Wednesday, December 26, 2007

It's beginning to look a lot like I got screwed.

I have long believed that Christmas, as a holiday, is badly in need of a complete overhaul. Too many holidays combine the same boring old elements--food, family, love, laughter, gifts, joy. It's enough to make you want to puke. I have some ideas of how we can spice up Christmas, and give it a unique, special quality that sets it far apart from the other run-of-the-mill holidays.

First, there's the whole "reward" system--it's ridiculous. We insist on lying to our children by telling them that if they're good all year, they'll be rewarded with presents, since Santa keeps tabs all year on whether we're naughty or nice. It's just not true, and the kids are laughing at us behind our backs for saying so. First off, everyone knows that most kids are total rat bastards all year long, and yet an avalanche of presents gets dumped at their feet every December anyway, in spite of their appalling behavior. I say we chuck the whole false reward system and implement instead a punishment system--not just for kids, but for every man, woman and child.

Yes, Christmas should be a time for people to get punished for their yearlong binges of rudeness, deceit, laziness, greed and general assholery. Instead of spending the entire month of November racing from store to store searching for expensive gifts for everyone you know, how about instead spending the month of November--or the whole year, if you're the plan-ahead type--plotting elaborate ways to hurt and punish and possibly even maim the people you feel have wronged you all year long? Wouldn't that require a lot more thought and effort--and therefore be more personal--than buying some dumb crystal photo frame made in China and sold by the thousands? Think about it, people.

Yes, if I ruled the world, Christmas would be a time for retribution. Which means 99% of you would have awakened this Christmas morning to find scores of tiny little hoofprints in your back and sleigh tread across your face.

That's what my Christmas blog post was going to be about--but then something happened which made me feel as if my mind was being read from across many miles, and my plan to change Christmas was already being implemented--against me. In other words, that's when the FedEx truck arrived with a Christmas present for me from Common Wombat. And this present is one that punishes. Don't believe me? Take a look at this photo and see if you don't feel like your eyes sockets are being raped by a band of Zulu warriors: Yep, that's him. A tiny, horrible little replica of of The Thing That Should Not Be. It burns the retinas, doesn't it? What did I do so wrong in 2007 to be punished like this? I'd understand if I deserved, say, a beating, perhaps a small amputation, or even being blinded with acid or sodomized by Vikings. But this? Even in my revised plan for Christmas, there is such a thing as excessive punishment, and this gift is the very embodiment of that.

Don't ask me where he could possibly have gone to commission the creation of such an unholy image, but I must admit, it is (unfortunately for me) pretty lifelike, as you can see from the photo of the real thing, taken here in Texas the last time I saw him. I was hoping it would be the last time I ever saw him--but now this tiny little plaster bust of evil has invaded my home, and stares angrily at me, silently hostile save for the occasional screech of "Nevermore!"

It just goes to illustrate the unfairness of Christmas in its current state. Have you ever given a really great gift to someone--say, a bottle of expensive gin, or the complete DVD set of all four seasons of Soap--only to receive something criminally crappy in return, like wind chimes or flavored popcorn? That's what I felt like this year, considering the great gift I got this turd. I got him a shirt any one of you would kill a newborn baby to get, one with this logo on it:

And that, folks, is the kind of unfairness that can permanently sour a person against gift-giving, and holidays in general.

That's why next year, I'm doing it all differently. I'm carrying out my lifelong dream to make Christmas into the kind of holiday that we can all, finally, appreciate. I'm going out today to buy a huge notebook, where I will keep copious notes on each tiny infraction committed against me by every last one of you shitheads, and when December 25, 2008 rolls around, you better take cover. Because the apocalypse is coming, baby.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

I need an intervention.

Someone please help me. I can't tear myself away from Facebook long enough to write a blog post, wrap Christmas presents, feed my children, or do my weekly grocery shoplifting. Help. And don't judge me. Just help me, you self-righteous pricks.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

This is too f'd up even for me.

I've been mocked for years for my habit of drinking pickle juice. I don't just take a little sip out of the jar when I'm spearing a pickle for a sandwich--I actually pour myself a little cup of it and sip it while watching TV. I have to be careful to pace myself, lest I drink all the juice long before the pickles have been consumed, leaving them to sit in the jar and dry up. Now, as far as I'm concerned, my healthy love of the taste of pickle juice doesn't seem like a big deal--certainly no cause for shock and horror--and yet, you should see how otherwise level-headed people lose their minds over a small thing like this. You'd think I was pouring myself a cup of human blood from a Spider-Man thermos I keep in my pantry. Which I also do, from time to time, but never in front of company.

I also eat Pickle Salt. I have no idea what the Twang company was thinking when they made this product, or who their intended demographic is, since I can't think of a single legitimate use for such a product. I understand that the lemon-lime version is used to make horrible Mexican beers taste tolerable--but the pickle flavor? Who's buying that, except me? No matter, since I probably buy enough of it to keep the company afloat all by myself. I keep several packets in my purse, and from time to time I tear one open and eat it like Pixy Stix. For this, I also take an unfair amount of abuse. People are strange.

So it can be inferred that I like the taste of pickles. But this next product? This is too fucked up even for me.
Pickle Juice Sport is, unbelievably, a sport drink made from pickle juice. This is the dumbest marketing concept I've ever heard of, bar none. As someone who drinks a lot of pickle juice, eats a lot of pickle salt, has made pickle juice popsicles on more than one occasion, and whines that outside of Alaska and Canada it's nearly impossible to find dill pickle dip for potato chips, I can tell you that people like me who embrace the taste of pickles in non-pickle form are definitely not in the majority. I've taken enough shit from enough people over my love of pickle juice to say with some authority that this product will fail quicker and more miserably than Mighty Dyckerson's brief experiment with heterosexuality. Even football player Jason Witten, the face of Pickle Juice Sport (who clearly will say yes to any endorsement offer of any kind) has to feel like a shithead when he tries to tell people with a straight face that this is a great product.

So if you happen to be the .00000000589 percent of the population who thinks this drink sounds like just the thing you've been waiting for, my recommendation is to get thee to the store immediately and buy this product in mass quantity, since it can't possibly be around for much longer. And if you happen to run into Jason Witten, call him a shithead for me.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

My "Before" and "After" poster may include a casket

If you've noticed that haunted stare in my eyes lately, it's because I'm starving slowly to death. One, maybe two of you will be sad when I'm gone; the rest of you will cheerfully ransack my house after my demise and steal all my CDs and clothes.

I gained close to 50 pounds during my pregnancy with Child #2 (that's actually her name, check the birth certificate), so I was fully expecting to give birth to a 45-pound baby and then be back in a bikini the following week. When my daughter came out weighing a measly 7.4 lbs, I cursed God. Then I began plotting how to lose the weight.

I know a healthy weight loss regimen is supposed to combine diet with exercise, but since my daughter isn't old enough to go with me to the gym (she'd have to be 6 months old to stay in the Kid's Club while I work out), I'm not able to get to the gym with any consistency. So I devised my special Auschwitz Diet Plan. It totally works! My daughter is three months old now, and I only have 6 pounds left to lose. The only side effect is that at any moment I might snap, and devour the next pet or child I find unattended.

In case you're interested in this incredibly successful diet plan, I'll give you a few of the basic principles to tide you over til my book comes out and my subsequent string of TV talk show appearances begins:

1) Don't eat. Ever.

2) If you feel you simply must eat, follow my Perfect Portion Rule: Don't eat any more food than will fit on the head of a pin.

3) Once you've measured out your food portion on the head of a pin, be careful not to eat the pin itself. You'll be so hungry you'll consider it, but trust me, it only leads to heartache, and copious internal bleeding.

4) Don't watch TV. The food commercials that air every 13 seconds will send you into thrashing, sobbing hysterics that will leave you exhausted and urine-soaked.

5) Don't keep food in your house. Every dieter with a family laments how hard it is to keep from eating junk food when there's so much of it in the house for the kids and the rest of the family. Naturally, the solution to this is not to buy it for them. And since my Auschwitz plan doesn't just involve cutting out junk food, but cutting out all food, that means not buying any food of any kind for your family. Oh, they'll whine and complain and beg for something to eat, but you've got to have a strong resolve--that's what dieting is all about. You should have heard the ruckus my 3-month old made in the first couple of days after I got rid of all her formula. But she eventually got used to it, and I haven't heard a peep out of her in days.

Okay, I'll be honest--I do only have 6 pounds left to go, and I'm not actually starving myself. And 90% of the time, I'm not even urine-soaked. But it's true that I am goddamn hungry. I lost the weight by cutting down to between 1100 - 1200 meticulously-recorded calories per day. When I get rid of this last six pounds, I'll go up to about 1700 calories per day, which will seem totally extravagant by comparison. Then, in February when my daughter's old enough to go with me to the gym, I'll burn enough calories to eat and drink like it's my birthday.

But in the meantime, do not fuck with me. I'm hungry. And do not leave your children and pets unattended around me.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Impending doom

Did you ever have one of those moments when you could sort of see your life from an outsider's view, and you didn't like what you were seeing? I'm having one of those moments now. Something terrible is about to happen--something unspeakably horrifying that will change my life in only the most awful ways--and I'm helpless to stop it.

A Wal-Mart is being built about a mile from my house.

Let me just take a moment to compose myself.

Okay, I'm back. Now, I'm certain I don't have to tell you why this is such a tragedy, because it's pretty obvious, isn't it? But I'll do it anyway, because talking about myself is so rewarding.

First, let me say that I don't live in an area thick with retail shopping. I live in a quiet residential area that's a couple of highway exits away from some businesses, but they're things like restaurants, drugstores, gyms, hair salons, etc. There is nothing along the lines of a retail superstore near my house. That means that if I need to buy a pair of socks, an axe, a hair dryer and a change purse all in one handy location, I drive about 8 miles and 6 highway exits away to the mall area, which is where the Target is, along with a multitude of other retail stores. It's close enough that it's quick to get to, but far enough away that I'm not battling shopping traffic every day just to get home from work. There have been times when, God forgive me, I have thought to myself, "I wish there was a big retail shopping center a little closer to home, because I don't feel like driving to the mall area right now." But of course I really didn't mean that--and even if I did, I was envisioning a Target--not a Wal-Mart. Please, anything but a Wal-Mart.

Do you know what's going to happen if there's a Wal-Mart that close to my house? I'm going to shop there. Even if I swear I won't, I will. There will be some late-night occasion when I find myself out of diapers or espresso beans or extra-extra-large condoms, and I will break my vow and go there, because it's convenient. I'll think, "Just this once," but it will happen again...and again...and again. I'll become a Wal-Mart Shopper. And my whole life will slowly unravel.

I'll start wearing baggy sweatpants every time I leave the house. I currently don't even own a pair of sweatpants--but soon enough my wardrobe will consist of 90% sweatpants, which I'll probably pick up at Wal-Mart for $7 per pair. I'll start wearing my hair in a half-ponytail on the top of my head. I'll learn how to deep fry catfish. I'll watch daytime talk shows and drive a mini pickup truck. I'll stock up on beer when it goes on sale. I'll follow every declarative statement with, "That's for damn sure." I'll play bingo on Wednesday nights. Every time I see you, I'll ask to bum a cigarette. When I overhear someone in the grocery store talking in a foreign language, I'll mutter loudly to the person next to me, "If they're going to live in America, they should learn to speak English." A steady diet of McDonald's food will cause me to triple in size.

So say goodbye to the Karla you've come to know and love...the elegant, refined lady who exemplifies class and style. No longer will you look up to me as the epitome of manners and decorum. I'm sad for you, losing your mentor, your spiritual guide. It will be a difficult road for you, wandering lost and troubled, seeking answers from anyone and everyone, never quite satisfied with what you find. Meanwhile, think of me from time to time, drinking discount root beer from a plastic Nascar cup at the makeshift table we will have fashioned from two old sawhorses and a broken door. (I'm not sure what will have happened to the perfectly good table we currently have, but just go with me here.)

I do still have a little time left before this downward spiral begins--construction looks nowhere near finished as of this moment. So if you want to save me from a very bleak future, I'll be happy to consider any suggestions you might have for how to stop this runaway train. Should I burn the place down? Do all my shopping online? Move to Brazil?

Help me.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

The Shit-Kicker Channel redeems itself

I never thought I'd have any reason to tune in to CMT, Country Music Television, but times have changed. So fearful was I, in fact, that I might inadvertently tune in for a millisecond, that I went into my TV settings and "hid" that channel so that it wouldn't even appear in my on-screen guide. But recently I've had to unhide it so that I can watch the following shows:

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making The Team

Superhot 19-year-olds in teeny-weeny shorts bounce up and down for 30 minutes, with commercial breaks. Sometimes they cry because bouncing up and down is so stressful. Their trainer, Jay, works tirelessly to find workouts they can do which require them to bend over.

I Want To Look Like A Highschool Cheerleader Again

The hot, popular girls from high school who went out of their way every day to let you know how repulsed they were at the thought of even speaking to you have morphed into dumpy yentas who would blow you behind the dumpster at the local McDonald's just to get a couple of minutes of male attention. Watch them exercise and starve themselves in a frenzied attempt to grab a last year or two of possible attractiveness before menopause sets in. Their trainer, Jay, is the same trainer who works with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader rookie candidates in the above mentioned show. Strangely, he doesn't seem to think the workouts which include gratuitous bending over would benefit these girls quite as much.

Thank you, CMT, for giving me two more reasons to get out of bed in the mornings. And thank you, Jay. You know why.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Some of life's great mysteries

Maybe you can answer a few questions for me. I can't figure these out, no matter how much I drink:

--Why do all middle-aged Asian ladies wear sweater sets to the gym? Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining--any time a person wears too much clothing instead of too little to the gym, I'm more than fine with it. There are plenty of people I wish would wear a floor-length fur coat, diving goggles, and that big red-and-white striped hat from The Cat In The Hat. But it does make me curious when I see those sweater sets. That can't be comfortable in the aerobics room, can it?

--When a good song comes on the radio, why are the least vocally talented people in the room determined to ruin it by squealing along? Just when I start to enjoy the music, the falsetto shrieks of the untalented kill the music in a vicious, unprovoked attack. Granted, some songs, like those by Britney Spears or Paula Abdul, can't be hurt even by the worst sing-alongers, because they already suck so mightily in their unmolested state, but why ruin the good stuff that comes on the radio?

--Aren't baby toys supposed to play happy, whimsical tunes? One of my daughter's crib toys--I can't be sure, but I think it's playing "Suicide Is Painless," which sounded appropriate enough as the theme song to M*A*S*H, but somewhat creepy when coming from my daughter's bed. Still, it entertains her, so I have no problem with it, at least until I find her in there building a homemade gin still or trying to perform a tracheotomy on her brother.

--Why does it seem to me like such an insurmountable task to buy pillows for our bed? I've been trying for about 6 years--no lie--to replace our floppy, sad pillows, but can't seem to commit to any of the pillows I see in the store. Time and time again I shop for pillows, pick them up, fluff them, squeeze them, imagine sleeping on them--and then put them back on the shelf. Would one of you please put me out of this misery and just go out and buy me some decent bed pillows? Just send me the bill. Otherwise I may die in 50 or so years with my elderly head resting on these same ratty-ass pillows.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Your days are numbered, rednecks.

I'm continually surprised by you people. You constantly prove to be way more fucked up than I previously suspected. And it appears that, by and large, you're all a bunch of hillbillies.

Case in point #1:

The other day at a stop light I spotted this van, which has been white-trashified beyond typical factory van standards with the addition of a window air-conditioner mounted in the back. Now, I suppose, the owner of this shitmobile is able to leer at young children on school playgrounds in relative comfort, in spite of the unyielding Texas heat. Turns out some of you out there are actually quite innovative, despite your low IQ and steady diet of Milwaukee's Best Light.

Case in point #2:

Yesterday in the grocery store I was reminded just how determined you are to become morbidly obese just to piss your doctor off and to discourage your spouse from asking for sex. The world's crappiest, least nutritious food, the hot dog, while formerly something that took 18 seconds to prepare and consume, has now been made even more convenient with the creation of these Fast Franks. Since the hot dog has already been placed on the bun for you, it is no longer necessary to take the time to open both a pack of hot dogs and a pack of buns, bringing the total prep time for this disgusting meal down to 9.2 seconds. With any luck, you can have your arteries 90% blocked and your ass 92% enlarged in half the time you were previously allotting. What's next? A hot dog that's already half-digested?

I used to live in Missouri, so I know rednecks. That's why my redneck radar goes off when I see things like this. But I won't sit back and let you toothless moonshine traffickers take over my fine city. In an effort to scare you back to the woods you're continually emerging from, I will encourage all my fine, upstanding friends and acquaintances to join me in this 5-point plan to discourage you hillbillies from settling here and spawning:

1) Stop laughing at Jeff Foxworthy. He was funny for the first 20 minutes of his career, but after that point it became a dangerous plot to encourage rednecks to embrace their loserdom, rather than to wash up and visit a dentist like normal folks.

2) Stop getting all giddy about fireworks every 4th of July. Getting shitfaced and lighting up explosives is not something that should fall under the category of "family fun," and not what our forefathers wanted when they envisioned us commemorating their sacrifices. Because our forefathers were not, I assume, a bunch of smelly hillbillies.

3) Stop supporting NASCAR. Driving is not a sport, although I can see how you might get excited about it if all you ever get to drive is a mule. But the truth is, anything you can compete in while smoking 3 packs of Marlboros a day is not technically a sport. And while I understand that the fact that you're allowed to bring coolers of beer to these live sporting events is a mighty powerful draw, that doesn't justify anything. You can drink in your home and in your car, like all Godfearing Americans.

Okay, so it's only a 3-point plan at this point. What does it matter, anyway? Rednecks aren't so great at math. But if any of you non-rednecks can think of a 4th and 5th point to complete my 5-Point Plan, I'd appreciate the help. Then, once we rid decent society of these pesky rednecks, we can work on getting rid of the soccer moms and the Mormons.

Friday, September 21, 2007

I may have my faults, but I'm an excellent gift-giver.

You, like pretty much everyone in my life, may occasionally find yourself wondering, "Does Karla have even one redeeming quality?" I've heard it before, believe me--that I'm insensitive, vulgar, inappropriate, and likely to take huge swigs out of your drink when your back is turned--but isn't there a good quality or two that makes up in some small way for the fourteen thousand bad ones?

The answer is yes. I am an excellent gift-giver. Common Wombat is one of those people who is hard to buy for--not because he has everything--on the contrary, he has nothing, and there's a reason for that. He deserves nothing. But I, being the gift-giving overachiever that I am, strive to make him feel important in spite of his glaringly obvious unimportance, by giving him unique and heart-warming gifts. The first gift that I gave him, I suppose, is the affectionate nickname Fuckhead Weasel Nuts. But I've also given him some tangible, and quite priceless, gifts that I will discuss here.

Exhibit A: The Acrylic Stand-Up Photo

For Wombat's birthday last year, I sent off to have an acrylic stand-up photo of him made. I tried to find a good picture of him, but that's like finding a picture of Britney with panties on. So I used this shot I took of him on one of his visits to Texas. I believe at the time the picture was snapped, he was screaming "I'm an American! I have rights!" as five burly policemen subdued and cuffed him and spent about 45 minutes trying to force him into a squad car--a job made difficult by the thick coating of cooking oil he was covered in from head to toe. To commemorate that event, I had this little photo statue made of him. I figured he could put it on top of the cardboard box he lives in, to make the place more homey. And yes, his birthday is September 11, just one more reason that day will always be remembered with sadness.

Exhibit B: The Christmas Ornament

If you read my blog regularly, you've learned a lot about Wombat--that he's mentally challenged, socially backward, covered in a thick, coarse layer of body hair--but what you may not know about him is that he's a Christmas nerd. Not just because he works for Santa himself, designing and installing Christmas displays in malls across the U.S. each year, but mostly because he really, really loves Christmas--in a sappy "chick" way. You'd think someone who works in the Christmas industry would get tired of it, but not Wombat. He loves--really loves--Christmas music, and has a collection of the vile stuff, by every has-been artist imaginable. And he decorates his house each year like the North Pole. I know what you're thinking--that he probably does this not because he is so possessed by the spirit of the season, but in an effort to lure children in so he can commit unspeakable crimes upon them--and you're surely right. But in addition to his love of defiling children, he really does seem to dig Christmas. Case in point: He collects Christmas tree ornaments. But he takes it one step further than the average little old lady who shares this hobby. He tries hard to find Christmas ornaments that remind him of people he cares about. For instance, if he has a friend who is an avid fisherman, he might buy a Christmas tree ornament of a fish wearing a Santa hat. When he told me he was going to try to find an ornament that reminded him of me, my mind reeled. A teeny bottle of Cuervo? A pair of crotchless panties? But he was going for something more mundane--a small replica of the state of Texas, for instance. I told him to relax, I'd find something more personal. So I took the most hideous photo of me I could, and I made it into an ornament. It's obvious to anyone looking at this ornament that I was actually thinking of Wombat when the picture was snapped, which makes it that much more personal.

Exhibit C: Personalized Candy

The idea for this one came to me when I saw a commercial advertising personalized M&Ms. On the commercial, they brag that you can buy a bag of M&Ms that say "Trevor" or even "Trevor Forever," as if that's interesting or cool in some way. I had in mind lots of things I could say to Wombat on personalized candy, but a quick trip to the company's website killed every idea I had, with their clear instruction, "No profanity allowed." Puritanical asswipes. So I bought a couple of bags of Hershey's Kisses and made stickers myself to personalize each and every one. They said things like "Eat shit," "I hate you," "Die, Weasel Nuts," Friendship OVER," and "Stay out of Texas." Even just remembering the raw emotion I was overcome with as I labored over this loving gift brings tears to my eyes. Only after I finished this task did it occur to me that a bag of chocolate candies might not survive shipment from Texas to Baltimore without melting into a soggy mess of darkness not unlike Wombat's own heart, but it was too late to go back, so I sent it Priority Overnight via FedEx and hoped for the best. And by "hoped for the best," I mean that I hoped the FedEx truck might accidentally run Wombat over as he stumbled out of his house to meet it.

So as you can see, I do have my good points, or one, at least: I am an exceptional gift-giver. I suggest each of you start sucking up to me right now, that you may reap the benefits of my generous heart when your birthday rolls around.

Friday, September 07, 2007

Thank God one of you finally got it right.

I've been blogging for a couple of years now, and it's been an exercise in disappointment. Lo these many months I have waited for you guys to be of some use to me--in even the most remote way--and yet you have steadfastly remained as useless as penis on an impotent man.

I've tried to squeeze something out of you, God knows. For instance, I've tried time and again to get one of you to raise my son for me, with no luck. I've solicited your help and advice in times of need, to no avail. My grandma used to say everyone has a talent, and I thought she was wise so I foolishly believed her--but you guys have taught me that the old bat was utterly full of crap. Turns out most of you are good for nothing, and I was starting to have a pretty bleak picture of the world...til yesterday.

When I looked out my window yesterday afternoon and saw the UPS truck pull up in my driveway, I was confused at first. I thought, "That's weird...I just ordered my Real Doll two days ago; there's no way it can be arriving so soon." But what did arrive was something that managed to restore my faith in humanity. It was booze.

Not just any booze--a bottle of wine sent to me by one of my blog readers--someone I've never met in person. This, people, is why I got into blogging. Oh, bloggers will tell you they blog because they want a creative outlet or because they need to vent their feelings--that's all total bullshit. We all do it for one reason and one reason only: We hope someone will send us free booze. Til yesterday, all the hours I've spent slaving away at these inspiring, Pulitzer-worthy blog posts has netted me exactly zilch, unless you count the occasional unwanted, sweaty, mentally challenged house guest. Now, finally, thanks to Ben, it's all been worthwhile. So I encourage you to follow Ben's excellent example. I know you've been told your whole life, by your parents and your teachers, that you're worthless and good for nothing--and for the most part, that's been dead-on. But it may not be too late to change. Make it your mission to justify your existence on this earth in some small way. Get thee to the nearest liquor store as quickly as humanly possible, and fill your shopping carts with as many of those beautiful bottles as you can push to cash register without permanently damaging your back. Ask a stock boy for help, if you must. Then speed to the nearest post office and pack those bottles of sweet nectar as carefully as you can--spare no expense! And ship them to me, overnight, if possible. You may not be able to make it into heaven, but you might at least secure yourself a spot in one of the lesser circles of hell.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

12 weeks to blissful stupidity

This is the wrong decade to be on maternity leave.

In my normal, non-maternity leave life, I am too busy to watch much TV, only managing to squeeze in half an hour or an hour per day at most--some days not even that. Which is hardly the American way, and yes, of course it always bothered me that I was failing to permanently damage my brain in that very important way. Sure, the alcohol was picking up some of the slack in terms of brain damage, but there are certain types of demolition that only excessive TV-watching can accomplish. So when faced with the prospect of a few months of maternity leave, I was eagerly anticipating filling my days with mindless TV shows, hopefully emerging at the end of it all sounding like one of Miss South Carolina Teen's cheerleading buddies.

But I was unprepared for how mindless TV has become. The stuff currently airing makes the crappy shows of the '80 and '90s look like videotaped college lectures. I despondently searched the on-screen guide over and over, first adding only nature shows like Planet Earth, Growing Up..., and Nature. But that's not enough TV to fill the day, much less the day and night spent doing those every-three-hour feedings that newborns demand just to be obnoxious. So I lowered my standards and picked through the guide again, adding one or two more shows. Then about a week later I lowered my standards further and grudgingly added one or two more. And so on. Lowering my standards is something I'm pretty familiar with by now. It's how I found many of my friends. Sometimes in life you have to go for quantity over quality, what can I say?

At any rate, here's the abject sadness my TV-watching life has spiraled into:

Meerkat Manor: Combines the "you're a cerebral TV-viewer" appeal of a nature show with cheap soap opera drama as the narrator fills you in on which rodent is cheating on her lover, which rodent is trying to steal her sister's man, and which rodent is willing to kill his brother to gain social status. TV shows on Animal Planet often leave the viewer feeling as if he's learned a thing or two; this one teaches you that, apparently, rodents can be evil, conniving motherfuckers. A lot like the rodents in the next show on this list:

Rock of Love: Crack-crazed hookers battle it out for a chance to blow a middle-aged rock star who hasn't been relevant since 1989. Half the fun is counting the million innovate ways Brett Michaels covers his balding head with do-rags, cowboy hats, skull caps, and aging strippers.

Flipping Out:
This one has actually become an addiction. What's better than watching an anally retentive gay guy (oh, come on--don't stoop to the obvious jokes. If you want that, go back to Obvious Jokeville and don't come back) lose his fucking mind over every little transgression of his staff members while scheduling acupuncture sessions for his cat? And the guy is insanely gorgeous, if you're into insanely gorgeous gay guys, as I know some of you are.

Snapped: True stories of real-life rednecks who kill their spouses in a diabolical plot to keep the Social Security disability checks all to themselves.

No, it's not quite what I had in mind when I imagined my TV-filled days, but it'll have to do. I can knock off a few brain cells this way, and what's left can probably be wiped out later with inhalants. In the meantime, you guys can monitor my intellectual demise as my blog posts get dumber and dumber. (Insert obvious joke here.)

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

This one is going to inspire you.

Some of you have been whining like a bunch of little girls that it's time for me to get back to blogging. Point taken. While it was only fair that I got to take a little break while I was mired in the all-consuming misery of pregnancy, and then a continued break when I first brought home my bouncing bundle of screaming, pooping joy, you make a good point: Enough is enough. It's time for me to stop thinking of myself and start thinking more of you, my friends inside the computer.

So here I am, and I'm ready to get back to telling you all the exciting details of my life. To that end: I've decided that this new baby we have in the house should be my inspiration for turning over a new leaf. Yes, the old me was pretty fabulous, that's true...but it's funny how a new baby, so fresh and innocent and uncorrupted, can make a person contemplate the flaws in their own life, and want to strive for something better, something cleaner. So please see below my 5-point plan for emerging as The New Me:

1) No more drinking first thing in the morning. I generally get up with the baby at 6:30 or 7 AM, so my day starts early--but in the interest of restraint I will patiently watch the clock until 7:45 before I start mainlining straight vodka.

2) No more shoplifting cigarettes and then selling them to grade school children for a 300% markup. I always knew that was the wrong thing to do, but I did it anyway, and I'm ashamed of that now. From here on out, I will cut the kiddies a break and only mark the smokes up by 200%. That will cut down on the amount of money they have to steal from their mothers' purses, so everyone's karma improves. I'm feeling pretty good about this one.

3) No more picking up and killing hitchhikers just for the sport of it.
I can't promise I won't kill a hitchhiker here and there (that would be like promising I won't eat or sleep ever again!) but from now on when I do it, it will be for more philanthropic reasons, like to spare them from a life of impurity, or to make the world a better-smelling place.

4) No more mocking the elderly. I want to free up more time for mocking the disabled, the poor, and the abused. I really think I've gone as far as I can go in terms of mocking the elderly, anyway, so this one is a no-brainer.

5) No more wasting all my time by spending it with my children and husband. From here on out, I pledge to devote way more time to surfing the internet for porn, cruising internet sex chat rooms, and of course, blogging. I will allot what I think is a very fair and reasonable amount of time each day--exactly 15 minutes--to family, and the rest belongs to the internet. I've had the foresight to purchase a small egg timer to make sure I don't accidentally go beyond the 15 minute mark.

So there you have it, and I think this proves that I'm the kind of person who is always meticulously striving toward self-improvement. You guys could stand to exhibit a little of that perfectionism yourselves. It's not too late: You, too, can change.

Friday, August 03, 2007

I spawn.

Some of you are waiting for an update regarding my reproductive state. Others of you hate it when any blogger mentions pregnancy and children, because what's more boring than hearing about other peoples' kids? To that latter group, I sympathize with you and tend to agree...until I find that a lot of you are also readers of Dyckerson's blog--which means you have a far greater tolerance for boring reading material than you even realize. So, screw you: I'm posting an update.

Of that former group--the ones who do care whether I've had the baby or not--you probably fall into two camps:

1) People who simply like babies and want to share in the happiness of a new birth, and

2) People who traffic in stolen children and are always on the lookout for fresh meat. I suspect my readership has a significantly higher percentage of kidnappers and crooks than is found in the general population, so I'll chose carefully what I reveal about my situation.

That said, I did indeed go forth and multiply, and the end result is a healthy Caucasian female named Chase. If you know where to find my Flickr pictures, feel free to go there and take a look. If you don't know where to find my Flickr pictures, there's a reason for that, pervert, and it's going to stay that way. However, I'll offer you one peek here: And please don't be alarmed; she actually does have arms and legs. You just can't see them in this picture.

So there you have it, and that's all I'll say on the subject, because I don't want to bore you with any of the minutiae...unless you do something to piss me off. Then I'll tell you the birth story in excruciatingly graphic detail. So tread lightly, you pricks.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

You're welcome.

I see you there. Asking yourself, "Where can I go to hear more pearls of wisdom from Karla? Her blog, now that she's in the last miserable moments of pregnancy, is updated about as often as Common Wombat changes his dumpster-scavenged underwear. Isn't there someplace I can go on the web for more of Karla?"

You're in luck, my obviously bored, socially retarded friend. At the moment there is a place you can go to find a little more of me on the web. And no, it's not a pay site, like you're thinking--not this time. I quit doing those in the third grade, when I realized the real money is in black market babies.

No, I'm talking about this site, where, for reasons unknown to me, I was asked to do an interview. And there's some kind of voting going on there, although I have no idea why or what for. If you strain your eyes really hard, you can see a tiny little "thumbs up" and "thumbs down" symbol at the top of the post, where they mention the name of my site. I don't know what a hands-up means--if it means my lawyer has won me a stay of execution, if it means I'm STD-free, if it means I'm a "sure thing," etc. Likewise, I don't know what a hands-down means--if it means I've hit the wall, if it means I've turned state's evidence and am not to be trusted, if it means I have an unpleasant odor that can't be washed away with drugstore hygiene products, etc. So click or ignore the little mysterious hands, I don't care. I've never cared what you did or didn't do before, why should today be any different?

Now get off my blog and don't come back unless you have some advice for me regarding how to go into labor at will.

Saturday, July 07, 2007

A heartfelt saga of friendship, sorrow and anal rape

Normally I'm incredibly picky about what I read. It has to have just the right kind of content and just the right writing style or I abandon it somewhere around the third paragraph. A lot of research goes into choosing a book to read--I spend time on using the "Look Inside" utility to read a few pages and see if it's to my liking, and I read the plot outline and few reader comments--then, if it sounds good to me, I go to and order it. I try to keep about 5 such carefully chosen books on hand at all times so that I never have to settle for just any old crappy book when I'm desperate for something to read.

However, a long and unpleasant pregnancy can make you lower your standards for entertainment, and when I found myself with nothing to read during Month 7, I picked up The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. I had heard good word-of-mouth about it, and a quick glance at the first paragraph didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out with a ten-penny nail, so I figured it was worth a shot.

If you suspect I'm about to launch into a scathing criticism of this book, I'm not, exactly. It's not a bad book--if you're an anal rape enthusiast. And hey, I'm as liberal-minded as the next guy, and so, sure, a modicum of anal rape can be quite lovely...but if you've ever heard of the concept of "too much of a good thing," you can see how it might apply to ass rape.

Let me recap this book for you, in case you:

a) don't have time to read it yourself, or

b) hear enough about ass rape in church and at the dinner table, and don't have room in your heart for any extra. In a nutshell, here's the book:

*Spoiler alert, genius.*

Young male narrator lives in a supposedly perfectly lovely country that happens to be populated with a small faction of evil people. Young narrator has an pleasant childhood in which he spends his days at his rich father's estate, frolicking with his best (well, only) friend, the servant's son. Life is grand.

Suddenly, the small faction of evil people take over this supposedly perfectly lovely country, lightning-quick. Now, anal rape abounds, as well as copious random gunfire and bombing. This drastic change happens in a matter of about 14 seconds. The servant's son gets anally raped, and the young narrator shuns him, wanting no part of anyone who has become a boy toy for evil sodomites.

The crafty young narrator comes up with a scheme to get his father to banish the servant and his son, who wander off on their own to live in poverty amid the constant gunfire and bombing. One of the perpetrators of the servant boy's anal rape gets anally raped himself, then dies. Narrator and father flee the country and come to America in search of a quiet, rape-free life.

Narrator grows up with his be-hymen intact, and eventually returns to his country upon hearing that his childhood rape-victim friend and his wife have been killed by the evil people, leaving behind an orphaned son. Narrator searches the ruins of the now war-torn country for the boy, who, as it turns out, has been copiously anally raped for quite some time before the narrator manages to locate him in an impoverished hovel of an orphanage. In the process of recovering the boy, the narrator himself narrowly escapes being anally raped.

Narrator brings the boy home to raise, which you'd think would be the happy ending--yet the sad boy stops talking and never again speaks a word to anyone, so traumatized by the vicious rape and abuse he has suffered.

The end.


There, I just saved you a few bucks; you're welcome.

After spending a few evenings reading this book, I was the one who felt raped. I want those hours back, and I also want back my faith in a world where civil unrest doesn't necessarily go hand-in-hand with vicious, forced sodomy.

Thank you, Khaled Hosseini, for bringing your strange, private obsession into my world. Now please put down that typewriter and get yourself a job as a prison guard.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

At least the vomiting gives me something to look forward to

Aw, shucks.

It's sweet of some of you guys to encourage me to post again. I even loosely consider it sweet when others of you call me unflattering names and harp at me to get off my "lazy ass" and write something to entertain you. As for those of you who haven't contacted me at all in my blog posting absence, well, I think you're the sweetest of all, because I could ask for no better gift than to, at least temporarily, forget you pricks exist.

And I wish I had an abundance of time to lounge around in my jammies in front of my computer, industriously scheming up ways to amuse you with the written word, but there are so many hours a day, and almost all of them are occupied right now. A breakdown of my average day:

7:30 AM - Noon: Complain about how uncomfortable I am.
Noon - 3 PM: Stare at my misshappen form in the mirror and sob uncontrollably.
3 PM - 6 PM: Scheme ways to go into preterm labor.
6 PM - 9:30 PM: Draw up elaborate charts and graphs detailing the various types of alcohol I will consume after the baby is born.
9:30 PM - 11:30 PM: Curse God.
11:30 PM - 7:30 AM: Go to bed and catnap in between hourly trips to the bathroom, during which time I continue to curse God.

As you can see, that's a tight schedule, and leaves little room for horseplay. I wish I could help you, but until I eject this parasite from my poor, beleaguered body, I just don't see how I can find the time. And, truth be told, once the child is born, I expect my first few weeks to be consumed with a combination of compulsive vomiting and self-starvation until I can approach something close to my pre-baby weight. After that, if history is any guide, there will be the traditional string of investigations by Child Protective Services brought on by neighbors' and family members', I'm getting tired just thinking about it. It's true what they say: Motherhood is a lot of work. But obviously it does have its rewards--and by that I mean that it's so much easier to shoplift liquor if you have a stroller to stash it in. So things will all work out.

Now scram, and let me get back to my busy day. It's 1:30 PM, and I've taken time out of sobbing uncontrollably while staring at myself in the mirror so that I could write this blog post. I hope you're happy--this is going to push my whole schedule back.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Believe the hype: Hell is every bit as hot as your mother said it would be

I'm irritable.

This must come as a shock to you, because I imagine you think of me as a sunny Mary Poppins-type, always smiling and extending goodwill to all. Helping old ladies across the street, baking cookies for the neighborhood children--that whole deal. I hate to put a dent your perfect vision of me, and possibly be responsible for crushing some of your faith in the general goodness in the world--but I'm crabby today, and no one could blame me. Not only am I lumbering around with this cartoonishly large, pregnant belly, but doesn't help that it's been a face-melting 81 goddamn degrees in my house during the hottest part of the day for the past couple of weeks. It's like I'm living in the Wild West-era, when women just had to sit around and fan their sweaty, stinking faces all day long to keep from dying prematurely. Luckily for me, we're getting new insulation installed soon (bringing our paltry 3 inches of insulation up to the standard 14 inches), so I can die from fiberglass inhalation rather than dehydration, as God intended.

But in the meantime, I'm bloody hot. I need your help. Normally I'd hesitate to turn to you for help in any matter except cleaning monkey cages at the zoo or possibly stamping hands at a roller rink-- except for the fact that you're the only group I can think of that's clearly unemployed, with nothing better to do than sit on your asses reading blogs all day--and since everyone else in the world is gainfully employed and contributing to society in some way, that leaves me little choice but to call on you.

The following is a list of the positions I need filled at my 81-degree Circle of Hell in short order:

Fan Wielders:I need no less than 10 of you to stand around and fan me with some of those long-handled fans you see the servants fanning Cleopatra with in the movies. These 10 fan-wielders should, ideally, be the best-looking among you, if such a group exists. Or I suppose I could settle for the least offensive-looking among you, if I must.

Toilet Scrubbers: 2 or 3 people to clean my house, since it's far too hot for me to engage in such menial tasks. You'll need to bring your own supplies, to include your own toothbrushes to clean the toilets.

Mustard Spreader: 1 person on standby to whip me up a club sandwich when the need arises, and gently press a damp cloth to my delicate forehead while I nibble daintily on your perfectly-toasted creation. Let it be noted that the Mustard Spreaders must never, ever fraternize with the Toilet Scrubbers, lest bacteria carelessly be passed to the above mentioned club sandwich.

Tub Filler: 1 person on call to be ready at any moment to draw me a nice cool bubble bath, and possibly massage my feet while I snooze among the bubbles. Bring a good-sized selection of your own nail polishes (in tasteful colors) to paint my toenails while I nap in the suds.

Toddler Chaser:
No fewer than 7 of you to entertain/muffle/restrain/subdue my 2-year-old son, freeing me up for a maximum amount of napping and TV-watching time. These 7 people should be the biggest, burliest among you--ideally ex-marines or former NFL players. They should also posses great mental fortitude, enabling them to stand firm against unreasonable, constant demands to watch Mickey Mouse on TV all day long.

That completes the list, so feel free to go ahead and submit your qualifications for the position you feel best suited for. I'd say no applicants with criminal records are allowed, but I understand I'm dealing with a limited talent pool here, and I can't be choosy--so I will only ask that you refrain from committing criminal acts while in my employ...or, at the very least, that the criminal acts you commit not involve firearms or kidnapped neighborhood children. And, of course, I use the word "employ" in only the sketchiest sense, since there's no actual pay involved in these job positions...unless you count the immeasurable satisfaction a person can get from doing good deeds. And the bonus satisfaction you'll get from losing 7 to 10 pounds per day by sweating like a prizefighter in training in my barely-air-conditioned home.

Friday, June 01, 2007

You've got exactly two months to make me stinking rich


Never in a million years did I dream that the cheap tactic I employed in my previous post would work. I claimed that I wasn't going to blog again until Common Shithead did, and I'll be honest with you--I thought that would free up my calendar into the next millennium. No way did I think that lazy oaf would drag himself away from his well-worn stack of kiddie porn and actually crap out a blog post. But he did, and so now it's incumbent upon me to do the same. Once again, that sack of fecal matter has screwed me over. Truth is, I didn't want to write anything. I'm in the final stages of that massive curse that is pregnancy, and all I feel like doing these days is laying uncomfortably on the couch shaking my fist at the sky and cursing God's name. Now I have to unclench my fist and write a blog post.

And to be honest, there's not much to talk about except pregnancy itself--which would bore the pants off of you. And the very last thing I want to imagine is any of you pants-less. You look bad enough with pants; I can only assume that without pants you look like an aging walrus with a bad skin condition. So I will avoid going into the specifics of pregnancy except to say this: Those squealing, airheaded wanna-be supermommies who gush enthusiastically about how beautiful and amazing pregnancy is, and repeatedly insist, "Oh, I loved being pregnant!" are lying whores who should be choked to death with a fistful of gigantic maternity panties. Pregnancy is like sex with Dyckerson: Even at its very best it's a fucking horror show, and the best you can hope for is that it passes by as quickly as possible so you can take a scalding hot shower and try to get back to your normal life, and try to drink enough to forget about the misery you've just endured.

Speaking of getting back to normal life, that's what's been on my mind lately. What will my life be like with not one but two children of Satan to chase after? Not wanting to put my kids in daycare causes a real dilemma--namely, it means I'll have to raise them, which doesn't exactly sound like a party for me, and can't be much good for them, either. However, if I were filthy rich instead of just filthy, I could hire a team of Nicaraguan nannies to raise them while I sunbathe by the pool and snort coke off the poolboy's ripped abs. The question is: How do I get rich in a matter of months?

The more unimaginative among you will suggest things like selling drugs or turning tricks--don't bother. I've tried those, and they're not as lucrative as movies and TV would lead you to believe. What I need are good, original suggestions that could actually work. Otherwise I'll have to fall back on Plan G, which involves beating up little old ladies and stealing their jewelry to pawn--which is fairly easy, sometimes fruitful work, but begs the question of where to leave the kids while I'm doing the beating. Even on "Take Your Daughter To Work Day" you can't bring the kiddies along when you know you might have to slice off a few ring fingers with a switchblade.

So put on your thinking caps--and for Christ's sake, your pants--and come up with some suggestions for how I could very quickly get shamefully rich so that I can hire some immigrants to love my children while I drink my liver into a hard, cold stone.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Sometimes it can be challenging to find someone else to blame, but it's always worth it

It was very kind of so many of you to email and comment asking me to write a new entry. It's been a shamefully long time since my last post, and I know you deserve better than that. I picture you these last ten days, listlessly navigating the internet looking for something to read in the absence of a current post from me, and it makes me sad for you, to think of you falling into internet sinkholes like Anonymous Coworker or Assclownopolis. I haven't felt like dragging myself to the computer and writing lately, and unfortunately, it's you who pays the price by having to read whatever mind-numbing scraps of would-be "entertainment" you can scrounge from lesser blogs. I want to rescue you; I do.

But then again, I have to ask myself: Why should I put forth my blood, sweat and tears slaving away to create witty and enlightening reading material for you when certain other bloggers can't be bothered to get off their big, sweaty asses and do the same for the likes of me? Common Wombat, that lazy, good-for-nothing prick, has blogged exactly twice in the past six months. And sure, I regularly complain that his blog has always been filled with nothing but excruciatingly detailed descriptions of the products of his overworked bowels, but in a rare moment of weakness I'll just admit it now: For some reason, I still find the utter nonsense he writes to be strangely compelling. I can't explain exactly why this is--maybe it's just so I can compare it to the greatness of my own blog content and feel vastly superior, or maybe it's because it's fascinating in the same way it's fascinating to stare at the homeless, the mentally ill and Mighty Dyckerson's family--because we just can't believe there are people out there who live that way.

If either of the two of us should have a greater excuse to take time off from blogging, it's me, not that soulless asswipe. After all, I'm the one who's 7 months pregnant and requires the use of a crane just to haul myself off the couch to tell my 2-year-old to stop putting his face in the dog's water bowl or stop repeatedly bludgeoning the refrigerator with a pair of maracas. Meanwhile, Wombat, that childless, work-from-home shithead, spends his days as free from obligation as he is from the burden of common sense.

Well, I've had enough of this unfair workload. I hereby vow not to blog again until that loafing Communist douchebag drags himself away from daytime soap operas and Maury Povich reruns and pukes up a blog entry. So if you've got any complaints about my poor productivity, go yell at him about it. The ball is in his filthy, roach-infested court. Leave a comment on his barren wasteland of a blog and explain to him that even though you have no interest whatsoever in hearing anything he has to say, it's an ugly means to the beautiful end of getting me to say something here in the fertile sunflower field of my own blog. I'm sure he'll understand.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

But then again, without freaks my readership would be about 4

Have I become so intellectually mature, so high brow, so classy that I no longer understand the freaks of the world? Because I used to, you know. I spent a lifetime studying and communing with freaks. Now, more and more, you baffle me, Freaks.

As I've mentioned before, my greatest source for freak watching is via my Statcounter page. I check my "recent searches" from time to time, copy down the utterly bizarre shit I see there, and save it for a later date, when I have more time to rant and rave about the lunacy in the world. So some of the searches I'm about to reference here are old, but rest assured, they did at one time appear in my stats.

Today's first Freak of the Day is the chap who found me by doing a Google search for Nude Pilgrim Pic. Don't get me wrong--I totally understand the appeal of the nude pilgrim. Who doesn't love a nude pilgrim? I'd be crazy to sit here and try to pretend that's not something each and every one of us daydreams about 364 days out of the year--in church, at work, you name it. The flaw, though, is in trying to search the internet for a picture of a nude pilgrim because...well, do I have to explain it? Without the standard-issue pilgrim garb, there's no way to identify a nude person in a photograph as a pilgrim. So my recommendation to you, sir, is to just look at a nude picture of Carmen Electra and simply pretend there's a discarded pilgrim outfit just out of the frame of the photo. And maybe a couple of ears of corn and an angry Indian, too, just to make it more real.

Freak of the Day #2 somehow found me via a Google search for I like catheterizing myself. Again--who am I to judge? While I've never tried it, I'm willing to accept the possibility that self-catheterization can be big, big fun, an endless source of giggles. And it's not a bad idea to cultivate the skill of quickly and easily inserting a small tube into one's wee-wee, because you never know--one day you may find yourself badly mangled in a tractor collision, forevermore unable to hoist yourself upon a potty. It never hurts to have a few basic nursing skills under your belt, and if you happen to enjoy them--well, that's not a crime. So g'head--ram a tube in there sideways, for all I care. Just stay the hell away from my blog.

The final Freak of the Day hails from Canada, and connected with me by way of a search for especially when the mutton is nice and lean. This one, I'm afraid I can't condone in any way. While I'm not a member of PETA, I do believe animals have certain rights--yes, even the sexually alluring ones like sheep and wolverines. Some of you guys have a hard time finding a woman--I get that. And it may be frustrating that it's so much harder to find a thin, attractive girl than it is to find a drunk chick who's built like a linebacker. If you like your dates petite, it may indeed be tempting to trade up the 280-pound loudmouth you're secretly banging for the quiet, demure, 75-pound sheep you think has been giving you the eye, and maybe that's the way things are done in Nova Scotia, but not here in the the United States, buster. Here, we believe in slaughtering animals and eating them, not tethering them to a fencepost and treating them like hookers in heavy wool coats . So put it back in your pants, and don't ever stop by my blog again.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Now if someone would be so kind as to inform the police...

Recently It's Me, Maven... asked the following question on one of my blog posts:


I happen to know the answer, and I'll share that with you in a moment...but to me, the more interesting question is why she would care in the first place. Judging by her decision to write in all-caps, I assume she was hysterical, or perhaps utterly shitfaced, at the time she asked the question--the only two conditions a person could be in and actually be interested in what Wombat is up to. Still, I'm fascinated, so I've spent some time trying to imagine what could have gone so wrong in her life that she's wondering about Wombat's whereabouts, rather than thanking her lucky stars that he's not around. I'm guessing it's one of the following:

1) Her children are missing, along with every box of Fruit Loops and Count Chocula in her pantry.
2) There are mysterious puddles of urine in every room of her house.
3) She's a homicide investigator trying to explain the dead bodies that keep cropping up all over town.
4) He still hasn't returned the Barry Manilow albums he borrowed from her 3 years ago, and she's getting pissed.
5) She's writing a column about married men hiding their homosexuality from their wives, and needs people to interview.
6) She's a drug dealer trying to collect a debt.
7) Someone has been wearing her underwear and then putting them back in the dresser afterward--as evidenced by the sweat stains and traces of Fluffernutter all over them.
8) She borrowed his vibrator and wants to return it.

It may not be possible to unravel the mystery of why anyone would care where this derelict has disappeared to, so I'll give up on that for now, and answer Maven's question. Common Wombat used to blog on a fairly regular basis--much to the dismay of the decent, God-fearing internet public. His posts were not exactly works of sheer genius--in fact, he commonly searched for blog topics by peering into his own toilet. He was able to coast along this way for awhile--but eventually even he had to admit that there is nothing very compelling about repeatedly broadcasting the frequency and consistency of one's bowel movements. He probably spent some time trying to brainstorm other, non-fecal, topics to write about, but alas, trying to whip up something creative from of a "storm" in a brain that small is akin to trying to scrape up a satisfying meal using a Barbie Doll shoe full of grain, so eventually Wombat had to admit defeat. I think he learned a valuable lesson, though: That there is nothing whatsoever in his cavernous head except some seasonal phlegm and an unnatural quantity of ear wax.

So Wombat gave up on blogging, which gave way almost instantly to a 3000 percent increase in internet user satisfaction...but sadly, a corresponding 3000 percent decrease in his wife's marital satisfaction, since Sally used to treasure those few moments each day that Wombat was engrossed in blogging instead of following her from room to room in their home, describing in minute detail his morning bowel movement. Tensions in the home rose, and Sally threatened divorce. Knowing full well that he'd never find another (living) woman willing to cohabitate with him and his enormous collection of porcelain dolls, Wombat did the only thing he could think of to keep Sally around--he bought a life-size suit of armor and forced Sally into it, then welded it shut.

Now Sally spends her days standing at attention in the living room of Wombat's home, sobbing with humiliation as Wombat cheerfully hums to himself while dressing and undressing her suit of armor with a variety of different lingerie items and lacy thongs. The bloody scrapes across his cheeks that never heal are from his repeated expressions of love, as he lifts the little metal door that covers Sally's mouth and attempts to kiss her--it hurts him, but he doesn't mind. "Love hurts," he'll say philosophically, as he lovingly polishes his bride with Brasso, then turns her toward the television so they can watch Star Wars again, as they do each day. He's settled into a routine that he has found some comfort in--even if that same routine has made Sally wish she were dead.

So there you have it, Maven. I'm glad I could be here to answer your question, even if I don't quite understand your interest in it. Please let me know if there are any other ways I can be of service.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Bed rest: It's not just for amputees anymore.

Bed rest sounds nice, doesn't it? Who wouldn't want to be put on bed rest? You picture yourself lounging about in a feathered nightie or flannel footie jammies, watching your favorite movies and eating grapes straight out of the servants' hands. Perhaps there's a oversize glass of wine at your bedside, or, if you're Dyckerson, a plastic jug of urine. Either way, it sounds like a great opportunity to relax and rejuvenate.

The little-known reality is that bed rest blows. In my non-bed rest life, I'm a person who is always on the go, unwilling to sit still for very long. Plus, I teach group exercise classes, as well as working out on my own at the gym 6 mornings a week for an hour and half to two hours a day. This gives me the energy I need to leap fences and dash through alleyways when the Feds are chasing me, or beat the crap out of anyone who looks at me sideways at the grocery store.

In short, I like to keep very busy.

But because God has cursed women with the twisted joke that is a nine-month pregnancy, complete with cumbersome weight gain and many other unpleasant bodily changes, and because I'm perhaps being punished for being such a terrible person all my life, I have recently been ordered to serve out the remaining 4 months of my pregnancy on bed rest. Well, to be fair, I'm not sure yet that the bed rest order will continue that long--I'll find out next week at my doctor's appointment if I can at least go back to my slovenly desk job a few hours a week--but it's not looking good. And I'm certain there will be no more working out or teaching group exercise for a long time to come. So if you thought I was crabby and disagreeable before--look out, brother.

Far from the peaceful feathered nightie and footie-jammies scenario mentioned above, bed rest is a horrible, ugly existence. Television, formerly a vehicle only used once a week to gaze upon the faces of the hot guys in the Lost cast, now becomes the central focus of existence. Along with the endless hours of Court TV, Discovery Channel and History Channel, there is also such brain-killing fare as Frasier re-runs, Judge Judy, and the occasional soap opera. This is bad news for those of you who come here faithfully seeking my well-thought out, deeply intelligent monologues that instruct you in the ways of the world and stimulate your minds, since after a few months of this dumbifying television intake, my blog may start to read like--well, it's too horrible to say it. But you know what I'm thinking of.

For the first time ever, I envy you. Not your lice-covered scalp or filthy, feces-covered apartment, and certainly not your lengthy prison record or astonishingly low IQ. No, I envy your ability to get up and walk around the house, even leave the house when the mood strikes. Presumably, despite your hundreds of noticeable faults, you're at least not laying on your couch hour upon hour until your skin starts to fuse with the upholstery, nor gaining five pounds per month while inadvertently committing to memory every line from Frasier's 1995 season.

Jealousy is an ugly thing. In fact, it's so ugly that maybe the only thing uglier is what a woman looks like after 4 months of pregnancy bed rest. Hear that sound? That's me, hitting the wall. Soon I'll become one of those people who only posts a photo of herself from the chin up, always blurry and darkened, with a cloud of hair swirling in front so that a person viewing it isn't entirely sure if it's a photo of a woman or an aerial shot of Kenya.

So say goodbye to the old Karla. My bed rest sentence has only been in effect for a few days, but I fully expect that by the end of it, you will see a newer, angrier, more horrible Karla than before, one that you'll like even less than the old one. And actually, pissing you off may be the only satisfaction I get in all this. It might even make it worthwhile.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Maybe I'll call him The Antichrist.

Where I come from (Shithole, Missouri, in case I haven't mentioned it), most people have a nickname. Some people have several. Some people are called so exclusively by their nickname that you may not even know what their real first name is. Often the nickname was given as a result of some event or a joke--in other words, it was rooted in some legitimate story. In other cases, the nicknames seemed random and rather arbitrary, as if they were chosen simply because no one could think of anything better at the time. Some of the nicknames I remember from my hometown are:

Puppy Pumper
Little Bitty
Pan Face

I know you're wondering about Puppy Pumper. That's one of the ones that did have its origin in a particular event. And yes, it's exactly what you're thinking. There was no Humane Society in my town to report him to, either.

Everyone calls my friend Matt by the nickname Buttface. I know another guy named Robot. My friend Jay calls me Cinderella. Common Wombat is (well, admittedly, only to me) Fuckhead Weasel Nuts. And Mighty Dyckerson is widely known as Tinkerbell Sissypants The Big, Crying Girl. I think it was his father who came up with that one, and it just kind of stuck.

Why are nicknames important? Primarily because if you ever end up in jail, you want to have a nickname firmly established, to prevent getting one bestowed upon you that's less favorable than the one you might have acquired outside prison. For example, a person who might have been dubbed Shorty or Bubba if he had gotten his nickname as a child might instead go a lifetime without a nickname, and then, shortly after incarceration, find himself being called "Sally" or "Hotpants" by the other inmates. You can see how this would be bad.

So it's important that Jake get a viable nickname now, one that could stay with him into adulthood. I have a few silly, mommyish nicknames for him, but they're all too babylike to use for much longer. For example, I frequently call him such things as Babyface, Babycakes, Diaper Butt, The Beast, Cakeface, and sometimes--only under my breath--You Little Shit. That last one, while not babyish, isn't exactly a winner, either. And the others--well, not only would a 16-year old be humiliated to be called such things, but an incarcerated adult could get into big trouble with those names, as well.

So it's time to get started on the daunting task of finding Jake a nickname. Lots of people call him Jake The Snake, but that's the lazy man's way out. It's too easy. Every Jake since the beginning of time has been called Jake The Snake. Yawn. I'm looking for something more interesting, more dynamic, more unique.

So I submit this challenge to you--primarily because I have yet to find any kind of redeeming use for you whatsoever--help me think of a nickname for this charming little boy. It has to be one that would work just as well in grade school or Boy Scouts as it would in prison or rehab, just to be sure all bases are covered. Come through for me on this, and I'll forgive you for the shamefully small number of death threats I was able to squeeze out of you gutless swine.