attached to your wrist (barring any unfortunate harvesting accidents) in fairly short order.

Human beings just don't settle. We'll construct any number of intricate delusions in order to convince ourselves that the ones we love are indeed the ones we're with. And if you aren't doing that, then you are kind of scummy. Slightly more honest perhaps, but still scummy.

Lest anyone get the idea that this is a reflection of a personal nature, it isn't. Well it is, but it has nothing to do with Jethro or me. I have to put that out there just in case there are lurkers who are concocting fantasies that they have a shot with either of us. Because as you all know, people are just beating down our door.

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

I went to an Asian business networking association "mixer" with Jethro last night. Big mistake. Jethro is great at that kind of thing. Me not so much. He's the James Bond to my Old Elvis.

Anyway, there were quite a few young Asian professionals looking to make some business contacts. And since I don't do anything more professional than fluffing my husband when I want to eat, I was a bit out of my element. So I started drinking. I only had three, but I hadn't eaten much and they were pretty strong.

It's a bad thing when I drink alone. I'm not meant for it. I get tunnel vision and I only see the glass. I sip the cranberry juice and vodka through the straw to watch it wind it's way in rivulets, against gravity, through the ice cubes,. This does not make one's drinks last as long as one might think. So I end up dispatching with them pretty rapidly.

I was finishing my second one when the bartender came up to me and asked how I was doing. I told him I thought I was being discriminated against. He humored me.

So I think I'll leave that kind of thing to Jethro from now on. He's far more likeable and has far fewer disorders.

Quite Possibly The Most Dangerous Song Ever Written

Stills, 1970

Love the One You're With

If you're down and confused
And you don't remember who you're talkin' to
Concentration slip away
Cause your baby is so far away.
Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with

Don't be angry, don't be sad,
Don't sit cryin' over good things you've had,
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something you do.
Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with

Turn your heartache right into joy
She's a girl, you're a boy,
Get it together make it nice
Ain't gonna need anymore advice.
Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with

I Think I Have Pretty Small Nipples

NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE NOT WORK SAFE





















H/T: Angi who exhorts me to count my blessings.

Emma Funny

Emma just told me (in reverential tones) that "Martha Lutin King Junior turned the whole world gray."

Fluffer

I hurt my lower back after having had some intercourse last night. My head and shoulders were off the bed and I thought my stomach muscles were getting the workout since I held the position for more than 10 minutes. I guess I'm not in good enough shape for those kinds of antics. It was worth it though.

I am having family problems which I would like to blog about, but it's a little bit of hush hush. Never a dull moment. Ever. And it seems that everyone would be miserable if there were.

And some winter weather is moving through The Great State. It should be fun. I'm going to lay in provisions because I don't like driving even in nice weather. Ice just may kill me.

To prepare for 3 days of frigid temperatures, I bought a hat. Gwennie told me I looked like a Mommy burglar. Lately nothing has made her and Emma happier than putting on hats and pretending to be burglars. That and breakdancing.

RIWherever Saddam

This is probably going to come as somewhat of a surprise.

I was not pleased with Saddam Hussein's hanging. He deserved it, no question. But the manner in which it was preformed was not, in my opinion, optimal. From the taunts and the jeers behind cowardly masks, to preforming it on a holiday, it was not a carrying out of justice, but a bloodthirsty act of vengeance. There were a few things about it I didn't realize, since I didn't understand the language being spoken. I didn't realize that they didn't allow Saddam to finish his recitation of faith. And I didn't realize that right after the drop, they were shouting Muqtada al Sadr's name. Please read the following post by The Sandmonkey. He completely nailed down my misgivings about the entire event.

If you haven't been following the happenings in that part of the world, Muqtada al Sadr is a radical Shiite cleric. He hated Saddam (a Sunni), but he is also allied with the Iranians who hate the U.S. and are behind most of the sectarian violence in Iraq right now. Their goal is simple. Take advantage of the U.S. removal of Saddam and extend the Islamic revolution to Iraq.

I remember the old argument for not removing Saddam during the first Gulf War: If we had removed Saddam, someone worse would have taken his place.

No truer words were ever spoken if we're talking about al Sadr. Saddam was bad. There was no reason to leave him in power, especially when Iraq is so valuable to us strategically. And he got the death he so richly deserved. But there is no time or reason to revel in his death. al Sadr and the rest of the nuts over there are just a different side to the same evil coin. Al Sadr will be worse than Saddam if he is left unchecked because he will have more followers with the Shiites, plus he will have allies in Iran and Syria.

Knowing the psychosis brewing in Iran, it bothers me to no end that we let al Sadr's people hang him. We shouldn't have done that.

An Interesting Dichotomy

I live in a very Republican town. Think of the most irritating stereotypes of Republicans and you will have an idea of what 90% of the population which surrounds me is like. The only difference is that 50% of the population is non-white. But they're still Republican.

I must digress briefly. There is one thing I may not make entirely clear in my political ramblings. I detest stereotypical "conservatives." I tolerate them simply because I find stereotypical "liberals" infinitely more obnoxious. Incidentally, I don't understand why "liberals" call themselves liberal. The true believers subscribe to the most crippling, nonsensical, hypocritical, irrational brand of austere morality, which they then try to impose on everyone else. It's like a new, unnatural, and even more joyless religion - one where (at it's most extreme) eating meat, driving cars, and working is violently opposed, but where killing your unborn children is a new baptism. And having finally shed the last vestiges of the morbidly apocalyptic morality of my parents, I am not about fall over that precipice again.

Religious conservatives are almost as odious. But luckily for me (as opposed to most self-proclaimed liberals) I don't give a shit what either camp thinks. Or at least I don't when it comes to living every day life.

But back to the original topic. I pass by the city tax office every day after work. There is no parking and it's on a one-way street, so mostly I just try to get past it without crashing into elderly Asian women. But today, in my obnoxiously Republican city, a few unhygenic men had set up a rickety card table on the lawn of the tax office replete with typical leftist slogans and accompanying caricatures of different members of the Bush administration, including Condoleeza Rice wearing a head rag.

Why is it they insist upon forcing their cartoons on everyone? They can't possibly think that anyone with even a minimal ability for critical thinking is going to say: "Oooo! Someone drew Bush as a Retard with Big Ears. He must be the evil genius mastermind of 9/11 because when it comes right down to it, Muslims are really such a peaceful and loving people."

I mean if I carried around a sign depicting President Clinton getting sucked into a Giant Felching Cunt, while al Qaida plotted in the background, would anyone take me seriously?


I watched them idly while I waited for the light to turn green. They were pretty soundly ignored by everyone. I didn't even have the energy to give them the finger.

Which brings me to my point. Here we have a lone hippie, surrounded and outnumbered by evil, capitalist, war-mongering Republicans. He is left unmolested. Yet when I was surrounded by wholesome, peaceful, anti-war Meat Snobs, I was screamed at through a bullhorn, clobbered with a sign, and pushed into traffic. It can't just be because I smelled better.

And Here's To You, Mrs. Robinson...

A couple nights ago, Jethro and I took the girls to dinner at their favorite catfish restaurant. I prudently had the salmon salad and not-so-prudently, a margarita. They were on special. Afterwards, we decided to walk around for awhile. The restaurant to which we went is in a square by city hall and is surrounded by various retail shops and cafes. There is a huge fountain outside of city hall where the girls like to run around. There is also a Sharper Image store close by where Jethro likes to run around. We went in. There were massage chairs.

Now I'm finding it very difficult to get massages out of Jethro anymore. I don't think he cares to bring his work home with him, and I'm too easy to manipulate him sexually.

I succumbed to The Chair and let it do wonderful things to me.

Now these chairs (according to those who hawk them), are quite powerful. So powerful, in fact, that anyone under the age of 18 is not allowed to ride them for fear of them being brutalized and then suing the store. This came as a great disappointment to a young blonde 17 year old boy who wanted to have a ride.

YB: "I'll be 18 in like 3 months!"

Store Nazi: "No. If you get hurt, we're responsible."

YB: "Oh come on. I'm not going to get hurt."

SN: "Those are the rules."

Drunk Zelda in Shiatsu mode with one eye closed: "You can come sit on my lap, lil boy."

Store Nazi gaped in horror and YB giggled sheepishly and shuffled off to look at the paper mache Spiderman.

Dear Heaven, what possessed me to say such a thing? Next thing you know I'll be buying wii games and candy in bulk.

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

Now for a deep, penetrating bitch session that will probably be erased in very short order. If it is gone I will leave my email address up for anyone who wants to read it.

jethrozelda@yahoo.com

The Best Little Hair House in Texas

Whew! I've been so busy. Posting has been appropriately light. But I have a little time now.

Once every 4-10 years (and once every 6 months from the ages of 16-20), I go absolutely batshit crazy and cut my hair.

To be fair to myself, I didn't ask for it to be as short as the "lady" cut it, but apparently the phrase 2 inches meant something entirely different to her. So I now find myself with hair that's easy to wash, easy to brush, easy to style, but phenomenally unattractive. The good news is that it makes me look younger. The bad news is that I now look like a chubby boy with huge chi-chis. In all seriousness, I hated it, but now I'm secretly starting to like how easy it is. Jethro, being a gentleman (despite his ardent fondness of Depeche Mode) of largely heterosexual persuasion, doesn't care for it.

The cutest thing I can do with it is put into two little pigtails. And while I look a bit like I should be slopping pigs professionally, I look somewhat less like Wiley Wiggins in Dazed and Confused, so that's a plus.

You'd think I'd be less vain by now.

*Side note here: Kind remarks regarding my physical appearance are sweet, but unnecessary. I have a monstrous ego that needs no feeding (otherwise I wouldn't blog about myself so much). And while I wouldn't say I have high self-esteem, there is very little possibility I can be insulted simply because I won't believe you when you try.

Happy New Year Everybody!

So life is chugging merrily along. New Years was loads of fun. We went to a club with very little space and an insanely rude bartender. He looked like a child of Danny Devito and Meatloaf, so I guess I'd be a little bitter too if I had to work New Years Eve.

The titty bar was much better.

Girls are so pretty and nice as long as they are dancing and not talking. We all have our strengths, I suppose.

Anyway, we topped off the night at our friends' apartment where we ate pancakes and watched pornography. Porn is so lame. Having an addiction to porn is like having an addiction to movie musicals.

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

Anyway, Jethro has been sick, as have many other of my acquaintances. Jethro deals with an increasingly unhealthy public, so it leaves him vulnerable. Sympathizing doesn't stop me from requesting that he fulfill his marital obligations, however. But I know I've reached a new low when I try to stick a nipple in his mouth while saying without a trace of humor, "You know you want it." Now I know how high school boys feel. But it did make him laugh pretty hard. Or pretty hard. Laugh. (thx tinyhands).

VIDEO REMOVED

Christmas Morning

Hope You Had A Merry Little Christmas

So after much nail-biting and nervous visits to the restroom, Christmas went off without a hitch. Very different from last year, which was undoubtedly my worst Christmas ever.

I think that was because we spent it mostly with my in-laws. I made Christmas Eve dinner there (which turned out really well) and we all went to Christmas Day brunch at the Four Seasons downtown. It was spectacular. Omelet stations, caviar, ricotta cheese blintzes with a spicy pear compote, and bottomless mimosas of which I drank several. We in the Western World like to pride ourselves on our civility and the suppression of our killer instincts. But set out all-you-can-eat Alaskan King Crab-legs and even the most refined among us discover they are not terribly far removed from their tribal roots. A gentleman wearing a svelte Movado wristwatch nearly stabbed my hand clean through when I fought my way through the greedy crowd and tried to sneak out a tiny little crab claw. No wonder they call it the World's Deadliest Catch. God forbid I'd tried for a whole leg. They would have ripped out my throat and nailed it to the wall as a trophy/warning.

But it was worth every hair-raising moment.

We spent Christmas Day evening with my family, which was blessedly uneventful, except for a brief shouting match on vegetarianism and global warming. I don't know what it is with my family and Doomsday Scenarios, but everyone, with the exception of myself, are insanely susceptible. It's weird because I am a firm believer in organic eating whenever possible. And who isn't in favor of pollution reduction? But because I don't subscribe to the notions that animal meat is sacred (delicious? Yes. Sacred? No.) and that global warming is the direct result of eeeeeeeevil capitalist man-bear-pigs, it becomes impossible to accept that I have, in fact, critically considered both issues. One of my sisters even told me she didn't want to discuss any dissenting opinion of the causes of global warming because An Inconvenient Truth had really moved her. I told them all they ought to become Jehovah's Witnesses because at least then they could believe all that crazy shit and still retain some charm. I am not the most well-liked in my family.

Now once a year, at least one of my sisters loses her mind and waxes nostalgic for the family outings of old and decides that we all need to collectively do something together. This year it was the ballet. Yesterday, all of my sisters and I made good on our Christmas present to our mother and took her to see The Nutcracker. We had to take two cars and drive on freeways which are scary enough with good drivers. Toss in two female drivers who don't know where they are going, add in all the other females who at some point throughout the day must each have their own way (from parking to using the restroom) to the inconvenience of all, and we're back to our tribal roots again. But it was fun. Gwennie and Emma loved it so much. They dressed in their little Christmas dresses and behaved so well and looked so pretty you'd never know they are holy terrors the whole rest of the year.

And they loved their dollhouse. Many thanks to everyone who rendered an opinion.

A Great Christmas Song (That I Forget Every Year Except This One)

Fairytale of New York

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

Merry Christmas To All, But To Some More Than Others

Alec Baldwin sent me some Christmas messages for a few of the bloggers. It seems that despite his stalking skills, he has been unable to acquire the intended recipients' email addresses.

Here's for Angi----------------------(blog)
Here's for John in NH--------------(blog)
Here's for Jack----------------------(blog)

To everyone else, Alec told me your names were too hard to pronounce and to go back from where you came you lousy miscreants.

But a Merry Christmas everyone from yours truly. May your holiday be happy and your chestnuts well roasted.

(H/T: Jim Treacher. Thanks.)

Disjointed

Ok, I admit it was a strange topic. I always thought I'd make a more successful man than a woman, but I think I make a far more honorable woman than I would a man.

I guess what I believe is that you can't demand your husband fulfill his traditional role as husband unless you fulfill your traditional role as wife (or vice versa although I still don't know why anyone would want the traditional role of husband). Or you can mix it up, which is more complicated but more fun.

We all suck.

I talked to Trashman yesterday and we both came to that conclusion. Although he thinks I could suck for money and make considerably more than a broke crack-whore. He knows the business well, so I am encouraged. At least I have something to fall back on.

I am almost done with my Christmas shopping. But I want to get something for my brother-in-law and I have no idea what to get him. He put together Gwennie and Emma's dollhouse and it took him 2 hours. I had no idea it would be that complicated, so I feel kind of bad. But he has no vices. He doesn't drink or smoke, and he works very hard. I think I'll try to find him the CD of Johnny Cash singing Hurt by Nine Inch Nails.

Gwennie and Emma are going to have a stellar Christmas. They don't deserve it, but I deserve to have a little fun, so they better make my fucking day. I want smiles and shrieks of delight and a little shrine to Santa in the corner of their rooms and their solemn assurances they will believe in him for the rest of their lives.

In a strange turn of events, Gwennie has convinced the neighbor boy who doesn't believe in Santa that he does in fact believe in Santa. Or she's at least gotten him to say he believes in Santa. The force is strong with that one. She'll make a fantastic lawyer. Or cult leader.

I'll Give You A Topic

Inanna wrote a post the other day in which she quoted a co-worker as saying, "There can only be one man of the house."

I said in the comments, "Actually, I agree with your Catholic co-worker. But who fucking wants to be the man?"

I was kind of kidding. I don't subscribe to the whole "women be submissive to your husbands" deal. And I don't say that as a feminist (whom I detest on an academic level more than I could possibly iterate in one post), but as a regular person with strengths and weaknesses that wouldn't serve my family well if they were bound to a traditional structure.

Inanna summed it up much more concisely when she said, "I am the man and the woman… so… where does that leave me???"

I amended my statement and said, "...Most marriages end up balanced in some way or else they fail. All I was saying was that with prostitutes so readily available, and men being the easy fuckers they are (bless their dear, slutty little hearts), who fucking wants the traditional role of husband?"

And that last sentence is my question of the day, which I will say again for the sake of pure redundancy. Is there still any appeal left in the traditional husband's role? I'll be honest. If I were a single man, I'd say "screw it" and find myself a nice hooker. It would be cheaper and with less sexual politics.

Danny Bonaduce Can Come Over To My House And Fuck My Sister

We Wish You A Melly Chlistmas

I was driving down the road on my way to work. I was shrieking along to Carol of the Bells while brutally conducting Metallica and the Trans Siberian Orchestra in perfect, deadly syncopation. I was wondering what to get She Who Must Not Be Named for Christmas. A ball-gag the size of a football was tempting, but not entirely appropriate, although it would convey a certain amount of Goodwill towards Men. No. NO. Inappropriate.

Then I had an epiphany. The Asian Mall. When you buy something ordinary then throw in a pair of chopsticks, the recipient will think that you think they are cultured and refined. And what better gift to give someone than the idea that they are cultured and refined?

Besides. While there, Jethro and I could get this soup that we crave regularly but is not common to the Vietnamese restaurants in our vicinity. This soup is the reason that I will try anything once. Chicken feet, tripe, congealed pigs blood, the yolk part of fertilized eggs both duck and chicken (I haven't been able to bring myself to eat the embryonic ducklings and chicks yet).

This soup consists of a clear broth and contains tomatoes, various herbs, noodles, fish components in a paste that is the consistency of scrambled eggs, and snails. To add insult to what must seem a most injurious meal, you mix the most unpleasant smelling sauce in it. On it's own, the paste looks, tastes, and smells like something belched up from the most foul regions of Hell. In the soup it adds just the right amount of salty, spicy pungency.

The Asian Mall is just like a regular mall except that everything is translated into very poor English. Every entrance has wording on it that says:

No guns
No weapon
No firecracker
No pop pop
No skateboard
Allow in this building

Or something to that effect.

Upon walking into the mall, I noticed that they had finally taken down the Christmas wreaths (that had been decking the halls every day for years) just in time for...uh...Christmas.

We walked to the food court which is just like any other food court except that everything is translated into very poor English. I have to rely on Jethro for all my information and he makes me carry the bags and walk a foot behind him. It's kind of sexy.

Jethro ordered Pho (a less exotic beef noodle soup) for Gwennie and Emma and two bowls of snail soup for us. The ladybehind the counter couldn't believe I was going to eat it. When she brought it out, she just stood there smiling at us. I could hear her thoughts: "Go White-Girl, Go White-Girl, You Can Do It, It's Almost The Birthday Of Your Lord and Savior"

Jethro said it was actually a huge compliment that I would order and eat it. It meant that it was so good, it's reputation had spread beyond the usual customers. That made me happy.

Kiss and Tell

Lord, I'm good.

John from the comments, in response to some careful flattery and outright deceit, now has a blog that you can visit. He's funny. Go see him. Go on. I'll wait.

In the meantime, I'll tell you a story about John from college.

The college we went was a small, Catholic, liberal arts school in New Hampshire. It was pretty as a picture. The dorms were firetraps, but the rest of the campus was an old farm with quaint buildings. The cafeteria was in the old barn, as was the chapel (where I finally stopped going to Confession).

John and I have somewhat similar pasts. I'd even go so far as to say that of all the people (black, white, Gentile, Jew, male, female, potent, impotent) I've ever met, he is the most like me. But I think our respective histories had made us both somewhat prone to dramatic expression. Mine was more fragile and internal, while his was flamboyant and occasionally spectacular.

Case-in-point. We did Secret Santas around Christmas. I had drawn the girl who was to eventually be John's wife. Part of the Secret Santa game was to make your victim perform various humiliating acts in the week leading up to the big reveal in order to receive the final present. Not being particularly imaginative in this department, I bought a tube of hideous orange lipstick with a note telling her she must wear the lipstick for the entire evening or forego the riches in store for her. She was a good sport.

The tube of lipstick was lying on the table next to her when a tall, dark, slovenly handsome young man picked it up and wordlessly enveloped his mouth in it. His name is changed, but we'll call him Declan. And as I now recall, he kind of had a thing for facial artistry. A year later when we were in Rome, he decided to don The Crow make-up when he found out his girl had cheated on him. But in a slight miscalculation on his part, he ended up in The Crow make-up plus some bright-red lipstick. I think he accidentally threw in some John Wayne Gacy (a simple mistake that could happen to anyone).

Declan was sitting placidly next to John's now-wife, when John came bolting down. He took one look at him, promptly grabbed his face, and planted a big one right on the mouth for maybe 2 or 3 seconds longer than The Scene in The Godfather II. I don't think I saw tongue, but if I did, I know I blocked it.

Now Declan was a homeschooled lad who had at one time been fairly overweight. Before coming to college, he started running and lost a significant amount. Since he was rather good-looking, no one had any idea of his lack of experience with regards to romance. (One's prospects are limited if you are an overweight homeschooler. I know of what I speak).

He played off John's kiss rather well, but couldn't hide a small, shy smile before he arranged his features into a blasé expression. Come to find out some time later, that was his first kiss ever.

Washateria

It's the time of year for family drama. Posting will be light or heavy depending on how well compulsive eating/masturbation (possibly at the same time) serve me and how much self-loathing they generate.

Strangely enough, given my penchant for excruciating, unwanted detail, I have no desire to discuss it.

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

I went to the laundromat Saturday and did almost all the laundry in the house. For too long now, I've been sliding by doing the bare necessities. I decided that something would have to be done when Gwennie and Emma tried to go to school in a Halloween costume and a puffy pink party dress (with sneakers).

So I loaded up every piece of clothing I had in the house, including the clean laundry that just needed folding/hanging (I figured I could fold it all while the first loads were washing and drying). Also every single sheet, blanket, pillowcase, and pillow that looked like it could use a bath. Just that took me about 3 hours.

I quickly realized that I was in over my head, but I filled up three washers and started in on my clean laundry. I definitely needed more folding space than was allowed by common washateria etiquette. So I smiled my friendliest smile at the nice lady pulling out her clothes from the dryer next to me.

"Boy I sure do have a lot of laundry," I said a few decibels above my normal tone of voice. "But the school told me I needed to wash everything in the house if I wanted to be rid of the lice."

The nice lady attempted to give me a watery smile back, and inched away as quickly as a psychotic white girl would let her without biting her and giving her rabies.

"Do you think these dryers get hot enough to kill them off? They'd better. I don't want to do this again."

She shrugged her shoulders noncommittally and gave me a wide berth along with the rest of the patrons. It was a necessary evil, but I did get a little lonely. Luckily, Jethro decided that even though he is a Doc-tor, he is not above helping his wife with the laundry in a washateria. Bless his dear proletarian heart. I have doctor relatives who would have their throats slit from ear to ear before they'd set foot in a washateria.

With his help, we got almost all of the laundry done. There are a few more loads, but nothing Ol' Balky in the garage can't handle. I'm relieved.

God Is Not Dead.

One thing I'll say about Asians is that they have a remarkable tolerance for racial teasing. The reasons why are a still largely a mystery to me, but I get the impression that no everyday bigot could insult you worse than an Asian parent especially when money or grades are on the line. They believe they are superior in many many ways, and condescending or even racist commentary is simply the idiot babbling of the grossly inferior. If an Asian child were to use it as an excuse for poor grades or poor behavior, they'd be beaten with chopsticks just on principle. So I can say with all conviction, that Asians learn to laugh this shit off.

***Disclaimer*** I'm obviously not speaking for all Asians, just all the Asians I've ever met.

I mean what other guy could go around knowing that everyone thinks he has an abnormally small penis and just laugh and demand anal?

Rosie O'Donnell, with her usual brand of non-humor, recently mocked the Chinese language on The View. And probably the only people (Asian or otherwise) to give a shit, were the Asian-American Journalists Association. In response to their displeasure, Rosie O'Donnell's rep said, "She's a comedian in addition to being a talk show co-host. I certainly hope that one day they will be able to grasp her humor." (source)

Yes. One glorious day the Chinks will cut off their braids, get penile implants, open their eyes wide, and finally grasp Rosie's subtle, elusive, elegant humor.

It wouldn't be so funny if she hadn't accused Kelly Ripa of being a homophobe because she didn't want Clay Aiken (who hasn't even come out of the closet yet) putting his hand over her mouth when he was co-hosting for Regis on Live with Regis and Kelly. (Aren't New Yorkers fantstic?)

When Aiken put his hand over Ripa's mouth, she said, "Oh, that's a no-no," adding, "I don't know where that hand's been, honey!"

Rosie said on The View, "To me that's a homophobic remark. If that was a straight man, if that was a cute man, if that was a guy that she didn't question his sexuality, she would have said a different thing."

How the fuck does Rosie know that? No wait. I know. She is God. God is not only a woman, He is a Big Fat Grunting Carpet Muncher. No wonder there has been so much gender confusion regarding the Deity.

If Clay Aiken was poking his head out of the closet, I have no doubt he saw his shadow. I mean, I'd pretend to be straight too if Rosie was going to bludgeon people with my sexuality.

And since it seems she will be on the air until her heart gives out, I'm hoping that one day we will all be able to grasp her humor. That is my Christmas wish for the peace and unity of mankind.

H/T: Michelle Malkin and Paxalles

In Lieu of Writing About Constipation....

First off, thanks for everyone's input. I went with the consensus and got the second dollhouse. I reasoned that Gwennie and Emma could not possibly care less about room space, the elevator was cool and by the time it breaks they'll probably be tired of it anyway. They also play very well together (meaning that Emma obeys Gwennie unflinchingly and without question), so I don't think sharing will be an issue. Now we'll just have to see if I can put it together. I think I'll get Brother-In-Law to help me.

I know some of you were amused by john's comment (as was I). I just wanted say that John is no random commenter. He's a friend of mine from High-Minded-Liberal-Arts-College in New Hampshire whom I've known for years. He's a really funny writer and could write a fantastic blog which I've been not-so-subtly hinting at him to do. If he continues to refuse, I'll see if I can talk him into letting me post some of his stuff.

That being said, I have to say that it is so weird having someone from that particular time in my life read this blog. He found me on MySpace and I emailed him and let him know where I write regularly. But once I found out he actually read it, I went back through my archives and tried to read it through the eyes of someone who hadn't seen me in a long time, just to see if my personality had remained consistent over time. (I'm frequently bored and given to constant overanalysis and introspection. I can't help it.) Anyway, I think I'd come to the conclusion that I drank a lot and was rather touched in the head - probably not so different from college. I was a wreck in college though. I'm still a wreck, but now I can read William Faulker and laugh instead of pucker. That's a huge improvement.

A Dollhouse or Fur Bikinis

I need some opinions. And who better to ask than bloggers/blog readers?

I want Santa to bring Gwennie and Emma a dollhouse for Christmas. It will be their big present. I can't decide between this one and this one. The first has more rooms, more space in the rooms, and brighter colors. I like that. But the second has an elevator which is totally cool and Gwennie would go bonkers over it. I really can't decide, and I have to or I won't get it in time to put it all together. Help me.

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

I was going to take a picture of the Brazilian panties, per Jeanette's request, but they don't really look interesting on their own. On me is another story. They definitely look interesting. Fascinating, revolting, and interesting. I need to wax.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

To The Vets

Thank you.



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

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

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

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.

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

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.