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."

For the love of the children

You know what I hate? Crimes against children. There is nothing worse, because children are so innocent and so sweet (and let's not forget that without them, I so won't get a social security check when I'm old). The Oregon Poison Center is standing up for children's rights, and I applaud them. This photo was showcased on their website. It's a great public service reminder of the adversities that children are subjected to on a daily basis -- sometimes in their OWN homes and with their OWN parents at fault.

Does this picture just make you sick or what? That poor child. Had the hidden camera not been there to interrupt this near-catastrophe, what would the fate be of this cute little kid? Shame on her parents! I think you'll agree with me in suggesting they should be SHOT, or at least locked up for life. I mean, come on. They must know the danger that awaits this child. It just....it makes me...sooooooooooooooo angry. So friggin mad that I could spit!

If this girl's parents are reading this, I have a message to you. Yeah, you. It may be harsh. And you may not want to hear it. But I must intervene here. Your daughter's life depends on it. So this is for you: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CUT THAT POOR CHILD'S DOROTHY HAMILL MULLET! YEAH, SHE'S ONLY LIKE 3 NOW AND PROBABLY ONLY GETTING RANDOM KICKS ON THE SHINS BY HER PEERS IN PRESCHOOL, BUT BY THE TIME SHE'S OF SCHOOL AGE, AND SHE COMES WALKING ON CAMPUS WITH THAT "NICHOLAS FROM EIGHT IS ENOUGH" HAIRDO, SHE'S GOING TO BE BOMBARDED WITH NOOGIES, PURPLE NURPLES, WEDGIES, INDIAN BURNS, GENERAL ASS KICKINGS AND POSSIBLY HOMICIDE. NOW, TELL HER TO SHUT THAT MEDICINE CABINET AND GET HER ASS IN THE CAR AND HEAD TO SUPERCUTS NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Unidentified NASTY Object

You know what I hate? Unidentified Objects of the Kitchen. It's disgusting to find something about whose origins you are clueless -- and to find it on the place where you prepare your family's food is downright gaggy.

Unidentified Objects of the Kitchen are inferior only to Unidentified Objects of the Bathroom, and their slightly more sinister cousins, Unidentified Objects of the Private Parts (which usually involve tweezers and/or penicillin).

Here is a picture of the Unidentified Object of the Kitchen (UKO) that I found when cleaning under my knife block the other day.

I know, huh? Totally McNasty. When I first discovered it hiding under that knife block, I kind of jumped back a bit and gasped. Then I was like: silly me; I thought that was something disgusting but it's really just a French Burnt Peanut. And I looooooove French Burnt Peanuts. They remind me of my childhood. Mmm. Haven't had one in a good 10 years. Wait a cotton-pickin' minute! I've only owned this house for FIVE years. That can't be a French Burnt Peanut! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Have you ever noticed that when you find something "foreign," you employ your senses in this order: SEE it, TOUCH it, SMELL it, TASTE it, DIE. Well, in this case, I chose only to SEE it from a comfortable distance. I can't get bochilism; I'm a mother for god's sakes.

Based on my visual inspection of the UKO, here are a few ideas as to its identity:

-- A Petrified Gizzard from when my mom carved a turkey at my house 2 Thanksgivings ago. (And you wonder why I'm a vegetarian?) This is my most solid theory, because when something "petrifies," it turns red. Seriously. Have you ever visited the Petrified Forest?

-- My cat's gall bladder. About 3 days prior to finding this anomoly, I winced with sympathy as my cat took on a Linda Blair persona while trying to dislodge what I thought to be a hairball. Now I'm thinking it was more likely an internal organ. Perhaps the one found on my counter.

-- A red m&m, shipped from Chernobyl.

-- A bloody fingertip that my husband, the police officer, forgot to leave at the impound yard and needed to find a safe haven for.

-- Rudolph's nose. (Sad, but our dogs do get pretty feisty when someone enters our family territory. Santa and his obnoxious clan is no exception.)

-- "Big Toe" toenail of the devil.

Perhaps it is none of these. I may never know. Are there any crime scene investigators out there who could offer some insight?

When in America, do as the Americans do

You know what I hate? Immigrants who come to America and start acting like they make the rules. They start conspiring, threatening our great nation, not following OUR rules. Maybe even go out to march for their rights -- piss a few Americans off in the meantime. Yes, if you haven't guessed it by now, I am speaking of THE ENGLISH. So, what, you are probably asking, have the English done to make me sooooooooo want to deport their blokey asses back to London? They VEER TO THE LEFT on any walking path known to man. Hello? We're in AMERICA now. Get over to the right, like the rest of us!

This morning, I woke up in a good mood and decided to take an early morning hike. My mirthful mood quickly gave way to a more cantankerous one when this course of events happened: I am tredging up a 45-degree hill (and who said this was fun?); it's 6 a.m. and already 90 degrees; a swarm of flies the size of golfballs are increasingly infatuated by my body's ripeness; and I pass about a dozen or so ENGLISH people coming the other direction and they are ON MY EFFING SIDE OF THE ROAD.

When I'm sweaty and hot and tired and being courted by flies, the last thing I need to worry about it changing my course up the mountain. Yet, each time one of these hateful little buggers challenges me in a right lane/left lane duel, I always cave first. Here's a little insight into the internal dialogue as I approach one of these rude bastards:

Another mother effer on the wrong side of the path. Must be English. I'm still 50 feet away. He'll get over. Won't he? Why isn't he? Rude idiot Prince William-loving asshole. GET OVER! This is my side. Hello? We're not in Liverpool anymore. Okay, I'm going to look down. Look down. Don't make eye contact. He'll think you're so wrapped up in your athleticism that you hardly even notice he's there. He'll let you have the right of way based on your brawn alone. Don't look up. Don't look up. Gosh, he's getting closer and he isn't moving over. Don't look up. So close. Ahhhhhhhhhh. You dumbass. Why'd you look up? Now he knows you know he's there. And he's willing to see this duel to the end. Well, guess what? I ain't moving over. This is my American-right to have this side. I am not moving over. Not moving over. Not...dammit. Why did I move over? I hate you, you scumbaggy Hugh Grant-loving, tea-drinking, biscuit-eating, Tony Blair-following ASS! &^%$# Oh, and another thing: **&^%$@#@. You *&%&%&%&* jerk. Eat &&^%$ and *&^%$$. Your momma is a &*^^%$$. (Audibly) Good Morning. How are you?

God: I am happy for my life and what you provide me. Thank you. I hate to be an ingrate, but I do have just one little, teensy, weensy complaint: WHY THE HELL DID YOU FORGET TO GIVE ME A BACKBONE?

p.s. Today is my birthday. Instead of a present, I'd like to ask that you send the link for this blog to 3 people who you think might enjoy it. (Perhaps even some ENGLISH PEOPLE in need of American etiquette training.) Oh, and a comment once in awhile might be nice, you selfish bastards!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!