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."

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.