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.

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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!