The Half Sneeze

You know what I hate? The half sneeze. The half sneeze is when a sneeze with really high potential fizzles into nothing but a pierce-pitched sigh, leaving you with the sensation of pop rocks detonating in your nasal cavities.

Here's the thing about a sneeze: it needs to come out. And if it doesn't, your schnoz with tickle. All day. And your eyes will water. And when your eyes water, people assume you're either sad or farting, neither of which is desirable.

Did you happen to know that a sneeze would launch your eyeballs right out of their sockets if you could manage to keep your lids open? It's true. I learned about it on an urban legends site. The sheer force. The magnitudal velocity. A sneeze has somethin' to say.

But the half-sneeze doesn't get to speak its peace. It crescendoes beautifully...

ahh...AHHHH...AHHHHHHHHHH... AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
then..
psflt

Sissy sneeze.

About the only thing worse than a half-sneeze is a sneeze that is thwarted by a violent tongue-biting, otherwise dubbed "the half sneeze plus blood". If I were a man, I would guess that this sensation would be the equivalent of having my nads hammered right before "climax."

Incomprehensible!!

You know what I hate? Feeling retarded.

I am actually pretty conceited when it comes to things of an "intellectual" nature. I fancy myself well-educated, well-spoken and well-read. I can play the pretentious cards with the best of 'em. I can recite parts of the Canterbury Tales in OLD ENGLISH. I can tell you how Romeo and Juliet ends. I know, I know. You're pretty impressed about now. I also use some big words now again -- like "fatitious" and "myriad" and "juxtaposition."

And, of course, "incomprehensible."

Incomprehensible means, according to Webster, "impossible to effin' understand."

As in "the way I felt when I came across THIS PARAGRAPH while researching a topic for my MASTER'S DEGREE (that's right -- I'm just tossin' it in there for added validity) paper."

Departing from the assumption that focus is nonuniform (Drubig 1994; Kiss 1998) this paper takes preliminary steps toward a typology of focus and focus constructions. Focus is taken to be a syntactic feature assigned freely to word-level categories at numeration, licensed either by integration into a wider domain (presentational focus constructions) or by overt/covert movement to a functional projection headed by a polarity formative (focus operator constructions). Cross-linguistic variation in the target position of focus movement (sentence-peripheral vs. verb-adjacent) supports the stipulation of two polarity projections, one in COMP and one in INFL, with different effects on interpretation. A serious problem confronts the movement analysis of narrow focus in a number of languages that show striking parallels between focus and relative constructions (Schachter 1973): in some languages of this type sentence-peripheral foci bind resumptive pronouns without weak crossover or island effects. In this paper I propose a cleft analysis for this type of focus construction and discuss its typological implications.

In case you're wondering, "yes," it is in English. I sent it through an online translation program just to be sure.

Seriously. Does anyone understand this thing? (Don't answer if you do -- I don't need to be shown up by stuck-up smarty-pants bastards. Kevin.)

So, I didn't like the way this particular paragraph made me feel. Lesser-than. Dumb. Foolish. White-trashy. Ass-like. Arkansasian.

This phrase alone makes me what to pull my hair out: "sentence-peripheral foci bind resumptive pronouns without weak crossover or island effects." The guy who wrote this needs to move in with his fellow Mensa nerds and they can write this crap then read it aloud at their circle-jerk campfire.

And no, I'm not bitter. Just dumb, apparently.

Going Once, Going Twice...

You know what I hate? When I miss out on a really good deal. You know, like when you stay nestled in your bed on Black Friday instead of heading out for a $3.00 computer at WalMart or a ten-cent 5.1 mexapixel digital camera. Sometimes, I splurge on grocery store items that I just CAN'T live without. Like Cookie Crisp. And Doritos. Then, I go in the next week to find they're on sale. And I curse myself and toss a few more bags of Doritos in the cart cuz now I'm depressed over my financial misfortune.

So, you can imagine how dissapppointed I was when I missed the boat on the deal offered in the picture below! (go ahead; scroll down) Dammit! Now I'll have to pay the full price.

I really hate throwing money away.

Raw Buns

You know what I hate? Panty lines. Lately, when I turn sideways to view my silhouette, I've noticed that I'm lumpy. I think I might possibly be the only woman in dress slacks still wearing cotton briefs.

So I got myself a thong. I know what you're saying: "REEEEEOWWWWWWWW." But hey, I ain't trying to be sexy. I'm oversized, remember. I know about the disgust that accompanies the juxtaposition of thongs and big boned girls. I, myself, have snickered and scoffed upon witnessing the top of a thong peeking out the waistband of a size-18 girl's leggins.

And now I'm one of them. A fattie in a thong.

But I assure you that my thong isn't hanging out the top of my pants. Why? Because it's tightly fused to the inside of my ass.

Let me say this: wearing a thong all day with polyester pants really isn't so bad...

...if you like the feeling of crawling across a tight-rope in your birthday suit. Or going on an off-road hayride wearing your favorite crotchless panties. Or having an 'Indian Burn' done on your anus.

The good news is there was ne'er a panty line to be seen on me today. The bad news: I'm going to have to ask my husband to rub some salve in my crack.

Happiest Place on Earth???

You know what I hate? The happiest place on earth. In case you don't know what this is, it's the cute little moniker that some over-zealous and acid-tripping marketing numskulls gave to Disneyland many, many years ago. The problem I have is not necessarily with Disneyland itself. Because Space Mountain rocked as much last week as it did when me and my best friend Missy hopped on that sweet-ass gravity defying wonder circa 1982.

No, the problem I have is with that slogan. Come on. The happiest place on earth? Have the marketing people at Disney never been to a Dunkin Donuts when the sales staff is being generous with the munchkin allotment? That's what I'm talkin' bout.

I really think they missed the boat on this one. I mean, I could think of a hundred better adjectives that would depict the Disney experience. Like...

The most expensive place on earth (my husband already stole my thunder on this one) or...

The white trashiest place on earth. Did we stand in the Thunder Mountain line with a grown man sporting a big fat hairy torso while being called "paw-paw" and wearing overalls with no shirt underneath? Yes. Is the image burned into my gray matter forever and ever? I certainly freakin' hope so!

The most sexually confused place on earth. If you're a man, with a wife, and you're donning not just Mickey Mouse ears, but GOLD 50th anniversary Mickey Mouse ears, while also proudly displaying your Lion King pin collection on a decorative ribbon around your neck, then you might want to go have a talk with George Michael about gettin' some shit straightened out (or unstraightened out as it were -- har har). Just sayin'.

The most Chineseiest place on earth. Come on. Don't act like I'm being racist. You and I both know that there's a reason the showerhead in our hotel only came up to my boobies. Crap in Disneyland is designed for the little Asians.

Case in point: we saw lots of this...

And this...


And, of course, this....

Well, as they say in China: "Man who run behind car get exhausted. Man who run in front of car get tired."

Vacation

Please look for new blogs coming November 5th!!

Itty Bitty Teetie Committee

Note: I will not be posting anything again until Nov. 5th as I'm vacationing in California!

You know what I hate? Today's youth. Not for the reasons you'd think, though. Not for the fact that they have no respect for adults or the fact that they spray paint gang insignia on the back of my block wall. Not for the fact that smoke cigarettes in my alley and leave their used condoms on the playground of the park. I guess I expect all that. I hate today's youth because they're way better lookin' than I was as an adolescent.

There's this phenomenon amongst teenage girls these days. I'm not sure if you've noticed it. In addition to being uncommonly good looking, they're....well...amplified. They're waaaaaaaaaay more endowed than me and all my friends were when we were entering puberty circa 1982. If you still aren't sure what I'm talking about, let me state it in layperson's terminology used by my always-eloquent 80-year-old grandpa, "them big-tittied blondes." (Oh yes he did say that.)
What the hell? Where are were my boobs? I got gypped! I belonged to Flatties R Us club and was treasurer of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee (IBTC).

My husband comments frequently on his feeling cheated as well. He went to high school with a bunch of deflatees. Cause that's what most of us were back then. He often pontificates about whether high school boys appreciate the gift bestowed upon them by the breast Gods.

A lot of articles suggest it's the boobie growth hormone (rBGH) found in non-organic milk these days. Greedy farmers inject their heffers with it so they're teets get really gargantuous. Interesting theory, but I drink a lot of milk and....

...I'm still planning events for the IBTC.

Anyone got any better theories???

Stand and Work

You know what I hate? Cheap businesses. First they start laying Americans off and sending work to India, then they jack up the prices their employees pay for health insurance, and now...this?

What? Is it too much to ask that employees have a chair to sit on? Apparently it is, because while searching the Microsoft Clipart site for photos of computers, I found not just these, but many other pictures of people subjected to the inhumane torture of standing while working on the computer.

Look at the contorted grimace on the face of the grandma lady in the picture. She's like, "only 2 effin' years until retirement you cheap bastards!" Or maybe she just has gas. Or engorged varicose veins. Or a torqued syatic nerve. Whatever. The point is that she's hurting. Badly. All due to her company's greed.

Thank goodness my company doesn't make us stand up while we work! However, we do have an employee "good ideas" box in the lunchroom. Maybe I could suggest it? Imagine the money saved if we cut cut the cost of chairs. I mean, those things ain't cheap! Especially the ones made for our big-boned population, because they not only require extra padding but also extra springs and shock absorbers. Hmmm...do I see a bonus in my future? Perhaps.

Now, this lady doesn't seem too terribly upset about having to stand-and-work. I'm guessing she just porked the CFO in the janitor's closet and will be cashing in on her own little bonus. Nothing else would quite explain that smile .

And then this. THIS if freakin' genius in the world of cost-cutting. I mean, not only did this company auction their chairs off to the St. Vincent De Paul, but they're also making these two share a computer AND phone. So out of the box!

Damn that capitalism -- always thinking of the great ideas before I do.

Crappy Husbands

You know what I hate? Marathon Movements. No, I'm not talking about sprints and fartleks and speed intervals during a 26.2-mile race! Not those kind of movements. I'm talking about the 3-hour crap-fests that my husband celebrates at least once per day. You know the phrase "shit or get off the pot?" This was invented by my husband's mother. Really.

So, you're probably going, "ahhh, come on. Cut the guy some slack. I mean, a man's gotta poop, right?" But you've obviously never lived with someone as fecally-endowed as my husband. Two hours or more per day on the pot? Come on. That's not right. Or normal. Ever hear of a spastic colon? Yeah, my husband hasn't either. But he's probably heard of its counterpart, the Relaxed Colon. Or, the Spastic Colon On Ritalin. Yes, I'm certain he's heard of those.

Alright, so maybe I'm being a little bit dramatic. But honestly, I do think my husband's love affair with the porcelain bowl is a passive-aggressive ASSault on our marriage.

Let's just be honest. Marathon-movementing husbands: I'm gonna share something with you. We wives know what's going on. I mean, we're not dumbasses. We know that you're looking for a quiet repreive away from us. We know you prefer the "crapper" over our non-stop "yapper." We know that it's not coincidence that your bowels start to percolate at the exact same time that we decide we want to share an interesting story about getting our period a day early or buying makeup that was one shade too dark. We know you're in there, hiding away from us, mock-flipping through the pages of your Newsweek, and thinking you have pulled a fast one on us. You haven't. We're on to you.

So there. Excessive pooping is a form of neglect. And I don't like being neglected. Am I a needy wife? No. Do I sometimes wish the house would spontaneously combust while my husband is half-way into one of his 3-hour fecal fests? You bet.

I don't like sharing my husband's attention with 'the john' but I've come up with a few tactics for getting him out quickly. Neglected spouse everywhere, these are for you:

1) Wrap lightly on the door, and in your nicest voice say, "honey? what are you doing?" He is forced say, "pooping" which makes him feel feeble and vulnerable and generally a flush is within 3 minutes from this annoying interuption.
2) Drop something and say, "OH MY GOD!" really loudly. He'll think the TV fell on you or something and generally come to your aid within 5-10 minutes.
3) Stand at the door and continue the conversation you were having when he started gathering up his magazine and unbuckling his belt. Somehow, it's just not the same and he'll flush that pot within seconds.
4) Say: "Oh sweetie, you should put that down. I don't think Daddy would like that you're playing with his (insert favorite man-toy here)." This one yields a very fast result; perhaps too fast. If you do the laundry in your household, you might need a clorox pen for his undies.
5) In the other bathroom, plug in your hairdryer, flattening iron, cd player and fan then turn it all on at once. The power WILL go off. And he'll be left in a dark tooter room. Oh well; I mean, it's not like we control the power grid. Cheesh!
6) Wait until one of the kids is in the second bathroom then start jumping around the front of the bathroom door yelling, "hurry. I'm gonna go right here if I can't get in there really, really fast."
7) Put "UFC Unleashed" on the TV -- loud enough so he'll hear it, of course.
8) Tell him you're naked.
9) Call his cell phone. He'll hear it ringing and think it's one of his friends.
10) Just go in, start the shower up, and pretend he's not there.

You're welcome.

Tip for Success: Skip the First Grade!

You know what I hate? Rich retards. Poor retards, or even middle-class retards, are generally acceptable. But rich retards are just too much of a contradiction. Like, they boggle my brain.

Do you all remember the first grade? Playing dollies with your friends. Chasing boys. Learning how to make a simple sentence. Good times.

But wait? How is it that rich retards seem to have missed the first grade altogether -- particularly that lesson on sentence construction? And how is it that they now make double what I make? And last, how is it that they are finding me contract jobs as a, gasp...writer?

Here is a sample of a sentence written by the rich retards at the consulting firm that is prostituting me out to other companies for a profit. This comes from their "official" HR manual:

"Clients tell us this...97.5% Client Satisfaction index, over 92% of our Associates welcome back...are just some of the ways that say so."

I did NOTHING to this sentence. I swear! I didn't add the ellipses, didn't make it sound worse than it already was, didn't make it up.

Sad. So terribly sad.

The lesson: screw the first freakin' grade! Who needs it?

Elevator-riding Smokers

You know what I hate? Elevator-riding smokers. These are the people who holler "hold the door" just when you think you're well on your way to floor #4; the people who cram their bloated up smoker's arm in between the metal doors; the people who, once their summer-sausagesque hand interrupts your ride, climb aboard and fill the (recirculating) air with a puke-a-fied Pall-Mall stench; the people who, in an unprecedented act of selfishness and disrespect, have the GALL to push the #2 button on the elevator, not only doubling your ride time but also making it extremely putridsome to stand next to you.

YOU SUCK, Elevator-riding smokers. Get some dignity. Some self-respect. Some non-blackened lungs that can haul your sausagey self up one flight of stairs! I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nobody in the elevator likes you. In fact, we all want to kill you. Or key your car. Which is probably parked in handicapped. But then again, you do have a little black lung.

For you, elevator smokers, here are the socially acceptable rules of elevator riding which I'm going to assume you've never read:

1) In a 4-story building, it is acceptable to ride to both the 3rd or 4th floor. It is more acceptable to ride to the 4th floor, because research shows that perspiration occurs when climbing three+ stories. However, some theorists argue that 3rd floor riding is also socially accepted and I tend to agree, even though I take the stairs for anything under the 4th floor.
2) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are crippled.
3) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are gigantically fat, though we co-riders would prefer that you didn't haul your greasy hashbrowns up with you.
4) For all other circumstances, it is NOT acceptable to ride the elevator to the second floor. This includes the circumstances of laziness and nicotine-induced weeziness.

So there, you little lazy-ass stinkoids.

Goin' Granny

You know what I hate? Getting all old. Shit's breakin' down and fallin' off . I'm not talking about the shallow insecurities that other women of my age stress out over: wrinkles, saggy boobs, fat gut. I expected all that crap. It's some of the more unexpected treats of aging that are pissing me off.

Statements such as, "have you seen my (enter body part here) lately honey?" and "what the hell? that wasn't there yesterday" and "honey, can you push this (enter body part here) back into place?" are some common phrases in my household now that I'm past the age of 35.

So, yeah, getting old sucks. I don't recommend it. And here are the top 10 reasons why:

1) Pubes aren't just isolated to the private parts anymore! That's right -- it's sproutin' up all over the damned place. If you're wrinkling up your nose and saying, "gross" and acting all superior right now, just stop! Because that would make you a hypocrite. Because I know and you know that you have hair growing out of nooks and crannies that haven't seen the light of day since your wild college partying days. Be honest. Have you ever heard of a breast beard? Nah, me neither.

2) Somewhere around age 32, I stopped being able to laugh, cough or do step aerobics without pissing myself. I'm the one in your aerobics class doing the dumb, half-assed one leg out to the side while the rest of you whipper snappers with tight cagles are doing jumping jacks.

3) I never saw, owned or needed a callous remover prior to age 30. But now that my heels look like this...

... I'm always having to saw it off with special sandblasters and shit. Sometimes pebbles and crumbs and woodchips get stuck in the crevices then I saw the crust down until the pebble or crumb or woodchip is liberated. The good news is I haven't needed to buy 300 grit sandpaper in years. I refinished an entire armoire with these things.

4) Why does every meal have to now be topped off with some sweets? That's such a grandma thing. "Them was some good vittles. Now, where'd I put that mince-meat pie?"

5) I used to have a lot of freckles. They were cute. I looked so youthful and fresh and huggable. Kristy McNicholish. Tatum O'Nealish. Freckles, however, with very little coaxing, will jeckyl and hyde themselves into age spots and moles. And we all know what grows out of moles.... (cross reference to issue #1).

6) Libido Schmido. I've renamed it to Nobido.

7) Should I feel my ovaries shriveling? Cause I do.

8) Two things I never had to do as a kid: sit on the pot or run quickly to the pot. So what the hell? I just want my ass to make up its mind: regular or highly irregular. Which is it, ass?

9) Yelling at neighborhood kids. One minute you're one of them, and the next minute you're standing out front waving your arms like a banshee yelling, "get your mini-bikes out of my alley you little hoodlums."

10) My ability to use the phrase "bless her little heart" in a sentence at least 10 times a day.

So, for all you youngsters out there reading this, heed my warning. Getting old is the pits.

Canal Fishers

You know what I hate? Canal fishers. Yeah, these are my lovely neighborhood peers who haul their grubby little Igloo coolers down to the canal banks of downtown Sunnyslope , toss a line in, and wait for a beheaded body catfish to hook itself on the lure.

I'm sorry, but are we really this hungry in Phoenix? Cause I'm thinkin' starvation is a better course of action than eating catfish from the banks of Sunnyslope. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'd be better off eating a spinach leaf with a hyperdermic needle stuck to it than you would eating a crud-water carp. Have you looked into the depths of a canal lately? Seriously. Let's think about this: canals are serial killers' preferred venue for dumping their bodies. This can't be a good sign!

I won't even talk about the fact that a canal is the poor-man's bidet. The poor, homeless man who has the runs due to eating a rotten hotdog from the QT garbage (true story, courtesy of my husband). I won't talk about that. Because I want you to enjoy your crap-flavored carp.

Or maybe this isn't about the food. Maybe we're not that hungry or desparate in Phoenix. Maybe it's about the sport. Yeah, the sport. As in, "kids -- go get your fishin' poles; we're headin' down to the wastewater treatment facility to have us some fu-uuun!" To this, I say, good for you. Good for you, canal fishin' dad, for taking the li'l ones for an afternoon outing they'll never forget.

They'll never forget the bloated prostitute torso floating by, or the used condoms bobbing in the water like a few slightly off-kiltered synchronized swimmers, or the brown engorged baby diaper, or the shardy crack pipe pieces or the bum washing his ass after eating a rotten QT hotdog. They'll never forget that day. These are the things from which memories are made.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take the kids to the Nuclear Power Plant to roast some marshmallows. Family fun for all!

Semicolon Bunglers

You know what I hate? Semicolon bunglers. I would normally say, “You know who you are,” but, in fact, you don’t. Because semicolon bunglers are pretty much clueless. And dumbassed.

One thing that significantly feeds my superiority complex is my ability to use the semicolon properly. It’s an elite club. To join, you must be able to punctuate a sentence using a semicolon in a non-retarded fashion. This, unfortunately, is reflective of about 1 percent of the American population. So, yeah, I’m in the club. And if you're reading this, you most likely aren’t. I'm sorry; I know that's harsh. But I don't make up the statistics; I just report them. It’s okay; I still like you. Just don’t go trying to crash my club. Don’t be like that greasy-haired dork who thinks he can sit at the jocks’ table. People will know you're a fraud.

So, how can you know whether you’re using the semicolon correctly or incorrectly? Let’s dig into the details. First of all, know this: the semi-colon is not the Leatherman of punctuation. It can’t be used to group your dependent clauses, end your sentences, OR open your can of beans. It doesn’t work like that. It’s a very special symbol with a very special purpose. So stop bastardizing it!

Here is a real-life example of someone who has clearly not learned proper use of the semicolon. On a side note, he has also clearly not had enough oxygen during childbirth.

"I sent this information out before; if you develop any automation scripts for BUSA; you have to follow the procedure listed below; the metrics have to be captured; You need to follow the below procedure for any script that you have already running; and scripts in development."

No, I’m not joking. This email came to me a few days ago from a well-respected colleague. He should be put into an abuse program for overuse of the semicolon. Semicolons Anonymous or Retards-R-Us or something.

While this is extremely annoying, it at least demonstrates a willingness to embrace the semicolon. Many others, anticipating the tedious rigmarole of pledging to the Semicolon Sorority, simply shut down, refusing to even try using it correctly. These are the people who turn to the ellipsis in times of distress. The people who preserve the integrity of one grammatical symbol while mutilating another. You’ve surely seen it before…however, you might not have noticed. The ellipsis just sneaks in there like it’s lived there all along.

People: punctuation marks are not inter-changeable! You can”t just go, and, put ? them in strange: places *willy-nilly*@.

So, I’m sure that I’ve intrigued everyone to learn how to PROPERLY use the semicolon, and lower their "special needs status" to a respectable level. Well, lucky for you, Sunday is National Punctuation Day. For those of us in the elite Fraternal Order of Punctuation Snobs (FOPS), this day is in our honor! Thank you, Jeff Rubin!

For the rest of you, stop being so abusive to the semicolon! What did it ever do to you?

http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/semicolon.html

Meet Potty Grunters

You know what I hate? Potty Grunters. Potty Grunters is wife to Gym Grunters, who I wrote about in an earlier post. Potty Grunters thinks we should all know about "her business" -- "her business" being piss and shit.

Yes, Potty Grunters is the ma'am in the handicapped stall next to you. She isn't handicapped unless spastic colon qualifies. Potty Grunters sounds as if she's giving birth to an alligator -- teeth first. Like her husband, Gym, she has no vocal restraint whatsoever.

Potty Grunters doesn't only grunt when squeezing off a baseball bat-sized turd; she actually finds every task difficult. Sitting down, standing up, flushing. The CACAphony coming from her stall makes me want to toss a hand grenade in there with her. That's right -- if Irritable Bowel Syndrome doesn't kill Potty Grunters, I might.

Sadly, Potty Grunters is JUST the type of person who sometimes skips the hand-washing. I mean, the world revolves around POTTY GRUNTERS, so get over her stinky poo germs already!!!

If the Cuddler fits, wear it!

You know what I hate? The fat-lady-ailments that doctors are starting to test me for. Things like diabetes and hyperthyroidism and circulation. Should I be taking a hint from this?

The latest esteem-busting test was for heel spurs, as in "your dense body is crushing your feet." I got an x-ray for that one. Heel spurs? Check.

The worst thing about heel spurs is that my leg swells up like a Walrus flipper. Check out this picture of my cankle thighkle.



The second worst thing about my heel spurs is that I had to go to Kmart and buy "Cobbie Cuddlers." Have you heard of "Cobbie Cuddlers?" Yeah, they're designed for nurses and fat girls. They're really comfy. Really cuddly.

Unfortunately, the Cuddlers don't come in that many varieties. So, when it comes to footwear, I'm pretty much lookin' like my grammie. Here is a picture of a Cobbie Cuddler in case you can't get the full appreciation. Beautiful, huh? I think Bea Arthur wore these to the Tony Awards once.

I hate to say it, but my Cuddlers are so pleasurable to my feet, that I'm falling in love with them. I can only imagine what's next in my premature fashion aging: some stretch denim, a cross-your-heart bra and a hairnet?

The runs

You know what I hate? Food that gives me the runs. But you know what I hate even more? Food that already IS the runs. Case in point: the new "Whips" yogurt by Yoplait.

No, I'm not kidding. This is, indeed, edible. At least that's what the container said. I personally don't dine on anything that looks like it came out my dog's ass after said dog consumed a half disintegrated roof rat and 4 cat turds from the litter box. However, apparently, some people are buying this crap by the flats.

You might be wondering why the hell I bought this if it's so gross. The answer: clever advertisting. Look at the container. I mean, it represents this fecalish mess in such an innocent, if not downright mouth-watering, way. I mean, look at how "Whips" is all frilly and cursive. I would use that type of font to describe something good and tasty. Unfortunately, that's not the type of font I would use to describe assgurt. Yes, I was duped.

My husband and I had a slight disagreement about the origins of this product. While I thought it seemed very scattish in nature, he thought it looked like brain matter. Unfortunately, being a cop, he's seen his share of brain matter. We had a slight tiff over what the yogurt most resembled. In the end, we decided it didn't really matter. Brain dumplins or frothy feces -- either way it was NOT going to be eaten in our house.

College: It Ain't What It Used to Be

You know what I hate? Academia. Even saying that word makes me feel like I'm trying to act smart. It's so pretentious. I prefer the term "school" or "a place to get some smarts."

As many of you know, I've decided to go back to school and get a Master's degree so I can be an elementary school teacher. I hadn't stepped foot on a college campus for the past 13 years....until Wednesday night. A lot has changed. And not necessarily for the good. My main observation: when did everyone get so dang dumb? Honestly, people. You are retarded. God help the youth of tomorrow if you people are going to be teaching them.

Where to start, where to start. Whoa, nelly. Here we go...

First of all, did you know that Granny Clampett is still alive? Yeah, she is. I know because she's in my class. You thought she was old in her Beverly Hillbillies days -- you should see her now! She needs to have everything repeated twice. She takes notes at a speed of 1/10th the time I take notes. And, she can't see a damned thing. Thus, the instructor reads lengthy URL's to her, letter-by-letter! Poor Granny. Shame on Jethro and Jed for spending all of the Clampett fortune and leaving Granny with no other option than to turn to a career of teaching. Greedy boys.

There is also a poor 40-something year old woman in our class who, bless her heart, has been living in a cave for the past 20 years. I know, huh? How horrible. How horrible that she not only hasn't changed her hair since emerging from the cave, but that she also completely missed out on the roll-out of the Personal Computer! "What's Powerpoint?" "I've never cut and pasted; how do you do that?" and "Could you show me how to log into our student website one hundred more times?" were some common phrases coming out of this poor soul's mouth. Twenty years is a long time to have been in a cave. I'm not sure if she'll be able to come up to speed within the 2 years of this program -- at least before someone in the class kills her.

Imagine my surprise when entering the class to find that there were 23 women and only 2 men. Shocking! And then one of the two men told us his name: "Bible Boy." Okay, that wasn't really his name but it may as well have been. He loves the Lord. Okay. We get it. Move on. No, but really, he loves the Lord. Like, really, really, really loves the Lord. Yeah, okay. But let's get a start on our assignment, okay? But you don't understand: he LOVES THE LORD. What the hell is wrong with you people? HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. He even proudly stated that he was able to put personal differences aside to read Steven Covey's "Seven Habits of Successful People" book. I didn't know what this had to do with the Lord, but then Bible Boy clarified it for me. STEVEN COVEY IS A MORMON. A MORMON I TELL YOU. And Bible Boy still managed to read his book. What a good Bible Boy. Jesus loves you, Bible Boy.

Then there was the instructor. He was really and truly a nice guy. And he seemed to pretty much know what he was talking about. But dude, 'Boolean' is pronounced "Boo-lee-in" not "Boleen." Come on. You have a PhD. And you're like the superintendent of a hundred slummy schools in the hood. We should know these things. We doctors. I can't help but say I'm a bit ashamed. But I'm willing to let it slide cause you let us out 15 minutes early. Thank you.

I can't end this post without admitting my own college shortcomings. As I said, it's been awhile. So, when doing a "skill inventory" for our Learning Team (Learning Team = retarded concept that everyone should work on homework together), I asked, "Who's good at doing library research." I received a lot blank stares. Girl who just graduated (possibly young enough to be my offspring) says, "Oh. I've never been to the library. Not once." Apparently, all research is now done online. I found myself wondering what inhabits the huge underground "library" on ASU's main campus. The one that I had to lug my shit down into for each research paper during the '90s. The one that I sat in front of many a microfilm machines twisting two knobs in random patters until my page appeared. The one whose bound-up old magazines I had to locate and blow the dust off of just to get a reference. What is in that building now? I want to know. Spin classes? A Starbucks? An oxygen bar? Does anyone reading this go to ASU?

Despite it all, I'm really excited about college. I mean, how many people can say they know a cavegirl, Granny Clampett and a real, live Bible Boy?

Meet Gym Grunters

You know what I hate? Gym Grunters. I know, when you say that aloud, it sounds like the name of a real estate agent with bushy sideburns. But I'm not referring to that Jim Grunters. I'm referring to those really annoying buffheads at the gym who think they're being impressive when they make orgasma noises while working out.

Here's a newsflash: KNOCK IT the EFF OFF! You are not cool. You are not sexy. You do not make me want to 'do' you. You do not impress me. You are not as strong as you think you are. You look like an idiot. You look like a retard. You look like a retarded idiot!

Let's just get something straight here: I pushed an 8-pound child through my 1-inch-diameter hoo-ha and didn't grunt as much as the idiot at LA Fitness this morning. The entire building shook. There were large ripples in the olympic-sized pool. Fat ladies' cellulite shimmied. All because of our hero, Gym Grunters, who undoubtedly ended his workout with a cigarette and nap.

Honestly, I was ready to murder him. I'm pretty sure I could have gotten away with it -- you know, the 'self-defense' defense. Like, "were I not to kill him, I surely would have killed myself." But instead of taking an ax to his grunting head, I skipped my second set of the lower bitorsal lunge presses and headed for home. Now my bitorsals will be all off balance. One side bigger than the other and shit.

Thanks, Gym Grunters! Thanks a lot.

P.S. My apologies for not posting more often. I received some very shocking and horrible news recently...I got a job. Alas, my year of unemployment ends. It was quite a ride. While I haven't yet started (Sept 5), I find myself trying to milk my last moments of laziness. The good news is that "where there are people trying to act important, there are many a blog to be written."

Cracker Jaxass

You know what I hate? The Cracker Jax. I don't want to hate them. I want to love them. Want my big front teeth to crack the caramel coating only to expose the spongy sinew of the popcorn inside. Want to bust a bridge on the Boston Baked Beanesque peanuts. Want to revel in the fact that I'm eating a healthy snack, because the box tells me it's Fat Free.

I've loved the Cracker Jax in my past. They've been good to me. Cheered me up when I was low. Comforted me when I was lonely. When Fiddle Faddle came in and tried to monopolize the candy-coated popcorn market, I'd have none of it! Because the Cracker Jax was yummy. And it was a snack with a toy "surprise" in every box. That, in my book, is called a Happy Meal. And what kid wouldn't commit to a life of loyalty to the brand that tosses a toy in every box?

But my love affair is dwindling. My loyalty sharply waning. Why? It's all because of that damned little toy "surprise."

Let me just premise this rant with this observation: Lately, the "surprise" is finding a peanut in the box! It used to be that you'd get at least a nut in every bite. And then, once you got to the bottom of the box…two words: peanut frenzy. Cuz peanuts like to lay low. I respect that. In fact, this low-laying theory introduced me to my first scientific principle: Things in motion tend to stay in motion; things that are really tasty but heavy tend to fall to the bottom of the box, so go ahead and open that effer up from the wrong end. Or something to that effect. I haven’t been to school for 15 years, so I don’t remember it exactly.

But the chinziness with the nuts is actually the least of my worries. What really, really concerns me is the caliber of “surprise” that they’re passing off as “fun” lately.

I’ll admit it – I get an increased pulse when I open a box of the Cracker Jax, bottom’s up, and rattle my hand around until I feel the little square “surprise”. I’m thinkin’…tattoo, sticker, tiny coloring book, maybe something involving harmless dyes and my tongue. I’m pretty easy going.

But then I tear the perforations off and find this bitch?!?

First of all, never heard of this dude. What century is he supposedly from? Secondly, I am a girl. I don’t like sports or the guys who play them. B-O-R-I-N-G. Thirdly, you expect me to read a bio in the name of “fun” and “toy” and “surprise”? Since when did reading become fun? I missed that memo.

And check out the front of the “surprise.”

Collector’s Item? Really? So, like, in 100 years, my great-great grandchildren can book their flight to the Smithsonian and cash in on ma-maw’s mint-condition baseball bio? Sweet! I’m gonna go ahead and spend the inheritance I’ve been saving up. Clearly, they won’t need it.

Hating the 80s

You know what I hate? That 'The 80s' are back in style. I said goodbye to my leg warmers, my drop-waisted dresses, my lace-fringed leggins and my flourescent green string-bean tie. And I haven't really missed them.

The issue I have with 'The 80s' being back in style is that 92% of the population of Arizona is still wearing clothes and hairstyles from that decade! Walk onto the campus of any local call center and you'll feel immediately transported to a Tiffany concert. Spiral perms, teased bangs, sun-tanned hoisery. Ouch!

Except now, these spandex-donning-has-beens are on the cutting edge of au couture! And I, in my bootcut pants (I refuse to buy "skinny jeans" in a size 14 -- the irony is too overwhelming), will appear so...last year.

Say it ain't so.

The fact is, it's too soon for the styles of 'the 80s'to come back. I'm a child of that decade, and I haven't even had my 20 year reunion for God's sakes. Didn't we skip a few decades to resurrect? I haven't seen a poodle skirt in my lifetime, yet I'm having to weather the Flashdance fringe-sweatshirt twice? How is that fair?

I just finished growing my hair out --bangs and all. It was pure hell getting there. And it's all for naught! Because in order to be 80's glam, I'm gonna need to taper the sides a bit.

Like this, from my sophomore yearbook:

On the left! (I included my cross-margin counterpart as a public service reminder that pot does indeed kill brain cells.)

Go ahead. Make a joke or two about my appearance.

"What do you get when you sandwich a cherrio between two petrified marshmallows? MY EARRINGS!"

"The Flock of Seagulls called -- they said Fred Flinstone wants his hairstyle back!!"

Funny. Yeah, funny. I'm laughin' all the way to Supercuts.

Vicki Bo Peep

You know what I hate? When you spend a lot of time needlessly wondering why you are the way you are. I tend to fixate on the fact that my parents are tidy, and their home is like that in a magazine, and they're always fashionable and well-groomed and clean. And me and my kids can tend to be, well, the opposite.

And I sometimes doubt my adequacy as a parent when I do something completely unbourgeois such as declare it "popsicle breakfast day" or "wear our slippers to the grocery store day" or "we can brush our teeth tomorrow day."

I just can't deny it anymore. I'm totally ghetto. And I've been wondering how the hell I got this way when my parents and sisters are so seemingly respectable.

And then, the other day, I came across this:

Contrary to what you might be thinking, this is NOT part of the ad campaign for the remake of 'Heidi.' It is actually a picture of me at age four and a half. On my farm. With my pet goat. Barefooted. And no, that's not spilled cocoa puffs off to the left of the picture. It is, in fact, goat turdlets.

Laugh all you want. But I was glad to reacquaint myself with this picture, because now I know. I know why I am the way I am. Why I am a white-trash hick. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But now I can stop wondering.

I do have some questions for my parents after finding this image. Questions such as: 'how long since my knees were cleaned?' and 'what did we have against hairbrushes?' and 'did the ASPCA know our goat had no water?' and 'Dad -- weren't you a structural engineer? I thought so. So why did our goat live under a shanty-town shack?' These are important issues. I may never know the answers.

But what I do know, finally, is that the person I am today is due to my roots. My little hobo-girl upbringing. It's not 'just me.' My parents were ghetto once, too. And I now have proof. See? So there's hope for me. One day, I'll outgrow my white-trashiness like my parents did. If I'm lucky.

Reward: For the safe return of 5 spoons and 18 carmexes

You know what I hate? Magically disappearing items. It seems that there are some household components that are simply hellbent on sprouting legs and finding a better life elsewhere. I can think of no other explanation for the fact that some items consistently turn up missing in my household.

The biggest offenders -- it's a tie -- are socks and spoons. I swear to God that every time I do a load of laundry, I find at least 4 sock widows. Where are they all going? To dance and rock out at lollaPAWlooza? To party it up with other cotton co-eds at Club PED? To feast and dine on MooSHOE Pork at the Chen Wok down the street? Seriously, WHERE ARE THEY? They're not under my bed. They're not in the kids' toyboxes. They're not behind the washing machine. They literally VANISH. Somebody, please explain.

And spoons? I used to have 'service for 8' but now I'm down to 3 spoons. (I'm talking the normal sized spoons, not the monster spoons that were designed for NBA players and Big Foot. The kind where you can basically skip the bowl and just pour your soup right into the spoon reservoir. I still have all eight of those.) Where are my spoons? And why are all the butter knives still intact? I really need a conspiracy expert to help me out here.

Other items always missing when you need them: the tie that actually comes with your robe, leaving you to bungee your pretty silk komono shut; bobby pins, which you purchase in packs of 100 and run out of every 30 days, meaning you somehow lose 3 per day which is unbelievifying considering you rarely wear bobby pins; corn on the cob holders, half of which get ground up in your garbage disposal, the other half of which join the socks and bobby pins in the great abyss leaving you to try and gingerly hold a steaming hot and greased up cob without permanently damaging your fingerprint; a pen -- any pen -- or even a pencil, crayon, highlighter -- to jot down a number when you're on the phone; the receipt for the pants that are too tight for your fat ass (though you have every other receipt for any items purchased in the past year in your bulbous wallet -- your $2.10 trip to QT, your tampons at Walgreens, your entire family's movie ticket stubs for "Cars"); and last, but not least, lip balm -- loads of lip balm (seriously, have you ever actually finished a chapstick before losing it?).

I am dying to know WHERE THESE ITEMS ARE GOING? What am I missing here? What lies beyond the world that I know? Is there some type of alternate universe where spoons and chapstick are idolized? Am I alone in experiencing this phenomenon?

Man's Best Friend

You know what I hate? The way my dogs insist on annoying me with phlegm-based noises all night long. The way they carry on with their slurping and sucking, you'd think they were starring in their own doggie porn video.

The most annoying factor of the slurping that takes place every night is the variety. So many noises! So few mouths! The hell?

First, there is BoeDee. He was chosen for his unadoptable qualities when he shone his ghastly underbite at me during "mutant dog adoption week" at PetsMart. He's ugly, morbidly overweight, wiry and makes more 'slurpies' than a crowded 7-11! He alternates gnawing and sucking, gnawing and sucking, much like what you might do when faced with a particularly leathery slice of beef jerky. If I need to get up for any reason during the night, I usually tread lightly, as I'm convinced one of these days I'm going to step on his bloody, detached gnaw-paw.

Then, there's Asia. She is the more sleek and attractive of the duo. Soft fur, normal girth, teeth that aren't screaming for a headgear. Her method of sucking makes me want to commit harey carey. Honestly. It's slow, deliberate, almost perverse. And its rhythm never changes: tongue rolling out, long slow slurp, tongue rolling in, repeat. Chinese water torture's got NOTHIN' in this maddening torment.

Her tedious, repetitious cacophony is sometimes punctuated by what I can describe only as "there's a flea on me so I'm gonna snot it to death." This usually occurs in the dead of night, when everyone is sound asleep, only to be awakened by a spastic jingling collar, pig-like snorting, and an amazing display of doggie flexibility as she somehow gets her nose to the top of her back. She nibbles at the phantom flea the way I eat my corn on the cob...if I were eating corn on the cob while blowing my nose on it.

They say that dog is man's best friend. But, apparently, 'man' hasn't spent a night in my house!

Tickle Me Nomo

You know what I hate? Tickling. That's right. As in, "I'm going to poke my rigid fingers into your armpits and make you squeal" type tickling. Yes, I know that tickling is "fun" and "cute" and "game-like" and that children seem to "enjoy" it. But come on, children also enjoy eating Play-Dough and wiping their own shit on the walls. Nuff said.

The deal is that I suffer from an ailment called hyper-ticklitis. It's a serious disorder. It can cause heart attacks, nervous breakdowns, blood clots to the brain, and, in severe cases, peed-on panties. My husband has been exploiting my condition for the past 10 years, and he's recently certified my children in "mommy tickle torture" as well.

They think it's funny when they tickle me. Why? Because I laugh hysterically. I roar. I howl. I chortle. Yet I'm miserable. There is no worse torture. But my loved ones don't understand this. Because I'm laughing. He he. Laughing. What we do when we're IN A GOOD MOOD. Talk about a mixed message! Now I know how date rapists feel.

I'm pretty sure God was drunk when he hard-wired our bodies to crack up when being tortured. Oh well. I'll cut the guy some slack; he did only have seven days.

Nevertheless, I stand by my opinion that tickling sucks. When my husband rubs his harsh 5-o-clock shadow all over my tender neck and I roar so loud the house shakes, contrary to what he likes to believe, we're not bonding. Meanwhile, he's convinced I like it. Convinced it's therapeutic. Hearty laughter and a thorough pants-pissing. That must be good for me.

Five Things I Truly HATE

You know what I hate? Pretty much everything. It's really not my fault; everyone is just sooooooo annoying. Maybe it's the sweltering humidity (it's NOT a dry heat by the way) or maybe it's the fact that it's Day 23 in my cycle. Whatever it is, shit's gettin' on my last nerves. Where do I begin?

#1) To the mutant parents who brought their roly-poly adult child to see Monster House last night -- YOU SUCK! Why, when you could choose pretty much any seat in the entire theater, did you choose to park behind me and my children? (who, by the way, are the appropriate age to be seeing a children's film. Unlike your man-child.) And why, when you're so fat that you can't sit down without pulling on the back of my headrest so hard that I am reclined against my will, don't you BUY A SMALL POPCORN and SKIP THE NACHOS? And tell me I didn't just hear your white-trash husband burp out loud -- twice. Tell me I didn't. And as for your heavy breathing, I'm sorry that I had to turn around and stare at you. Honestly, though! I thought maybe it was Paul Rubens fondling himself.

#2) To the pimple right smack in the middle of my forehead: I HATE YOU! Because no matter how good my hair might look and how perfect my makeup might be, I'm sporting a unicorn horn! I'm too old for this. You're a pus-filled bastard and I'm doing DOUBLE benzyl peroxide on your sorry ass.

#3) To the lady at the gym who finds my 12-minute mile on the treadmill so intriguing, I'm about one step away from GOUGING YOUR EYEBALLS OUT! Keep your eyes on your OWN treadmill instrument panel. YES, I've been going for 23 minutes and 20 seconds. YES, I have burned a whopping 114 calories. Yes, my heart-rate is elevated. Why is my control panel so much more interesting than yours? Huh? Why? Mind your own freakin' business!

#4) To the morons at JcPenney (yes, I'm a glutton for punishment), PAY ATTENTION! What do you see in the picture below? A pair of pants with the anti-theft device still on them. But wait -- aren't these pants ON MY COUCH? Yes, they are! You didn't remove the anti-theft device. So now I have to drive my hot and cranky self back to skanksville or wear a pair of ink-splotched cullottes! And another thing: these pants were on clearance for $5. Has the neighborhood really become so ghetto that a pair of five dollar camos are treated like a fur coat?

#5) To mother nature -- MY SHRUBS ARE SHRIVELING! That's right. SHRIVELING!!! Because you continue to spoil all of Arizona with rainstorms while leaving my particular neighborhood DRY. My backyard is dying. Dying. I hope that makes you feel sad. And selfish. Because you are. You favor the east side. The north side. Rich Scottsdale bastards. What about us inner-city folk? What did we ever do to you? Is it too much to ask for a drop or two? Geez.

That's it. I'm done. For now anyway.

Go Tarts

You know what I hate? Food designed for miniature people. Food like Tic-Tac's and grapenuts and McDonald's small fries. Things you could picture Emmanuel Lewis or Verne Troyer eating.

Especially when it comes to fatty and greasy garbage. If I'm gonna clog my arteries and increase my latitudinal spread (i.e. fat ass), I damned well want to do it with some substance! Extra large. Super sized. Bell Grande. That's what I'm talkin' bout.

Sunflower seeds? Wayyyyyyyyyyyy too much work. Mini M&M's? I let them melt together then eat them as a single fused cylinder. Chiclets? I pop 7/8 of the pack just to blow a 1-inch bubble! Sissy food. All of it!

Which brings to mind this new "venture" from Kelloggs. They're called "Go Tarts." They're about the size of my big toe. For breakfast, I need the entire box of 10. It would be cheaper for me to have the buffet at The Pointe.



Go-Tarts, though, you have to admit, are a genius concept. I mean, come on, you can now eat your "pop tart" "on the go." Wow! No more using up your grandma's good china and silver cutlery to serve up the traditional Pop Tart. Now that's progress. I'm surprised it took them this long to think of it. A pop tart that you can take with you. Pioneers, those Kellogg's folks. Damn; they're good.

Claire Clux Clan

You know what I hate? When it becomes painfully obvious that you've failed as a parent. When, despite the infinite love you show your child, you realize that she has strayed in a direction that is contrary to your intentions as a parent.

I tried to create a racially harmonious home. Really, I did. We watch Oprah. We rock out to Lenny Kravitz. We eat Neopolitan ice cream.

So, where have I gone wrong? Perhaps we watched too much Full House and not enough Moeesha. Too much Little House and not enough Erkel. Listened to too much Alan Jackson and not enough Michael Jackson.

Ahhh, the pain. The pain and humiliation I will suffer as my 5-year-old starts drawing little swastikas on her first-grade composition notebook. When she begins using sidewalk chalk to draw fiery, burning crosses in the neighbor's driveways.

A pair of scissors and paper towel. Craft-time used to seem so innocent.

Fudgies in Feenix

You know what I hate? Phoenix. It's 116. You crave a fudgie. You buy a box. You bring it home. You bust into one after dinner.

(scroll)
















I could say more, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to.

1980s Victorian -- my favorite era!

You know what I hate? False advertising designed to "draw you in". Like I'm stupid enough to buy something after I've been duped. Come on.

I like to check Craig's List on a daily basis for good deals on antique furniture and shit. The other day, I saw a listing for a Victorian couch -- for only $45!!! I pictured myself lounging bare-legged across the cool smoothness of the satin brocade fabric, admiring the hand-carved wooden legs, marveling at the immaculate piping around the perimeter of this fabulous 19th century gem.

I didn't picture myself with a mouth full of Fritos 'n bean dip, holding a Coors Light while watching the Pittsburgh Steelers. Yet that would be more-than appropriate given what the couch really looked like when the "teaser" was clicked and a photo revealed.









1980's-era La-Z-Boy. 1800's Victorian. It's all the same....


to this moron!


There's 20 seconds of my life I'll never get back. Thanks dude.

Peach Pustules

You know what I hate? When I'm eating a peach and I find an embryo sac in it.

Check it:


I know. It's gross. What is it, seriously? Whatever it is, I'm thinking we could make some serious scientific progress using this fuzzy little guy if Bush would just change his stance on stem cell research.

Or maybe it's not embryonic afterall. Maybe it's a larvae of some sort. A yet-undiscovered species of the caterpillar genus. Persicum cattus, or "Peach Caterpillar."

Or perhaps it's a peach pustule. Like, there was an infectuous outbreak on the peach farm and Farmer Ned injected antibiotics into all the peaches, but this little fella was hiding behind a giant leaf because he hates shots.

Or maybe it's of a phlegm origin. Perhaps a peach with a cold. Or chronic asthma.

Or perhaps it's the remnants of the one-night stand this peach had with her cute next-branch neighbor.

Or maybe the peach was lactating. Sad to think her baby peach is still hanging on the vine, probably starving.

I guess we'll never know...

Opinionated Dumb Ass

You know what I hate? Opinionated dumb-asses. I don't mind people being dumb-asses and I don't mind people being opinionated, but together, it's a terribly annoying combination.

First of all, this is probably my fault. Because not only was I shopping at the white-trashiest of department stores (Penney's), but I was also at MetroCenter where the clientele is, well, let's just say, "interesting." No, actually, let's not say "interesting." Let's say, "freakishly gang-like."

Despite the colorful mix of characters at Penney's (and I don't mean 'colorful' in a racist way, so shut the hell up), there were sales to be had. Awesome sales -- 50% off the lowest ticketed clearance price! I know, huh? Wow!

So, I found a few items marked down to $5.99. Fifty percent off the lowest ticketed price, remember. So I headed to the check-out counter expecting to pay roughly 3 bucks each for these items.

They rang in at $4.69.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "But aren't those supposed to be 50% off the lowest ticket price?"

"Yes. Fifty percent off of the $5.99 price. That's $4.69."

Here presents that precarious moment where you want to call the sales clerk a big retard but you hold back because you don't want her spitting loogies in your cullottes, which you've seen a hundred times on those hidden camera shows.

"Ummm. Actually, wouldn't 50% off of $5.99 be about 3 dollars?" I'm being kind. I should really ask her why she chose to smoke pot instead of going to 3rd grade math class. Meanwhile, she's employed and I'm kissing the state's ass to earn my $214 per week. That's fair.

And here's where 'dumbassed' segues into 'opinionated'...

"Well, they're not all marked exactly 50 percent. Some of them are a bit less."

This is the point at which I know she's a bit fat liar. Because 4.69 is around 28% off of 5.99 and what kind of store marks things 28% off?? So, I say, nicely...

"Can you perhaps ask someone else?"

"For what?" I've offended her. I'm afraid the loogie into the cullotte might now be inevitable.

"For a second opinion?"

"No. The price is $4.69."

"Okay," I say meekly, as I put the items back. Then I decide that I may be back to speak to this lady again. I'm thinking she'd make a great business partner. We'd split things "50/50".

Unexpected Visitors

You know what I hate? Unexpected visitors. And no, I'm not talking about an early period that stains your favorite panties. I'm talking about neighbors coming to visit "just for the heck of it" when I'm white-trashing it up in a house just slightly more sanitary than a crack-snorting dog breeder's.

My neighbor, who's as nice as could be and whose house is always immaculate and smells of Downy and Pine-Sol, decided to stop over with her two-year-old at around 3 p.m. Three p.m. is just about the time I'm gaining consciousness ("momma's nap time -- go put a movie on kids"). So here's what I remember about the course of events... And remember, this is honest-to-goodness A TRUE STORY.

1 p.m. -- "Kids -- clean up your lunch mess. Kids? Clean up your lunch mess. Hello? Kids? Ooooh. What's this on TiVo? The Little House on the Prairie where Laura steals Nelly's music box? Awesome! Hey Kids? Oh what the hell. We'll clean later. But first, let me throw all the cushions from the couch on the floor. Ahhhh. Now it's like a big comfy bed. BoeDee? Come here, boy. Do you want to lick my ice-cream bowl? Good boy. Oops. The spoon fell out. I'll get it later. Good boy."

2:30 p.m. -- 30 minutes into momma's nap... "Mom. BoeDee just peed in the kitchen. It's running all over the floor. It's in the cracks. I stepped in it and now it's all down the hall, too."

"Okay. Momma's still sleeping. I'll take care of it when I wake up."

2:45 p.m. -- the sound of water running. "What's that sound?"

"What sound, mom?"

"That water sound?"

"Oh, that's just me doing an experiment in the bathroom."

"An experiment of what?"

"Toilet paper and water."

"Oh. Okay then."

3:00 -- Ding Dong!

3:01 -- (in a whisper) "Mom. Do you want me to put a barstool over the place where BoeDee peed so Ryan (the innocent and tidy 2-year-old) won't step in it."

"Crap! Yes. Put a barstool up. Thanks, honey."

3:02 -- "Come on in."

"Did we wake you?"

"No, no. I was just catching up on some television. I like to turn the couch into a bed. Heh heh (nervous laugh). Let me just get these cushions. Wooops. How'd that spoon get attached to this pillow. Riiiip. There we go. Let's just put that back up. My house is a mess. I'm sorry about that."

"It's really okay. Mine's always a mess too (lie). Ryan? Where'd he go? Ryan? (Walks down the hallway) Where are you? Ryan! You come out of that bathroom." (At this point, I get my first glimpse of the "laboratory" where the toilet paper and water experiment took place. There are lots of wods, some wet-haired barbies and various polly pocket body parts in states of disarray. My 5-year-old sociopath's trail of destruction.)

"Oh!" (what else can I say?)

3:03 -- Back in the living room. "This summer heat just makes me so sluggish. I don't feel like cleaning or anything."

"It's really okay. I understand."

3:04 -- I look over at my daughter, who is spraying her legs with the water bottle I use to discipline my dogs. Good conversation-starter, I think to myself.

"Roxanne! What are you doing, you silly?!?"

(suddenly taking on a hillbilly voice) "Water. It keeps the bugs off me."

Nice. We don't even have bugs. Yet.

3:05 -- "Ryan? Where'd he go again? Ryan? Oh, I think he's in the kitchen."

"That's okay. He's fine in there. There's nothing he can hurt. He's probably playing with the magnets. My neice likes that, too. He's fine."

"Ryan? Ryan? Come here. Oh; I'll go get him."

(inside my head:) Maybe the dog pee will look like a little spilled orange juice. Maybe it's dried by now. Maybe she won't notice cuz of the barstool over the top of it.

(as I see the reality of the situation:) There's a barstool dead center in the middle of my kitchen with liquid running from all avenues leading out. The dogs are sniffing it curiously. The two-year-old is leaving piss-prints everywhere he walks. I think we're going to need to move.

3:06 -- "Well, we should probably head home now. It's getting pretty late. Daddy will be home soon. Come on Ryan. Let's go honey."

"Okay. Well, thanks for visiting. Come back anytime!"

Fireworks are Dumb

You know what I hate? Fireworks. They're ugly. And dumb. And terribly anti-climatic. Yet everyone loves them. You know why? Because we've been watching fireworks go off for hundreds of years and nobody has bothered to question it.

Newsflash: THIS IS THE ELECTRONIC AGE! This isn't 1906 when a few sporadic flashes of light in the sky makes us about jizz our pants. We have America's Funniest Videos and myspace and blogging and gaming and lifelike images on our Plasma TV's ("oooooh, aaahhh"). We can make a song on our own computer, or visit a webpage devoted solely to people who like to pierce themselves in strange places, or have someone read a book to us through our MP3 players.

We don't need no stinkin' fireworks anymore.

I'm not completely un-American. We did what any good white-trash family would do: we watched them on TV. Until about 5 minutes into it when my 7-year-old said, "This is boring. Put on Sponge Bob."

Laugh Tracks are Ruining Our Youth

You know what I hate? The laugh tracks on kids' shows. Unfortunately, my daughters are now really into Nick Jr., otherwise known as "Nick everyone is white, rich and beautiful." Hillary Duff got her start on Nick Jr. in the "Lizzie McGuire" series if that tells you anything. Now she's a skanky anorexic. Fabulous child role model.

Almost every show on Nick Jr is totally banal. But I'm used to that on television. I mean, it's American entertainment. What do you expect? But what bothers me is the laugh track on these idiotic shows. They are set to go off after just about every line. And the lines aren't funny! The dialogue will be like:

"Little Joshua, do your homework!"
"Gosh, mom, you don't have to yell at me."
laugh track: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

No wonder just about every kid I meet is a little retard. Look at what they have to aspire to. Seriously, when I visit my daughters' classrooms, the kids in the class always crack jokes that just aren't funny. This is the fall-out from those faulty laugh-tracks! And what do we parents do? We laugh at the dumb joke so the kid feels good about himself. What are we teaching these youngsters? That self-induced retardation is acceptable behavior?

Did you watch William Huang sing on American Idol and wonder how the hell this little mongoloid-ish freak came to believe he could compete on that show? It's the laugh-track theory. Children today have no sense of reality. Parents dote on them unconditionally and they are taught that no matter how dumb-assed a comment is, everyone will still laugh at it!

It's time we add a little dose of reality back into our childrens' lives. If your kid tells a bomb of a joke, tell him he's an idiot. If your little diva of a daughter puts on an outfit that makes her act like she's hot, tell her she's a whore. If your kid is just plain ugly, point and laugh.

Okay, okay. Settle down. I'm just joking. I know children are sensitive and impressionable and easily beaten down. So I take it back. Don't call your daughter a whore. And don't point and poke fun at your homely little offspring.

But please, please, please don't continue to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Because the children of today will be writing the television of tomorrow. And I'm scared.

The Joys of Summer

You know what I hate? Tug of War. I'm not talking about the rope-over-mud-puddle kind. I'm talking about the game my husband and I play with the air conditioning thermostat. As if marriage wasn't difficult enough, this juvenile and passive-aggressive competition serves as an added annoyance and a reminder that men are from venus and women are perfect (I think that's how the saying goes).

I prefer cooler temperatures while my husband prefers it moderate -- err...I mean, blistering and hell-like. Throughout the day, we take turns nudging the thermostat dial. At the beginning of the day, we're within a few degrees of one another. But by the time the sun sets, we're so annoyed with each other that we're workin' on a 30-degree differential.

We do love each other. But our bodies are, well, different. He is lean, bald and sane. I, on the other hand, have a full head of heat-locking hair. And large amounts of estrogen pumping through my veins. And a brain that doesn't properly deliver seratonin to my neurons. And a body-fat composition that is the genetic equivalent to a Jimmy Dean sausage.

Have you ever cooked a Jimmy Dean sausage? Did you notice how long it took to cool down before you could eat it? I rest my case.

I'm generally a pretty low-maintenance wife. But summers in Phoenix turn me into swelter-bitch with bloated bratwurst fingers. Why does the heat make my fingers swell to Twinkie-size? Does anyone else suffer this problem? And about those panties... will they ever dry?

Ahhh, the joys of summer.

Welcome to my BBQ; Have a Seat

You know what I hate? Birds. And I'm afraid they've found out about my ill feelings.

Okay, so I don't actually hate the little egg-laying bastards, but I must say that they rank pretty low on my "pets adding value to my life" scale. My two birds, Cindy and Birdy Stockton (the married couple hanging in my living room), don't do much except drop downy feathers that float away when my robotic vaccuum comes by to suck them up, shit on my walls, and squawk a bunch of really annoying nonsense when I'm trying to take an important phonecall. They can't even say 'hello' or 'polly want a cracker' or anything, the dumb retards.

Anyway, I wasn't aware that I'd vocalized my feelings toward my little feathered foes prior to this. But apparently I must have. I mean, why else would I have been the target of a very, very, VERY ruthless drive-by explosion?

I found this in my backyard, just minutes before my sister and her family arrived for a cook-out at our house. I thought I'd go outside just to "tidy up" a bit when I came upon this desecrated adirondack chair. Clearly, this is not a one-bird job. I do believe that the entire North American fowl populace was involved in act of vengeance. And I am pretty sure that they all feasted on Chimichangas beforehand.

In addition to the diarrhea, I noted menstrual leakage, two mucous plugs and a half-eaten placenta (apparently, they were Christian Scientists). With only 5 minutes before my sister was to arrive, I panicked at the gravity of this clean-up job. I even went to the Queen of Clean's website and typed in "exploded bowels" but came up empty-handed on advice.

Against my better judgment (and perhaps some EPA guidelines), I ended up scouring the adirondack chair with a combination of paint thinner and muriatic acid, just in time to host my bar-b-que without making anyone vomit.

The next day, I truced with Birdy and Cindy Stockton by hanging a few paperclips in their cage and buying a new perch (for them to chew down). Idiots. Ooops. I mean, cute, smart and talented little sweetie pies.

Missing, but not forgotten

You know what I hate? When news stories make about as much sense as a senile grannie on crystal meth.

The other day, I saw a small blurb on a website about a girl who'd been abducted at age 2 in Tempe, only to be found 10 years later, alive and well. This interested me! I wanted to find out how this poor thing fared after 10 years of abduction. Would she be a street walker? One of the 15 wives of a church deacon in Colorado City? A strange hari-chrishna type character in a long white robe? I wanted to know more!

So, I googled her name to find the actual news article. Here's how it began:


Go ahead. Re-read that first sentence because I know it ain't makin' sense to you right now. That's right. Read it. Yep, you read it right: "Eight years ago a sweet toddler turned 11."

Now that's some good FREAKIN' journalism there!

Lookit -- I got my degree in journalism and even wrote for a newspaper for a few years and let me tell you something: This article SUCKS! Do they re-read this stuff? Is anyone in the office still sober? Is the editor porking the court reporter in the broom closet? What the hell has happened here? How did this article get through?

I might add that this was on a reputable website. Meanwhile, I can't get a content editor job to save my life and am finding it increasingly difficult to live off of $214 dollars per week (courtesy of our lovely gov't -- thanks guys!) Oh well, it could be worse: at least I don't have an 11-year-old toddler to feed!

That Ain't No Bull

You know what I hate? Well-hung stuffies. "Stuffies" is how we refer to stuffed animals in my family. "Well-hung" is how we refer to, um... well, you know. Geez. Don't make me blush by having to say it out loud.

My kids inherited an endowed stuffed bull from their grandpa, who had gotten it for free when he purchased a car from Earnhardt Dodge. Here he is. Pretty cute, right? Until you spread his stiff little stuffy legs...

...and discover this:

It took the kids about a week to figure out that something was protruding from "down there." I told them it was a handle. They've been carrying the bull around by his sack ever since.

I'm a little perturbed over the anatomically-correct stuffed animal! I mean, come on. Barbie, Bratz, Polly Pocket -- there are no nips, no hoo-has, not even a butt-crack to be seen on these ladies. They're smooth and private-less. And that's how it ought to be. I don't want to be having 'the talk' when my kids are 5 and 7. I need a few more years...

Beasty Princesses

You know what I hate? Insufficient product testing on the part of large companies who make the shit I buy for my kids. Insufficient product testing, otherwise known as "being a cheapskate," has led to many a tragedy. Accidental drownings, strangulations, suffocation, and nightmarishly ugly princesses.

My daughters love princesses. They're so light. So airy. So perfect in every way. Smooth skin. Good tonality. Ne'er a blemish to be seen.

Like this:

In case you didn't know, that's Snow White. She's yet to be painted, but looking pretty good, in a Faber Castell-ish, monochromatic kinda way. This is how she's shown on the box of the craft kit. This is what led me to purchase the craft kit. How hard could it be, I thought to myself as I made my way to the checkout line. You mix some powder and water in a little cup, then turn it over and it oozes into the Princess mold of your choice and you wait 10 minutes, then VOILA! You have a beautiful mold of a princess, ready to be painted!

Again, how hard could it be?

Dammit! I wanted a smooth and beautiful princess, not a pourous, crumbly Venus-de-Milo knock-off! What's pathetic is that this is my best of three! The other two lost their heads completely. This poor thing cracked at the waist, but I put her body back on before she dried completely. She'll never walk again, but at least she's still standing.

Let's take a closer look at the princess on the box, compared with my princess (shown in front of the box):

Is it just me, or does she remind you of the sad, beast-like girl waiting to be asked to dance at the 7th grade formal? I remember those girls. They are a pitiful reminder of the superficiality of our society. AND I CERTAINLY DON'T WANT THOSE FEELINGS COMMEMORATED VIA A BEASTY PLAY-DOUGHESQUE PRINCESS!

Needless to say, I ended up throwing the entire kit away. It's 15 bucks down the drain, not to mention the co-pay for the many psychiatrist visits I'll have to take the kids to. It's not easy seeing your heroine, Belle, develop elephantitis before your very own eyes.

Shame on Disney for putting out this product without ample testing. Clearly, this product was never tested. At least, not successfully. Granted, nobody was injured, maimed or killed as a result, but I can tell you that I'll never again capture that "magic feeling" when watching Beauty and the Beast.

Handicapped Harleys

You know what I hate? Cheaters. By this, I am referring to people who like to milk America's generous accomodations for persons with disabilities. Now, if you actually have a disability (I'm talking about a missing limb here not just some mild "tennis elbow"), then my condolences. You've earned your parking spot. But some 'special treatment' is just downright ridiculous. Like this:

It's a handicapped plate on a motorcycle! (This particular one was rigged up in photoshop cause I couldn't find a real picture, but TRUST ME ON THIS ONE PEOPLE. I've seen it with my own eyes -- three times in the past couple months!!!).

Now, could somebody please explain this to me? Because I don't understand. If you can't walk, then how the hell can you ride a Harley? And another thing: you already get to park in those little tiny spaces at the front of every lot, so why try to garner the extra perks? It's like you're double-dipping into the "privileges pot."

I think I'm going to bring a handicapped placard to the gym and hang it on my treadmill. My shin splints are really getting out of control.

Magical Washing Machine

You know what I hate? My magical powers. I actually didn't know that I was a sooth-saying wizard until yesterday. I performed the master of all magic tricks: I placed 20-or-so items into my washing machine, sprinkled in some Tide and a little abra-cadabra, and within a half hour, this super-sized load had morphed into a single item! Eat your heart out, David Copperfield!

Scroll down to see the results of this reality-defying act of hocus-pocus...

Okay, so it's not magic after all, but rather a very, very over-zealous washing machine. What the hell? It's going to take me a month to unravel this mess. I could solve the rubik's cube faster than I could untangle this "puzzle."

That's my oldest daughter holding up the bewitching concoction of expoded pillow, various running shoes, backpacks and some other items that I'll find "in the core" as the month progresses.

Here's a tighter shot of the laundry cyclone after I liberated a single Adidas. He'll be reunited with his right-sided brother sometime in July, according to my calculations.

I'm not sure if these pictures do this thing justice. Here's an even closer shot into the eye of the storm.

God only knows what's in there. The good news is that if Anarchy ever breaks out, I have a washing machine that can create for me the perfect A-bomb!

Mealtime at Grandma's

You know what I hate? Mealtime at Grandma's. Now, let's get something straight: I really love my grandparents. But come on. They can't cook worth a shit. It's one thing for me to suffer through it for years, but now my kids are involved. And it hasn't been pretty.

Have you ever noticed that grandparents seem to have stuff in their fridges and pantries that we younger folk have never even seen on the store shelves? Like, chocolate fudge soda and pickled green tomatoes and weird lettuce that they call "collards". What the hell is wrong with them? Why can't they eat like a normal American?

The other day, they invited my family over for lunch. I panicked, because not only is their food strange, but my kids are incredibly picky eaters. And I've completely allowed them to stay that way. If it ain't made with flour or cheese, my kids pretty much won't touch it. I probably needn't continue, but I will...

The menu consisted of: frozen lasagna (Stouffers made it; difficult to screw it up but it did have lots of veggies, which are the kids' enemy), green beans (did I mention boiled in butter?), and green salad (when I say 'green,' I mean 'white' as it was predominantly made of onions). My poor children. They're just sitting there looking at it wide-eyed, the same as they would be if a dead rat was sitting on their plate.

I tried whispering in their ear that it was okay to "leave some" (some = all), but Grandmas, even though they're usually deaf as a post, are always tuned in when someone is rejecting their vittles. Grandma's sudden acute awareness leads to the mother of all avalance questions.

"What's the problem?" she says, in a very accusatory tone. At this point I have to divulge that my kids are indeed food sissies, that I am the world's shittiest mother for making them that way, and that I in fact do know that there are people all over the world starving who would love to sink their teeth into a nice onion salad!

After all the pain and suffering, there is usually a meal-topping reprieve in which Grandma usually whips out some home-made dessert of incredibly high caliber. Texas Sheet Cake, a Strawberry Cake made from real strawberries, homemade pumpkin pie. But alas, this was not our lucky day. Dessert was a blueberry jello spread into a cake pan with walnuts mixed in it and some yellowing cream cheese on top. Yum!

Needless to say, we stopped for some Happy Meals on the way home.

Momma always said you can't trust a retarded reptile

You know what I hate? Snakes. They're slimy, slithery, sneaky little creatures and I'm about ready for them to become extinct. I know that sounds mean, but come on. They're gross. And let's not forget dangerous.

I love to hike. I do it almost every morning, with very few exceptions. But now that it's getting hotter in lovely HELL, errr...I mean, Phoenix, I can hardly get a few steps in before seeing a rotten-ass SNAKE! Some might argue that the desert is their home and that I'm merely a visitor. To that, I would respond, "well, when snakes start paying taxes to support things like Parks and Rec Trail Maintenance, then we can cohabitate. Until then, OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!"

The other day, my hike was cut short by a trail-hogging snake. He was stretched out the length of the trail, and with a cliff on one side and mountain-side on the other side, I could not get around him without jeapardizing my safety. He looked like a rattle snake, but I could see no sign of a rattler on him. My husband later told me that it was more likely a King Snake. He indicated that King Snakes are "harmless" (read: my wife is a big baby). I can hardly trust that this particular creature was benign given he was dubbed a "KING". He must rule over something to have gotten that name, right?

Here is what he looked like:

What a hideous bastard, huh?

Some people tell me not to worry; that snakes are more afraid of me than I am of them. To this sentiment, I add "in general." That is, "in general they're more afraid." Because I'm a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, and I always think about the minority -- the reptilian anomalies. This would include special needs snakes who were oxygen deprived during birth. The ones for whom instinct doesn't come so easy.

So, yes, I could have probably catapulted my self over the snake that blocked the trail during my hike last week, but I was concerned that he might be one of those "freaks of nature" mentioned above. I pictured his anxiety rising sharply as I approached, imagined what he was probably saying in his little reptilian tard head:

Large, amazon lady coming at me. What did momma tell me? What did she tell me? Ohhhhh. What was it? It was either 'run like hell' or 'sink my venom into the amazon lady's fleshy ankle.' Which one... which one. I'm thinkin' momma said 'sink my venom into the lady.' Yeah, that sounds right. Yeah, let's go with that. Chomp..."

And so, were it not for the quick-thinking actions of yours truly, I may not have lived to tell this frightening, and let's not forget, RIVETING story of survival.

Come On Out

You know what I hate? Homosexuals afraid to come out of the closet. I mean, come on. It's the 21st Century. And it's America. Other than the fact that the majority of the nation wants to ban your constitutional rights and the fact that you might get beaten to a bloody pulp if you try to enter a bar anywhere in the midwest -- other than that, we Americans are pretty tolerant of alternative lifestyles.

I know I can't possibly understand the emotional distress of coming out. I'm sure it's not easy. But to be in the closet for 10, 20, even 30 years? That's a bit excessive, don't you think?

I'm going to do something very radical right now. Yes, I'm going to do a public "outing." I know it's not my business, but this particular individual's obvious "same-sex" tendencies are too much to overlook any longer. I've kept his secret for the majority of my life and I can no longer do it. I think this is what he wants. It's out of his hands now.

If his mother is reading this, I apologize you had to find out this way....

I'm sorry Ronald. I had to do it. I got my kids a Happy Meal the other day and there you were, taunting me with your gayness. Like the serial killer who drops clues for the police cause he wants to be caught, I believe you flaunted yourself on that Happy Meal box so that I would 'out' you. I think it's what you wanted. I hope it's what you wanted.

I can't understand why you have never had the strength to do it yourself? Might it be that McDonald's wouldn't appreciate an alternative mascot? Might you have noticed that as soon as Tinky Winky announced his preference for other "winkies," his show conveniently went off the air?

I hope this doesn't impact your career. My apologies if it does. However, as a peace offering, there's someone I'd like you to meet. I think you'll get along famously. And he's a real nut!

A Wimpy Fortune

You know what I hate? Wishy-washy fortunes. I like fortunes that go for broke. Fortunes like, "you will get rich TONIGHT!" or "You will meet someone special" or "If fortunes don't work, then why are you reading this?" -- you know, fortunes you can actually sink your teeth into. Fortunes that perhaps, on a day when you're feeling blue, might provide you with some hope. Fortunes that are THE OPPOSITE of the little wussy one I pulled out of my cookie the other day:

"You should do well at making money?" Tell me something I don't know. Of course I should. Everyone should. You're supposed to tell me that I will, stupid-ass wimp fortune! Since when did fortunes start pussing out on us? I suspect a lawyer is somehow involved. Maybe someone sued the Peking Noodle Co for false advertising. I think it STINKS! I want a fortune that is strong, empassioned, unyielding and a little ballsy. I DON'T want a fortune that is a feeble, non-committal, lily-livered diplomat. I have a president who fulfills those needs!

Weeds in My Salad

You know what I hate? Weeds in my salad.

Since when did it become acceptable to toss crabgrass and foxtails and thistle and other WEEDS into an otherwise nice salad? I mean, come on, dogs eat this kind of thing in order to puke! Does it really make sense, then, to include it with the lettuce that I'm about 2 minutes away from eating?

I used to be a big iceberg fan, but begrudgingly gave it up after finding out it had no health benefits and that it was essentially leaf-water. Now I eat the Spring Mix, which I generally like, except for when I get a spiny, prickly, bitter WEED in my mouth! My husband, who you could safely call a "food elitist" because he used to work at the fanciest restaurant in Phoenix, tells me that the spiny, bitter, foul weeds in the Spring Mix are an acquired taste. Yeah? Well so is ass soup, but you don't see me feasting on that either!

I think putting weeds into our salad is a cop-out by greedy manufacturers who don't want to mess with separating the weeds from the lettuce when they go out to the fields to pick our Spring Mix. Don't be surprised if you also find some coyote turds, raven feathers and dirt clods -- I mean, hell, if we're not going to discriminate, then why not toss it all in?

Impeach the Dough Boy

You know what I hate? Fear. Fear has stood between me and something very near and dear to my heart....biscuits. I love biscuits. They're lumpy but soft, salty but sweet, yeasty but doughy, crunchy yet soggy. They make me happy.

But I can't eat them much anymore. Why? Because of Fear. Fear of exploding biscuits to be more exact. Given that I'm an aspiring writer, let me see if I can translate this fear into a simile for you: Holding a can of biscuits is like holding a live grenade. I've had cans of biscuits detonate in my fridge and I'll be cleaning dough carnage out of the rim of my Diet Coke cans for months. I'm sorry, but this FREAKIN FRIGHTENS ME.

Is it just me, or has the gravitational pull inside of the biscuit cans of this century become more powerful? I could actually open a can of biscuits circa 1989/90 without much memory of it, but nowadays, I start sweating profusely, having panic attacks, feeling my right ventricle tighten.

Call me a baby if you must, but I'll point out that it's not just my imagination. My fear is legitimized by a very large caution message on the back of the biscuit can. "To ensure safety while opening," it says, "always point can ends away from you and others."

Let me put it another way: "if you like that left eye, PUT THE BISCUIT OOZIE DOWN!!!!!!!!"

You think I have it bad, think about the eldery population. Unfortunately, many-a-senior has passed on shortly after opening a "Big N Flaky." Coincidence? You be the judge. I found the following on the Internet (I swear):

Even opening a packet of biscuits can be a major struggle for an elderly person; the Institute of Grocery Distribution report that 42% of the elderly people they interviewed found biscuit packets difficult or impossible to open.

Rather than tinkering with an obstinate biscuit can, these seniors need to REJOICE! You're alive, Grandma! Praise the Lord!

For the others not as lucky, well, I have to ask: How many more lives are going to be complicated, or perhaps lost, due to the poor and selfish packaging of Pillsbury? I say it's time to BOYCOTT BISCUITS. Will you join me? Here are some picket slogans if you're interested:

"Hell no, we (don't) want dough"

"Guns don't kill people. Biscuits kill people."

"Make love. Not war. Or Biscuits."

"Impeach the Doughboy."