Got Milk (that looks like jizz on your lip)?

You know what I hate? Ejaculate-like milk moustaches.

Is it just me, or does this picture make you want to go wash yourself thoroughly and perhaps read the bible? I'm sorry, but this is perverted. "Rock hard"? Creamy, milky substance squirted on parted lips? Exposed navel? Magically suspended guitar case? You do the math. Are we really selling milk here?

Here's a question: when's the last time you drank milk that was the consistency of Soft Scrub (and lived to read this blog)? Do they think that a gelatinous, semen-like white stripe on the upper lip of celebrities is really going to make us want to drink milk? Probably not. It may, on the other hand, make us want to buy a case of Elmer's glue. I see a potential co-branding opportunity here.

I hate to pick on Sheryl, given she's just overcome breast cancer and all, but I'm sorry...what's with the golden cotton candy hair? I actually liked it a lot better on Dolly Parton.

It's a Man's World

You know what I hate? Inequality of the sexes. It happens in the real world; it happens in the toy world. Check out the latest Polly Pocket cast. They are the "four career" dolls. Of course, the man gets to be the doctor. Not only that, but he comes with his own set of gender-bending accoutrements. (They originally created only a white doctor's bag for him, but he told the company it made him look like a homo, so he made sure they designed a black doc case as well.) His physician's salary has supported the regular treatments of Botox he receives. Just look at those "deer in the headlight" eyes. That's money well spent. Nice work.


Notice the role of the women in the Polly Career Set. The women are relegated to much less dignified livelihoods. Woman #1 is an artist. Woo-woo. She only became an artist because her grandma fashioned her a smock out of her grand-dad's old butcher's suit. It just fell into place from there. She doesn't know it, but the red cravat that Grandma stitched is terribly intimidating to men. "Polly Artist" hasn't been laid in 2 years. And she's so poor that she's eaten Ramen for the past 12 days. Yeah, nice role model.

Woman #2 is a chef for a private resident. She used to have an apron that actually covered the area most likely to be soiled by food, but the private resident told her he was paying good money to see "them tits" and demanded that she shorten the apron to below the waist. In this particular picture, she's really forcing a smile because her private resident just asked her to cook up some chocolate-covered oysters and she's a little concerned over where this will lead. She has thoughts of leaving the private resident and going to work for Chilis, but the private resident is a little bit psycho and she worries he'll pull a "Fatal Attraction" maneuver on her little yellow cat.

Woman #3 is a good old-fashioned whore. What set of career toys is complete without the token hooker? Unfortunately, this particular whore probably doesn't make a ton of money. Why? Because she's so pigeon-toed that she can't even walk, let alone spread em' for the horny dudes who try to pick her up on Van Buren Avenue only to eventually drive away in disgust because they are too weak to hoist her electric wheelchair into the back of their car. Role model? Come on -- her legs will atrophy into toothpicks in 2, 3 years tops. At least she'll have that fur-lined housecoat to wear when her pimp eventually dumps her off at the Assisted Living Facility.

Desperate Housewives

You know what I hate? When people scrutinize my groceries. Not only is this a violation of my personal space, but it invites small talk. And I HATE small talk. Today, the nosy woman in line in front of me began perusing my goods as I loaded them onto the conveyor belt. She eventually pointed her nosy-ass finger toward some aspect of my groceries, shaking her head up and down in approval like we were kismet-ically related soulmates or something. I tried to ignore her, but there is no ignoring busy bodies.

"Interesting," she murmured. I didn't know what she was referring to, but I was certainly glad that it was canned food week and not toiletry week.

"Gardenburger wraps, eh?" She was begging for attention, any kind of attention.

"Yes," I conceded, my good samaritan deed for the week. Entertained a lonely housewife, I'd write on my good deeds calendar.

"Interesting that you eat that those when you're not even a vegetarian," she said. At this point, I was ready to poke her in the eyeballs. The last thing I needed to do was to justify my purchases and my dietary trends to some meddling house-frau!

"Actually, I am vegetarian," I justified, because I needed to set the record straight.

"Oh..." she said, as if she'd just busted me in a lie. Then she paused.... "because...well... I see you have bacon bits."

She thought she'd outted me -- revealed my meat-eating ways to the entire line of housewives in aisle 8. I whipped the bottle of bacon bits around and pointed out the ingredient list.

"What most meat eaters don't know," I advised, while my pointer finger ran across the top line of ingredients, a Vanna White-type maneuver that added punch to my presentation, "is that store-bought bacon bits are exclusively made from soy."

Phew. Now she could go back to minding her own business. I had gotten the best of her, set her straight, ended the debate... or so I thought.

"Too much soy is bad for you," she whined, while I tried to conjure up some of the life-ending karate maneuvers I'd learned in my year of taking Judo in college. "I used to eat a lot of it, and it started really messing up my periods."

Oooooooooookay. When you're in line at the grocery store conversing with perfect strangers on menses-related themes, you fully understand the meaning of the word "surreal." As the checkout lady leisurely scanned the items of the many other chatty, desparate housewives in front of me, I had to listen to how this previous soy-eater endured excessive bleeding, bloated ovaries, irregular cycles and many other equally enthralling pre-menopausal symptoms. AND IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF SOY, she made sure to remind me.

After Chatty Kathy finally bought her groceries and moved along, I had a few minutes to myself. I found myself considering whether I should return to eating meat. I mean, come on, nobody wants to change a tampon every half hour and that's that this woman promised I was in store for! But after a second or two, I realized that to start eating meat might make me NOSY and MEDDLESOME and SNOOPY and FRICKIN ANNOYING and pretty soon I'd start accosting perfect strangers with private restroom stories that nobody should have to hear. No thanks. Pass me the soynuts!

Pumped Up

You know what I hate? That muscle weighs more than fat. I've packed on 10 pounds in the past few weeks. I thought it was due to overeating, but everyone I mention it to reminds me that MUSCLE WEIGHS MORE THAN FAT. I keep on forgetting that. Duh! So, now I can breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not getting fat; I'm getting buff. In fact, I've gained a whopping 40 pounds of muscle since I first met my husband. I never really thought about it, but I guess I'm really ripped. The other day, I could swear that I saw sheets of cellulite rippling across the back of my thighs, but that must have just been bulging muscle! Phew. Good thing.

What is that muscle called that is lining your inner thighs? The one that cuts off all circulation to the crotch because it's so massive? Whatever it's called, mine is HUGE. I haven't had a dry pair of panties in YEARS!

I'm also gifted with extremely robust muscles about my mid-section. These particular tendons are soooo hardy that they've dangerously launched quite a few buttons from my pants across crowded rooms! Protect your eyeballs, people!

I can't believe I didn't figure this out sooner. Here I was thinking I was getting fat. Stupid me. I mean, come on, do you have any idea how heavy that Marie Callender's pie I finished off last night was? I'm not joking -- there was AT LEAST a pound of banana cream filling in that thing. I had to literally use two hands to get it out of the fridge. What's my point? Muscle building...duh. I seriously doubt some of my more frail and... ahem... weak friends could even lift that thing. No offense. There's nothing wrong with being wimpy; it's just not for me.

Stealing is BAD

You know what I hate? THIEVES. I don't hate thieves for moral reasons as much as for their impact on me personally. Stealers have complicated my life with added inconvenience.

Ever try to buy condoms from the shelves of Walgreens? Probably not, because THEY'RE NOT THERE. Horny thieves have pocketed one-too-many prophylactics and so now, you have to go to the pharmacist and ask him or her to hand you a pack from behind the counter. This, as you all know, is way too embarrassing for the average person, who then resorts to the rhythm method and ends up with 24 kids.

Ever strolled into Kmart with snot dripping out your nostrils and an uncontrollable cough, and you reach your flu-throbbing hand toward the spot where you've always purchased your trusty Sudafed only to find.... IT AIN'T THERE? Instead, there sits a little cardboard sign that advises you to pick the cold medicine up from behind the pharmacy. Why? Because meth addicted THIEVES have pocketed one-too-many Dimetapp tablets so they can cook up their homemade drugs! Annoying!

Ever try to purchase a can of spray paint from Home Depot so you can quickly change a 1-inch knob on your kid's dresser from pink to purple? What's that? The paint is locked behind a steel gate? And you kind find a customer service associate anywhere in sight? And when you do, that customer service associate is helping some guy buy the stuff to frame a 3000-square-foot house and will get to you when he's done? Oh, yeah, for that, you can thank the THIEVES who have pocketed one-too-many ozone (and lung) wrecking cans of spray paint so they can take it home and sniff it to get high. Double Annoying!

And, last but not least, my favorite. Ever try to go to Bookmans to purchase the "Bible to Go" as a download to your palm pilot, so that when you're in a meeting at work, you can reaquaint yourself with a little John 3:16 or a tad of Romans 12:1? Well, forget about it, because the "Bible To Go" has been lifted from Bookman's shelves one-too-many times, so now it's encased in a tamper-resistant shield which can only be opened by the Bookman's manager who may or may not be on duty when you feel the urge to purchase the "Bible to Go." For this, you can thank all those hoodlums who sniffed a little paint, cooked up a little meth, then went on a crime spree of massive proportions -- first a murder of an opposing gang member, then an armed bank robbery, then a beating of a homeless man, then a stop at Bookmans for a "Bible To Go" heist. What a lovely world we live in...

The Handicapped Paradox

You know what I hate? Paradoxes. For those of you with small vocabularies, a paradox is when two things are contradictory and don't make a shit of sense. That description is straight from Webster by the way. The reason I don't like paradoxes is because they boggle my brain. The one that recently started my mind into a spiraling pit of disillusionment was The Handicapped Paradox. I know, I know -- they're handicapped. Give them a break. Cut them some slack. They've been dealt a bad hand. Right? Sorry! They annoy the hell out of me. Yes, I'm mean. Live with it. Okay?

So, here's why the Handicapped miff me AND represent the ultimate paradox. When you're in your car on the road, and in a hurry (or maybe even NOT in a hurry, but wanting to do the speed limit at least), who is always in front of you going 2 miles per hour? If you answered, "the handicapped," then give yourself 2 points.

But when you're walking from Old Navy to Wet Seal, and trying to enjoy the sites and aromas of the lovely Metrocenter Mall, from whom do you hear a quickly approaching motorized scooter on your heels? Who nearly flattens your 5-year-old and sends you over the railing of the second mall layer? Who is ironically doing quadruple the speed in their scooter, which has a lawnmower motor, than they do in their Lincoln towncar, which has a V6? Who approaches and hollers, abruptly and impatiently, "Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me. I need to get around!!"? If you answered, "the handicapped," then you've solved the riddle of The Handicapped Paradox.

Can't they just be consistent?

Invasion of Privacy

You know what I hate? SPAM. Not the meat. It is actually pretty yummy not to mention the fact that it's the only meat that can be cut with a cheese slicer. No, I'm referring to EMAIL spam. I didn't used to hate it when it was innocent, trying to get you to buy certain things, try certain things, look at naked people doing it, etc.

But lately, SPAMMERS have gone too far. My privacy is being compromised! Spammers now know me personally. I think they've set up hidden cameras in my home. Are they protected under the Patriot Act? I just don't know. What I DO know is that they know my full name, my ancestry (something about an uncle I didn't know existed who died and left me his entire estate -- I just need to give his lawyer all my bank and credit card info and it's a done deal), what city I live in and what types of things I tend to purchase.

And recently, well.... ummmmm..... they have unscrupulously gone and broadcast a very embarrassing hygeinic problem that I suffer from. How do they know? Is my toilet seat tapped? Not sure, but here's the email that came today to prove that my privacy has indeed been exploited.

I've been outed. Yes, for the love of God, I have POOP PROBLEMS. OKAY? Are you all happy now? What, is the next email going to mention something about a "curious itch." I mean, nevermind. Forget I mentioned it. I gotta go. I have my metamucil smoothie on the blender.

Famous At Last!

You know what I hate? All the paperwork you have to fill out to get into the Guiness Book of World Records. It's really a pain, but it will all be worth it when you open it and see my entry for the world's most mutilated piece of split-ended hair.

Hot Wax treatment, Schot Shmax treatment.



Speaking of world's records, remember when Bobby and Cindy Brady tried to set the record for the longest teeter-tottering session? They were sooooooooooo tired, bless their little hearts.

You Know What I Love???

You know what I hate? People who tell me I'm cynical. My husband has a blog of his own -- a play-by-play of his police adventures. He gets way more hits than I do. The other day he tried to do something helpful by putting in a link to my blog. I wasn't happy about it. His readership is wayyyyyyyyy different than mine.

A few days later, lo and behold, someone wrote this in his blog:

"She seems cynical and not happy?" I read in complete annoyance. "Well you seem pustulated and not potty trained" I said to absolutely no one. Then I got to thinking. Maybe this person is right. Maybe I am a little too cynical. Maybe my hatred is taking over my soul. So, I started to reconnect with my nicer side. Started remembering the types of things that used to make me smile. Conjuring up the images that have always rendered me giggly and exultant. Summoning the events in my life that have put a sparkle in my heart. And here's what I came up with:

You know what I love? Sitting outside and letting the wind brush past my face. It almost feels as if I'm being stroked by a feather, or God, or maybe even my dead Aunt Leona. Aunt Leona did have a farm full of chickens, so it's not such a stretch to imagine this. Yeah...it's really a nice feeling.

You know what I love? Puppies. Their little hot breath and their plump little tongues and their wet noses nudging your leg to play and their soft little ears and even the way they eat their own diarrhea. So darned cute :)

You know what I love? That I saw two pigeons rolling around together on the asphalt the other day. I think they were having a tickle fight! I didn't know that pigeons had tickle fights, but I was so happy to learn that they indeed do :)

You know what I love? The beach. I love the way it feels on my feet. Like a pedicure I didn't have to pay for:) I love the way you can look out on the ocean for miles and miles and see absolutely nothing. I love the dead fishy smell -- so ORGANIC. I love the way my palms sweat ever so slightly when I'm on the beach. Not because of the humidity but because I know that out there somewhere, there are critters that can swallow me whole. The circle of life I like to call it. Makes me get goosebumps:)

You know what I love? Magnificient, breathtaking art. The masters really have a way of making we "mere mortals" feel inferior. But remember, gifts come in all types of packages. I certainly like to live by this adage. I may not be the best artist, but my gift is in being an art conniseur. I love art. Art makes my heart beat fast. Sometimes it makes me gasp, for I love to behold its beauty. Here is one of my favorite pieces, by artist unknown.

There's so much more that I love -- I can't possibly mention it all here. But it's with me. In my heart. In my soul. THANK YOU, anonymous, for allowing me to reconnect with my sensitive side. And for all the rest of you, I want to remind you that there is no calling "shotgun" when you're in my car. JESUS is my co-pilot!!!! :)

LOVE and KISSES,

Vicki

Feast of the Foul Faction

You know what I hate? Hosting Garage Sales. I'm so effing stingy that I don't give my old junk away like good samaritans ought to. Instead, I suffer through 4 agonizing hours of dealing with what I like to call the Foul Faction. The Foul Faction is that segment of our society that nobody likes. They're a despicable lot -- freakish, ill-mannered, ugly and extremely tight-fisted. The Foul Faction underground must have posted flyers announcing my garage sale, cause they were ALL there.

Hosting garage sales allows me to reconnect with my hateful side. This can be a good thing if you write a blog called "You Know What I Hate." Here are some of the more memorable events of the Garage Sale.

1) They guy who scanned the goods we had out, then asked, "Miss -- do you happen to have any war memoribilia?" to which I responded, "Oh, hmmm. Yeah, that would be in Aisle 10. Do you want me to get you a price check on that, too? I have a self-scanning machine right here that you can use? And are you interested in our complimentary gift-wrap services. Oh, and can I help you out to your car today?"

2) The woman who refused to pay the asking price of $2 for my Gap Jeans, saying it wasn't fair because she didn't know if her daughter would fit into them, to which I responded, "Listen, bitch, the fact that your daughter can't stop shoveling twinkies down her bloated hatch ain't my problem. Now pay the two dollars OR PUT THE JEANS BACK!"

3) The woman who picked up an old dress of my daughter's and asked, "How much?," to which I responded, "One dollar," to which she responded, "One dollar? For this?" at which point I became very offended at her insinuation that my daughters' clothes were ugly and worthless, so I pointed to her high-waisted Faded Glory jeans that were giving her camel toe and laughed hysterically.

4) The gentlemen who stacked up a crap load of shit -- portable TV, old dishes, some Doc Marten shoes -- and asked me how much for all of it, to which I responded, "15 dollars" to which they looked at me pathetically and said, "but we only have $10" to which I responded, "well then you either need to go sell some plasma or put some of that shit back you morons."

5) The woman who picked up my size 14 jeans and asked "how do these fit?" to which I responded, "they fit more like a size 12" to which she whined, "oh, but I'm only an 8" to which I responded, "well congratulations, Karen Carpenter. You're a stick and I'm a big fattie. Now I'm going to go to my room and cry. Happy now?"

As I sat in my room crying that I'd never be a size 8, my husband packed everything up in large black trashbags and headed to Goodwill, where we should have started our day out all along.