Inanna's Visit

Inanna's visit was a blast. I really felt like I'd known her for years. We talked for a long time on Tuesday, she met Gwennie and Emma, we got our margaritas, and she accidentally saw my underpants. It was fabulous.

Brighton, Travis, and Tinyhands were way cool. Tinyhands has christened himself thus because he thinks he had a small ring size, but I can assure you all that his hands are beautifully long and slender. Yet powerful and manly. Oh so manly.

Brighton was so cute. She didn't look anywhere near the age she claims to be, and in my personal opinion is so so so much cuter than her sexy pictures. Her husband was really cute too. I feel bad now that we talked so much and barely let him get a word in, but what he did say was always spot on funny. They were just the perfect Texas couple.

I still can't believe how 5 hours just flew by. The girls definitely took over the conversation. Apparently we have mouths to match our boobs. I broke down in tears of laughter more than once. I got to see both Inanna's and Brighton's tattoos which were just as cool as they sound. I don't have any tattoos, so I told them about getting my nipple pierced. What cracked me up is that they had sat perfectly still and let people drill ink-filled needles into their skin for however long it took to get those gorgeous tats, and they still winced and cringed like men hearing about balls getting caught in machinery when I told them about getting my tiny little nipple ring. Incredible.

I was dragging today, but Vietnamese food perked me right up. I am pretty sure Inanna liked it, but I was so busy stuffing my face that I can't be sure.

My girls adored her. They are usually really shy, but they just took to her like white on rice. She made them cute little hemp bracelets which was really cool of her and they both loved. And when she left, they waved at her car until it was out of sight. Anyone who endears themselves to my kids surely has their name in the Book of Life.

It's probably too soon to write about everything. I'm sure down the road something will pop into my head and I'll write about it. But suffice it to say that it was a great time and I would do it again in a minute.

Easter Sunday

A millblogger, Francisco G. Martinez, was killed in action while on patrol in Iraq. You can pay respects to his family and fiance here.

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We went to an odd Mass on Sunday. We got there as the last Mass was ending so we could get a seat. The choir was singing the last song a capella and they were awful. The large lady choir director dressed in a hot pink suit and a humongous white hat started gesticulating wildly trying, I'm guessing, to build to a magnificent crescendo filled with goose-bump inducing high notes. It sounded more like a wraith-filled haunted house. I can't imagine Jesus was pleased.

Trying to enter a church against a crowd of departing, hungry churchgoers on Easter Sunday is as hard as well, trying to enter a church against a crowd of departing, hungry churchgoers on Easter Sunday. If you find yourself in a similar situation, I recommend hitching your wagon to a star of fearless fat people. They parted the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, and we were seated without too much trouble.

The priest was a Brit. He mentioned necrophilia during the homily. I will reiterate my formal opinion that Europeans, especially the French, are perverts.

Fr. Limey said, "We know grave robbers didn't steal Jesus' body because they left the cloths. We don't know why they would have stolen just the body. Actually we do know why, but I'm not allowed to preach about it."

I was the only person in the entire building who laughed. I don't feel bad. My dad would have laughed.

Then the man doing the intercessory prayer accidentally prayed for the "rich" instead of the "sick." I laughed again.

We left during communion since I am no longer allowed to receive it and Jethro isn't Catholic.

In the car, I was letting Gwennie have it for misbehaving during Mass. She had fooled around and dropped the kneeler on my foot, which made me swear a little.

I said, "How would you like it if I dropped the kneeler on your foot?"

To which she replied, "How would you like it if I threw you out the window?"

She has never been that defiant before, and I don't anticipate her doing it again anytime soon. I think there were children on the other side of the city who learned a lesson.

Happy Easter

Emma: "Lookee my pitchur, mommy! It's a Princess Emma and a King Daddy!"

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(Gwennie and Emma completely destroyed the living room. Jethro got mad and yelled at them and made them clean it up).

Zelda (upon walking in and seeing a subdued Gwennie and Emma picking up their toys): "Did you get spankings?"

Gwennie (ruefully): "Not yet..."

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Jethro (in bed): "Do you love me, baby?"

Zelda: "Oh God, so much!"

Jethro: "Then stroke me."

Zelda: "Fucker"

It's A Sunny Day Outside

I can't talk about Terri Schiavo anymore. She's going to be murdered by her husband while we comply, wagging our heads at the cruelty, but determined to do nothing, and it makes me want to kick something. And my toes already hurt because I've already kicked something.

So onto something useless and hopefully more amusing.

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Gwennie had "Multicultural Day" at her school today. In lieu of actual education, they asked that if you had an outfit representative of your "culture" that you wear it. Normally, I look with disdain on these types of events and the note did say that you were not required to participate (I'm sure that was for all the white kids who have no culture). But Gwennie is the proud owner of a cute little Vietnamese wedding outfit she wore for her aunt's wedding when she was a flower girl. I thought it might be fun for her to wear it, so she did. But next year I'm going to put her in overalls, black out her front teeth and teach her to spit. I see no reason why my culture should be ignored.

Update: Jethro suggested a baseball cap and chewing gum as a less controversial alternative. Damn him for his logic and common sense.

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Today is the most gorgeous day in Houston. No clouds, no humidity, a slight breeze - gorgeous. I was nearly overcome with a desire to ditch school and take my eldest as far as our full tank of gas would take us. Just her and me against the world. Then I remembered that I'm scared to drive the freeways. Then for good measure, my car stalled.

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A word of advice to anyone searching for a home. Don't call up realtors and say, "Can I have some information on a house? I don't have the address, but it's white and it has a little path leading up to the front door. You know, the one with the bird feeder on the porch. It has a Re/Max sign in front. You know that one?"

I will be forced to roll my eyes and pretend to help you and finally force you to admit that you should probably go back and collect the address before you waste anyone's time.

This happens at least once a day.

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I want to have a party. Actually, I want to go to a party. We have a friend who usually has a huge birthday party in February, but he didn't this year, and now I need a party fix. I will be making due with margaritas next Tuesday. Inanna, you have a large burden on your small shoulders.

Breaking My Own Rules

There is a new blog (to me) I have to shill for. He's actually been up since December. Scooter is a hoot. I've met him, read his blog, and I've decided that his is what a political blog should be. Pithy and to the point. I think many of you would enjoy him tremendously, so without further ado, I present "the def conservative." I won't tell you to leave him comments because if you read him, you will want to.

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I was going to blog today about something stupid like how many rooms of my house I've actually had sex in, but I'm going to blog about Terry Schiavo instead.

Normally this is something I would post on Payasita, but somehow it just feels personal.

The law must be changed.

It is inhumane to starve someone to death. I don't care what their mental status is, if they are alive and all they need is food and water, you can't starve them. If it was humane we'd use it to kill dogs or criminals. But it is not so we don't. Why are we making an exception for a woman who can't speak for herself? If we were really humane, we'd shoot her in the motherfucking head.

Now I've heard people say that they wouldn't want to be kept alive if they were that brain-damaged. Fine. Write it in your will and die. I don't care. But if you were/are a woman who had left no such document, would you really and honestly want your fate decided by a man whose only reason for not divorcing you is so that he can ensure your death? Not me. If my parents and family believed that I was able to take some joy out of their presence, then I don't want to die. And I will also offer a suggestion. Do some research into death by starvation and dehydration and decide for yourself if this is the preferred method of your demise if you are so unfortunate as to be faced with a similar situation. I wouldn't hold it against you if you said it wasn't.

I understand if my husband wants to move on with his life, I would never expect him to stay married to me if I couldn't be there for him. But I would hope that he would do the honorable thing: Divorce me, and then remarry.

I also understand about a DNR order. My father had a DNR, and I wouldn't want to be brain dead and have a machine breathing for me for months. But Terry is not brain dead, and she is not being resuscitated by a feeding tube. She is merely being sustained. There is a huge difference.

This honestly makes me ill. This Schiavo person, who had such contempt for her that he would cheat on her multiple times, gets to decide whether she lives or dies. Feminists? Anyone? Their silence is deafening. I may secretly, deep down, take the side of women on certain he said/she said issues, but this is the reason I will never call myself a feminist or have anything to do with their organizations. That they would leave a helpless woman in the hands of a creepy husband who won a huge settlement for her care and then sued to have her killed, just because the issue dovetails with their abortion apologist cult of death, is disgusting.

Have at it folks.

Continued

Payasita Update - More Moonbat Protests

Well after all my bitching, I got to go out on St. Paddy's Day after all. Without the kids and even without Jethro. Jen of Therapy Eggs and her friend couldn't go out after all and Jethro had to study for boards. Drunken Birthday Boy called up to see what we were doing and I told him to come out here and go get a drink with me.

Wedding ring firmly in place, we went to a local pub and talked politics for a couple of hours while I got a little tipsy first on a whisky and then on two amaretto sours. It was pretty mellow especially compared to past St. Paddy's Days, but it was more fun than watching the girls destroy the house after being inspired by The Incredibles to test their "powers."

Thank God Jethro is done with boards. I've been going nuts so I can't imagine how happy he must be. He came back from his last test with lots o' liquor. Which was cool.

I have to just say that I'm really excited to see Inanna. She is coming in just over a week, and I really can't wait. I've been running all the best places to get Margaritas through my head and down my throat in anticipation of her visit. Which reminds me that I probably ought to clean my damn house. I have a feeling that the only rooms Inanna will not have the privilege of seeing will be the Zelda and Jethro den o' love and the adjoining facility. Lucky for her we've had sex in every other room in the house, so she won't really be missing anything.

That's all for now. I hope to have more inspiration in the near future.

There's Whisky In The Jar

Happy St. Patrick's Day. Shamrocks, potatoes, and pots of gold to all. I was going to play "Oy Rumania" in honor of the day, but audioblogger doesn't seem to be working for me. If someone would be so kind as to tell me what in hell I might be doing wrong, I'd be much obliged.

St. Paddy's Day is the only day of the year when I wish I wasn't a parent. That sounds horrible so I'll repeat it. I wish I was still wild and single and could go out and get totally drunk on whisky and green beer and be Erin-go-braghless and wear something green and low-cut and make a complete non-Irish ass out of myself.

Actually, there is tons of Irish blood in my family, but I choose to deny it. How fucked up would that make my kids if they found out the had to add Irish to their already overflowing ethnic plate. There's too much Irish pride as it is. They need to be taken down a peg with their leprechauns and O'Conners and strange sexual hang-ups. Just kidding. I LOVE the Irish when they're from Ireland or if they're named Aingealag or Bearach. I like them almost as much as the Vietnamese. *Kiss* Jethro (with a little tongue).

So I will be going to the super-suburb-family-friendly-don't-drink-because-the-kids-might-see-and-tell-the-Baptists event with Jen of Therapy Eggs and maybe another gal and their kids. Superfly.

CA

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there are a whole lot of Californians migrating to the Great State.

I must admit to a certain prejudice against Californians. Bear in mind that I didn't start out with a prejudice against Californians, it was born of years of contact with them and their cheerful flakiness. They're like Canadians with tans.

Let me give you an example of some Californians I've had to deal with recently.

First off, the pregnant valley chick called back.

Zelda: "Dearest Step-Father's Office, who-is-the-light-of-my-eyes-and-the-god-of-my-idolatry, may I help you?"

PGVC - "Like Good News!"

Zelda: "It's the Rapture?"

PGVC: "We have 11% to put down, so we can like, make a bid now!"

Zelda (making a mad beeline for the neckties): "How much was it they said you needed?"

PGVC: 20%

Zelda: "I'm a relatively good person. I help my neighbors when they ask and I've donated money to the local police officers association. I paid my traffic tickets on time and I'm going to start going to Church in the near future. Why must you make me say things that will crush your sunny little dreams?"

PGVC: "Huh?"

Zelda: "We can't help you until you have the entire down payment."

PGVC: "Well we're in like, programs right now."

Zelda: "I'll just bet you are, honey."

PGVC: "Do we have to find another realtor?"

IF FUCKING ONLY!

Zelda: "You could try, but you have to have money to put down or they won't be able to help you either."

PGVC: "Well, we have 11%"

Zelda: "Call me when you have 20%."

Folks, it's enough to make you scream.

But wait...there's more.

We have another client who is buying some investment properties. It is a miracle he has managed to actually make an offer. He is completely indecisive. He is making a trip out here today and I've had to find him a hotel, rent him a car, email him directions everywhere around Houston that he wants to visit, find him restaurants in the vicinity, and locate a running trail. I hate him. He is truly the most helpless individual I've ever encountered. I'm sure if he wore diapers, he'd want me to change them.

This is a typical conversation with anyone but a Californian looking for a home:

Zelda: "Dearest Step-Father's Office, who-is-the-light-of-my-eyes-and-the-god-of-my-idolatry, may I help you?"

Normal Person: Yes, I'm looking for a home in a good school district, low crime rate. I need at least 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms somewhere in the $140s to $160s.

Zelda (in her most helpful voice): If I could get either your email address or mailing address, I'd be happy to send you out a list of homes.

*End of Conversation*

Here is a typical conversation with a Californian

Zelda: "Dearest Step-Father's Office, who-is-the-light-of-my-eyes-and-the-god-of-my-idolatry, may I help you?"

Californian: Hi. I'm a shoelace salesman from California

*brief pause while they wait for me to be impressed*

Zelda (deeply inhaling on her pen): "May I help you?"

Californian: "Yes, I will be moving to Houston sometime within the next year and I want to know a little more about the area."

Zelda (suckered into thinking this sounds reasonable): "What would you like to know, sir/ma'am?"

Californian: What is the weather like?

Zelda: "Well it's pretty hot and humid most of the year. It gets cooler for about 3 months in the winter. It's comparable to Miami."

Californian: "Well I'm looking for something near hike and bike trails and shopping, and...." IT NEVER FAILS..."just a lot of diversity."

Zelda (trying not to gag): "You would probably be interested in the Galleria area or some of the new construction in midtown."

Californian (sounding worried): "We don't want to be in a neighborhood where everyone looks just like us. We're looking for a diverse neighborhood. Are these neighborhoods diverse?"

Zelda (in her best Sunday redneck voice): "There's a n****r on every corner."

And stop.

I would never utter that word aloud. But it is so tempting to just shock the shit out of them and give them something to talk about at their soy-tasting parties.

My biggest source of irritation with the whole diversity bit is that they are so full of steaming crap. The only thought they give to the community is how it will enhance their liberal credibility. They think they are so fucking holy because they want di-ver-sity, when all they really want is Thai food.

I get a perverse sense of satisfaction when I think of how surprised they must be when they come down here and see more Mexicans in cowboy hats and belt buckles than rednecks.

You want fusion? We'll give you fusion. Suckas.

The Effects of Japanese Food On Chanker Sores

Jethro, the girls, and I decided to go eat sushi tonight. We went to a restaurant close to our house where the food is really decent. The girls had chicken teryaki which they scarfed down like mad, Jeth had a sashimi, two pieces of escolar, and a large salad with ginger dressing. I had two pieces of escolar, an eel and spicy salmon roll, and a bowl of spicy coconut chicken soup which was decidedly more Thai than Japanese. But it was really good.

The chanker sores in my mouth did prevent me from thoroughly enjoying my dinner, so I decided to conduct some experiments to see which Japanese condiments would have the most painful and/or curative effect on them. First I tried a little soy sauce since it is salty. Medium pain, but not as bad as pouring salt directly on them. Then I tried some ginger. Burn baby burn, but it was tasty. I swished around a little hot saki. Definitely some more pain, but I was hopeful of a possible sterilizing effect. Then I made a little poultice out of ginger and wasabi. SWEET MAMA-SAN!!! That shit better have cauterized those little fuckers.

I think I have now trained myself to keep my tongue tucked behind my teeth so as not to aggravate the one on the underside. However, the one on my bottom lip is fair game for further experimentation. I had tried the toothpaste earlier, as Noonie suggested in my comments. It worked quite well for awhile and was definitely more effective than orajel or chloroseptic, but like everything else, it tended to wear off, and I really hate the taste of toothpaste.

I'll keep everyone updated as there is really nothing more interesting than the gratuitious manipulation and torture of one's chanker sores.

Unrelatedly, people have found my blog have been looking for: "insults about ugly midgets," "ugly zelda," "pee accident hypnotized humiliated OR embarrassed OR mortified," "zelda hypnotized" - the last two are both interesting because I don't recall ever writing about hypnosis, and finally "he pushed deeper into me." Damn right, honey - whoever you are.

Burn-Out

I updated Payasita, which I've been sadly neglecting. I rant some and use the word "cunt" liberally. I think Brighton put the word into my head with her exceedingly funny story about the local neighborhood bitch.

I've never been burned out over blogging before. If there's anything I love, it is writing or talking unrestrainedly about myself. I think it may have something to do with the massive sores in my mouth. I have some god-awful cut on the underside of my tongue which happens to be right where it scrapes past my teeth whenever I lick my lips. My teeth catch on the cut and rip in open about once every 2 or 3 hours or when I forget and lick my lips. And just to keep things interesting, I decided to include my bottom lip in the chicken I was eating a few days ago which has resulted in a massive oozing chanker that is also irritated by my teeth. I'm considering having my teeth removed.

So I'm cranky, I can't speak clearly, and my lips are extremely dry. Good thing I still have a cunt.

Turn of the Screw

I'm blogged out today. I wanted to post an audioblog of a funny prank call I downloaded, but it isn't working.

I spoke for about an hour to Carlos. The fucker has joined the Army Reserves.

I'm proud of him. And worried. But really proud. I'm glad he has it in him. He's going to have a going away party the first weekend in April. He said, "I just wanna get laid."

I said, "I know plenty of guys who'll take care of that."

He said, "Screw you, bitch."

We joke like that.

I know many others either in training or actually over there or who have returned already, but I've known Carlos and Corrin the longest - almost as long as I've known Jethro. I'll worry.

Anyway, that's about all I have to blog about. Today was extremely hectic work-wise, and I haven't had a chance to wipe properly much less blog.

Psychologically Interesting

Jethro went to England for a study abroad program. He brought me back a chastity belt. He was still with his ex.

Hmmmmmm.

6th Anniversary

Shouldn't we get a prize for being married 6 years on March 6th?

Jethro and I were looking through our wedding album and Gwennie came and sat with us. She asked, "Where am I?"

Without thinking, I said, "You were in my tummy."

Jethro just looked at me as if to say, "Were we going to share this information with her right now?"

*Gulp* I guess so.

I don't believe in secrets anyway, and the information didn't phase her a bit.

I think we'll make a lazy day of it. Probably go get dim sum.

I'll post more tomorrow. I'm hungry.

Real Estate Follies

I don't talk about it much, but I hate my job. I'm extremely lucky to have it so I try not to complain, but it is a tedious job and I'd rather be pinching my own nipples.

For the record, I manage my step-dad's real estate office and people who are buying homes are not the coolest people on earth. They are about to plunk down their life savings and things damn well better go smoothly. We are paid a commission to take the abuse when a bank or a title company doesn't have their shit together, if the toilet explodes the day after they move in, or if the bank insults them by trying to verify their funds.

But some people are really funny. And it's always unintentional

For example:

I had a lady from CA call me yesterday. She sounded like a valley girl from the 80s, and she's trying to buy a $50,000 property somewhere near Magnolia, TX. I'd sent her a list of homes (shacks). The conversation went as follows:

Lady: "I like, got the list, and I want to make a bid."

Zelda: "An offer? On which one?"

Lady: "All of them."

Zelda: "I don't understand what you mean. If they accept your offer on all of them, you are obligated to buy them."

Lady: "Well we want whichever one we like, qualify for."

Zelda (realizing this woman is probably off her gourd, yet somehow unable to end the conversation): "But it's not the house you qualify for, it's the loan. How much are you approved for?"

Lady: "The man said like, $50,000 or maybe $5,000."

Zelda (slowly pulling out strands of hair): "Well I think you should find out how much you qualify for before you make a "bid." That would be my suggestion."

Lady: "They said we would need, like, 20% down or maybe it was, like, 50%."

Zelda (taking off her glasses, rubbing her eyes, and fearing the response): "How much money do you have to put down?"

Lady: "Like, nothing right now, cuz we're like, trying to move. We should have more money after we move and like, get jobs.

Zelda (aiming two pens directly at her mad, staring eyeballs): "Well, it will be kind of hard to make an offer if you don't have the money you need to put down."

Lady (sounding a little pissed): "Well I'm kind of on my way to the hospital to have the baby, and I was like, hoping to buy something today before the baby comes."

Zelda (masturbating frantically with one of Jethro's ties around her neck): "It takes some time to buy a home and I think you probably have other things to worry about right now. Give us a call after you have the baby and we'll see what we can do. Good luck."

There is a happy outcome to this anecdote. She is putting the baby up for adoption.

Payasita Update

I don't write about my kids much because face it, no one, unless they know them personally, wants to hear about your kids. In passing fine, but if your whole blog is devoted to the cute spit coming out of your kid's mouth, or their dumb knock-knock jokes, or your feelings on how the vast amounts of poop erupting from their asses make you feel about life, then your blog sucks. Parenthood is a marvelous state that is better enjoyed within the confines of your own brain.

That being said, my kids are so freakin' cute. Japanese animators couldn't have drawn them any cuter. My youngest actually looks like an anime character. They'll probably kill me for saying that some day, but it's true dammit.

But now I have to talk about my oldest. She's having trouble in school. She hates to go now and feels discouraged because she just can't seem to behave herself. She cried this morning and said she didn't want to go to school because she was a "loser girl" which broke my heart.

It didn't make me feel any better when I discovered that she'd carved an anarchist symbol in one of our tv trays where she does her homework. I know she didn't know what it was, but she will someday...

She said the funniest thing the other night. I was teasing her about something and she said,"I don't believe you."

I said, "What, are you a skeptic?" hoping to confuse her with the word.

She looked at me for a few seconds, then said, "No, I'm allergic. To cats."

I thought it was funny.

Okay. I'll stop.

Someone found my blog by searching for 'masturbate sleeping sister.' I hope they were disappointed.

Porn

I've been watching a lot lately. I don't know why. I find it fascinating watching the depths the human psyche.... oh, who am I kidding. I'm a total perv. But while I was looking for some regular old meat and potato straight sex, I clicked on a gay porn clip. There was nothing to indicate that it was gay porn so I was not prepared for it. Now I'm not homophobic when gay people have their clothes on, but to unexpectedly see a man with no lead-in lying on his back while he sucks one guy's dick and let's another guy...er...in... Well I'm just not that sophisticated. Lesbians I can handle. It's not my preferred visual, but the aesthetic doesn't really bother me. Men on the other hand are just gross.

I realize there are a certain class of "heterosexual intellectuals" who are enlightened and sophisticated enough to find gay porn erotic (I guess it's beside the point to ask if they can really be considered intellectuals since they spend the majority of their time contemplating erotica). After having witnessed the clip though, I'm perfectly content with my good old primal porn.

Evening Conversation

Zelda: "I should really clean the kitchen more often. It's a very cathartic experience, putting everything in it's place, knowing it will be there when I need it. It's pleasant."

Jethro: "You cleaned the kitchen?"

Zelda: "Yes."

Jethro: "I'm aroused."

Run Me Through...One Last Time

Elliot wrote something the other day that gets funnier and funnier each time it crosses my mind.

Remarking on the death of Hunter S. Thompson and his wish to be cremated and his ashes shot out of a cannon, our intrepid white guy reveals his last request:

"... when I die, ... cremate me, mix my ashes up in a douche bag and, run me through that one last time. Hell no, I'm not joking."

And neither am I. I've been giggling over that for 3 days.

I'm Too Old For This Shit

I honestly never thought I would utter those words but I did. And I meant them.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was descending in torrents in downtown Houston, where a few of us had gathered to celebrate a friend's birthday. We went to Slainte Irish Pub where the beer flowed like wine. I don't like beer so I had a long island iced tea which sucked. Our dear friend became completely inebriated as the night wore on. After making a half-hearted pass or two at me and lewdly and rapidly rubbing his pool cue in my general direction, he passed out. He was sitting almost straight up, pants unbuttoned.

I was talking with a few other guys when we saw Drunken Birthday Boy give a slight heave. It wasn't an eruption, more of a steady trickle. Unfortunately, it landed all over Jethro's leather jacket and our umbrella. I paid him back though. Most of the patrons (when directed by me to observe the situation), thought it was pretty funny and made for their camera phones. The manager, failing to realize the lucrative potential in Drunken Birthday Boy having vomited all over himself (i.e. propping him up outside and selling photo opportunities), gave us the boot (which we had given ourselves already, I might add).

We hauled him through the establishment and sat him down at one of the tables outside, which was only partially sheltered from the rain, while we waited for someone to take him home. He began making spasmodic jerks again and we dunked his head in the outdoor trashcan just to be on the safe side. Further photo opportunities ensued. I called over the waitress he had a huge crush on and got her to pose with him. The bouncers loved it, so hopefully we're not permanently banned.

Moral of this story: Do not pass out in my presence. I will fuck you up.

I'm not an entirely bad person though. I did help him to his car, taking the vomit encrusted side because none of the brave lads I was with would do it. The were content to drag him through the rain puddles by his legs. I figure I've dealt with enough puke that I don't have to be a pussy about it. But it wasn't pleasant.

Altra Roma (More Rome)

POLITICAL UPDATE HERE

All the news coverage of the Pope has made me think of Rome. And Rome invariably makes me think of Becky. Becky's father was a doctor, so she wasn't exactly poor like me. She was also the youngest of five children with a very large gap between her and the next youngest, so she was a little spoiled. She wasn't a raging brat, but she was just used to getting her own way and she was a terrible listener.

I said before that Becky's international goals could be achieved by the single act of getting spanked by an Italian. I wasn't kidding, and neither was she. Immediately, she set out to conquer Rome.

There was a coffee shop where the locals would hang out just down the street from the convent called Cafe Settemiano. After class, we'd go down there and study. Becky cast her eye immediately on Danilo, the handsome young man behind the counter. All things being equal in most civilized countries, Danilo, of course, was a flaming homosexual. Well-dressed and limp wristed, earring in the wrong ear (for straight people); even if you couldn't speak Italian, you could hear the lisp.

This type of sexual nuance was completely and utterly lost on Becky. She insisted that he was straight, that earrings didn't mean the same thing in Italy as in America, and that he was dying to get her on the back of his moped. There was absolutely no dissuading her from this. Her aggression surprised me a little. Back in NH, she was they type who if she liked a guy, would set up elaborate and largely unnecessary sting operations to find out if he was interested.

I watched in horrified fascination as Becky marched up to the counter, English/Italian dictionary in hand, to make a date with the gay coffee shop employee. I don't know what she said, but I saw him roll his eyes and shake his head "no." She came back to the table smiling. Fearing the rejection had caused her to lose her mind, I asked her what happened.

"Danilo said great and he would meet me at the bridge at 8:00."

"No he didn't. He rolled his eyes and said no."

"You don't speak Italian. You don't know."

Deciding it would be useless to tell her that I was exceptionally well-versed in Italian head gestures for "there is no way I'm having sex with you, you stupid fat American chick," I let it go. Some people just have to learn the hard way. Besides, why deny myself a chance to be amused?

It was the next day before I would find out what transpired. I was sitting in my usual corner of the cafe, when Becky came storming in, dictionary in hand, eyes ablaze. In a stunning turn of events, it was apparent that Danilo had stood her up. She rushed up to him and began yelling at him in incoherent Italian and nearly incoherent English. The one phrase she uttered that was understandable was, "IO PAZZO, IO PAZZO!"

I cringed in humiliation as I realized what she was saying and why. 'Pazzo' means crazy. She had looked up 'mad' in her dictionary and it had given her the translation for crazy.

When the tirade was over, and the coffee shop workers had picked themselves up off the floor after laughing their asses off at a completely bewildered Danilo, she stalked over to the table and sat down.

"So how's your boyfriend?"

I thought she was going to hit me.

"Shut the hell up. I think he's gay."

POLITICS

I updated Payasita, so if you are in the mood for a rant filled with advisory content, pay me a visit.

SADDEST NEWS EVER

Jack had to hang it up. I think he was/is my favorite blogger. His content was always interesting and he was one of the few bloggers I stalked at least twice a day and not just because I had a teensy little crush on him either. Okay it is. But I'm pretty much inconsolable.

MOVIES

I finally got to see Kill Bill II. I liked it. I like everything of Tarantino's. His movies are like Cheetos. You forget how much you like them until they're right in front of you. But they do leave a residue. I think people got familiar with his style and it became fashionable to underrate him, but I still like him. I know he's a big lib and if he could perfect the art of sucking his own dick, we'd get no more movies out of him, but I still like him.

Two lines I loved from the movie:

"She deserves her revenge, and we deserve to die."

and

"There are consequences to breaking the heart of a murdering bastard."

On their own they seem kind of silly, but in the context of the movie, they are pretty cool.

WHAT I'M DOING NOW

I am sitting here commando as I type this. This is one of the perks of working at home. I don't particularly like being commando, but it's great to know that I can do it if the need arises. Like the time my phone was ringing nonstop and I accidentally spilled a whole bowl of chicken soup, thorougly drenching that part of my anatomy which keeps Jethro's nose to the Chiropractic grindstone. It was quite a relief to just take it all off and wait for the phone lines to settle down. I don't know what my excuse is today. Laziness I guess.

GWENNIE FUNNY

Gwennie is learning how to write and has started writing rhyming words. Yesterday she was doing i-t words and there came the inevitable. l-i-t, b-i-t, t-i-t. It amused us all in ways we ought to be thoroughly ashamed of.

EMMA FUNNY

Emma called out Jethro. It was so funny. Let me preface this by saying that every time I swear in front of the girls, Jethro says sternly, "Don't say that word." When I swear while we're in the sack, Jethro slaps my ass and says, "Take it, bitch." But I digress.

Anyway, I take the reprimand like a man because I don't really want my girls imitating me. But last Sunday we were driving to go eat dim sum and Jethro cussed at a driver in front of us who wouldn't go. Emma said, "Don't say dat word, Daddy." Sternly. I haven't laughed that hard in forever. She so nailed him.

FREE MOJTABA AND ARASH DAY

First thing, I want to thank Magz, Jethro, Trashman, Misfit Moonchild and especially Seven for taking on the Assholes. I have given them the title Defenders of the Blog.

Now for Mojtaba and Arash. They are two Iranians. Arash is being held by the Iranian government and the Mojtaba has been released from a prison in Tehran but is still facing charges. Their crime? Blogging.

For anyone who isn't aware, Iran is ruled by fanatical mullahs who are oppressing the young Iranian population who yearn for freedom and democracy.

Something with which to equate this situation is if Jay's loony preacher man was multiplied by the thousands, armed, and had trained a police force to arrest and murder anyone who said complained about the government, or said the fuck word.

Hat tips to Michelle Malkin and Committee to Protect Bloggers. They are asking that all bloggers make a reference to it today and show their support for the freedom of the Iranian people. You can also email Dr. Mohammad Javad Zarif who is the Ambassador and Permanent Representative to the Permanent Mission of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

This transcends liberal and conservative. Both sides can agree that oppression by any state is unconscionable. All you have to do is post FREE MOJTABA AND ARASH somewhere on your blog. There are banners you can download as well.

It isn't much, but let's do what we can.