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.

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.

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.