Sometimes I Can Be a Super Duper Buttinsky

(DISCLAIMER: This is in response to a situation that has nothing whatsoever to do with me; however, thoughts regarding this sitch will continue to nag at at me until I speak my mind. So there. Read it. Or don’t. Whatever. I do understand that my blog is a public forum and that this may cause negative or hard feelings to be directed my way. But whatever. I feel strongly about what is being said. That is all.)

Dear Lady of Questionable Humor Who was Recently Burned by Twitter Tweets:

I’m sorry that because of something you wrote in your Twitter stream you had to suffer the indignity of having the police come and check on you and your children. I worry all the time that one of my neighbors will call the police or child protective services because I have a daughter that has the most HORRIFYING, piercing yell—I kid you not—and she has absolutely no qualms about shrieking at the top of her lungs for longer than one would believe is humanly possible if her older brother so much as looks at her wrong. Which he does. A LOT. To have the cops come because someone heard her screaming and thought someone was hurting her would be embarrassing and horrible and scary and did I mention TOTALLY EMBARRASSING?! I’ve tried to explain to her that there are “Good Samaritans” out there who could potentially call the police because they can hear her screaming, but she’s a child… and when it comes right down to it, it’s an impulse control issue and all we can do is work on it. That said, I’d be pissed if someone DID call the authorities, especially without talking to me first, but I would totally understand why. While I’d rather be approached first, I really wouldn’t expect a neighbor to come to my door and ask, “Excuse me, are you abusing your child in there?” Nah. Not many people would be brave enough to take that risk. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying.

That said…

I’m American. I don’t watch Fox news (I don’t watch any network news, actually). I do watch “Bones” and “House,” though, and they are on Fox so sometimes I see news commercials during the breaks, but I don’t think that should count because I am usually getting snacks and such, or spending quality time with my husband and children. And I live in the DC Metro area, which is technically “The South” if you go by the Mason-Dixon line, which I totally don’t because that line of demarcation is ancient HISTORY. But dude. Honestly. If you use Twitter, you have no expectation of privacy, unless you protect your updates. And frankly, I don’t know you from Adam, but after reading back through several of your Tweets, I know more about your battles with bipolar disorder, your strained relationship with your husband, and your discontent with your co-workers (and boss) than I think is entirely necessary. WAY more. Good LORD with the TMI, woman! But I have the ability to, you know, NOT follow you. Or read your blog. Which is cool. If I don’t appreciate your brand of humor, so what, right? In the big scheme of things, it don’t mattah. We don’t know each other. We’ll likely never meet, even if I do ever travel to Canada. It’s a big place. Whatever. My good opinion is nothing to you.

So please don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for emotional honesty. I’m all for snark. I’m all for cutting jokes and whatnot. And I get that you want to Keep It Real. Awesome. Go on and get down with your bad self. You have that right. You have the right to ask all of Twitter if it would be okay to smother your screaming child. Even if you are TOTALLY kidding! Ha ha! I get it. You’re like Michael Scott. You hope to someday live in a world where a person could tell a hilarious Child Abuse joke. I hear you. But sadly, that is not our world. Yet. (Fingers crossed!)

So all the Twitter Tweeters who read your “questionable” Tweet (and the others before it) have the right-—and some “Good Samaritans” would say the responsibility-—to think—perhaps!—that someone ought to make sure that you are not REALLY going to smother your child to get her to be quiet and go to sleep. Because mothers ACTUALLY DO THAT. A commenter confessed that she Tweeted that she wanted to flush her child down the toilet, and asked if that Tweet should have sent alarm bells going in the Twitterdom, too. Well, no, actually, it shouldn’t. Why should it? Because mothers CAN’T ACTUALLY DO THAT. Unless there is some super secret child-flushable toilet out there that only she knows of, but even I cannot willingly suspend disbelief on that one, and I watched ALL SEVEN seasons of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I know, right?) Nor can you sell your child on eBay. Believe me. I’ve tried.

Wait! That was a joke.

You know, the image of the young mother Rowena smothering her three-year-old daughter in “Mary Jane Harper Cried Last Night” is STILL burned into my memory, and that came out in the 70s. THE 70s! I had nightmares! Didn’t want to sleep with a pillow anymore! Even though my momma was always super nice to me! But still! Hate Susan Dey to this… er, day! So there you go. You have willingly put yourself out there as a parent struggling through mental illness and the challenges of raising a family. So when you say something extreme, like “I want to kill my children,” this will lead to extreme reactions and/or responses. It will. You must have known that when you wrote it. Weren’t you trying to be shocking? Otherwise, a simple “My daughter won’t go to bed and she is driving me CRAAAZY…” would have sufficed. Extreme comments like yours set off alarm bells. They just do. And you can’t control the reaction you’ll get from readers who may not know you very well. Or, you know, at all. If you can’t understand that then maybe you shouldn’t be blogging. Or Twittering. At all. At least not in such a public forum.

Because sure, you have the right to Keep It Real and eschew “bullshit and fake honesty” in your own way. But if your exercise of that right in the public forum—where, again, people who see it may not (and most likely do not) know you personally—results in unintended negative consequences, then it is as Mark Twain wrote– that free speech “ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences.”

Perhaps instead of complaining that concerned readers should take the time to read back over your past posts and Tweets and figure out for themselves that you were just making a twisted sort of emotionally honest joke, perhaps you could ask yourself to take a few moments before you post something that you know is shocking or questionable and ask yourself if it may be taken in the wrong spirit by other parents or people who just don’t get your brand of humor. Like, “Hey, if I announced to a random crowd at the mall that I wanted to kill my children or asked passerbyers at the grocery store if it would be okay to smother my screaming child, would that raise alarm bells?” If the answer is yes, then there you go. Instant filter. Problem solved. I’m just suggesting that self-censorship is necessary if you aren’t keen on serious backlash for hasty or controversial content you put out there for anyone to read. Unless you WANT a reaction, of course, in which case, just keep on keeping on.

It’s like I tell my children who have inherited my control freak gene:  “You can’t control anyone but yourself.” To me, that principle extends to how we present ourselves and who we let into our little space in the blog world. You may not be able to control what other people take away from your writing, but you can control how you present your thoughts and feelings. Raw honesty does not have to be shocking or vulgar. It just has to be real.

Again, I am so sorry you had to suffer the indignity of cops coming by to check on you and your family. I mean that sincerely. That must have sucked SO MUCH.

That’s all I have to say about that. I will now carry on living my life.

Election Day… What a Ride!

Dude. People are reporting standing in line with– and I quote– “easily 75 people!”? Ha! I thumb my nose at 75 people! I laugh in the face of your 75 people! Honestly. There are “easily 75 people” peppering the crowd around me and TGIM with sample ballots. No, REALLY. This line is LONG. Like, SUPER long. DISNEYLAND long! Raiders of the Lost Ark: The Ride long! But the rolling boulder part is awesome, so what are ya gonna do?

I barely notice the freezing weather. I’m like, “Fingers numb with cold?! Whatever! I’m an AMERICAN.”

Take THAT, voter apathy.

(BTW, anyone else think Nader has a shot?)

Almost there…

… almost there…

… almost there…

“BOOM!” says the lady!

Jonah? He Ain’t Seen Nothing.

Conversation between two of my three-year-old nephews after Cool Big Cousin TD diplomatically took his Duncan Imperial yo-yo from one (Tot N) to let the other (Tot R) have his turn:

Tot N: (to TD) I hate you! I will kill you!

Tot R: Hey! Don’t say that! Else God will send a whale and it will EAT you!

Tot N: No! We don’t even live by the ocean!

Tot R: Well I know, but it will come out of the GROUND and eat you! And then it will spit you out of its blowhole and eat you AGAIN!

Tot N: (calmly) I will shoot him with a gun.

Tot R: (scandalized) HEY! YOU CAN’T SHOOT GOD’S WHALE!

Tot N thinks it over, shrugs.

Tot N: Okay. (then, to TD) Sorry.

TD: ….?

Dude. I love three-year-old logic. I do! Honestly. I mean, think. With that kind of logic, we could bring about Real Change…

Ponderings and Musings

1. Should I put all the old baggage– the disappointment, the acrimony– behind me and reconcile with American Idol? As much as I hate to admit it, I miss our times together– the laughter, the tears, the recaps– and there’s just so much HISTORY there, you know? It is a tough call… should I throw caution to the wind and jump back in?

2. In this fierce political environment, what is the proper response in casual conversation when a person suddenly makes a vulgar or disparaging remark about a political party as a whole– such as “Democrats are so [choose an expletive]!” or “All Republicans are complete [insert vulgarity here]!”– presented as a statement of fact, with the assumption that everyone else in the group totally agrees? Pushing aside the obvious inadvisability of gross generalizations, not everyone is interested in turning a watercooler discussion about the latest episode of Gossip Girl into a political debate. Hrm… how to diffuse? Must think of witty, all-purpose comeback…

3. When did pom pons get so small? When did that happen? Cheerleaders at televised sporting events look as if they are clutching candy wrappers and waving them at the crowd with their twiggy little arms, all, “See? I eat! See?! I’m not starving myself to fit into my size 0 cheer ’skirt’! Take THAT, biznitches! Wooooooo! Number OOOONE! YEAH!” Right? Weird.

Global Warming: It’s the Cows, Not Us

Over lunch, TD turned to me and stated, all conversational-like, “Momma, I really don’t get the big deal about global warming.”

“Oh, okay, well–” I started, gearing up for my “will life on the planet survive the eco-destructive tendency of humans” conversation (which… DUH!), but my boy? He wasn’t quite finished with that thought yet.

“I mean, c’mon. Who really cares about our descendants a thousand years from now? What’s up with that?”

Fact: Tacos don’t taste quite as good when they are inhaled into your sinus passages due to sudden snorts of laughter. Just so you know. As my eyes began to water–those spices BURN going up, I tell you what!–I turned to TGIM for a little help.

“What’s up with that, indeed,” TGIM replied, rubbing the top of TD’s head playfully. “I’m with you. Who cares about our future generations?”

“Plus, you know what else is contributing to global warming?” TD asked, looking to make sure he had our undivided attention. “Cow burps,” he crowed triumphantly.

“Ew!” Hannah squealed.

“Gross,” added Alli.

“Well, sure,” TGIM agreed.

Fact: I am never going to be able to enjoy a taco again. Oh, the agony! In my sinuses! Thanks a WHOLE lot, TGIM. Gosh!

TD looked at me, trying to gauge whether I was in agreement, or whether I was mocking him with my uncharacteristic silence, which he did not appear to notice was due to some serious food mastication issues. “I mean, we’ll all be dead, anyway, right?” he said. “DEAD.”

I finally choked down the taco. “As doornails,” I answered. “And why? Because of a bunch of stinking cows chewing genetically engineered alfalfa and burping up methane gas, that’s why!”

“True dat,” TGIM concurred solemnly. “True dat.”

Honestly. Family conversations over dinner? Rock solid!

I love a good teaching opportunity. What can I say? That’s just the kind of momma I am.

Poster Boy for Term Limits in Congress

(AKA: More o’ dat Questionable Political Commentary I’m always bragging about…)

Congressman Pete Stark? Watch closely now.

Here’s the line:
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a

a

a

a

n

d

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Here’s you.

Customer Service Crisis

It used to be that cashiers were all friendly and gabby and customer service-oriented. Hell, back in my high school days when I worked the cash register at Burger King (shut up) I was all ABOUT the customer service! With the smiling? And the polite chit-chat? And the attention to detail? And the speaking of English?

Not so anymore! No, sir! It seems that lately, I’ve had to forgo the retail chit-chat and spend the majority of my time just trying to understand what the frak the cashier– whether at the drug store, the grocery store , the drive-thru (dyeh! “through,” damn it! “THROUGH”!)–is trying to say to me.

Honestly. Just last night TGIM and I made a quick stop at our local drugstore for some earplugs so I could make it through the night without walloping him or violently shoving him over on his side in order to make the horrid–horrid!– snoring go AWAY. As we were checking out, I stood next to him at the counter, engrossed in OK Magazine (Britney jaccuzzied nekkid, y’all! For reals!), as TGIM waited, cash in hand, for the total.

“Seebee yacaw?” I heard the cashier say.

Silence.

I looked over at TGIM, who had that hunted, I don’t know what the freak is going on look on his face.

“Seebee yacaw?” the cashier repeated. A bit testily I might add.

Silence.

TGIM stared blankly at the cashier for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, thought the better of it, glanced at me, then back at the cashier.

Luckily I am nothing if not a Super Saver, so despite the rather thick– now, I’m going to go out on a limb and call it Asian– accent (I didn’t take the time to ask him the specifics of his ancestry, me just buying ear plugs and all, but I’m fairly confident in my profiling skillz), I knew what the grumpy man wanted. “Our CVS card is in my wallet,” I told the cashier, “which is at home.”

TGIM’s face cleared. “Oh!” Then his smile faded. “Oh.” Because we like to shop the sale, yo?

Figuring we were good to go, I dove back into my magazine. (Adam Sandler is using a BUTT DOUBLE in his new movie? Get out!)

“Fo numbah?”

Silence. Then, “Um, Cat…?”

I must admit, the only reason I had a clue what the man said was because I know that at this particular store when we are too disorganized to know where our Super Saver cards are– as they have apparently broken off in the dark recesses of our purse, somewhere alongside a lone breath mint and the coins we can always hear clinking in there, lost forever and ever– all we have to do is rattle off our phone number. Which I did. It didn’t process. I tried again. Still no luck. TGIM said, “Let me try mine.” Before he could, however, the cashier barked out the total and put his hand out for our money.

No sale price for us!

Now let me tell you, when I was a Burger King employee, you–as the customer–Had It Your Way, damn it! YOUR WAY! And if employees weren’t all cute and perky and personable at the register, they dragged your non-customer-service-oriented ass back to the fiery pit of hell that is Broiler Duty, by GOD, they did!

Well, except if you were TOO perky and personable, like those times I’d spot a cute boy at the front counter, and I would drop the Chicken Tender I’d been snacking on and race my friend Shane (whose flamin’ gayness was only superseded by the bigness of his Flock of Seagulls ‘do) to the registers where we would jostle for position and hurry to be the first to greet the customer–”WelcometoBurgerKingMayIHelpYouGetOFFme!”– thus securing the sale. Although if girlfriend thought he could out-perky me, he was seriously trippin’. I was a CHEERLEADER. Just sayin’. Then again, if his choice of coiffure was any indication, I’d say “seriously trippin’” was a safe bet. But we were FRIENDLY, see? And spoke with the English? That’s all I’m saying.

But whatever.

My point, you ask? Well… I don’t have one, really. It just bugs me that because I spend so much time at the cash register simply trying to be understood (or to understand), I can’t make with the friendly. Or Shop the Sale. OR finish even one measly magazine.

*gasp*

OMG. I just realized! If customer service continues in its downward spiral into the proverbial toilet… I may have to start subscribing to magazines.

Ah customer service! Ah humanity!

He’s not heavy, he’s my brother.

It’s all TGIM’s fault.

He just had to have the Accord today because apparently the Miata was not good enough for him. What? He couldn’t just shove all three kids in the passenger seat of the Miata? There’s a seatbelt! It’s long enough! But oh, no. Heaven forbid. Honestly. Can you say “selfish”?

I gave in and took the Miata, completely messing up my routine, but whatever. I’m just cool like that. I’m a giver.

It wasn’t until I was already on my way that I noticed there were no CD’s in the car. No tunes. And a gal needs tunes on her drive into work. Five in the morning is the perfect time for tunes. Preferably upbeat tunes because did I mention it’s five in the morning? Way early? Still dark out? Yes? You equal all comfy and snuggly in bed… and I be hatin’? Just so we’re clear.

So I was all, “No tunes? No enthusiastic though not necessarily tonally correct sing-a-longs? No chair-Axl Rose’ing to the grooves? No air guitaring?! Not that I do that?! Because it would be dangerous?! The hell?!”

This lack of tuneage created a rare opportunity for quiet reflection and meditation. But believe me when I say that I don’t like to do any heavy thinking on my drive into work. Nope, not a fan. Five in the morning is too early for heavy thoughts. Heavy thoughts bring a person down, yo? DOWN. And, seriously, I’ve already been awake since four. I don’t need any more downers.

I lasted about a minute and a half before the steady hum of the engine got to me, all mocking me with its steady humminess and whatnot. And that’s when it happened.

I turned on the radio.

I know, right?! The RADIO!

To make matters worse, TGIM had been listening to an AM channel. AM?! Good lord, man. Now just because I can’t stop TGIM from cluttering his mind with frivolous stuff like football stats and political nonsense doesn’t mean I have to join him. Tunes! That’s what I’m talking about! I tried to switch to FM– where the tunes live!– but my fingers were clumsy– so cold!– and unfamiliar with the knobs– not my usual car!– and I ended up scanning instead.

That’s when I overheard a debate about whether or not convicted child molesters should be allowed to attend church because children usually make up a large portion of a church’s congregation..

SCREEEEEEEEEECH!

Oh, but not literally. That was a figurative screech. A mental screech. Not a car-braking-suddenly-on-the-beltway screech. For reals.

Because… what?! Damn it. Couldn’t change the channel now, now could I? I was stuck.

And what really captured my attention was that a majority of the callers were dead-set against letting known pedophiles attend church services. “I’d have to switch churches if my pastor let a pedophile attend!” one lady said. “I’ve got three children to think about!” Another woman remarked that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy services because she’d be worried every time her children were out of her sight, perhaps at Sunday school or Bible class. One man insisted that church was like an all-you-can-eat buffet of children to pedophiles. He did suggest, however, that if pedophiles wanted to have God in their lives, they– like shut-ins– could have church services brought to them in their home.

Heavy thinking ensued.

Because the truth is… there is a convicted child molester in the congregation of my church. And this bothers me. A LOT. And make no mistake: the only reason I do know about this man’s predilection for young girls is that TGIM’s line of work puts him in the way of these people on a regular basis. When I asked the leaders of our congregation whether or not they were aware of this man’s status as a sex offender, they assured me that, yes, they did know, but since he must be accompanied by his wife (or someone else) at all times while at church, it’s all good.

Oh, really?

I thought about what bothered me more: the fact that this guy is allowed to be around my children on a weekly basis, or the fact that nobody saw fit to tell me– a mother of three– that this man sitting two pews over is a pedophile. After thinking much too heavily for five in the morning, I decided on the latter. Love the sinner, hate the sin (love the sinner, hate the sin, love the sinner, hate the sin, love the sinner, hate the sin…), that’s what they say, right? Not that I’m judging the callers, though, because on the most basic level, I don’t want him around me or my children, either. Period. Never ever. I want him far, faaaaaar away, in fact. But I suppose that not many need God in their lives more than these predators, I tell you what, so more power to ‘em. But forewarned is forearmed, that is all I’m saying.

By the time I got to work my head hurt from all that heavy thinking and I felt frustrated– angry, even– with myself for not doing more to alert other parents at church about the sex offender in our midst.

All in all, I think it’s safe to say that I would have rather just had my tunes.

Stupid radio.

It’s all TGIM’s fault.

And we women say, “Puuuull oooout noooow!”

Well, that’s just rude.

I don’t think these Code Pinkalicious women ought to be bossing people around about how to practice birth control.

I mean, honestly.

Did You?

The question ISN’T…

“Why was Rush Limbaugh in possession of a bottle of Viagra that was not prescribed to him?” Oh no. The question should be, “Good lord! Who the hell is hittin’ that?!”

I’m just saying.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled program for a li’l o’ dat “questionable political analysis” I’m always bragging about…

How glad am I that Dick Cheney accidentally shooting his friend with a 28-gauge shotgun full of buckshot has become front-page news? And how happy am I that the leading controversy of the day involves Mr. VP totally allowing the Corpus Christi local media to scoop the story of the incident without any regard for the Washington Press Corps’ right to the story whatsoever? How glad?!

So, SO glad.

Because all the other stuff going on in the world– the on-going worldwide Muslim riots and killing in reaction to a stinking cartoon, the election of the why-you-be-hatin’ Hamas in Palestine, Iran’s nuclear weapons development sitch, not to mention the criminal leaking of integral NSA secrets to the New York Times, Congress’s namby-pambying around a threatening financial collapse of Social Security and Medicare, the Iraqi crisis, and duh!, the fact that President Bush and his goons are totally spying on me and probably reading this post right this very second– well, it’s all just such a downer, right? Who wants to hear about all that? Huh? Right?

But Quailgate? (Too hackneyed? How about “FriendlyFireGate”? Nah, too long…) Now THAT’S entertainment, I tell you what! But an important question I haven’t heard answered is this: Did the quail survive? And if not, has PETA been notified? I’m just saying.

You know what I think? Thank God the mainstream American press has its priorities in order, that’s what. Because truth be told? I was beginning to feel a little bummed out.

No, really.

Are the colors pretty in your world?

Thanks heavens! Americans are FINALLY coming to their senses and taking a stand against the junk food indoctrination prevalent in today’s children’s television programming. In Massachusetts, advocacy groups and parents are suing the Nickelodeon TV network and cereal maker Kellogg Co. in an effort to stop junk food marketing to kids. Well it’s about time!

I mean, Nickelodeon– with its ever-popular SpongeBob SquarePants and it’s Fairly OddParents– and Kellogg– with its ggggrrrrrreat Frosted Flakes and its misleading Apple Jacks (no apples! for reals!)– are prime venues for the predatory marketing of junk food to my kids. Think about it… where does SpongeBob work? In a Krusty Krab shack! Where he peddles (as well as consumes) fattening Krabby Patties and sodas and shizz! What is THAT teaching the children, huh? Even the cool crustaceans and sponge-life eat the junk food, that’s what! I know, right? The insidiousness of the message is absolutely mind-blowing in its genius.

Look around. The enticing junk-food ads are everywhere, I tell you, and then I go into the grocery store and all my children’s beloved Nickelodeon cartoon characters are just plastered all over those fruit snacks, and potato chips, and sugary Kellogg cereals, and fruit drinks, and naturally my children want them. To add insult to injury, every time we pass a Burger King my kids are all, “MOOOOOOM! Buy me a kid’s meal! Pleeeeeeeeeeaaase?! They have Dora! DOOOOORAAAAAAAA! The EXPLOOOORRRAAAAAAH!” Wake up, America. How are my children supposed to have a healthy, obesity-free lifestyle when they are eating Burger King kid’s meals all the time? Huh? HOW?!

Finally someone is looking out for the welfare of my children.

Just look at Sesame Street on PBS… they listened when concerned parents and advocacy groups leaned on them and they changed the Cookie Monster’s tune from “Cookies, cookies, cookies start with C! grumgrumgrumgrum…” to “Cookies are a sometimes food!” and just look how that turned out. I’ll bet thousands of children do not want cookies all the time now… no SIR. Just sometimes. Take that evil Nickelodeon junk food indoctrinators. HA!

I mean, honestly. What is a parent supposed to do? Just switch off the television and send the kids outside to play? Force them out on a bike ride? What if it’s COLD outside, huh? What then? Or, what? Refuse to buy the high-calorie, low-nutrition food and drinks for which they whine and beg and plead in the grocery store? With the tears? And the pouty faces? Hello? Can you say “Bad Parent”? Honestly! How’s that supposed to promote peace and harmony in the home? Well?! See? Do you SEE?! It just can’t be done.

And SpongeBob is gay, too, did you know? Dead serious. The bastards.

They’re going down.

My eyes! They BURN…

Okay. I have officially STOPPED feeling any kind of sympathy for Cindy Sheehan. I have! So sue me! I don’t care! The Grief Pimping has evolved into full-fledged Media Whoring.

Someone’s gotta say it. May as well be me.

And good LORD I hope they arrested the topless women with GINORMOUS knockers who were protesting outside the White House because DAMN sistahs! BRAS are your FRIEND. BOOOOOOOOOOOBS. Goodness. It’s like the National Geographic out there.

Um, that is all. For now.

Um, Governor Blanco? I think Tom Ridge wants his duct tape back.

Oooh! September is National Preparedness Month! Gosh. I don’t think I need to point out the inherent irony here.

Okay, so here’s my new disaster plan:

I’m putting together some freaking GO KITS, that’s what I’m doing! They will contain the following:

1. Water (Lots and lots of it. Water = Good.)
2. Food (Healthy, non-perishable stuff. And donuts.)
3. First Aid Kit containing– among other things– copious *FHP’s (Especially Midol. I mean, hello?! Me in a stressed out, premenstrual state in an emergency without an adequate supply of ibuprofen and tampons?! At the ready?! Please! Be serious.)
4. Gun(s) and ammo (Up in the air regarding body armor…)

Anyone have suggestions/recommendations regarding handguns vs. shotguns? I’m shootin’ to kill, mind you. I am leaning toward the handgun (it’s daintier!), but there is definitely an argument for bringing out the ol’ sawed-off in an emergency situation, you know what I’m saying? No real aiming skills required with one of those bad boys, I tell you what! Woo-whee!

Yep. That about covers it. Can’t be too prepared my momma always says. And she knows. Woman has more toilet paper in her house than can be found in ALL OF FRANCE! She calls it her Year Supply. Well, one must never underestimate the importance of buttloads of TP, I suppose.

Hee. BUTTloads? Too obvious? Whatev. I totally crack myself up.

What? I’m just sayin’.

*Feminine Hygiene Products. Duh.

(Hmmm. Too soon to be flippant? Sorry. It’s what I do when I am upset. This you know. I COULD harangue and bitch and moan and point fingers and pass the buck, but there’s been enough of that going on to last a lifetime and a half, thank you very much. People in high places are NOT playing nice in the sandbox. BAD politicians. BAD media outlets. Naughty! Time Out for ALL OF YOU! Shut up and PITCH IN, I say. My heart, and my prayers, and YES, my money, and even hygiene kits put together by my extended family, are going out to all of those who were devasted by this tragedy. Even the stupid people who even still refuse to leave New Orleans. May the Red Cross bring you relief. May God bring you comfort. And–hopefully– donuts.)

Day of (Blog) Silence

Today my thoughts and prayers are with the people whose lives have been upset and/or devastated by Hurricane Katrina, as well as with those who are risking their own lives to bring said people left in her terrible wake a modicum of safety and comfort.

Seriously, this is just heartbreaking to watch unfold. My deepest sympathies are with all y’all.

Except for ending slavery, fascism, Nazism, and communism, war has never solved ANYTHING!

Okay, besides the “fanatical television snarking” and the “random bitching and moaning,” I also promised “questionable political analysis,” so I am just going to go ahead and blurt this out:

Cindy Sheehan? SHUT. UP.
Liberty cannot exist passively. By all accounts, your son KNEW this.
The Grief Pimping must stop.
Go home, woman, and get the grief counseling you so desperately need.
Oh, and stop slamming American Idol, yo? I mean, honestly.

That is all.

Oh, Bartleby!

Oh, humanity.

Of course, in the wake of today’s terrorist attacks in London, this becomes somewhat trivial news. But still. Totally worth mentioning.

Just watch the video. Meet the “criminal.”
Honestly.
Unbefreakinglievable.

Let’s see… Obey the cops? Or save a guy’s life?

Which would YOU choose?

He “Beat It”!

Has anyone said “Holy shit!” yet?

If not, “Holy shit.”

I know, I know… but there is a vast difference between a person being guilty of a crime, and proving beyond a reasonable doubt that a person is guilty of a crime.

Don’t misunderstand. I believe in the jury system. I believe in our justice system. For the most part. But you will never convince me– based on his past actions, the past allegations against him, and his tendency to seek out the companionship of young, troubled boys– that Michael Jackson is not guilty of exactly what he was charged with. And kudos to him; he chose the perfect victim, as the good little pedophile invariably will. No credibility in that family whatsoever. Who’s going to believe a family full of liars when they actually tell the truth? Especially when that truth involves the sexual misdeeds of a fabulously rich, much-lauded, international singing sensation?

I mean, come ON. Pet llamas? “Jesus Juice”? “Barber-pole penis”? “Get me some Vaseline, and I mean STAT!”? Who makes this stuff up? Hmmm?

Wow. Think I’ll break out a can of Jesus Juice and toast this memorable day in history. Cheers.