It’s Friday, thank god.

As anyone who has ever worked a phone job can attest to, that amazing invention with the buttons and the dial tone attracts some total nutjobs that grace one’s daily life on this end of the telephone cord with some truly awesome glimpses at humanity at its finest.

For example, the woman who was going to sail on her cruise come hell or highwater (from the…river…maybe?) to the Caribbean from Tennessee.

Well I was browsing the internet to try to decompress from the madness these people cause me in their leisure time, and realized what these amazingly competent people do outside of the hours they are on the phone pestering me for cruises that don’t exist:

They are city workers:

They run errands:

and they are responsible pet owners:

Thank god it’s the weekend.

Hey Mom, guess what I got you for Christmas this year?  I know its a little bulky, but one day you’ll be glad you have it.

Oh yes, folks.  Everything you want, need, can think of plus the exact opposite of all of those things is now available at Costco.

From presents for your grandparents for the holidays to things to put them in when they croak, the gift giving possibilities are endless.

But wait, there’s more…

Should you need your casket right away (and who doesn’t Shirley, am I right?) we can provide expedited shipping if you order before 2:00PM EST and it’s included in the price. How great is that?

Just look at these prices!!!  The “In God’s Care” Casket is only $1,299.99 with expedited shipping included, people!!!  This casket is 18 gauge steel, Neapolitan blue with an adjustable in-coffin bed and mattress, because who wants to be uncomfortable for the rest of eternity, am I right?

And it only weighs two hundred and twenty pounds.  Multiply that by two and I’m moved in already!!! *wink*

So come on down folks, hurry up, act now, buy fast, don’t delay, and bring the kiddies why don’t ya.

It started out innocently enough.  I was listening to Christmas music, allowing myself a modicum of giddiness that Christmas is on its way.  It just isn’t Christmas in my world if I can’t hear Elton inviting us to “step into Christmas” or Bono reminding us “tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you!”

I madeth a joyful noise.

Then my mind went to a dark place.  My heart sank into my stomach, and the joy which burst forth like a geyser from my soul dried up and was now baren, and my chest cavity was an enormous dry socket.  I bolted upright, struggling to catch my breath as memories of Christmases past rushed to fill my mind with horrible, horrible dread… I can barely strike the keys to name the source of my agony without seizing in terror…

Dear Mister Jesus!!!!

The lyrics rattled around in my head like a freight train on ice, reopening long healed synaptic wounds.  In case you don’t recall, Dear Mister Jesus is, for lack of a more succinct description, musical emesis.  Sung by some horrid little girl-child, the lyrics are a prayer to “mister Jesus” regarding another little girl that was severely beaten.

“Please don’t let them hurt your children, we need love and shelter from the storm, please don’t let them hurt your children, won’t you keep us safe and warm?”

Ugh.  Get me a bucket.  This fucking song has nothing to do with Christmas.  NOTHING.  It’s a musical bedpan filled with exploitative diarrhea.  I realize children take beatings and it’s not fair.  Hell, some children NEED to take beatings.  Most kids aren’t beaten ENOUGH, I say.  I think this song makes people WANT to hit children.  I’m even wondering if it didn’t make Jesus want to ball up his fists.  That’s probably why they blessedly stopped playing it (and those atheists say there is no GOD…PEH!).

{smartads}

One of the last lines of the song reveal of the girl-child, “please don’t tell my daddy, but my mommy hits me, too.”  Well, what did you do to piss her off?  I’m guessing you started singing this bullshit…

As if this song isn’t bad enough, there is a newer wad of pablum circulating the radio waves and tickling our gag-reflexes in much the same was as “Dear Little Girl, Won’t You Please Shut the Fuck Up” does.  This one is called “The Christmas Shoes.”

This nightmare tells the story of somebody, standing in the checkout line, who hears the little raggedy boy in line ahead of him trying to buy some shoes for his mom:

“Sir, I wanna buy these shoes for my momma, please.  It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size.  Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there’s not much time.  You see, she’s been sick for quite a while, and I know these shoes will make her smile, and I want her to look beautiful if Momma meets Jesus tonight.”

So, blah, blah, blah, the point of the song is that he can’t afford the shoes, because he only has a few pennies in his pocket, so the asshole hearing all of this lays the money on the counter and the little boy gets the shoes for his mother.

Where the hell do I even start with this one?  Why the hell does a bedridden and terminal invalid want a pair of shoes?  Why not get her a fucking bicycle that she can’t ride, or maybe some flying lessons?  Seriously.  I’m guessing the shoes looked something like this:

I’m also guessing that “momma” was next door getting her fucking nails done with her welfare money.  That would be the only rational explanation as to how this little bastard got to the mall to get the shoes to begin with… if everyone is supposedly sitting shiva over this woman who is ringing the bell at death’s door, then who gave him the fucking bus fare?

Is it just me, or is this song just filled with rage-inducing logic deficits?

Fuckin’ A, I need to go jingle something.  HO HO HO.

Ok, not really.

But I found this video and HAD to make up a reason to share it.

And in the spirit of it being (kind of) Ninja Day… here’s more Ninja cowbell for you.

Ninjas. One of God’s greatest creations.

There’s one watching you right now.

Well… atleast he wasn’t misleading?

I had planned on writing something silly today. Maybe something about the Swedish bestiality ring that they just busted. Perhaps something cute about the former American Idol contestant who killed herself in front of Paula Abdul’s house. Or how the “secret” in Victoria’s Secret is apparently formaldehyde.

But  I decided it was high time this soldier wrote about a little something called bias.

Subcategory: media bias.

Sub-Subcategory: liberal media bias.

I’m looking at you, Katie Couric.

I was once one of the folks who thought the idea of “liberal media bias” was a bunch of hooey, as much a figment of these silly goose conservatives’ imagination as unicorns and Santa Claus. And the LMB words thrown around a little too freely. It was their “Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”

Shut up! Stop whining!

In fact, in 2006 I even wrote something for a Web site attacking sexy, bearded Christian L Brent Bozell and his conservative media watchdog organization the Media Research Center. Boy, did I give ole vag beard the business! This article appeared on a site, of course, staffed by liberals, one of whom stopped being my online friend after our heated debates about Don Imus.

I was later delighted when a reader commented on my review of a Bernard Goldberg book on a different Web site, calling me a “nasty stuck up lib.”

“God bless you, sir, madam, or he/she,” I exclaimed.

The nasty part was certainly true, particularly in another book review I wrote of Laura Ingraham’s Power to the People last December. This is where my story truly begins. The editor of the site I was writing this for loved it. No changes needed. Just a paragraph describing who the hell Ingraham is.

But this was far from a serious review. I literally skimmed the book for about an hour at a Barnes & Noble one day, writing down the issues on which I wanted to attack Ingraham. I basically just attacked her for being a conservative. Even made a couple of cancer jokes!

A liberal friend of mine also loved it and thought it was quite funny. Nonsense attacking conservatives, I learned, was humorous. And I was becoming really good at it.

The next thing I wrote for this site was an attack on something completely different: atheism. I was going after the rise of atheism, authors Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, all those tools. I used the same silly, sometimes vicious, but nonsensical, style with which I wrote the Ingraham piece.

{smartads}

This was a completely different experience. I had to do two rewrites, fact check, make citations. Everything I didn’t have to do for the liberal-friendly Laura Ingraham attack. All of the sudden it was “Let’s be serious. You can’t write that.” I sent it to my liberal friend and he even told me, “It doesn’t work.”

Finally, my editor threw his hands up. He couldn’t use it. Wouldn’t publish it.

I said fuck it and started shopping the piece elsewhere while beginning work on another piece about how the film The Neverending Story was made by and for pedophiles. Also nonsensical, by the way, but they published it.

Within a week my atheism story was accepted by a whole nother *Web site. No, “Oh, maybe you should explain this.” It was taken as it was.

Interesting, I thought, how my two similarly written pieces received such different reactions from my liberal buds.

Fast forward about a year, and now I get this comment about a small thing I wrote here about Bill Maher’s movie. Not my best work, admittedly. But tell me there isn’t a little liberal anti-Christian bias in this person’s hatred for my piece. I just wrote a three-part thing on celebs I had crushed on (1, 2, 3), for Pete’s sake!

My libby friend said something to me about how the conservative point of view always seems serious. Ergo, it can’t be funny.

What horseshit, I said. Atheists can make fun of believers all they want, but “Whoever” forbid the believers have a go at the atheists. No humor can be drawn from a belief in a higher power. He’s telling me I’m not funny enough, perhaps no one’s funny enough, to attack the precious, highly-intellectual atheists. Well, fuck them. Oh, I hope there’s a hell. Please let there be a hell.

So I’ve learned from being in the writing community that there is indeed a bias. Attack the church, like I have, on their beliefs about homosexuality and you are spot on and hilarious. But take the point of view of that same church against non-believers and you suck.

Hence I was a victim of liberal media bias. A victim of the modern age, poor, poor girl! And I was called a “devout Xtian!” Like a superhero! I don’t know if the ‘X’ is supposed to be the Cross (in which case, I’d be an ‘Xian’) or if he or she is X-ing him or herself like Manson.

*Fuck! My atheism story is very important to this and the stupid Web site that published it apparently did some house cleaning. Fuckers! If this MySpace blog link doesn’t work I’ll have to kill myself.

Really?

I mean, match.com or www.meetyourfreakloveronline.com or whatever is one thing. And I know that people can get frustrated with the bar scene. But who REALLY looks to people in the prison system for love!??

I was searching around for something on the internet yesterday, probably something like fluffy bunnies and pretty puppies, the way some of my internet searches have been yielding results (I heard “Barack Obama” was being returned as a typo up until just recently - “Did you mean…”), when I came across this bizarre site: Women Behind Bars.

Women Behind Bars (WBB) is a professional service which provides personal pages, pictures and profiles for women who are incarcerated in prisons all over America. The ladies featured on this site are looking for relationships.

Ok, so I can understand THEIR end of it. They screwed up big time with their life (some of them were sentenced to Life terms… their release date is included as a top piece of info on their bio - you know, instead of their astrological sign), their friends and family disassociated from them, and now they are looking for love.

But who responds to them for that?? I mean OK, a person feels sorry for them (??) or wants to help in the rehabilitative process…mmm…oKAAAAY….I guess I can see that.

I’ve got that half inclination, at least for about five seconds until I consider that these people are CONVICTED of crimes serious enough to send them to JAIL for YEARS, and serious enough that even their most loved ones won’t have anything to do with them…but ok fine. Even if we give them that…

Really? Is there no better DATING site that a person can find than THIS?

I’ve looked at something like this before and noticed the same eerie thing on that one as I did this one. These people are in jail, right? They’ve done a crime, right? Maybe killed someone? Who knows? And yet… in their little bios, they don’t mention a THING about it. It’s like a real dating site!!! “I like knitting, sitting by the fire, drinking wine over a nice dinner with good conversation. Looking for a lifelong relationship with a good man…”

WHAT??

I don’t know, it just seems like there would be SOME mention of “yes, I did this and I am sorry and I’ve learned my lesson and I am looking forward to moving on and being an upstanding citizen forever more, as I knit and sit by the fire, and drink wine…” Almost none of them have this though. It’s like they’re speaking as though they are free to just go out that Saturday if you want, so just ping me and let’s go have a good time!

AGH!!

The election is past us now (thank GOD will you MORONpeople stop calling my CELLPHONE now and wasting my MINUTES!?), and I’ve been in a reflective mood since that fateful night.

Like, why the hell did boyfriend and I just spend $14 on two shots of tequila and two chasers at the election night party, only to sit down and then two minutes later have the screen yawn, “Obama elected president”. WHAT!? $14!!!! Last election it took more like 6 shots, a stumble to downtown, several hours and then leaving before the votes were even finished to have a verdict! (Then another 6 shots when the verdict was delivered…)

Now THAT was a worthwhile election night party!

FIVE DAMN MINUTES!!? For $14 bucks!? I could have called a porn line fed Sally Struthers 14 Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers in that amount of time for that much!!

Well whatever. I got a free chicken sandwich from Chik-fil-a for voting. That was inspirational, even if the CNN broadcast of OH MY HOLY HELL WE HAVE A BLACK PRESIDENT LESS THAN 40 YEARS AFTER THEY HAD TO DRINK FROM A DIFFERENT WATER FOUNTAIN left something to be desired.

Speaking of motivational…I’ve got some touching posters for you, suitable for printing and framing for the office.

Or is it Pwnd?

Is it just me or is this the ONLY guy in the world who doesn’t see anything coming?

WHEN GEESE ATTACK!!

I can’t decide whose face makes me laugh more.

After much deliberation, the Country Music Association has decided that the show must go on. Despite the tragedy of Barack Obama’s victory in last week’s presidential election, the CMA Awards will go on as planned on November 12.

American Idol minx Carrie Underwood, and a piece of paisley fabric apparently, will host the awards that will take place probably in Nashville or some similar place.

The show will be highlighted by numerous moments of silence and an appearance from Lord and Lady Antebellum of Jesusland.

Meanwhile, after threatening to move to Canada, of all places, during the Bush administration, Democrats are now planning to rename America “Utopia” after the Great Barack Obama’s presidential miracle.

“Do you believe?” fans ask each other rhetorically while high-fiving and organizing communities.

Experts say that during the Obama administration food will taste better, air will be sweeter, and unicorns and mermaids will dance in the streets. Already on the president’s agenda: world peace, curing cancer, and helping the Cubs win the World Series next year.

There is utter joy in Obamanation. Some might call it gittiness. Bliss. Euphoria. Gaiety. Glee. Jollity. Jubilation. I love online thesauruses!

The following are actual statuses posted by some of my writer friends on Facebook. The names have been changed to protect the usually intelligent, but occasionally daffy:

*Sillygoose McGetoutoftown is giving Zeek (the 9-year-old) Wednesday’s front page to hang in his room.

*Tedium Sleeperhold is looking forward to our president-elect’s press conference today like he looks forward to Christmas and glazed donuts.

*Tickle Me Mussolini gets all warm and tingly when she hears the words “President Obama.”

*Waa-Waa O’Crybaby cried at Obama’s words. Thank God for Obama.

*Bob Smith is WOOOOHOOOO WOOOOHOOOO WOOOHOOO.

*George “the Animal” Steele One of the best moments of my life was telling my son this morning about the newly elected president.

In the words of some of the characters on that stupid Grey’s Anatomy show, “Seriously?”

“Seriously!?!”

Then you even have all the cute ones who put Hussein in between their name, even though it’s completely against Facebook policy. I guess all of our middle names are Hussein now. That’s what the ‘H’ in Jesus H. Christ stands for.

I’d like to believe that Barack Obama walks on water, but I can’t help but think that these delirious little children are going to be disappointed when they find out the man is merely a politician. Just a dude who successfully used the Senate as a springboard to becoming Commander in Chief. No different than any other.

{smartads}

Is the taste left in the mouths of the “Bush is Hitler” types from that administration so bad that many of us are clinging to the Barack as savior dream? I never liked or voted for Bush, and I don’t want to understate the importance of the first half-Kenyan president. I mean, we’ve still only had one of those nasty Catholics in the White House. This is like when a non-Kenyan wins the Boston Marathon. But, jeezy creezy, let’s keep our perspective here. Christmas? The tinglies? Tears and donuts? “One of the best moments of my life?”

Let’s gain our composure. We are not Dorothy going from the tornado to Munchkinland. We are not living in a magical fantasy world. This man is a president. Like Carter, Garfield and Zachary Taylor. All the ones we make fun of now. Sure, he beat a war hero and an Alaskan hayseed, and now we have the “End of an Error,” and all that other horseshit, but let’s snap out of it.

I don’t care much for these highs and lows, good guys and bad guys, in American politics.

It’s like the Honky Tonk Man had the belt for eight years and now the Ultimate Warrior beat him for it and everyone’s throwing chairs into the ring in mad, mob-like celebration.

Might as well have Kool and the Gang follow Obama around and play that stupid song. We need 90s motivational speaker extraordinaire Susan Powter now more than ever to demand that we “Stop the insanity!”

Or not. What do I care? Now that I’ve finished with four wonderful 80s and 90s references, celebrate in smug happiness and joy all you want.

In a move that I can only assume was done to try and compete with me on a direct level of awesome, UK teenager George Garratt has legally changed his name to:

Captain Fantastic Faster Than Superman Spiderman Batman Wolverine The Hulk And The Flash Combined.

Yep… that whole thing is his name, people just call him “Captain” now apparently… which is more awesome than my name. Even if I changed my name legally to “Captain” my family and friends would probably just end up calling me “duck-shit” or “hymen-face”.

Apparently it seems like “Captain” here has a bit of a crazy streak, so this was no surprise to his parents:

I decided on a superheroes theme and whenever my friends offered up suggestions to me, I added them

…

My family have begun to expect these sorts of things from me, and although my friends thought it was ridiculous most people do call me Captain and it’s been a great conversation starter.

I may not have been surprised by it if my kid did this, but I’d still make him clean out the lawnmower while it was running *humph*

Thanks BBC!

The picture in the previous post made me remember one of my favorite things that I once found circulating the internet.  Maybe it came from PETA, I’m not sure, but here it is for everyone to fondly recall:

I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece.  I thought that
odd since they were normally a couple thousand each.  I decided not to
look a gift horse in the mouth.  I bought 200.  I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home.  I have a big car.  I let one drive.  His
name was Sigmund.  He was retarded.  In fact, none of them were really
bright.  They kept punching themselves in their genitals.  I laughed.
Then they punched my genitals.  I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room.  They didn’t adapt very well to their new
environment.  They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at
high speeds and slam into the wall.  Although humorous at first, the
spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive:
they all died.  No apparent reason.  They all just sorta’ dropped dead.
Kinda’ like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.  Damn
cheap monkeys.

I didn’t know what to do.  There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my
room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked
like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet.  It didn’t work.  It got stuck.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals.  That worked for
a while, that is until they began to decompose.  It started to smell real
bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn’t want
to call the plumber.  I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.  Unfortunately
there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change
them every 30 seconds.  I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so
it didn’t all go bad.

I tried burning them.  Little did I know my bed was flammable.  I had to
extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in
my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed.  The odor
wasn’t improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the
bathroom.  I severely beat one of my monkeys.  I felt better.

I tried throwing them way but the garbage man said that the city wasn’t
allowed to dispose of charred primates.  I told him that I had a wet
one.  He couldn’t take that one either.  I didn’t bother asking about the
frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution.  I gave them out as Christmas gifts.  My
friends didn’t know quite what to say.  They pretended that they like
them but I could tell they were lying.  Ingrates.  So I punched them in
the genitals.

I like monkeys

So, I write sometimes for this website that shall not be named, for this editor who shall not be named, right?

I try to contribute to said Editor things that I find amusing that I come across in my daily porn searches facebook stalkings hours I devote to looking for ways to donate money to adorable orphaned children and baby seals and be a good wife and mother while I cook the seven course meal and chill the beer.

Usually, said Editor is pretty on the ball with his sense of humor. But sometimes, just sometimes, he shows his true colors as a boss. You know, slow-witted with no sense of humor poor communication and just all around doesn’t get it awesome.

Well I originally wanted to post this picture and it was going to say:

“Before You Cast Your Faith-Based Vote”

I’m just sayin…. God sends little messages everywhere.

…And it was going to be awesome. But now, literally 13 EMAILS later…this is the debacle that ensued from such a simple (and *I* thought…extremely straightforward) funny picture.

(These are the actual emails)

Editor at 4:46pm

G, I didn’t get the “faith base vote” picture, I saw the ring, but it was on his right hand, and other than that I wasn’t sure what was funny about it?

G at 8:15pm <thinking to self “Oh shit, Editor despite all the boobsboobsboobs on the site is actually a devout Catholic”>

uh oh… hope I didn’t step on political toes with you…
the joke was check out behind his head

G at 8:16pm <only mildly freaking out, wondering how deep the Pope-loving rabbit hole goes>

err not political toes, I guess they’d be religious ones.
Sorry if I did.

G at 8:17pm <definitely freaking out as she decides to not find that funny, you have to be fire and brimstone and whip yourself every night for your sins and now he’s going to have the hand of God smite her>

we can skip that one, I don’t want to piss anyone off. Now that I think about it, if the COUNTY FAIR can offend people…

Editor at 8:05am

G, no offense taken, I just didn’t get the joke. I don’t know who that guy is behind the pope and I’m guessing that’s the lynchpin for the funny picture? Who is he/why is it funny?

P.S.> I’m not religious or particularly political. I think Zeigeist: The Movie would be a good indication of what my take on the world is.

G at 9:12am

lol oh Editor. Normally I think you’re pretty sharp. HE’S GOT HORNS!!!!!

HE’S GOT!!! HORNS!!!!

the guy behind him, his shirt collar makes it look like he has HORNS!!! Not to mention the evil look on his face.
sheesh!

Editor at 9:14am

oh wow… <fills up bathtub so he can drown himself in it>

Soooo…forget my original posting; if not because it was too controversial, definitely because I can never look at it the same. But, I suppose it’s still funny, in its own special way.

Kind of like a Pope with horns.

LOL@McCain has put together some of the better LOL-cat-style mockups of shots from the debates online… and I enjoyed a good portion of them (not because of a preference for or against McCain, just cause they were pretty damn funny).

Actually a lot of the best ones were about Palin, here’s a sampling, but be sure to check out the full page:

… and even if it *does*, that doesn’t mean it *should*.

My roommate was trying to make the case for chicken and waffles the other day. If you haven’t heard of this combination, you’re not the first. But it’s true, some people eat chicken and waffles - yes, together - and those who like it, swear by it.

My contention isn’t so much with her food coupling (don’t knock it til you try it and all that hippie nonsense), but with her logic. “You like chicken, you like waffles,” she said. “You like chicken and waffles!”

No, roommate. No.

Take for example, this story. Granted, I like mice. And I like hot dog buns. But do you want to tell me that’s still a logical argument?

Ok then. Didn’t think so.

It’s Monday again, and in the spirit of Motivational Posters, we are here to help you out:

It’s already been a long week and it’s only Sunday.

I just got off the phone with a woman who wants to book a cruise and swears up and down that she sailed out of Nashville last year on her vacation and she wants to speak with my supervisor because I am being “unhelpful and ignorant” because I won’t book her out of Nashville to sail to the Caribbean… like she did last year.

Just to clarify the conundrum here for folks that aren’t from the US, Nashville, TN is located just east of the center of the US, it’s no where near any coast so “sailing out of Nashville” is impossible… unless by “sail” she meant “fly a plane”:

And well she did it last year, so why won’t I just help her proper and book her out of Nashville again. I don’t know about you, but I need some nonsense that doesn’t make sense on purpose.

Monkeys! Monkeys always help.

And sharks from China…

I’m feeling better already.

Now that we are all coming down off of the Halloween induced sugar high, we are officially entering the season to be thankful.  Thankful we haven’t been foreclosed on.  Thankful that our bank did not go tits-up under the cloak of night, swallowing our entire life savings.  Thankful that this Goddamn election will be OVER on TUESDAY… you name it.

That being said, Tuesday is going to be a sad day for a lot of people, no matter which direction it goes.

I began to wonder what I could do to make people feel better (I would like to say, “what I can do to make the McCain supporters feel better”, but it ain’t over til the fat lady sings, I suppose).

Then I started thinking about all of the really stupid and embarrassing things I have done in my life and thought, “THAT’S IT!!!  I will throw myself under the bus in an effort to bring a much needed distraction from this seemingly interminable election process…so here are a couple of THE MOST EMBARRASSING THINGS that I can recall doing (or being MADE to do):

What are you WEARING?

The first one takes me all the way back to fifth grade.  We had just moved to the wild west from back east, and I was finding it a bit awkward acclimating to new people and friends and things… and finally not living in a trailer.

I had already crashed and burned on the first day of fifth grade when I made the tactical error of wearing a t-shirt with a sparkly, iron-on image of the Pink Panther wearing a white disco leisure suit a la John Travolta, simply because the school mascot was the Pink Panther.  Huge mistake.  Turns out that doing stuff like that is totally gay.  What do you want?  I came from a TRAILER.

I managed to recover from that, and was merrily going about being a fifth grader, when my mom looked in my closet and saw some things that I hadn’t worn in a long time and launched into the speech that goes something like, “I buy you all these nice clothes and you NEVER wear them.  I don’t know why I even bother if you aren’t going to appreciate all the wonderful, magical things I do for you… I might as well just stop loving you and give you up for adoption.”  Or something like that…  Anyhoo, she was pissed because I didn’t wear clothes that were gonna get my ass kicked.  I looked in my closet at the offending garment…

*clears throat*

… a sky blue, satin, zip-up pant suit that had a winged roller skate on the back and the logo “Roller Boogie.”  I shot my mom the look of horror… “Seriously, mom?”

She took a long drag of her Virginia Slim and narrowed her eyes as she exhaled the foulness that would stay with me like an albatross around my neck until adulthood; I knew by her expression I was doomed.  She took the pant suit from the closet and placed it in my hands, then turned and quietly left my bedroom, taking another long drag of the poison that would eventually kill her…

{smartads}

The next morning, I cautiously and tentatively zipped closed the prized skating costume that I received for my 8th birthday, two years prior, closed around my neck.  I loved roller-skating, but hadn’t been in a long time.  This outfit was, at best, totally out of context and, at worst, a violent blue stylistic aberration that would surely end my social and academic career.

It was also too small.

The pantlegs stopped a full inch above my sockline, perhaps two or three inches from their intended location of resting loosely atop my shoe.  The inseam was also two or three inches too snug, causing a very obvious and uncomfortable wedgie that separated and highlighted my asscheeks in the same way the Berlin Wall separated a nation.  Again, this was satin we were dealing with.

No fifth-grader should have a cameltoe.  It’s just not right.

My mother shuffled me out the door to walk to school like a one-man circus act, the incongruity further exacerbated by the black and gold of my Pittsburgh Steelers backpack.  I stood for a moment at the gates of the schoolyard wondering if anyone would really notice if I didn’t go.

I went.

I must have blacked out at that point, because I don’t remember anything else that happened that day.  Yet another reason to be thankful.

Can I HELP YOU WITH SOMETHING?

This next story is one that withstands the test of time.  My mother (and her ubiquitous Virginia Slim) used to have her hair done by Sandy.  Sandy had done our hair for years, and was now coming to our home to cut our hair.  As my mother sat in the chair, getting her new ‘do, I sat on the couch because my non-resident sister had taken up residency in my room to talk on MY phone.  “Well,” I thought to myself, “what can I do to amuse myself while she prevents me from entering my own personal space?”  So, I grabbed her purse off the couch and started rummaging around in it while my mother was otherwise occupied.

I unzipped the canvas bag and carefully began removing objects and placing them on the couch in an orderly fashion: A hairbrush.  A changepurse.  An address book.

Each time I removed an object, I inspected it carefully.  I flipped through the pages of my sister’s address book and realized how popular she must be; she had so many friends listed that I wasn’t sure I recognized many of their names.  I had nearly emptied the bag, it’s contents lined tidily along the cushions of the couch, and I pulled out one final object.  The wallet.  I unsnapped the wallet and began examining its contents.  I counted the money.  I looked in all the compartments.  I was now flipping through the photos…”Why don’t I know any of these people?”…finally, in one last moment of incredulity I exclaimed in my head, “When the HELL did my sister get a VISA card???”

In that exact moment, I heard a very stern, “CAN I HELP YOU?” coming from the kitchen.  I looked up to see a very irritated Sandy (who had been quietly watching me), holding her comb and scissors in the same hand she now had placed on her hip, as she looked down at me, excavating the entirety of her life like some archaeological dig.

The gravity of the moment gripped my insides like flypaper.  I was forced to sit before her and replace all the items I had removed from her bag - maybe 20, or so.  My mother looked on in nearsighted horror.  “What are you DOING?” she asked of her seemingly intelligent teenage daughter whose only response was simply, “I thought it was my sister’s!!!” I knew that couldn’t excuse the activity, but I had hoped it would explain the motivation.

I fled the scene immediately and retreated to my room.  The sound of my sister laughing at me can sometimes still be heard under the right weather conditions, like some ghostly cackle hanging over the neighborhood.

I am pretty sure my mother had to find a new hairdresser after that.  Probably just as well.

Change is good.

Okay folks, now it’s your turn.  I want to know what is the most embarrassing thing you have ever done, and are now thankful you survived.

These stories are like cotton, they are the “factory seconds” fabric that weave the tapestry of our convaluted lives, and no lesson can be learned by the many, unless the brave few are willing to share their painful synaptical misfires.  I have a few more good ones, but I need to see a little return on my investment first.

Quid pro quo.

Everyone’s got an [asinine] opinion on everything on the internet these days. Like a traffic accident, sometimes I can’t help but look. And as a hell-bound human, when I do, I can’t help but think of this picture.

And laugh.

We might as well laugh our asses off doing it. Fast forward to 2 minutes and watch. Again. And again. And forward to your friends. Bookmark it and any time you’re having a bad day, just come back and watch Scarlet take one for the team - guaranteed to cheer you up all over again.

Scarlet Takes a Tumble

Even the reaction videos are funny:

Scarlet Takes a Tumble reaction video

After you’ve watched the whole thing, as one of the commenters pointed out, be sure to go back and pause his video at 2:19 and laugh again.

Yes folks, one-stop shopping has reached an all-time peak. Now you can get two of god’s greatest gifts on this morbidly obese, deep-fried green earth in one delectable wrapper: Krispy Kreme donuts and bacon cheeseburgers. I can die (of cardiac arrest) and go to heaven now. Or…wherever…since consuming one of these is probably akin to suicide.

I don’t care!

I will eat the cheesy sweetness until my arteries do runneth over. I will die with a smile on my face, and frosting on my fingers!

If you don’t believe people would actually eat this, you can see it for yourself here. Apparently the minor league baseball team in Missouri is so bad, they have to serve these babies up at their games to make a name for themselves. Of course, I don’t know that serving up a guaranteed heart attack or diabetic coma is the best way to grow or retain your limited fan base but…who am I to judge. I have a burger to eat. Mmmmm!

If you’re going to be that amazing, your sidekick has to be too.

Here are some ideas to get your butt in gear. You know you want to be this awesome.

Halloween stinks! Just as much as the metal band Helloween, who, even in my teen metalhead days, I couldn’t take seriously.

There are three things I can’t stand: green peas, Norwegians, and anyone who refers to Halloween as a “holiday.” It ain’t a holiday. Any more than Valentine’s Day or your stupid birthday, no matter how hard they clap at Friday’s.

The good news is that I see less and less children “trick or treating,” or “begging for candy from strangers” these days. You have to figure that between the yearly media scare tactics regarding pedophiles and poisoned candy and the still-frequent use of the racist term “spooks,” Halloween could very well die off in a year or two. Once the secularists’ war on Christmas is over, All Hallows Eve is next.

Every Halloween I either spend four hours lying flat on my stomach in the living room with the lights out or I sit myself on the front porch with a shotgun and a bowl or razor blades. And I don’t dress up because I’m an adult.

And I do not costume well.

I’ve dressed up exactly once since I was 12. I’ve blocked most of that last one out. I was a sad little adult ninja, chubby and uncoordinated, wearing glasses. There was a 10-year-old also dressed as a ninja who looked much cooler than I did. Oh, I so should have taken him out - Storm Shadow style.

At 12 I went out dressed as my hero, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper. This was in New England. So underneath the “Hot Rod” shirt my mom lovingly made for me I wore a gray sweatshirt, and under the blanket that was acting as a kilt I wore blue sweatpants so I was warm and toasty. And a loser. It was the saddest thing you’d have ever seen. Charlie Brown looked cooler.

The years prior to the Piper fiasco, maybe two or three of them in a row, I was someone from the band Kiss every year. My mother was quite adept at the face paint, even if the rest of the costume was more drag queen that Gene, Paul, Ace or Peter. I should have dressed as Hitler, like Eric Cartman or a kid in a Ryan Boudinot short story.

I’d like to continue with my tale, but the tears on the keyboard are making it very hard to type. So happy stupid Halloween, you bastards.

Grant Gochnauer just dropped this in our inbox… awesome photoshop job:

I love Halloween.  I love pumpkins.  So, it was a no-brainer that I volunteer us to chaperon on a field trip to a pumpkin patch for our son’s 5th grade class.

Then I remembered that I hate other people’s kids.

I don’t know WHY I can’t retain that vital piece of information, but I am forever distracted by visions of sugarplums and various other manner of happy holiday horseshit.

Since we don’t drive an SUV and can’t carry 17 children (my name is NOT Michelle Duggar), we get to take the biggest troublemakers in the class (who never end up being even remotely friendly to my son), and by the end of the day I crave the sensation of my open hand slapping the shit out of the little bastards like Lestat craves a jugular.

So, we hop in our car with our son and the bastard interloper and drive about 412 miles to the base of Krakatoa and park in the adjacent dirt mound.  I am regretting this.  By the time we made camp, I had to piss so badly that I ALMOST decided to drop trou in Pumpkinville and give the kiddies an anatomy lesson.

Fortunately, I spotted a bathroom.

Once relieved, I rejoined my group with a renewed sense of purpose.  It is Halloween-time and I am with my son and we are getting to pick a pumpkin, HOORAY!  Oh, yeah, and we have that other little fucker with us, GODDAMNIT, I keep forgetting.

Anyway, we proceed towards the pumpkin patch pausing briefly to consider a wooden sign, nailed to a telephone pole that read:  Keep Away From Bitches.  Whoever drew the little line that made the “D” into a “B” did a really good job.

Now comes the part where the pumpkin ladies yell at everyone.  “You get ONE PUMPKIN.  If you drop your ONE PUMPKIN, you CAN’T HAVE ANOTHER.  YOU can’t even BUY another one.  Don’t touch the HORSES.  The horses are working so DON’T TOUCH THEM.  Don’t TALK TO THEM.  DON’T even LOOK at the horses.  The horses HATE you.  In FACT, the PEOPLE hate you, TOO.  If you don’t get back on the WAGON after picking your ONE PUMPKIN, nobody will rescue you.  Hell, nobody will even MISS you.  The wolves will eat you, and search and rescue won’t even be able to pick up your scent.  It will be like you never existed.  You are all UGLY and STUPID.  Thanks for coming to the pumpkin patch, folks, have a GREAT TIME and STAY SAFE!”

Wow.

Onto the wagon we go, and immediately the kids start screaming.  We were like Gomez, Morticia, and Pugsley all sitting quietly and contemptuously at the back of this wagon, while the rest of the kids and parents jumped up and down and did “the wave.”  I scowled.  Mother across from us said, “You’re no fun.”  I said, “Go fuck yourself.”  It was a good time.

After about 15 exceedingly bouncy and uncomfortable minutes, we get to the meat of the outing.  Pumpkins.

Immediately our little charge runs off and vanishes into a sea of hideous children, and I couldn’t possibly care less.  We set about picking our pumpkins.  The fella picks a perfectly symmetrical, traditional pumpkin.  I take a bright orange one with a natural slit for a mouth.  My boy takes the biggest pumpkin in the whole patch, practically novelty-sized, and hoists it onto the wagon.  He is gettin’ his money’s worth.  He is my hero.

Back onto the wagon.  Shit, where is that other kid?  Oh, the horrid little panty-sniffer has latched on to some girlies… good for him.  Another wagon-ride filled with delighted screeches and involved parents.  Will they ever shut up?  JESUS CHRIST.

Stepping off the wagon, we are careful not to make eye contact with any of the horses OR the pumpkin ladies, and we roll the pumpkins to the car.  I have to piss again.  Although the bathroom was totally empty the first time I went, it has now become the dropping off point for every retarded young adult in this town.  This is obviously where they take them all to go to the bathroom.  That might explain the smell, but I digress.  Now it’s time for lunch.  I always enjoy breaking bread in a filthy tent filled with hantavirus and horse flatus.  What a great learning experience for the children!  At this point, I have pawned the little bastard off on the teacher and told her that he kept running away.  Now he doesn’t get to go on anymore field trips.

We couldn’t get back fast enough.

All in all it was basically tolerable, and my son DID get the biggest pumpkin.  He is now officially known as “the pimpkin.”

Happy Pumpkin to everyone!

Well?  Do you?  If you haven’t already done so, the scary blue stalker guy with the shady, pixely face is going to hunt you down and find you, photograph you, and post it on his Facebook for all the world to see.

I have absolutely fallen off the anonymity wagon and hopped onto the post-a-message-everytime-you-take-a-shit bandwagon.  It’s absurd, but true.  Of course, the idea behind Facebook is to find old friends and reconnect with them, catching up on three decades of “old times.”  The downside of Facebook is that it enables you to be found by old friends and forced to reconnect with them, divulging three decades of personal failure and disappointments.  It’s a catch 22.

When used in its most advantageous capacity, Facebook is a perfect forum for letting all those bitches from high school know how well you are doing in life, how popular you have become, how money just falls out of the sky in front of you, and how sorry you are that they aren’t doing as well as you (unless I am the only one who does that…).  Of course, the outcome is that people crawl out from under their rocks, public toilets, and trailers to add you as their “friend.”  Never mind the fact that these same people either wouldn’t give you the time of day when they knew you in person OR they did you so dirty that they deserve a sound beating.

I submit to you the case of my old friend “D.”

“D” has an ex-boyfriend named “cockbag” who was her first love.  I never liked “cockbag” because he acted like Jesus, and was WAAAAAAY better than everyone else.  He didn’t like me because I was beneath him and, by extension, ”D” (to her credit, she never really fell for that and we always just took it with a grain of salt… we were 19 and probably didn’t realize at the time that it’s OKAY to tell someone to go fuck themselves, but nevertheless)

So, “D” had an opportunity to spend a semester in England, and knew she would be foolish to turn it down.  As soon as the plane touched down at Heathrow, “cockbag” wrote her a letter telling her that during her flight, he had fallen in love with his old flame “gonorrhea hamwallet” and, although he’s “really, really, really, like SUPER sorry, ” he has to follow his heart (and his penis, such as it was).

{smartads}

Flash forward to a few days ago.  I was asking “D” if she had logged on to Facebook since we had opened our accounts a few weeks back.  She said, “Oh, I haven’t even looked at it since we signed up, but I DID get some weird message saying that “cockbag” had added me as a friend?”

I was like, “SHUT. UP.”  After a brief tutorial on the workings of Facebook, she clicked the “confirm” button and waited for the game to begin.  No SOONER did she hit confirm, but she got an email from him…”Oh, my dearest, darling D!  How have you been?  It makes my heart happy to see you so happy and well!”

What an asshole.

He then went on to email his entire resume (which is really quite marginal), suggest that ”D” did not live up to her potential, and threw in a “Don’t tell Katie, but I think the cover of her book is a little blah, and she doesn’t have enough web presence, and she needs more people to review it on Amazon because it looks better that way.”

(By the way, “cockbag,” this crappy little book has drawn enormous crowds for lectures statewide, has been featured on televised segments, has secured two more book deals, AND is being sold at Costco.  So, thanks for your concern…I’ll obviously get right on that.  Now, back to the task at hand…)

Let’s not leave out the fact that now potential employers are searching Facebook for information on applicants.  Many a professional with a strong work ethic and exemplary interpersonal skills has been waylayed on their career path by such flattering photos as:

and

Sucks to be them!!!  If nothing else, these photos should make a LOVELY holiday card.

I just don’t know what people are thinking.

The moral of the story is this:  Keep your friends close, and your facebook closer.

For their attempt to unselfishly add yet another Jewish holiday to the calendar, five Missouri sixth graders face suspension and mini-sensitivity training.

It happened during “Spirit Week,” and in the spirit of the school’s “Hug a Friend Day,” (By the way, it’s days with this name that should truly be banned) that these young go-getters created “Hit a Jew Day” to involve some of their school’s minority students.

This is exactly why kids are playing video games instead of participating in after-school activities. You start a little club in which some non-Gentiles get slapped around a bit and suddenly the shit hits the fan. And this was after some other students created “High Five Day,” or “Hi-V Day,” no doubt to spit on students who contracted the virus that causes AIDS. You don’t see anyone getting in trouble for that, do you? These five youngsters simply said, “Hey, what about our Jewish classmates?”

The school’s principal was quoted, in typical self-serving fashion, as saying, “What’s tomorrow going to be? ‘Hit a Principal Day?’” Yes, because that’s the progression, what with the six million principals who were killed in World War II.

What you won’t read in the article is that the students were planning other special days, including “Wet Willie a Mexican Day,” and “Teabag a Swede Day.” They were trying to be all-inclusive. What you will read is that “Hit a Tall Person Day” was apparently A.O.K. with everyone at the school. Why is it fine to subject the freakishly tall kids to punches but now Jews? What if they had “Wedgie a Fat Kid Day,” which was every day when I was in school. But nowadays that wouldn’t be tolerated. Yet these poor basketball-or-freak-show bastards can’t catch a break.

So the moral of this story is that the tall in this Munchkinland world we live in have suffered long enough, especially in Missoura. I hope the kids or teachers who invented “Hit a Tall Person Day” are executed. Stop the violence against tall people, and, by the way, don’t hug a friend. Unless the friend is hot. Then, by all means, cop a feel.

Robert Heron just sent this one in, and I think you should try it… seriously, and send us pictures.

The religious right tried to warn us, but some of us - I’m looking at you Massachusetts and California (good thing I’m cross eyed) - didn’t listen. That slippery slope that everyone laughed at, the one about gay marriage leading to things like incest and bestiality, is now a serious possibility.

Some states, probably New York or Delaware, actually have legalized incest and bestiality as ballot questions this election. Other states are even voting on heterosexual marriages. By Thanksgiving your neighbor could be hitched to his own sister or a manatee. You know where this will go next: Men marrying plates of spaghetti and piles of sawdust.

I told my gay friends Adam and Steve, I said, “What’s the world coming to?”

You know what they said to me? “Get used to it.”

I says, “I don’t wanna get used to it.” I says, “Marriage is between a man and a woman.” Then Steve slapped me. And I ran home crying.

If we don’t start passing laws defining every word in the English dictionary, these crazy pinko commies will be redefining everything. First marriage. Next - oh, who knows. I’m not very good with words.

They already took “single.” Single used to mean just not married. Now it’s, “Oh, I caught my boyfriend sexing the vacuum cleaner again. Now I’m single.”

You were never married, whore! Maybe if we had laws defining all the really hard words our kids would do better in school. What we need are laws defining those damn amendments we have. Separation of church and state? Where does it say that?

Pass a law legalizing marijuana and prostitution and you’ll have my vote, mister. In the 21st century we can drink and smoke ourselves dead and have Doctor Martin kick us in the bread basket and take our unborn child, but we can’t enjoy a joint or a hooker. That’s madness!

Who will save us? Who do we have to choose from?  A Hawaiian and an Alaskan? What? Are those even states? The song doesn’t go -  “From California to the New York islands, and don’t forget those shitholes with the igloos and the hula skirts.”

I never watched Magnum P.I. and thought - Boy, Magnum, TC or Higgins would make wonderful presidents. All this talk about how black, Muslim or socialist Obama might be - he’s from Hawaii! Might as well have Ricky “the Dragon” Steamboat or that little Hawaiian Punch pitcher in the White House.

And Alaska? That place killed the guy in Into the Wild. All Palin has to do is take McCain on a ride in one of her hubby’s “snow machine