The Best and Worst and a Little Something in Between of Everything

I don't have cable television. I'm only allowed to leave the house on special occasions, and then only if I have a envelope of coupons somewhere on my person. The last book I was able to finish reading in one sitting involved a bunny and pictures ... excuse me, illustrations, that were larger than the Sunday paper. So, you won't be getting a Best Book/Music/Event That Happened Outside My Immediate Realm of Consciousness list from me. What you will get is ... well, just read, and you'll find out.

Biggest Whoop-Ass of 2004: Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne, and Jon. Proof that Mother Nature hates mosquitos as much as she hates bowties.

He'll win one for the Gipper with God, now. Nothing can bring Republicans and Democrats together like a shared love of jelly beans.

I'm pretty sure the Gipper spoke to the Bambino about this, too.

Best News Stories that Never Happened: Michael Jackson shut out of Olympics, runs to Bubbles the Chimp for comfort, they wed. Paris Hilton found in menage a trois with Rosie O'Donnel and Rupert from Survivor. Hillary Clinton purchases small town in Iowa, renames it I Hate Lewinsky-ville.

Best Idea I Wish I Had Come Up With: Sure, it's pretty, but can it hold spare change? (Click HERE to see it up close and personal.)

Oh, yeah, and speaking of pussies ...

...here's one who's clearly going straight to Hell.

And finally, and most importantly: Most In Need of Our Help. Find a relief organization, send whatever you can: money, prayers, yourself. Please.

He Said/She Said

Top 10 Things There Is Never Enough of an Opportunity to Say:

1) Drop the Beanie Baby, 'fore I bust a cap in yo ass!

2) Oh, Bitch, please!

3) Piss off and die, you fucking nilly-wuggums.

4) If I promise to not get sick on your shoes, will you give me a twenty?

5) There is a ferret in my pants, and I couldn't be happier.

6) Is that a ferret in your pants, or are you just really weird?

7) Say cheese, mother-fucker.

8) Once upon a time, there was a princess, and everybody died of the plague. The End.

9) Boogity-Boogity-Shoop.

10) I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN.

Screw the Shark, I'm Going In

Shark Jumping be damned, I've jumped on the lemming bandwagon and hereby present my End of Year List(s).

Top 10 Most Deserving of a Beating in a Piggly Wiggly Parking Lot

1) MPH, for claiming that I have jumped the shark, making me temporarily doubt my greatness, and messing up a good 10 minutes of my night. No link for you!

2) Lex Luthor, for sneaking in a pressure wound and killing Superman. That's dirty pool, old man.

3) Godzilla,for focusing all that attention on Tokyo and not destroying Ohio before it was too late.

4) The Boys of Summer, for trying to take audience participation to new levels.

5) The folks at the FCC, for getting their briefs all in a bundle over Janet Jackson's nipple, while allowing Donald Trump's combover unlimited exposure over the airwaves.

6) Ray Charles, first for dying without my permission or approval. Secondly, for dying a month too late to circumvent the non-stop news coverage about the final episode of Friends. Frank Sinatra had the grace to die the same night as the final episode of Seinfeld, which resulted in only 3 weeks of tributes to the show, instead of the 5 months which was the original plan.

7) Olympics gold medalist Paul Hamm. Not for the whole 'cheating the South Korean out of the medal' thing, but for having a last name that reminds me of salted cured meat, making me hungry and thirsty at the same time. Where's Tonya Harding and Honey Baked Ham when you need 'em?

8) Kobe Bryant, for being a pig.

9) Scott Peterson, not only for being a pig, but a pig who just won't get the hell off my television.

10) Dave Barry, for taking time off and leaving a huge, gaping black hole of nothingness that nothing else can possibly fill unless I am hired to take his place, then of course this spot goes to the Bastards That Canned Me.

My Milk Carton ... is Better'n Yours

Without further ado, I'd like to introduce the Got Milk? Bastards. In the name of 'nutrient quality' and 'concern over childhood obesity', they have begun the process of eliminating the traditional paper milk carton and replacing it with new plastic containers. Just like vinyl records, Saturday morning cartoons, and slipping Mom Nyquil in order to steal her smokes, another reminder of my childhood is falling by the wayside. It's just not right, I tell you.

First, we're pandering to the little plastic-loving planet killers, next thing we know, they're kicking the shit out of Santa. I suppose the next logical step is to serve them filet mignon and let them loose in the local retirement home with socks filled with oranges. Not exactly sporting, even if the government is moving away from the previous practice of duct-taping seniors to their beds, and is encouraging free-range elderly.

(*Disclaimer: This post was done largely against my will and/or common sense. It's just that I'm so afraid of being accused of jumping the shark, I refuse to post about what I got for Christmas even though I got a TV, or a Best/Worst of list, even though that whole 'finding a cure for cancer' thing really rocked, but then the 'having a piano dropped on my head the next day which wiped out my short term memory' incident sucked ass. I also won't be doing a Year in Review even though Jennifer Garner beating up Anna Nicole Smith in the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly was clearly the high point. This really did happen, and is most definitely not something I made up on the spur of the moment in a desperate attempt to fill up space or to hide the fact that I have no idea how to end this post gracefully.)

Yes, Virginia, There is a Crazy Guy in a Red Suit on the Roof.

Christmas is all about tradition. Well, okay, it isn't all about tradition, there's that whole Jesus/Virgin Birth thing, but for the purpose of this post, it's all about tradition. Cut me some slack, it's Christmas, dammit! Now, where was I? Oh, yes, tradition.

Every year, we hear from some tree-hugging anti-materialism buzz-kill moaning about how Christmas is too 'commercial' and there isn't enough 'goodwill toward men' and 'there's not enough fucking parking spaces at the mall.' Well, turns out this is nothing new. People have ALWAYS been materialistic and greedy bastards, but now want DVD players and a Lexus, instead of matching figgy pudding cups and a new set of flannel long-johns. So, if you still insist on feeling guilty about piling tons of useless crap under your tree for your nearest and dearest, certain stores will donate part of the proceeds from specific useless crap to a charity. I'm all for this, because nothing says Merry Christmas like a hand-delivered water buffalo.

Something else that just oozes Christmas cheer from its very pores are microwavable stuffed toys. These are designed to give children warm toys to cuddle with. And the radiation that is also oozing from these toys, after a few trips through the microwave, is just an added bonus. They won't need night-lights after awhile, they will glow in the dark. Great fun at parties, and think of the savings on flashlights! However, those buzz-kills known as 'educators' are trying to put a kibosh on the toys, voicing their concern that younger children will attempt to put their own living pets in the microwave, and that older children are Satan's imps, just waiting for a chance to stuff Fluffy into the blender, once they are given a viable scapegoat. No mention was made of stuffing sleeping grandparents into major kitchen appliances, but I'm sure that's just an accident waiting to happen.

Another tradition that has fallen by the wayside is listening to radio progams as a family. Back in the day, long before Ralph Kramden made domestic abuse funny again, people would sit around and listen to radio programs, that used descriptive dialogue and sound effects to give the audience the most realistic show possible. However, when two local Kansas radio stations tried this, this time with a naked game of Twister, the FCC was all up in their grill about it, claiming it was clearly intended to "pander to and titillate the audience."

I did have a point behind this, but couldn't stop saying the word 'titillate' and giggling to myself.

So, I'd like to tell everyone to have a happy holiday. And that I'd like a pony, and an E-Z Bake Oven.

I'd also like to blame the entire content of this post on spiked eggnog.

Holy Crap!

I've been nominated for a prize, in the Best of Blog (Bob) Awards, for most humorous blog. I don't have a third grader's chance in NeverLand of winning, but it's still pretty freakin' cool. Thanks much, to Kevin Hayden of The American Street, for the nomination. With all this excitement, I think I need to take a nap.

...And A Barbie in a Band-Aid!

Christmas presents wrapped & under tree: 13
Christmas presents wrapped and mailed today: 4
Naked Barbies Hidden in Dresser Drawer: 3
Probability Naked Barbies Will Be Dressed in Homemade Gown by Christmas Morning: 3%
Probability Naked Barbies Will Be Dressed in Dress Bought From Target by Christmas Morning: 35%
Probability Naked Barbies Will Be Dressed in Toilet Tissue and a Bandaid by Christmas Morning: 62%
Estimated Amount of Google Hits Looking for Barbies Dressed in Toilet Tissue and Bandaid: 12

Yeah, that's enough of that. I'm sick, and that's the most funny I got in me. Sorry.

Here's a link from some good folk who have more funny than I do.

Here's a link to make MPH a happy little Scrooge.

And here's a picture of a toilet on wheels:

Feast or Famine

I was very satisfied with my last post, and was quite prepared to just call it a night and forego the listing of how many Naked Barbies I have stashed away in my dresser drawers until tomorrow. Then I saw this little item here, and it just screamed out for another post.

Speaking of screaming, I did no such thing. I did not rip my clothes, either, and those are most certainly NOT clumps of my hair clutched in my white knuckled fists. And if Mr. Affleck just happens to receive a care package of dog poop, you can rest assured it was not from me.

That being said, Alias: Season 4 begins in 21 days. (And NO, I do not have it timed down to the exact minute. Ok, I do. But I'm not putting a counter on my site about it! Unless someone can tell me how to do that, then I will ... )

I Am the Entertainer

I realize that it's been quite a while since my last post. I can't help but know this, because of the constant reminders of this fact.

"You need to post something again."
"When are you going to post again?"
"Stop calling my house, I don't have your hamster! Oh, and d'ya think you're going to be posting again, anytime soon?"

I apologize to my legion of rabid fans (all 6 of you) and wanted to ask: How are the shots coming along? Please don't burn my house down, and y'all can pack up your camping gear and get the hell off my property now, I'm back. Of course, since I'm also nose deep in naked Barbies, fleece, and have no feeling in my right thumb, all I have to post is a Chicken Kiev recipe, and a picture of Britney Spears wearing a lampshade.

Enjoy, and don't forget to wash your hands thoroughly.

1/4 c. butter, softened
1 T. chopped chives
1/2 T. parsley
1/8 tsp. pepper
1 garlic clove, finely minced 6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 egg
1 T. milk
1 envelope (2 3/4 oz.) seasoned chicken coating mix

Combine butter, chives, parsley, salt, pepper and garlic. Shape mixture into 6 pencil thin strips about 2 inches long; place on wax paper. Freeze until firm, about 30 min.

Flatten each chicken breast to 1/4 inch. Place one butter strip in center of each chicken breast.
Fold long sides over butter; fold ends up and secure with a toothpick.

In a bowl, beat egg and milk; place coating mix in another bowl. Dip chicken in egg mixture, then roll in coating mix.

Place chicken, seam side down, in a greased 13x9" baking dish. Bake, uncovered, at 425° F. for 35-40 min. or until the chicken is no longer pink and juices run clear. Remove toothpicks before serving.

Makes 6 servings

I Got Your 15 Minutes Right Here, Pal!

Since I have absolutely nothing to discuss that wouldn't make all of you want to ram a set of chopsticks into your eyes, I've come up with a novel idea. I'll let everyone else post for me. I'm going to grab snippets from the blogs listed on the left there, and cut and paste them into some form of ... something. No links provided, if you truly want to know what kind of sick fucks I link to, you'll have to go search them out yourself. (Except for MPH, because he, like, owns me. He said so.)

I was reading the LA Times online and came upon a blurb reading: Ryan Seacrest would be executed on national television. It probably costs more than I reasonably should be spending, but it's just so damn cute. It sounds like a cow mooing.

I've learned a lot about social structure and acceptable behavior, honestly. It's becoming more obvious to me that they don't check for steroids in professional tennis. If it weren't for the chastity belts, I think I'd really like to party with those people. I figure I'll have to stop at Walmart and get me a staple gun...

There are some practical problems to dating though. The backs of my ears start to smell like cheeseburgers after awhile. I think there is more than enough evidence to warrant at least a bit of justified suspicion. I'm old enough (and cynical enough) to realize that's a good thing. That was it--I'm a cheap date, what can I say.

People, I am not shitting you. Every once in a while, I like to Google myself, despite the warnings that I'll go blind. Either way, it's all "broken" and "unreliable" but IT WILL WORK if you grip it all tight and funny with your right hand to hold the damn thing together. --wha? Hey! My penis just fell off!


There, I'm done. Nobody sue me, okay?

Clearly, I Don't Know What the Hell I'm Doing.

Picture this: I'm dancing around my kitchen, humming while I prepare a 3-course, delicious yet healthy meal for my family. The children are playing nicely in the living room, smiling beatifically while helping each other fingerpaint a reproduction of the Mona Lisa. Birds are fluttering around my head, tying ribbons in my hair. Then my oldest son comes in, and announces: "Jack Sprat called me gay today. What does that mean?"

(SFX: Needle scratching across record.)

The birds fly away in terror. I stop humming, and the asparagus souffle slips from my well-manicured fingertips and crashes to the polished floor. My daughter starts to screech like a howler monkey and eats the painting.

Ok, so I exaggerated a bit. They weren't painting the Mona Lisa, they were sculpting Rodin's The Thinker with Play-Do. The rest of it, though, was totally and completely true. Let's move on, shall we?

My son is not gay. My son is not straight. My son is eight years old, and is still mastering the complexities of zipping his fly all the way up after using the bathroom. So, I think we can safely postpone worrying that he will be sporting a dress to his senior prom. Yet, I was still faced with a bit of a stickler. In retrospect, I can come up with a dozen or more approaches, all reasonable and understandable, none judgmental or preachy, that basically give the gist that everyone is different, nobody is more perfect or imperfect than others, and that Jack Sprat was fathered by the mailman so who is he to be passing judgment? But, at the time, when I was holding leftover pizza asparagus souffle in my hands and my daughter was screeching like a howler monkey screeching like 10 howler monkeys on speed, I was at a bit of a loss. I stuttered, stammered, and I think put together 3 sentences that may or may not have been in Kurdish.

Later, when my son was getting ready for bed, I relearned English, stuck a banana in my daughter's prehensile tail, and had the discussion with him that I wanted to. I explained to him that everyone is different, sometimes boys like girls, sometimes boys like boys, and that Jack Sprat was not fathered by the mailman, but his mother is still a whore, so he can just shut the hell up with the names.

This last bit was in Kurdish, because I am a good mom.

No Point, Really.

This is just a post to reassure those of you who were concerned that I haven't become a strange odor wafting out into the apartment hallway. And that takes care of Kif. For everyone else, this post is just to get Tommy Thompson's frickin' mug off the top of my site. It's starting to bug me more than the whole red caramel apple disaster.

Doubting Thompson

"Fine, I'm going. But don't come cryin' to me when Anna Nicole Smith eats all y'alls food."

(*Disclaimer: Mr. Thompson did not, in fact say this. He wanted to, but the powers that be at the E! Network had a host of snipers with his head in their crosshairs. If you want to see the real version, go here.)

When Will People Learn?

Caramel apples are supposed to be GREEN. As in Granny Smith apples. If someone bought me this red piece of caramel covered crap, I'd toss the whole mess in the trash. Well, after I ate off the caramel, chocolate and almonds I'd throw it away. They may not even get a thank you card, I'd be that upset.

Really, what is wrong with people?

 

From Me to You

For my loyal readers (and even for those of you cheating bastards who sneak off to MPH's site when I'm sleeping), I give you all an early Christmas present.

Fair warning: don't read while you are eating ... pretty much anything.
Enjoy, and gesundheit.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Nekkid Barbie Time

My disease has no cure. It can go into remission, but is always there, just under the surface, and can flare up at the most inconvenient times, most often in the dead of night when all the craft stores are closed and you are forced to start hot-gluing dryer lint onto the back of cereal boxes to make Christmas ornaments because you just CANNOT STOP YOURSELF.

This Christmas is no different, except that I now have the time to actually finish projects, instead of starting them, running out of time, energy, or motivation to finish them, and piling them in the back of my closet like so much hand-embroidered/quilted/cross-stitched landfill ... filler. Plus, thanks so much to the Bastards That Canned Me (thought you'd heard the last of them, didn't you? HAH! You thought WRONG.), we can only partially fuel and enflame the greediness and materialism in our children that is their right and duty as Americans. Not only that, we have to do it with handmade items. We have little choice, please don't sic Social Services on us.

So, the demon doll that I made for T2's birthday will have a shitload of clothes to prance about in, as well as she can with no feet. T1 will have a huge, mondo-sized Harry Potter pillow that he can use to watch TV on, decorate up his room with, and hide small immigrant children under. It's that big. There will also be some fleece blankets like this, with appropriate characters emblazoned on them.
I have also purchased this pattern and will hopefully get at least two of the dresses made. However, finding suitable Barbie dolls that resemble the characters was a problem, since most of the Barbies at the store not only cost roughly half a month's rent, but also come with clothes, of all things. Then it hit me. I could go to that fount of human kindness and naked Barbiedom known as eBay, and I have since spent many nights, alone and in the dark, gleefully hunting down and buying as many naked plastic icons of womanhood that vaguely resemble animated icons of womanhood as I can find.

I love this time of the year.