Sunday, October 29, 2006

This post will literally knock your socks off!

As you know, I try to use as a vehicle for spreading the message of peace, love and total acceptance. But every once in awhile, I have to deviate from the path of righteousness and lodge a respectfully worded complaint or two.

To that end, I'd like to address those of you who use the word "literally" as a synonym for "figuratively"--the direct opposite of how it should be used. You people are driving me insane. Worse, you're making yourselves look like idiots. Here are a few examples of the dumb shit you are prone to saying:

I was so angry my blood was literally boiling!
I such a bad hangover my head was literally exploding.
Her house is so filthy! It's literally a pig sty.

The truth is:

a) Blood doesn't literally boil. Well, okay, it can, and maybe in the back woods of Missouri it sometimes does. But generally that takes place only when the blood is in a cast iron pot on the stove of a serial killer. If your blood were to boil while it was still inside your body, it would cook your internal organs and stink up the room mightily. On the bright side, you wouldn't be angry anymore. On the not-so-bright side, you'd be dead.

b) While hangovers can be a real bitch, they don't literally cause one's head to explode. Causes of literal head explosion include, but are by no means limited to:
-dynamite packed into the ears
-a grenade crammed down the throat
-two shotguns, one discharged into each eye socket.
It's pure folly to claim that your head literally exploded from yesterday's hangover, since you're still alive now to stand before me, animatedly yammering on about it like you survived the holocaust. At such times, I only wish your head had exploded so I could be enjoying some peace and quiet right now.

c) If you were to stop cleaning your house right now, and never lift a finger again to pick up or wipe off one thing, it would still never actually transform into a pig sty. It would become very, very dirty, and very, very smelly, but unless a hog farmer actually pulled up to the house in a pickup truck with a trailer attached, and dropped off several pigs and a trough, it would not literally become a pig sty. I don't know much about hog farming, but I know this: The defining characteristic of a pig sty is the presence of pigs. That's probably the first thing they teach you in hog farming school.

I don't mean to imply that I'm not a fan of ridiculously inflated hyperbole. I rarely utter a sentence that's not exaggerated to the point of almost total falsity. Why? Because real life is actually pretty boring, and the retelling of it is therefore usually mind numbing. But when liberally sprinkled with half-truths, exaggerations, and balls-out lies, it can become fascinating. So go ahead, exaggerate! Make shit up! Lie your ass off! Just don't take that extra, silly step of inserting the word "literally" right before a phrase that is, in fact, figurative.

Having trouble deciding when to use "literally" and when not to? I have a solution: Just don't use it. Ever. Say, "I was so angry my blood was boiling," instead of "I was so angry my blood was literally boiling." Nine times out of ten when a person uses the word "literally," they're using it wrong and crapping all over the English language. (Notice I didn't say "literally" crapping all over the English language." But that'd be funny to see, wouldn't it?) And there's a reasonable chance you might be one of those people who has no idea when it's okay to say it. So know your limitations and just steer clear of that word, okay?

This message has been brought to you as part of my ongoing effort to keep average citizens from doing things that bug the shit out of me. Thank you for your cooperation.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

I came, I saw, I called the mannequins "whores."

Against all odds, we made it back from Cabo. So I have this to say to all you critics: I told you so. Contrary to what you thought, I was indeed able to make it across the Mexican border and back without having to submit to even one cavity search. I even offered, several times, and the airport security guys just stared at me like I was crazy. Later, when I offered again, the maid at our hotel gave me a similar look. Still later, when I offered for the last time, the stewardess on our return flight snatched both drinks out of my hand and stalked away. People are strange.

To answer your questions (that's right, I hear you), no, I didn't end up puking in the sand. I behaved myself like a lady. A low-class, white trash lady with a variety of psychological problems and a criminal record, but a lady nonetheless. And no, our resort was not devastated by a tropical storm during our stay--in fact, not one drop of rain fell. The ironically-named Accuweather forecast's long-held record of 100% inaccuracy still stands.

But vacations are not all about frolicking in the sand and sun. Sometimes you learn a few things amidst all the relaxing, boozing and mocking the locals. Here's some of what I learned on vacation:

1) The DFW aiport distinguishes itself by having the most heinous, frightening "sculpture" in the history of bad airport art.
If you're thinking, "Okay, you're exaggerating. That's not great, but it's not terrible either," then you're definitely not getting the full impact. Have a closer look. Go on.Yep, those are the severed hands of cadavers. That's not okay, even in Dallas.

2) It's apprarently not considered high comedy to shout at a couple walking past, "How much for your sister?" At least, not while still in the U.S.

3) Probably lots of people pee in the ocean. But, as I learned the hard way, standing in ankle-deep water and squatting to do so isn't typically how it's done.

4) "All-Inclusive" is apparently tropical resort lingo for "weak drinks." The trick, we discovered, is to upgrade the liquor, as in "I'll take a pina colada with Bacardi" instead of just "I'll take a pina colada." For some reason this guilts the bartender into adding more than the usual single drop of liquor. Or maybe it's the pistol we were openly waving at him as we ordered it.

5) Mannequins in Mexico are different from mannequins in the US. The ones I regularly see in Texas stores are rather androgynous and flat-chested, like the one shown below: But the ones I saw in Mexico made me think dirty thoughts.The busty mannequins in Mexico put me to shame--and made me realize I need a boob job. It's just seems wrong when I see men's heads turning my way, only to discover they're craning to leer at the mannequin behind me.

In spite of the weak drinks and the hooker mannequins, we had a great time in Cabo San Lucas...but it's great to be home. We all know kids grow and change way too fast, but I was unprepared for how different Jake would already seem after just 6 days away from him. When we dropped him off with his grandma before we left town, he was our cheerful little 20-month-old, clutching his Elmo book and drinking out of his sippy cup. When we returned, he had already moved into his own apartment, defaulted on his rent, been charged for domestic abuse following an argument with his live-in girlfriend, and done time for two misdemeanor crimes. Kids. They really do grow up way too quickly.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Sandy vomit, prison rape and adoption

I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news isn't really all that bad, but the good news is KICK ASS. (For me, at least. You, as usual, probably won't give a shit.)

The bad news: This blog will probably not be updated between Oct. 12 and Oct. 17th.

The good news: Because I'll be frolicking on the beach in Cabo.

Now, I know you're thinking I'm going to fritter away this precious vacation time by getting drunk and passing out face-down in the sand. Not so. I have big plans for this vacation. Here are just a few of the things I intend to accomplish while on this tranquil, beachy getaway:

-Drink 18 shots of Mexico's cheapest tequila and throw up in the sand. (That's not the same as merely passing out in the sand, see. I'll actually be accomplishing something before I pass out.) I think I've pretty much done all I can do with the concept of puking on linoleum, cement, hardwood, Formica, car upholstery and the laps of strangers. It's time to conquer the sand.

-Hit on no fewer than 4 bellboys and 8 non-English-speaking taxi drivers.

-Throw a tantrum in a restaurant and shout "I'm a rich American! I could buy and sell you with what I pay for a bottle of NyQuil!!"

Side note: Far from being rich, I'm just your average middle class citizen. But once, while shopping in the Mexican border town of Nogales, just south of Arizona, I was sent into repeated giggle fits by the trinket vendors who, at the sight of us leaving their shops, would shout after us, "Come back, rich Americans!" There have been no less than 1,456 instances since then when I've shouted, usually to a baffled group of strangers, "Come back, rich Americans!"

But vacationing in foreign countries isn't all about fun and games and abusing the locals. There are potential dangers. For instance, a friend once told me a story about his wife's two college girlfriends who gave themselves the college graduation present of a vacation in Mexico. There, they were unfortunately arrested as they sunbathed on the beach...while smoking pot. They were dumped into a squalid little Mexican jail cell for several days with no phone privileges, where it was eventually explained to them that they could either continue to rot in jail for years to come, or have sex with the jailers and go free. Seeing no alternative, they tearfully submitted to sex with the jailers--which turned out to be a sizable group. These seedy jailers were men of their word, at least, because the girls were indeed released afterward. No word on how many years of therapy and how many truckloads of prescription pills it took to erase the shame, nor how many drums of Rid-X it took to eradicate the crabs. But don't worry, a scenario like that could never happen to me. For one thing, I don't smoke pot. And secondly, I'll be dressed as a man the entire time I'm there, just to make sure I don't find myself in that horrifying situation.

Aside from Mexican prison rape, I guess I should also worry about sharks. I don't want a repeat of last year's vacation episode. Here's a picture of us, partying on the beach:

As you can see, we were really having a great time, unaware (until the film was developed weeks later) that we were in mortal danger. Pretty scary.

Almost as scary as the possibility of shark attack is the possibility of encountering hurricane weather. According to weather reports, there are two tropical storms currently heading for the exact spot where I had intended to puke in the sand. Now, I don't know much about tropical storms, but from what I understand, a hurricane could potentially ruin my hairdo or blow the umbrella out of my drink--two disasters I don't even want to think about. But a cursory glance at this screenshot I took from seems to indicate that there's a definite chance that when I pass out face down in the sand, I will subsequently drown in standing rainwater.

If that happens, I'll need one of you to take care of Jake for me. He won't be accompanying us on this trip (toddlers can be a real buzzkill), so in the unfortunate event of my demise, I'd like him to go to a loving home filled with responsible people. I've never actually met anyone like that, so I'll have to lower my expectations. Please leave your full name, address and phone number in my comments section, and I'll alert my team of lawyers to check this post if my mangled body should wash up on the shores of Cabo by the middle of next week. They'll call you if your name is randomly chosen from the list.

Thank you. Now I'm off to pack.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

I'm like "Dear Abby" for freaks

It used to be that the freaks of the world managed to find me by some special instinct they have that tells them where the other freaks are. Now that I have a blog, they find me by doing internet searches. Some of the searches listed below are recent and some are older, since I copy and paste these searches into a blog draft and let them sit until I'm sober enough to concoct a reasonably coherent blog post. I'd like to take a moment now to address these seekers, that I may help them get the answers they were looking for.

To the person who wondered what is wrong if my bowels are green?:
While I'm not a doctor, I think I know the answer to this one. What's wrong is you shouldn't have any idea what color your bowels are, since they're located inside your body and, ideally, shouldn't be visible to you unless you've been impaled by a javelin or gutted by an angry biker. If you've actually seen your bowels recently, or can see them now, get thee to a doctor at once.

To the person who found my site by searching for am I mentally stable enough to have a baby:
No. Just because I did it doesn't make it right.

To you who found me by searching for what does the name Karla mean?
I think I explained this one pretty well.

To the grade school dropout who found me by searching for do men with big penis's cheat:
In my own independent study, I discovered that it's not the size of the penis that correlates with infidelity, it's the existence of a penis. Remember the old adage, "Have penis, will plunge it indiscriminately into any willing party."

To the poor soul who found me by searching for how to stop underwear chewing:
This one is tough, but it can be done. This heartbreaking addiction recently plagued someone in my own family, but I'm proud to say that with love and determination, we were able to help him overcome it and go on to lead a healthy, happy, productive life, depending on your definition of "productive."

If you're the one who found me by searching for put on thong panties properly?:
I don't know how helpful I can be in writing--this is much easier to demonstrate in person, which I would be willing to do for a moderate fee. But there's definitely a right way and a wrong way to do it. Here's a short list of Wrong Ways to put on thong panties:

1) On your head. Fun, but wrong.
2) In a bus station bathroom. Unless it's absolutely necessary, which yes, it sometimes is.
3) In any instance in which the thong panties are 2 or more sizes smaller than your ass.
4) In any instance in which you are a man, and the thong is going on your ass instead of the ass of a female companion.
4) In full view of the remaining bachelor party attendees, after the party. Proper etiquette demands that you gather up your discarded clothing from the floor and the lamp shades and take it into the bathroom or the hotel hallway to get dressed. You may have been a star 3 hours ago, but now you're a used Kleenex.

To the person who found me by searching for where to buy roofies:
I think you've landed on the wrong website. Try here instead.

To the person who found me by searching for loser sitting in front of computer masturbating:
Please, don't make fun of my friends. I won't tolerate it.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Thank God no one watered down my tequila

Finding the time to sit down and write a blog post is tricky. My free time has gotten steadily more scarce, and thus steadily more valuable to me, over the years. This is a far cry from my life in high school and college, when I had a bottomless supply of free time, which I put to good use, as shown here in Exhibit A: It takes time to get through a bottle of tequila that size. And for what? The dubious payoff that eventually you might end up with this look on your face: Achieving that look takes time. I rarely find myself with that kind of time these days.

However! Recently Jake has begun a Mother's Day Out program two days a week. If you're unfamiliar with the concept, it's like a little preschool class where Jake can go to play, learn new things, and interact with other kids--and more importantly, his mommy gets to stop playing, teaching new things, and interacting with kids. They really should call it "Mother's Day Away from Baby," or "Mother Can Pee in Private For A Change."

I am relieved to discover Jake loves it. And why wouldn't he? They serve Tang there! Tang contains a proportion of sugar Jake never dreamed could exist in such a small amount of liquid. At home, he drinks what I deceitfully refer to as "juice," but which is really a sippy cup filled with about 95% water and about 5% juice. As he dances eagerly around the kitchen crowing, "Jis! Jis!!!" as I prepare it for him, I do feel a slight twinge of guilt at the fraud I'm perpetrating. But lying to children is approximately 75% of what parenting is about, so when that pang of guilt tries to creep in, I just shake my head like I'm erasing an Etch-A-Sketch, and agree, "Yes! Juice! You lucky boy!" I thought when he discovered Tang at school, he would glare accusingly at me the next time I tried to unload this crappy watered-down juice cocktail on him, but so far he hasn't put two and two together yet. He must think they have a strict monopoly on Tang at his school, and that his loving mother has been begging all along for them to lift their restrictions and allow us to take some home, to no avail.

At any rate, suddenly I find myself with some extra time. A few hours a day twice a week! To the mother of a toddler, this is an eternity of time. What does this mean to you? Well, it means I can post more often. When I started this blog, I was posting every 2-3 days, and now it's more like once a week. Instead of the Tang you deserve, I've been serving you the blog equivalent of a crappy watered-down juice cocktail.

But there'll still be time left over! Now there's the question of what I will do with this vast expanse of time that I formerly spent reading, on demand, the same "Grover Learns To Read" book 7,000 times in a row, or agreeing enthusiastically, "Yeah, doggie!" 25,000 times in a row as Jake pointed to our dog and cried out, "Daaa!"

A short list of my ideas so far:

1) I could read some self-help books, with an eye toward becoming a better person.

2) I could learn to cook, with an eye toward becoming a better wife.

3) I could get involved with the community, with an eye toward making my town a better place.

4) I could watch more TV, read more blogs, sharpen my napping skills, and make the occasional phone call without having to shout over the tinny sound of "Old MacDonald Had A Farm" that emits from no less than 30 toys scattered throughout my house.

But I'm willing to take suggestions from you, if you have a better idea of how I should spend my new free time. In the meantime, I'll be running through the house in my undies shouting, "I'M FREE!"

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Maybe I can outsource the abuse.

Ever wonder what I do when I'm not writing a blog post or abusing my child?

No? Too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway.

I often sit down to do some productive blog-writing, but then get sucked in by other peoples' blogs. Reading these blogs can eat away at the entire block of time I had set aside for writing. Before I know it, it's time to get back to abusing my child. Here are a few of the blogs that have a way of gnawing away at my would-be productive time.

One Child Left Behind has the best of three worlds:
1) It's very often funny. The funny parts will make you fall off your chair laughing, so that eventually you'll know enough to stand up while reading it.
2) It's very often beautiful. The beautiful parts will make you cry, even if you think you're too manly to cry, or too drunk to cry, or all cried out from reading Karlababble.
3) If you dig hard enough, you can find things like this. If you're a heterosexual girl, you know why that's great. If you're a heterosexual man, oops. I might have just turned you gay. I should have posted a warning before the link. Sorry.

Assclownopolis is good, clean fun without the 'clean' part, or the 'good part.' Really, it's a very funny blog--but maybe the best part is getting to address him as "Assclown" in your comment. As in, "So true, Assclown, so true," or even, "You're wrong, Assclown; it's not okay to have sexual relations with a dairy cow, even if the cow seems to be flirting with you."

Neil at Citizen of the Month is a genius. A genius at crafting blog posts out of pure bullshit. I have to believe that 99.8% of what he writes is completely made up. But that's a talent, make no mistake. And his posts are always funny. Always. Not funnier than mine, mind you. But funny.

Ben at Nocturnal Tendencies made a video about me. But he was cool even before that. Any girls out there interested in a hot drummer who's smart, talented, kind, and an aminal lover? Well, forget it. He's got enough girls vying for his attention already. You'd just get in the way.

Frankly, Mighty Dyckerson scares the shit out of me. So why did he make this list? All I can say in my defense is this: Millions of women stay in relationships with abusive, alcoholic, no-account men for years and years despite claiming to be unhappy and terrified in those relationships. Why do they stay? Sometimes terror can be like a magnet. This blog is my terrifying magnet.

That's the short list. There are others. I'd write about them as well, but all this writing is cutting into my blog-reading time. That, and my kid needs abusing. I'm not Superwoman. I can't do everything at once.