How to Spot a Gay Terrorist:

Since Thanksgiving Holiday is (supposedly) the heaviest travel week of the year, I figured I'd offer my beloved readers this public service announcement. If you see one of these motherfuckers in the airport, contact Homeland Security immediately. Do not attempt to approach the suspect on your own. Use extreme caution.

Otherwise you might get bitch-slapped into next year and be forced to endure a top to bottom makeover, complete with hair gel and man-scaping of all chest hair (if you're a dude.)

And, by the way, I am well aware that I SUCK. Not because I am poking fun at this Muslimish Apparent Homosexual Individual. Noooooooo. I suck because postings have been a wee bit spotty this Fall.

Let's just say I've been very busy. Like, so goddamn busy that I could rip my hair out.

Peace out, bitches. Have a fabulous holiday and eat lots of turkey.

Oh - and GO COWBOYS!!!!

On rare occasions, people surprise me.

About 99% of the time, I can size up a person after spending a small amount of time with him or her. Its not a difficult task - read the body language, the eye contact, and listen to what a person is truly saying. You can pretty much figure out the guts of a sucker within a few interpersonal interactions.

That said, I was once completely flabbergasted by a chick in college named Jacquie.

I thought I had Jacquie pegged: Nice girl, quiet, friendly with a tendency towards shyness, uber-strict Christian principles, wanted to fit in and be cool but wasn't sure how to do so. She flitted around the various popular cliques, never quite breaking in, but universally liked because she was vanilla. She was Switzerland. Totally neutral, never in or out, not bursting with flavor but not offensive either.

Bespectacled, with frizzy hair, porcelain, rash-sensitive skin and a soft, semi-matronly figure, Jacquie shocked my shit when she signed up for our summer girls softball league. (And no, I'm not a dyke, you pervs. I just happened to enjoy playing softball in the sweltering heat of Oklahoma with my favorite girlfriends during my college years.) (This was before I could afford to have my nails done professionally by a meek Vietnamese nail technician. "You go pick ow' coh-lah." "You wan' ped-cuuuuuuuh? Or man'cuuuuuuuuh?")

Short on talent but big on effort, Jacquie stumbled around the bases after those rare moments when her bat connected with the ball. This was slow pitch, people. Jacquie's massive heart meant well, but the skillz just weren't there.

So imagine my surprise the following Fall semester, when Jacquie's giant freaking heart rescued a baby bunny from the jowls of Queenie, a twenty foot python snake!

See, my totally queer Christian college, Stupid N. University, had segregated dorm facilities - and you were required to live in the dorm your Freshman and Sophomore years. Guys were NOT allowed in the girls dorms and vice versa. The Academic Asshole Administrators maintained ironclad control of your life at Stupid N. U. It was suffocating. Exhausting. (And I was always in trouble - but that's not where I'm going with this post.) Once a semester, the forced chastity belts were loosened and the sexes were allowed to co-mingle (under heavy supervision by the faculty) for a full 2 hours on a Sunday. I guess the Dorm Gods figured it would be mighty difficult to impregnate a chick if all of the bedroom doors yawned open and 150 tattletale guards paced by on each floor, sticking noses into rooms and sniffing the air for any signs of sensual behavior.

On one such Sunday visit to the boys dorm, I was pleasantly surprised when Jimmy, son of a renowned church magnate, hissed to me, "Wanna see my snake?"

Heh.


To which I naturally responded, "HELL YEAH!" a bit too enthusiastically. (I had long been curious about Jimmy's sexuality. He loved - and apparently still loves to this day - Elton John. I'm talking a fierce must-go-to-every-concert-go-to-sleep-at-night-listening-to-him-on-my-Walkman type of love. Elton John = gay. Therefore, I assumed that Jimmy's grand love of Elton John = Homersexshul Jimbo. So, yeah, sure, show me your snake, Jimmy.)

But my gaydar was not to be verified that fateful Sunday, because Jimmy quite literally showed me his pet snake. Queenie. A baby python. She was about two feet long and really slippery and slithery. I giggled and let Queenie slide up and down my arm, stroking her fantastic skin, and made some off comment about how she'd make a fabulous handbag. Jimmy snatched her away from me, the Sex Police showed up, and I was ushered out of the dorm for whatever reason du jour they cooked up to attempt to humiliate me.

Now, fast forward a few years to Jacquie's Snaketacular Adventure. Queenie, apparently, grew. Like, a lot. She pretty much filled up Jimmy's dorm room until she was fairly bursting out his window. Rather than turn her in to animal control, Jimmy relinquished his beloved reptile to the Science Dept. of the school, who promptly built her a giant glass cage, reminiscent of the snake cribs you visit at your local zoo. Quite impressive. Like the Jeffersons, Queenie was movin' on up. To the fourth floor of the Science building.

Which is where Jacquie was working late one evening on a project, when she heard a bleating and squealing coming from behind the darkened glass window of Queenie's abode. Squinting through her inch-thick lenses, a horrified Jacquie discovered a wee baby bunny, Queenie's entree for the evening, wailing its wee baby bunny head off. Jacquie's colossal heart pounded and somehow sucked her to the back entrance to Queenie's cage. Stealthily, she slid through the door, bounded over Queenie's coils, grasped the baby bunny, and high tailed it the fuck out of there.

Whodathunkit? NOT ME. Never in a billion light years would I suspect that Jacquie had balls the size of Texas underneath that prim, ankle-length jean skirt. Holymuthafuckinshit!!

I'm sorry to say that Baby Rescue Me Bunny eventually ended up as Queenie fodder anyway. Perhaps not that exact bunny, but a girl's gotta eat, and eat Queenie did.

Jacquie's famous rescue was gossip fodder for several weeks. Then, the most popular guy in school was caught in his dorm room by the Sex Police, being blown from here to Kingdom Come (Heh! Come.) by another dude, and Jacquie's Snakescapade was ancient history.

Meh. I guess that segregated dorm thing didn't really curb the students' sexual appetite after all.

Welcome to McCheeseville

When my younger son, Zakky, was a toddler, he had no fear. Captain Recovery and I kept an eyeball glued to him at all times. This was a necessary task because Zak Bear would casually saunter up to anyone and everyone and assume every stranger was a potential snuggle bunny friend. No fear, man. It was terrifying.

While he has overcome the desire to hug street dwellers that cast a perpetual dirt shadow over the land like Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip, he still gregariously engages in conversation with, well, pretty much EVERYDAMNBODY in the world.

Case in point: This past weekend we hopped over to Philly and attended a kick ass Halloween costume party, bounced through a kid's Fall Festival, and jostled on a hay ride at an Autumn Fest at a farm. Throughout the various events, I believe Zak charmed the pants off of approximately four billion people. My super beautiful and talented friend Laura started calling him Mayor McCheese. And, truly, he is the Mayor of McCheeseville. Always campaigning, but in a good way. Zak has a pure heart and simply enjoys connecting with folks in chit chat.

We still have to keep a watchful eye on his conversations, but I am thankful that he doesn't walk towards people with open arms, ready for a hug. He just wants to share the gift of gab these days - no more bear hugs, praise Yahweh.

Here is a shot of the children at the farm. Mayor McCheese is chillin' on the far left, contemplating his town hall speech to be eloquently delivered later in the evening from his car seat.

And now, the costume party! The kids stayed home for that event - it was an adults-only affair. I was St. Pauli Girl and Cap'n Recovery morphed into Mr. Hind Sight. Nothin' like a rubbery fake ass to get me goin' . . . va va voom!

Laura ordered some super freaky zombie contacts (MUST GET SOME NOW) and shook her groove thing as Dead Girl. She looked incredible but her feelings were semi-bruised because all of her friends avoided looking her in the eyes (with good reason.) Check it . . .

Here's a gruesome shot of the ladies, showing off our legs, because that's just the way we roll.

And, finally, another petrifying photo of Miss Laura and her Glowing Zombie Eyes. Her husband, Tim, is being licked to death by a demon. He must be salty.

I think all of the Tea Party activists (such as myself) should wear zombie eyes. Why? Because it is fucking difficult to talk to a person with milky white fluorescent eyeballs. I think we should stick 'em in our orbs and march to Washington DC and give those asshole Congresspeople a piece of our minds. And, possibly, eat their flesh and stumble around moaning and shit. And then, when Michael Jackson's song Thriller comes on, we should dance our asses off. I'm not sure if it would halt the insane spending-and-piling-on-colossal-debts-and-printing-money-out-of-thin-air we have going on in the corruption-infested DC bubble right now, but at the very least we could get a good soft tissue meal out of it.

Although I'm pretty sure all of those politicians taste like bullshit.

Not that any of this has anything to do with Mayor McCheese, unless McDonald's burgers taste like human flesh; then maybe you can draw a correlation between the beginning of this post and the rambling end of it. Peace out, bitches.

Stories are great, but photographic proof is even better.

Remember a few weeks ago, when I arrived home, utterly exhausted, from my sales meeting in Chicago and I recapped a story about a girl named Maime-Me, and how she is a freak of nature because she is devoid of all emotion save ambition? And how she had danced on a pool table at our sales meeting the year prior, bumping and grinding like a fool, and then she landed on her damn head in the middle of the floor?

See, I'm a big believer in the power of The Funny. Tell a funny story and people get a giggle. Giggles are good. We all need to laugh. A gut-wiggling belly laugh releases all kinds of positive endorphins throughout your bod. And I know this, because I am a Doctor. The Doctor of Love. So listen to me and laugh some more, bitches.

So, laughing is good and telling a funny story is important. You know what is even better than telling The Funny?

Showing it!

Thanks to the fabulous and super talented E (pictured HERE looking very Rico Suave, indeed) some incriminating photographic evidence of Maime-Me's dance solo happened to land in my email inbox.

(And before I forget . . . speaking of The Funny, when you get time, re-read the story of E and Hillary Clinton's Secret Service detail and how they kicked his ass once.) (For real.)

We will begin our Photo Tour Down Memory Lane with an opening shot of Maime-Me, shaking her groove thing on top of a pool table. Or, perhaps, it is an air hockey table. I can't really tell, because the photo is very fuzzy. Don't blame me. I didn't take it. Because I was drunk, as you will soon see in these pictures.

Next, witness the assholery on display. Note Maime-Me's contorted body angle during her dance performance. Also, notice the way most of the other employees are ignoring her. I'm not sure if the guy in the green shirt is clapping her on or praying for her safety.

And, finally, the conclusion of Maime-Me's masterpiece of The Groovy. At first glance, you will notice that the amazing photograph below focuses on a dark room and the back of a man in a blue shirt, obviously dancing with a whore girl in a black and white polka dotted dress. If your eyes move to the lower right side of the photo, you will note the cramped figure of Maime-Me, in her post oh-shit-I-just-fell-on-my-head writhing move. Because she was in severe pain. And we captured the moment in perpetuity! There is a God.

Sidebar: The Polka Dotted Whoremonger pictured above is our former HR person. Don't you just love it when the person who is supposed to be in control of making sure that people don't sexually harass one another is actually the biggest Sexual Harasser of the Universe herself? That's cool. Because you can rest assured that should you need to contact her regarding a sexual harassment complaint, she will be well versed in all forms of possible sexual harassment that exist.

Anyway. The Bitch got fired last year. There is a God.

Glad that's out of the way. Now. Let's talk about me!

Here I am, posing sweetly with More-Ah Desire, E, and the devastatingly handsome Paullie, helpfully giving us the Thumbs Up move. Thanks, Paullie!

As the evening progressed, more and more douchebaggery abounded. Witness below.

I believe I had just made my "OH" face. And what's-his-head with the glasses was responding with a pelvic thrust, which, believe me, was completely appropriate. Look at More-Ah's face. Talk about The Funny.

Then, More-Ah, moi, and E continued to perform our "OH" faces . . . "OH"ver and "OH"ver again. Don't blame me. Blame Corona.

(Just in case you are unaware of what an "OH" face is, educate yourself by watching the very short video shown below.) (And accept my sincerest apologies that you've never seen the movie Office Space.)

More-Ah and me, doing a Maime-Me imitation. Hum. I have a Corona firmly clenched in my paw in every single freaking shot. Interesting.

And my favorite shot of all, simply because E looks PISSED AS HELL. Note: E doesn't drink. This was E, stone cold sober. YEAH! DG still firmly squeezing a hold on a Corona bottle as if her life depends on it? CHECK.

And now I must be excused. I need to take a shower and fly to Oslo, in order to pick up my Nobel Peace Prize Award. I haven't actually done anything to win this award, but I'm pretty sure the criteria doesn't require action. It simply requires a desire to do ...er...something, and God knows I have plenty of desire.

Catch you on the flip side. I'll be bathing in my $1.4MM prize from now on, because I love the smell of money.

My four year old son is beyond awesome.

A few minutes ago in my car, noting my frustration with the rabid slowpokes in front of me, my son piped up and asked sweetly, "Mamma! Do you ever wish your car had wings?"

"Wings?"

"Yeah! You know, so you could fly up in the sky . . . "

I smiled, thinking what a privilege it was to be mother to such a precious, inventive child.

". . . and then you could get around the ASSHOLES in front of you!"

My smile melted into peals of laughter, which I quickly covered with heavy coughing, instructing my baby quite sternly that he was not to say that word.

"You mean ASSHOLES?"

"Yeah, Zakky, please don't say that."

Silence. He was thinking.

"But Mommy, it makes me giggle."

And, really, isn't that the truth of it all? I know that word makes me giggle too. No one can accuse my son of being dishonest, at least.

Blame BUSH!

Anyone notice the hullabaloo last week surrounding the 2016 Olympic location choice? Hee. How could you not, right?

In an unprecedented move by a Head of State, Barack Obama spent God only knows how much of your money to fly over to Copenhagen and try to charm the IOC into choosing Corruptgo Chicago as the city of choice for the 2016 Olympics. Now, let me state definitively that I do love Chicago. Company XYZ, my employer of 13 years, is based there and I've spent many an enjoyable evening tripping down the Windy City's party-infested streets. I ain't got nuthin' against Chicago the City. I detest Chicago's corrupt political machine, that's all.

Anyhoo. So, Barack heads over to Denmark in the midst of massive unemployment and economic melee over here, flies his lovely wife over there in a separate plane, meets up with The Oprah, may she live forever, and attempts to convince the world that Chicago should host the 2016 Olympiad games.

Michelle Obama even simpered sweetly at the officials and wrung her hands about what a sacrifice it was for her to slice some time from her hectic schedule and hop across the Atlantic on a private fucking jet to meet with them. Yes. It was a bloody sacrifice, Mrs. Obama. You surrendered yourself to this process. It was incredibly difficult and heart wrenching for you to get gussied up by professional hairstylists and makeup artists, step onto a cavernous, empty jet, zoom through the air to Denmark, and prance in front of a bunch of snot-nosed, crooked judges and beg for your city. FOR THE CHILDREN, no less. Because it is all about the children, Michelle. And you know it was a sacrifice for The Oprah. Because Oprah has a supremely sacrifice-ridden life. It is tough to be The O.

Let's get serious here, folks. Because we all know that the reason Chicago was soundly booted out in the VERY FIRST VOTING ROUND is because of George W. Bush. Naturally! Goddamn it, that man has his claws of influence firmly driven into every single aspect of our universe. IT'S ALWAYS BUSH'S FAULT! At least, that's what Senator Roland Burris thinks.

Remember him? He was appointed to replace Barack Obama's open Illinois Senate seat when Obama fled to the White House in January. And remember the guy that appointed Burris to the position? Governor Rod Blagojevich, idiot extraordinaire! Considering the massive controversy surrounding Burris' ascension to the status of Senator, I'm pretty sure he's an expert on finger pointing.

And, GODDAMN IT, IT'S GEORGE W. BUSH'S FAULT! Witness the douchebaggery:

Burris stated in an interview, shortly after the announcement, that the image of
the U. S. has been so tarnished in the last 8 years that, even Barack Obama
making an unprecedented pitch for the games could not overcome the hatred the
world has for us as a result of George Bush.

Of course! And you know what? That FUCKING George Bush made me gain weight. I've put on 10 lbs in the last year, and I KNOW it is George Bush's fault.

You know what else? When my giant, drooling Great Dane pisses on my lawn? The GRASS DIES. And do you know whose fault that is? You guessed it, bitches. GEORGE W. FUCKING BUSH.

And? The Oklahoma Sooners LOST on Saturday evening. The stupid Miami Hurricanes beat them by ONE MEASLY POINT. Who is to blame?

George MutherFuckin'BeatMeByOneMeaslyPoint W. Bush. That's who.

Seriously. How much longer can these assholes in Congress keep pointing the finger at their predecessor? It's getting old, man.

Who knows why Chicago lost? Gosh. I dunno...could it have been the tape that blasted across the internet just days before the IOC's vote...you know, the one that showed a bunch of gangs in Chicago beating a kid to death with a railroad tie? Or, maybe, the fact that a US President considered the Olympic city selection process more important than the pressing issues currently plaguing his country; so important, in fact, that he dropped everything and fled to Denmark to beg for his home city, and strangely enough, some of his best peeps stood to make millions in real estate and other ventures, if the IOC had chosen Chicago as the Olympic destination of choice.

Maybe, just maybe, the IOC bastards thought twice about Barack Hussein Obama. Perhaps they didn't like being manhandled, Al Capone style. Getting your balls squeezed by the US President, Oprah, and Co. isn't exactly pleasant, one could assume. Then again, I've never felt that sensation.

Because I don't have balls, see?

Whatever. Maybe I am being too partisan in my viewpoints. All I know is, I am craving a donut like there is no tomorrow. STOP TORMENTING ME, GEORGE W. BUSH!!!! Release your power grip on me and on the rest of the universe and leave us alone, would you?!? Your omnipotence has come to an end, Sir. Walk away like a man and give our President a chance.

Marvin The Martian

My absolute all time favorite Bugs Bunny cartoon with Marvin the Martian. I spent most of my childhood believing that Martians looked like overweight green flamingos. I was a tad impressionable. Enjoy!



Find more videos like this on PlayStation Home Today

The Real Housewives of the 17th Century

Due to the sad, sad fact that I live in a small town, I purchase a ton of stuff over the internet. Back when I lived in Dallas, there was no need for internet shopping. Dump your butt anywhere in the Metroplex, spin around twice with your eyes closed, point and open, and BOOM! FUCKING AWESOME SHOPPING, no matter what.

This is not the case in my current hometown. Out of sheer necessity I have become the Queen of the Catalogs and one such catalog that I enjoy browsing (possibly while on my throne, which may or may not look like a toilet) is Ballard Designs.

Ballard's style hovers somewhere in the general vicinity of French Country. Most of their items are slightly overpriced, but they do have a unique selection of home essentials and decor. So, I'm sitting on the pot throne the other day and this jumped out at me, causing me to scream and drop the catalog, splattering coupons and mailer/stuffers all over the floor.

On a normal day, I totally trust Ballard's design choices, but I can only suspect that they recently hired a new designer that has a permanent IV line of liquid marijuana thrust into his chest.

Seriously, people, do you want those chicks looking at you? They look so . . . angry. Distrustful. Annoyed. Like they've just sniffed something putrid in the kitchen and by GOD they are going to beat the shit out of the servants over it! Just imagine if these prints were in your bedroom and in the middle of passionate lovemaking you flung back your sweaty hair and your wild eyes of desire fell upon these bitches.

No freaking way.

At the end of the day, I leveraged my results-driven personality and got my ass home.

I arrived home last night at 11:20PM, road weary with sagging eyeballs and blister-coated feet. After a three day sales meeting in Chicago with Company XYZ, a little shut eye in a Corporate Office Speak-Free Zone sounded heavenly. And, verily, it was!

The Numero Uno thing I adore about my employer of the past 13 years are the people I work with. Company XYZ is uncannily blessed with a stellar workforce. While many have come and gone, a core group of individuals remain and they are the heart of our organization. And I am damn lucky that I get to work with 'em every day. So, Mon - Weds activities were well-tolerated because I was surrounded by people that I love, people that create rumbling belly laughs in me and squeeze out my insane, poop-infested conversational skills.

But! A lexicon of the things I de-fucking-test about sales meetings could fill up goddamn Cowboys Stadium. In the interest of brevity, I will list only the top few annoyances from the last three days:

1. Corporate Bullshit-Speak

On Day One of my Chicago adventure I began a rolling tally of the number of times the word leverage was catapulted into the audio stratosphere.

I lost count at 4,965,672.

Seriously? I HATE CORPORATE BULLSHIT SPEAK. Just speak English, yo?

2. Ass Sucking Twenty-Three Year Old Sycophants That Think They Know All That And A Bag Of Chips But In Reality Know Shit

By Day Three of my Chicago adventure, I was wiped the fuck out, man. We stayed out late the first night and I inhaled waaaaay too much alkee-hawl. Next morning, we had to be in the hotel lobby by 7:30AM, butts in the meeting room by 8AM, balls to the wall infomeetings until 6PM, then out for another night of revelry . . . it was non stop, you know? Therefore, in the final meeting on the final day of this Teacup Ride From Sales Hell, it was quite understandable that the majority of us plebes did not sit with straightened spines and ears on alert. We were more amoeba-like . . . sort of gelatinous gobs of goo that dripped out of our seats and puddled on the floor in misery. That last meeting? WAS WRETCHED. And the worst part of it was the presenter for that two hours of sheer torture: Maim-Me.

Maim-Me has been with Company XYZ for about two seconds.

Or maybe two years.

I'm not sure. Either way, if I were to compose a one page summation to encapsulate her tenure at XYZ Co., it would look a lil' somethin' like this:

Name: Maim-Me

Age: Fuckin' Young

Looks: Thin With a Butter Face

Talent: The ability to force an entire salesforce into the fetal position with the power of her voice, which sounds like a toss up between a screeching cat and a nasal whine, with a dash of fingernails on the chalkboard tossed in for good measure.

Most Notable Moments in XYZ Co. History: Last year's sales meeting wherein Maim-Me danced on the pool table, sprang to the floor, did a backbend while bumpin' and grindin' and landed squarely on her head. Like, really hard. As in, her eyes rolled in their sockets and we quickly considered calling 911. (We didn't.)

Odd Qualities: A piercing stare that renders one mute and transforms her into a Bitchy Zombie Who Wants To Eat My Flesh And Drink My Blood A-La Vampire Style.

Most Ballsy Move: Maim-Me purportedly stomped into HR recently and demanded a 10-Fucking-Percent-Fucking-Raise! Because SHE IS WORTH IT. Allegedly.

By the middle of our death-spiral-descent-into-the-last-meeting-of-the-meeting hell, I amused myself by doodling cartoons of Maim-Me. I must admit, they were a hit! In fact, here is one of them for your viewing pleasure.

3. Hard Chairs

My ass is all "OW OW OW OW OW THAT HURTS OMG MY SPINE HAS CRACKED IN TWO JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH BUT MY COCCYX HAS GONE CADDYWHOMPUS!"

Thank you. This concludes my presentation of the Top Things That Annoyed The Hell Out Of Me At My Meeting. Snacks are in the break room - help yourselves.

Most interesting moment of the trip? My boss whipped the car around a corner and nearly flattened a chick in a wheel chair. That was some fucked up action, man.

My heart is full of unicorns and rainbows due to the fabulous hours I spent with my posse of friends.

My ass still hurts from sitting on those chairs, tho.

Tim Geithner Wants You To Live Long and Prosper

Last night, during a brief wine-soaked chat with my neighbor's husband, I noticed something very odd about our disgustingly self entitled tax cheat esteemed Sec'y of the Treasury, Timothy Geithner. There he was, bobbing about on CNBC, blah-blah-blahing about money and banks and the Treasury and how he is too important to pay personal income taxes, and lo and behold, Cap'n Spock jumped out of the TV and bitch slapped me!

Meh. I suppose it could have been the wine talking, but give my visual conclusions a gander, will ya? Does Tim Geithner look like a Vulcan or not? I say yes.

Seriously. Slap a black bowl cut on Geithner's noggin' and voila! - an emotionally challenged space alien emerges.Whether you agree with my sentiments or not, I think they both want us to live long and prosper. At least until China calls in our debt and makes us its whore. Until then, party on, bitches!

Little Boys are Geniuses

As the exhausted proud mother of two young sons, I never tire of Little Boy-isms. Zak, my four year old, is chock full of 'em, and you would think I could recount some of his more precious proverbs here on my blog, but sadly, the Fates have cursed me. My memory is mush. Unless I grab a writing instrument and jot down the words the moment they flee his mouth, I forget the entire incident.

Great news, tho! I just talked to my incredible friend, More-ah Desire (that's her James Bond moniker) (by the way, everyone should have one) and I captured this story on a Post It note, thanks to the pen in my paw during our discussion.

Setting: More-ah and Nikky (her three year old son) lounging in front of the TV at night, Nikky's sweet head nestled on More-ah's chest (which, truth be told, is ample in size)

Nikky: MOMMY! You have big BOOBIES!

More-ah: I do? Hum. Well, what do you have Nikky?

Nikky: (Points to his animal PJ pants) I have THIS.

More-ah: (Curious where he's going with "this") Aaaaaand, what is "this"?

Nikky: (With a definitive head nod) THAT's where the WILD THINGS ARE.

(More-ah's husband falls off his chair and laughs himself into a conniption fit.)

From the mouths of babes, people . . .

I Dig Michelle Duggar's Hair

Surprise, surprise, peeps. Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar are EXPECTING again. This time it is baby number 19.


Listen, I've blogged about these people twice. I'm not going to delve into the intricacies of their abominably odd lifestyle. Yeah, they have a bajillion offspring running around. Yep, all the babies' names begin with the letter "J". Aaaaand the kids are all well behaved! (My guess is that they eat special brownies every day.) (And by "special", I mean pot-filled.) And, gasp!, they live a debt free lifestyle! (I thoroughly approve of this fact.)


What. The. Fuck. Ever.


I refuse to analyze their assiduous attempts to repopulate the earth with mini-me clones. Live and let live - you wanna turn your uterus into Mrs. Baird's Bread Factory? Be my guest, Inveterate Lover of Buns in the Oven.


But, seriously, let's talk hair!


I am thrilled to the gills that Michelle Duggar finally shed the remaining vestiges of Mullet Worship and joined the Land of Styled Tresses. Behold the glory . . .

I think we can all breathe a collective sigh of relief that Michelle Duggar laid to rest her hair of yore and has moved forward into some semblance of savvy. Rock on, Michelle. Rock on!

I Pledge...

Sweet mother of Christ.


Hey, here's an idea! I pledge to never again support ANY of these Hollywood fucktards with my viewership of their movies / television shows / concerts / media du jour. How about that? (Please please please don't let anyone from The Big Bang Theory be in that stupid video!)

What a bunch of fucking idiots. I'm fairly certain that Barack Obama is OUR public servant, and not the other way around. Piss off, assholes. Go sell idiocy elsewhere.

Big Bang Me, Baby

For nearly a decade, I've wandered aimlessly in a sitcom-less wasteland of "Reality TV" (misnomer alert!) And, verily, it hath sucked. Not that I adore mindless sitcoms or anything, but what happened to the quality writing days of I Love Lucy? Or Newhart? Or The Golden Girls? The Cosby Show, anyone? For the love of giggles, why did Cheers have to end? Frasier was fantastically witty and intelligent. Friends elicited deep belly laughs. And, Seinfeld? Don't even get me started on Jackie Chiles! "That is lewd, lascivious, salacious . . . outRAGEOUS!" "Did Jackie Chiles tell you to settle, Mr. Kramer? I don't think Jackie Chiles told you to do that!"

I respect any Johnnie Cochranlike character that speaks in third person. It's just damn funny, I tell you.

And then, our Friends tottered away into the burning sunset, with arms firmly wrapped around each other and a million buckaroos per episode stuffed inside their fat pockets, George, Elaine, Jerry and Kramer bid us adieu via their collective middle finger from a dismal jail cell, and . . . nothing. Nada. No funny for you!

Joey, Mr. Tribbiani's Friends spin off, just fell flat. And the rest is a blur. I vaguely recall wading through a swamp of wannabe-shows during the mid 2000s, but it was mostly forgettable pap. And, then Shit-ality TV invaded our airwaves and we descended into the Pit of Douchetastic Television from whence we shall never escape.

Last season, as I gloomily channel surfed for something other than Presidential Election Excrement Coverage or Shit-ality TV, the remote invariably landed upon CBS and a wee program called The Big Bang Theory. "YAWN," I thought. "More Me-Too crap that will never measure up and make me laugh. This country has gone to hell in a hand basket and is on its way back to the Douche Factory!" I was less than enthusiastic, but what the hell? What else was I supposed to do on a boring school night? So, I kicked back my tush, sank into my feather pillows, and gave The Big Bang Theory a fightin' chance.

OMIGOD. That show fucking rocks.

I understand approximately .006% of the dialogue, but it is deliciously humorous nonetheless. If you haven't been lucky enough to watch this show, here's a quick summary: The plot centers on four brilliant, young scientists who are rock stars in the brainy sense, but devoid of any social skills in the real world. An adorably street smart blond moves in across the hall, sending Leonard (the central character, a wild haired bespectacled physicist) into a tailspin of angst. He has a massive crush on her but hasn't a clue how to woo her. Because, you know, he talks like a fucking dictionary/thesaurus/physics textbook. Let the hilarity commence!

This tiny slice of cleverness is a beacon of possibility for the future of primetime American television. Heads up, you myopic reality-ridden moronic entertainment execs!!! Instead of offering up the dick du jour on a platter of stupidity, so he/she can milk 15 minutes of humiliating fame only to slink home to Pondunkville, USA, with his/her finely toned trailer trash tail tucked between his/her chiseled thigh muscles, why not produce a bit of well written, enlightened dialogue that will make us smile and give a hard working, honest to God ACTOR a job?

Enjoy the ingenuity. I recommend nursing a Diet Coke for your viewing / burping pleasure.

Real Hos of Atlanta

Has anyone seen the latest and greatest (and by "greatest" I mean shittiest on earth) version of the "Real Housewives" brand of shows on Bravo TV? The most recent version hails from Hotlanta and features a merry band of ethnic women and one white trailer trash gal that sports bleach blond wigs and loves to stir the pot with drama.

OMG. This show is a fucking train wreck. Then again, the mobsters from Jersey, the uptight bitches from New York, and the original SoCal plasticized, back-stabbing Barbies from Orange Co., CA, aren't much beddah.

I've dabbled in viewing snippets of all of the shows. I can only stomach so much before I wanna bitch slap the collagen out of their lips. These women do not appear to fully grasp the meaning of friendship. They have hoards of money but they aren't happy. They're petty, vindictive, miserable harpies who just so happen to be less offensive to the eyes than a regular schmo, and have more money than the average Jane.

Bravo has lost its damn mind. They also feature a detestable program called NYC Prep School which follows the lives of a few privileged teens in private schools in NYC. These kids . . . Christ on a cucumber. They're so bored. YAWN. They've done the drugs, the drinking, the unbridled sex, sigh, with everybody . . . at age 16. Gosh, can you blame them? They're just logging their time in revoltingly overpriced posh high schools so that they can be FREE and then log their time in revoltingly overpriced posh Ivy League colleges, so they can then run their own business and be revoltingly overpaid titty baby bosses to a bunch of normal folks who actually have to work for a living.

Sniff.

Jesus. They disgust me. I want to vomit the moment their pompous, upturned noses hit the screen. HERE'S A THOUGHT, GENIUS: If you're so goddamn fucking bored all the time, why not VOLUNTEER for something good? Why not help those that need it? Why don't you travel over to Africa on Mommy and Daddy's private jet and assist those evil drug companies in distributing free fucking prescription drugs to the helpless AIDS victims over there? Or, gasp!, channel that ennui into a local effort to make the world a better place in New York FUCKING City? HUH? WHADABOUT THAT, you whiny fucks? I swear, opportunities for positive stewardship and growth abound in your own highly manicured back yards, you writhing idiots.

Owowowowow. I just popped a vein in my forehead.

Back to the Real Hos of Hotlanta. In the first five seconds of the opening credits, you pretty much glean everything you need to make a viewing decision, when NeNe (Ghetto name alert! Ghetto name alert!!!) announces craftily that her family "don't keep up with the Joneses! WE ARE THE JONESES."

I'm fairly certain her last name is not Joneses. But what do I know?

These supposed bastions of upper crust Atlanta society actually got into a fistfight at a local upscale restaurant, I shit you not. Brawl on video, right here!

Now, I don't claim to be an expert on class, but by GAWD, that screams "I'M A WINNER!"

Seriously, it just goes downhill from there. Don't watch it. You'll want to claw your eyes out. Then again, do! Because if you are a candidate for LASIK surgery, the job will be halfway done after five minutes of one episode.

Prescription for successful LASIK procedure:

Watch 5 mins. of Real Hos of Atlanta,

claw eyes uncontrollably,

run to nearest eye surgeon's office and jump into the chair,

let lasering commence.

No need for that pesky eyeball slicing machine! WIN WIN!