tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-135038092024-03-07T21:22:40.082-06:00karlababbleI write stuff here and you read it. You roll your eyes. I try to think of stuff that will elicit more eye rolling. The end.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.comBlogger220125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-39321397590560375102009-01-02T14:40:00.006-06:002009-01-02T16:08:29.779-06:00Manipulating children since 2002<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SV5-taTkKTI/AAAAAAAAA3E/f5VUaE7HD2g/s1600-h/chase.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SV5-taTkKTI/AAAAAAAAA3E/f5VUaE7HD2g/s320/chase.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286802331200137522" border="0" /></a>My daughter Chase is 17 months old, which is an age I personally love, because you can get kids that age to answer questions they don't fully understand. That's 90 percent of why I wanted children in the first place.<br /><br />Case in point: Several nights ago I realized that Chase has become such a daddy's girl that, when given the choice of "mommy" or "daddy" in any given situation, she will choose daddy. At first my feelings were a little hurt, but soon enough I found a bright side. Chase, her brother Jake, my husband Brian and I were hanging out at the house, and it was almost time for the kids to go to bed.<br /><br />Me: Chase, who do you want to read you a bedtime story tonight, mommy or daddy?<br />Chase: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Da</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dee</span>!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Brian beams, clearly happy to be the favorite.)</span><br /><br />Me: Chase, who do love more, mommy or daddy?<br />Chase: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Da</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dee</span>!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Brian sits there, looking smug.)</span><br /><br />Me: If one of your parents were to die in a fire, would you rather it be mommy or daddy?<br />Chase: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Da</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">dee</span>!<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Brian looks as if he's about to object, but I quickly fire off another question.)</span><br /><br />Me: Who would you rather see get intestinal cancer, mommy or daddy?<br />Chase: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Da</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">dee</span>!<br /><br />Me: In the event of a divorce, who would you rather see only one weekend a month and two weeks during the summers, mommy or daddy?<br />Chase: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Da</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">dee</span>!<br /><br />Me: If the judge called you to the stand and asked you to tell him who had given you that bruise on your arm, would you tell him "mommy" or "daddy?"<br />Chase: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Da</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">dee</span>!<br /><br />I find this line of questioning to be so entertaining that I spend inordinate chunks of my day dreaming up new questions to ask her that would result in a humorous payoff in the event of the inevitable answer "daddy." If you can think of any to add to my list, please submit now. Hurry, she's about to wake up from her nap and I want to be ready.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-19846048549745998402008-11-16T12:23:00.001-06:002008-11-16T12:24:33.309-06:00If cuteness could cure cancer, this would do it.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SSBlWfXheyI/AAAAAAAAAwc/Nf9G-z50AHg/s1600-h/findcure.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269323001075170082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 336px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SSBlWfXheyI/AAAAAAAAAwc/Nf9G-z50AHg/s400/findcure.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>So freaking cute. </div>karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-57544312146081449142008-11-09T15:39:00.004-06:002008-11-09T15:48:32.737-06:00I thank you, and my liver thanks youLast night we hired a sitter. This is a crazy concept in our household, because we are incredibly cheap people who believe money should be spent wisely on things like booze and plastic surgery, not frittered away on babysitters. Luckily for us, Brian's parents live nearby and cheerfully watch our children free of charge almost any time we need them to, and as far as we know they don't even molest or abuse them--not that those would be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">deal breakers</span> at the low price of "free."<br /><br />But last night they were off watching some boring football game in Austin, and because there is no bartender in my house to make martinis for me, we were forced to actually open our wallets and hire a sitter so that we could go to a bar. Actually, we wanted to attend a surprise 30<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> birthday party for a friend of ours at a bar in downtown Fort Worth, which meant we couldn't use our standard Plan B.<br /><br /><div><div><div>Plan A, of course, is using the free babysitting services of Brian's parents. Plan B is hiring a random, reasonably-responsible 16-year old to come to our house after the kids have gone to bed at 8, and get <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRdXkJuNIUI/AAAAAAAAAvE/nezwPNjCQ7I/s1600-h/thing1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266774567829709122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 173px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRdXkJuNIUI/AAAAAAAAAvE/nezwPNjCQ7I/s320/thing1.jpg" border="0" /></a>paid to watch TV and see that the house doesn't burn down until we get home--which means, of course, that we can't go out til 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ish</span>--usually not a problem. Plan C, used last night for the first time, involves a little more thinking, since it requires finding someone to come to the house when the kids are still awake so that we can get to our destination at a certain time. </div><br /><div>Jake, the 3-year-old, is an agreeable and easy child who would be fine with literally<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRdWZGKAGgI/AAAAAAAAAu8/lSKh_6rfYKQ/s1600-h/thing1.jpg"></a> anyone coming over to play with <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRdXo2O1wTI/AAAAAAAAAvM/d_G-8nu4mqU/s1600-h/thing2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266774648497226034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 173px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRdXo2O1wTI/AAAAAAAAAvM/d_G-8nu4mqU/s320/thing2.jpg" border="0" /></a>him for an hour and then put him to bed. 16-month-old Chase, on the other hand, is the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wild card</span> in any situation. She sometimes likes a person upon meeting them for the first time, hovering at knee-level and grinning maniacally at them until they pick her up. Other times she will lay eyes on a new person and run immediately to throw her arms around my legs, casting furtive glances over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure they're not pulling a baby-chopping axe out of their back pocket and leaping at her. Other times she likes a person well enough while I'm in the room, but as soon as I step out she begins screeching like a badger caught in a trap, stopping only upon my return. I'm not sure what makes her so different from the agreeable Jake, but I can only assume my husband's DNA is somehow to blame.</div><br /><div>We picked someone Chase knows and loves, the chick who runs the kid's club at my gym. Chase spends a couple of hours a day with her three times a week when I teach there, so she's totally used to her, and we love her as well. She showed up at 7, as requested, and allowed Jake to drag her from room to room for thirty minutes as he performed the very important task of showing her every single thing in our house. "This is the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">wivving</span> room!" "This is the dime-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ing</span> room!" "This is Cow!" "We have three TVs [pronounced "tee-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">dees</span>"]--one in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">bedwoom</span>, one in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">wivving</span> room, one in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">pway</span> room!" The kind of stuff that little kids find fascinating, and that make most adults want to wrench little kids' necks. Chase followed behind happily. </div><br /><div>We left with only about half an hour or so til bedtime, went to our soiree, drank and ate and socialized with grownups, which is not something we're used to--but it was nice. Not once did any of them demand that we do a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">puzzo</span>" with them, or burst into frustrated tears at their inability to put on a discarded pair of our shoes, nor did any of them try to put their hands in the toilet or eat something found in the trash. So it was an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">unusual</span> but enjoyable evening. </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266773033644343650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 245px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 276px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRdWK2b6QWI/AAAAAAAAAu0/EoVtCH2P-lo/s320/booze.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>We got home at around 10:30 to find Chase still awake; in a good enough mood, but exhausted. The sitter had tried several times to put her to bed after reading a book in the rocking chair, but Chase stood in her crib and wailed hysterically each time til the sitter was forced to finally give up and just let her stay awake. Naturally, when I took her into her room and sat with her in the rocking chair for a minute, then put her into her crib, she rolled peacefully over onto her belly, hiked her diapered butt into the air and went to sleep willingly. Why couldn't she have done that for the sitter? My guess is she was trying to appear so completely unable to function without my presence that I would be touched by her sweet neediness and vow to give in to her every whim from now until the end of my life. However, the child <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">overestimates</span> me. In truth, my reaction will be the opposite: I've got to get rid of this kid now before her neediness further cuts into my drinking time.</div><div></div><div>Who wants her? Leave your name here, and I will consider all applicants before finally sending her to whichever one of you is closest, to cut down on shipping costs. Hurry, because there's a party I want to go to next Saturday.</div></div></div>karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-10638244263382892592008-11-04T19:11:00.004-06:002008-11-04T19:37:48.954-06:00You guys have inspired me to write.<div>I know you guys are probably all wrapped up in the election results tonight, but I'm here to talk about something way more important: My personal mission to do away with the infernal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">NaBloPoMo</span>.</div><br /><div></div><div><a href="http://www.nablopomo.com/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">NaBloPoMo</span></a> (National Blog Posting Month) is always hyped as a creative writing tool, but there is nothing less creative than the stuff you guys crap out when forcing yourself to blog every day for a month. The reason you (and I, for that matter) don't blog on a given day is that there's nothing interesting to say that day. Now imagine a million uninspired people forcing themselves to blog every day for a month, starting nearly every post with a zinger like, "Well, it's day __ of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">NaBloPoMo</span>, and I have nothing interesting to say, but..." followed by 9 paragraphs describing something as mind-numbing as a phone call from grandma, a critique of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">coworker's</span> shoes, or a debate about whether to switch cell phone providers. The most bizarre part is how, at the end of the month, your last post always describes how proud you are of the fact that you were "successful" at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">NaBloPoMo</span>. That tells me that you are misinterpreting the word "successful" to mean "able to consistently achieve mediocrity through the written word." <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264981004647338610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SRD4VCMvEnI/AAAAAAAAAuU/UUUJV3Racc8/s320/uninspired.jpg" border="0" /></div><div></div><div>Do us all a favor and vow NOT to participate in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">NaBloPoMo</span> this year. If you're already committed to it, then at least remove the word "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">NaBloPoMo</span>" from every post, because that's like announcing, "This is going to suck" in big letters across the top of the post. Allow us the temporary illusion that you blogged today because you were inspired, and not because there's a national bore-a-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">thon</span> going on and you're determined not to be left out. </div><div> </div><div>Thank you.</div><div> </div><div> </div>karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-24255797575808040082008-09-16T12:19:00.008-05:002008-09-16T16:28:17.511-05:00I don't work at Hooters.We've taught my son many things in his three and a half years of life. It was a common enough progression: First, we taught him the names of objects (door, apple, hat). Later, we taught him numbers, letters, colors. Then we taught him the 50 states, and other such things. Now, though, we're sort of stuck in limbo as we halt the teaching process and struggle with trying to unteach him something he mistakenly picked up from his well-meaning father: We're trying, with sporadic success, to teach him that his mommy doesn't work at Hooters.<br /><br />There's nothing wrong with Hooters, I suppose, other than the crappy food. But since I don't work there, I don't need him telling his teacher and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SNAAvXJCYZI/AAAAAAAAAps/x3IbwK0IgbA/s1600-h/hooterscrowd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 198px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SNAAvXJCYZI/AAAAAAAAAps/x3IbwK0IgbA/s320/hooterscrowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246694379552399762" border="0" /></a>classmates at the Mother's Day Out he attends two days a week that I work at Hooters. I don't want him tell his grandma and great-grandma that. I don't want him telling anyone that. Not because I'm anti-Hooters. But because I DON'T WORK AT HOOTERS.<br /><br />It started like this: We live near a Hooters. My husband, like most men, gets all slack-jawed and inexplicably happy at the mere sight of the sign as we pass it on the highway, so he cheerfully threw it into the rotation of objects to point at and identify for Jake as we drove to and fro. "Look, Jake, there's a water tower! There's a gas station! There's Hooters!" He was rewarded with Jake then subsequently naming these items on his own thereafter. "Look, Dada! Dere's a wata towa! Dere's a gah tation! Dere's Hoodahs!" Brian was so cheered by the sound of the word "Hoodas" coming from his son's mouth that his excited response to Jake's observations telegraphed to my son that this was indeed something noteworthy.<br /><br />So far so good, and pretty cute. But then.<br /><br />Apparently one day as Jake and Brian were in the car by themselves, Brian took the extra step of informing Jake that "Hooters is where the pretty girls work." He only said it one time, apparently, but Jake remembers every single thing you tell him except how to put his underwear on correctly.<br /><br />Backing up a bit, I'll tell you one more thing about Jake. He tells me I'm "pitty" about ten times a day. He got this from Brian, too. Brian often tells me I'm pretty, and Jake started copying him maybe a year ago. Never mind that Jake also thinks that ugly tramp Dora The Explorer is pretty; I take my compliments where I get them, and I appreciate them no matter how limited the judgement of the giver may be. So I always say, "Thank you, that's such a nice thing to say."<br /><br />Recently Jake's standard, "Mama, you're pitty," <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SNAAkPJXGeI/AAAAAAAAApc/NuDRux_qAv0/s1600-h/hootersbaby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SNAAkPJXGeI/AAAAAAAAApc/NuDRux_qAv0/s320/hootersbaby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246694188427712994" border="0" /></a>has morphed into, "Mama, you're pitty, you work at Hoodas." I tell him, "No, I don't work at Hooters. I teach at the gym." He knows I work at the gym because he goes there with me 5 days a week, but still he refuses to accept what I'm saying. "No, you're pitty, and the pitty girls work at Hoodas." Not wishing to disparage the fine, upstanding ladies of Hooters, but also not wishing to be lumped in among them, I struggle to find a diplomatic way to correct him. "No, honey, skanks work at Hooters," was not the way to go. Instead, I tell him that not <span style="font-weight: bold;">all</span> pretty girls work at Hooters--but he holds his ground. He has even gone so far to tell me that his grandma is pretty, and that <span style="font-weight: bold;">she</span> works at Hooters. Again, not something I want him spreading around the playground. It's a rumor that's not good for me and his grandma, and it could throw Hooters into financial ruin.<br /><br />I was having no luck retraining his brain myself, so I earnestly requested Brian's help. "You better convince that kid that I don't work at Hooters, or I'm going to tell him Daddy supports his meth habit by blowing guys at the bus station." So Brian began putting his best effort into changing Jake's mind.<br /><br />After a couple of days of "Mommy doesn't work <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SNAAqPPIGSI/AAAAAAAAApk/6dA3S2ovGYQ/s1600-h/hootersdog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SNAAqPPIGSI/AAAAAAAAApk/6dA3S2ovGYQ/s320/hootersdog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246694291531110690" border="0" /></a>at Hooters" speeches, Jake changed his tune. Now he tells me, quite frequently, "Mama, you're pitty. I know you don't work at Hoodas." He will say it that way maybe 3 times in a row, with the 4th one sounding like this: "Mama, you're pitty. I know you don't work at Hoodas. But you DO work at Hoodas!" Gak. Like all men, Jake is obsessed with Hooters.<br /><br />The moral of the story, which I hope Brian has learned by now, is not to tell a 3-year old anything at all. Communicating with them by facial expression and football flags should be sufficient, and much safer. Which is why I plan to never let Jake know that on the weekends I work as a stripper at Big Bob's House of Poon.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-67373428745649498592008-08-28T22:00:00.001-05:002008-08-28T22:06:34.292-05:00Vindication!!AT LAST!! After enduring three years of countless taunts from you nitwits for innocently snapping <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2005/11/his-bowels-move-in-mysterious-ways.html">a photo</a><a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2005/11/his-bowels-move-in-mysterious-ways.html"> or two</a> of my son doing <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2008/04/picture-is-worth-thousand-words-and.html"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">embarrassing</span></a> and/or <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2006/03/are-thong-panties-included-in-food.html">socially unacceptable</a> things, finally I can get a little reprieve. Turns out I'm not the only one who wants to capture every joyful moment of motherhood on film to share with family, friends, and total strangers on the web.<br /><br />Shaken Mama is a lady after my own tiny, cold heart. Unlike some of you humorless jerkoffs, she seems to instinctively "get" that, while motherhood is fraught with more penalties and thankless chores than such a noble endeavor should be, a smart parent knows how to find joy in the daily grind--that it's so very, very important to stop and appreciate the<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> journey</span> itself, rather than just trudging grumpily along to the bigger goal, which is, of course, to raise the child to adulthood. <br /><br />Sometimes "finding joy in the daily grind" translates into <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2008/08/i-win.html">"take poop photos and post on the 'net."</a>karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-76348524201851130682008-08-11T14:33:00.000-05:002008-08-11T14:36:03.945-05:00All the news you needI have many wise and enlightening things to say today. Here they are, in order of thickness:<br /><br />1) I'm hungry. Dieting would be fine if not for the irritating lack of food.<br /><br />2) The city is resurfacing the streets throughout my neighborhood, which blows for a variety of reasons. If it's not the water getting shut off because some big yellow monster vehicle digs for gold in the wrong place, it's a sprinkler head getting broken when another big yellow monster vehicle drives into part of our yard. If it's not that, it's my car getting trapped in the garage while the street in the cul de sac turns into what looks like a huge platter of that sweet potato mush I keep seeing on my inlaws' table every Thanksgiving, or my car not being allowed <span style="font-weight: bold;">back</span> in the garage because they're making another batch of mush. Good thing I have a naturally sweet and patient disposition, or this, combined with the whole starvation thing, could make me cranky.<br /><br />3) I may be hungry and my house may be surrounded by city workers who look like they just got released from prison, but at least I'm fashionably attired. <a href="http://returnofwombat.blogspot.com/">Common Wombat</a>, normally good for almost nothing at all, sent me a birthday gift which has what every birthday gift anyone ever receives should have on it: My face. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SKCM9yJw2tI/AAAAAAAAAdw/21ilYkOmS9I/s1600-h/shirt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SKCM9yJw2tI/AAAAAAAAAdw/21ilYkOmS9I/s320/shirt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233337760067148498" border="0" /></a>Disregard the string you see hanging off the arm; Common Wombat has a strict policy of only supporting clothing companies who profit from the tears and sweat of enslaved 9-year old factory workers in Malaysia. It's lovely, isn't it? He drew the picture himself--proof of his schoolboy-like love for and adoration of me. I wasn't sure what that tiny word at the bottom meant, but he assures me it's just a fancy way to say "wonderful." At any rate, I like the shirt...although I'm a little creeped out by my suspicion that at this very moment, Wombat is wearing a shirt exactly like it. <br /><br />4) While we're on the subject of Wombat and his addiction to stalking me, I should mention that <a href="http://twitter.com/">Twitter</a> is the high-tech equivalent of bathroom wall graffiti. Only, since you can access it from your phone, incredibly bored people like Wombat are scrawling all over the virtual Texaco men's room about 60 times a day. I think a lot of people use it to make witty comments or day-to-day observations. Wombat, on the other hand, just uses it as another of the 10 or 15 ways he has found to stalk me. I've said it before, but it bears repeating: If I ever go missing, please take a shovel and do a little investigative digging at any piles of freshly-turned earth you might see near the McDonald's by Wombat's house. I think he's crazy enough to kill and bury me, but I'm certain he's too lazy to go far from his favorite restaurant and all-day hangout to hide my remains.<br /><br />That's all I have today. I'm off to my kitchen to stare angrily at my refrigerator.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-20568150378734365292008-07-15T18:00:00.002-05:002008-07-15T18:08:19.663-05:00Finally, the internet isn't so high-brow and sanitized anymoreFor some reason that mystifies even the greatest intellectual minds, I have mentioned Common Wombat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SH0r6-VQynI/AAAAAAAAAco/LY0MLauKlFM/s1600-h/einstein.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 175px;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SH0r6-VQynI/AAAAAAAAAco/LY0MLauKlFM/s200/einstein.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223379434984229490" border="0" /></a> here on my blog somewhere around 24,765 times. Why? Why, when there are so many more noteworthy people, places and events in the world at any minute, do I waste even a second of my time on this bozo? The answer is simple: He tickles me. It's a vice I'm not proud of, and yet there it is. I hope it doesn't lower your opinion of me. I will attempt to explain it to you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">thusly</span>: Sometimes even deeply wise and profound people like to snicker at what we intellectual types like to call "retard humor." I bet if he were alive today, even Albert Einstein would have to admit that South Park is <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SH0tpm-bS-I/AAAAAAAAAc4/PohaMo-wWYE/s1600-h/SouthParkWallpaper800.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 157px; height: 103px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SH0tpm-bS-I/AAAAAAAAAc4/PohaMo-wWYE/s200/SouthParkWallpaper800.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223381335679912930" border="0" /></a>kinda funny. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Common <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Wom</span>-boob is anywhere near as clever as the writers of South Park--he's not. But I have two kids and two jobs and two intravenous drug habits; I don't have time to watch a lot of TV. Common Wombat's blog was a way for me to get a quick fix of retard humor without having to take the time to sit on the couch for a whole TV program.<br /><br />Then the lazy bastard quit blogging. Not formally--he made no grand announcement. Rather, his blog sat and rotted away as the months and years went by, with no one but me checking back from time to time to see if he'd puked up a few new wisecracks yet.<br /><br />Why, then, did I continue to link to him, post after post here on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Karlababble</span>, when I knew those links were only sending my readers to a black hole in the web? Because, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">goddammit</span>, there is no one on earth more suited to be the punchline to my jokes than Wombat. In this one area of life, he excels! When I set up a small penis joke, no name fits so perfectly as the punchline as his. Try it! Say something like, "Blah blah blah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">de</span> blah blah small penis? Blah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">de</span> blah blah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">de</span> blah Common Wombat!" See? He's perfect!<br /><br />And he's versatile. Tired of penis jokes? Okay, I'll switch to herpes stricken, homeless crackhead jokes. Again, he's perfect! Porn-addicted, sexually ambiguous welfare recipient jokes? He's perfect! Serial-killer-living-with-his-mom jokes? PERFECT! Believe me, I've tried others. When it became evident that Wombat's blog was as dead as Don Henley's career, I tried using a variety of seemingly equally repulsive characters as punchlines for my jokes. I tried <a href="http://assclownopolis.blogspot.com/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">tfg</span></a>, <a href="http://mightydyckerson.blogspot.com/">Mighty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Dyckerson</span></a>, <a href="http://www.anonymouscoworker.com/">Anonymous Coworker</a>, and a couple of others. Yeah, sure, they were passable. But still, they lacked something. They weren't quite vile and grotesque <span style="font-weight: bold;">enough.</span> I needed Wombat.<br /><br />So I begged him to return to blogging. I <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2007/05/it-was-very-kind-of-so-many-of-you-to.html">threatened</a>. I pleaded. I talked <span style="font-style: italic;">you guys</span> into pleading. All of it fell on deaf ears. Not that he didn't want to blog, I don't think. I think it's just that he's so slovenly, so lazy, so utterly inert, that he wasn't able to physically move his fingers across the keyboard.<br /><br />But suddenly, things have changed. That lazy, shiftless cretin has recently announced a return to blogging! Don't get your hopes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SH0rNcyX8AI/AAAAAAAAAcg/6aARVjdQvqA/s1600-h/Whoppers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SH0rNcyX8AI/AAAAAAAAAcg/6aARVjdQvqA/s200/Whoppers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223378652885413890" border="0" /></a> up--I have no doubts that this is only temporary, and as soon as the sugar rush from his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Twinkie</span> binge ends, he will go back to nodding off in front of reruns of <span style="font-style: italic;">I Love Lucy</span>. But for now, you may <a href="http://returnofwombat.blogspot.com/">check him out</a>--not at his former blog, but at his <span style="font-style: italic;">new</span> place, which is fresh and clean and as-yet <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">unlittered</span> with the feces and empty Malted Milk Ball boxes which will appear soon enough. Far more importantly, you will find my jokes pack a far greater punch with him reinstated as my comic foible.<br /><br />That's the up side to his return to blogging. The down side is that I now have 24,765 links in my past blog posts that officially go nowhere. That prick did it to me again.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-74168063616605707842008-07-02T19:09:00.004-05:002008-07-02T20:41:26.974-05:00It's time to take out the trash...to make room for more trashWhen I first started blogging in 2005, it was easy to get on my blogroll. All you had to do was ask, and you were in. Was the potential blogroll candidate funny? Didn't matter. Was the potential candidate friendly? Didn't matter. Interesting? Thought-provoking? In line with my political and moral views? Definitely not tied in any way to child porn or human trafficking? Didn't matter. If you asked, you were in. Heck, lots of times you didn't even have to ask--if I happened to notice you had put me on <span style="font-weight: bold;">your</span> blogroll, I'd put you on mine. I was easy; I'm ashamed to admit it. Eventually I had to put the brakes on the reckeless and wonton blogroll-padding because there were too many blogs linking to me for me to welcome them all onto <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> blogroll.<br /><br />As time went by, I began reading more blogs and I found lots that were interesting, funny, thought-provoking and definitely not tied in any way to child porn or human trafficking, and I would have liked to add them to my blogroll...if not for the fact that it had long since become cumbersome and unweildy, fat with links to blogs I didn't even read or particularly wish to endorse. Not wanting to offend anyone by abruptly booting them off the list, I opted for the coward's solution: To wait for some them to die. I'd check the links every few months or so and be overjoyed upon discovering one that had become defunct or hadn't been updated since 1975. Then I was able to kick that link off the list and make room for someone new.<br /><br />Clearly, the whole "system" was a piss-poor one. Not only is it sloppy, but it doesn't reflect my distinct personality, which is all about <span style="font-style: italic;">rejecting</span> people, not <span style="font-style: italic;">accepting</span> them. So it's time to start over. I'd like to make my blogroll a place filled with bloggers who fit at least one of the following criteria:<br /><br />1) have a writing style that I admire and enjoy,<br />2) have stuck with me for a long time, continuing to read and comment here over the years,<br />3) lather me up frequently in my comments section with such complimentary phrases as "You are so hilarious!" "This post cracked me up!" and "I have depraved sexual fantasies about you night and day," and/or<br />4) can bribe me with cash, expensive liquor, or free weekly housecleaning.<br /><br />So I am taking submissions now for those who want to be on my blogroll. Tell me how you fit the above criteria and provide a short paragraph stating why you feel you deserve one of these coveted spots. For extra bonus points, pick out a blog <span style="font-style: italic;">currently</span> on my blogroll and tell me why you feel that blog should be dropped immediately, and the owner dismembered, diced into tiny pieces and fed to his/her own family members.<br /><br />Vicious slander and profanity is, obviously, allowed.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-90341067495022515642008-06-22T22:55:00.002-05:002008-06-22T12:50:51.752-05:00The epic battle of Good vs. Evil continues onOnce again, my innocent attempts at creating wholesome friendships bites me in the ass.<br /><br />I am like anyone else--I seek out friendship and good company, yearning to surround myself with people who will nurture and respect a healthy, reciprocal relationship in which we support and encourage one another. I am a simple person with simple needs. And yet, I repeatedly find myself falling in with the dregs of society.<br /><br />It all started with this stupid blog. If I've learned anything about blogging, it's that blogs are a magnet for creeps. Not enough creeps in your life? Start blogging! They'll flock to you in droves, creeps crawling out of the digital woodwork to infect your life and crap all over everything beautiful and peaceful in your world.<br /><br />(If you read <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Karlababble</span></span>.com often, you're wise to my...ahem...literary style, and you know that a paragraph like that last one is <span style="font-weight: bold;">always</span> a segue to a story involving <a href="http://commonwombat.blogspot.com/">Common Wombat</a>. So let's get on with it, then.)<br /><br />Wombat is someone I met through this blog. Heedlessly ignoring all the warnings in the media about meeting and befriending people on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">internet</span>, I welcomed this stranger into my life a couple of years ago. Since then, he has rained destruction and mayhem on my life, but my stubborn faith in the basic goodness of humanity has prevented me from casting him aside. I have continued to try to reach out to this mongrel and show him some human kindness that I think must have been lacking in his life for so long, making him into the savage he is.<br /><br />It was in the spirit of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">friendship</span> that I sent my supposed friend Wombat the following picture message from my cell phone one day as I was sitting at a stoplight:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <div style="text-align: left;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214722936965960386" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SF5q4ePwEsI/AAAAAAAAAbA/clcfLyDZJf8/s200/friendship.jpg" border="0" />It was just my friendly way of saying, "I'm thinking about you, friend." Tragically, it was met with a return text message from him that spewed some foul and decidedly <strong>UN</strong>friendly words which I am too much of a lady to reprint here. I was shocked and wounded, naturally. How could a person be so cruel? But the attack didn't end there, oh no. Later he went so far as to email me this painfully unfriendly image along with the snippy title, "Twins?"<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214724192353250210" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SF5sBi7Z66I/AAAAAAAAAbI/PqCD-uJ9wio/s200/5Twins.jpg" border="0" />Then, while I was still reeling from this betrayal, I got another email--this time from one of Wombat's vile henchmen. His surly little friend Paul joined in on the hurtful assault and sent me these humorless and hostile images:<br /></div> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214726484006816306" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SF5uG8AMSjI/AAAAAAAAAbY/4mt1FBlUrZU/s320/1KokoDono.jpg" border="0" />Titled: Koko Dono<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214727312137680338" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SF5u3JB-ddI/AAAAAAAAAbo/EEf8FaLLoWM/s320/2NationalKarlagraphic.jpg" border="0" />Titled: National Karlagraphic<br /><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214727023141311378" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SF5umUb305I/AAAAAAAAAbg/245XoFw5FYk/s320/3LeeHarveyKarlswald.jpg" border="0" />Titled: Lee Harvey Karlswald<br /><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214727889690155954" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SF5vYwlN27I/AAAAAAAAAbw/46vQ-1lRYCc/s320/4karlamoore.jpg" border="0" />Titled: Moore Karla </div> <p>This kind of unprovoked viciousness is not something I can easily understand. I know that ugly and terrible things happen every day in this world--it's just hard to understand when they happen to good people. </p><p>I'm sure the villainous Wombat and his malevolent friend Paul are sitting in their dungeon in Baltimore, cackling away at my pain. I can't begin to understand how they can derive joy from the suffering of others, but maybe that's a mystery I'll never be able to unravel. I'll just have to continue on with my simple life--doing charity work for the sick, helping the elderly cross the street, cooking food for the hungry, etc.--while the evildoers in the world continue on with the work of Satan. I refuse to let these attacks turn me into a bitter, fearful person. I still <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">believe</span> that goodness will <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">triumph</span> after all. </p>karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-78236884080295798452008-05-18T10:35:00.005-05:002008-05-18T11:13:22.079-05:00A little something I'd like to get off my chestI'm sorry I've taken so long to write a new post, but it's actually your fault. Recently I <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2008/04/count-your-blessings.html">shared with you</a> my inability to find a decent workout bra. It was a great dilemma for me, and the source of much sadness in my life. In the comments section of that post, a few of you took the opportunity to simply make a few crude boobie jokes, but the more genuine and compassionate among you offered your help, giving me recommendations on workout bras you'd tried yourself or had heard of from other people. To you good folks, I extend my most heartfelt thanks, for it's people like you who make the world, and my cleavage, a better place.<br /><br />How does this explain my tardiness in writing a new blog post? Well, thanks to your advice, I did indeed find a great workout bra--comfortable, attractive and supportive all at once. So thrilled am I with this product that I have spent all my time exercising instead of doing other things (like blogging, working, cleaning the house or caring for my children). Here's a picture of me using this recent purchase: <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SDBRyFEyk2I/AAAAAAAAAYE/yGyRAfaP2WU/s1600-h/mynewworkoutbra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SDBRyFEyk2I/AAAAAAAAAYE/yGyRAfaP2WU/s320/mynewworkoutbra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201747490410500962" border="0" /></a>As you can probably see from the serene expression on my face, my new workout bra provides such comfort and stability that I hardly feel like I'm working out. It makes my C cup look like a DD cup, and it even gives the appearance of a heart-shaped tanning mark on my suddenly flat abs.<br /><br />In summary, I thank you for your help. It gives me comfort to know that I can turn to you for advice when I am lost or confused. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to hit the treadmill.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-84975156348003232132008-04-13T15:04:00.001-05:002008-04-13T15:05:29.744-05:00Count your blessings.You think your life is tough? Ha. MY life is tough. So tough that a lily-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">livered</span> sissy like you wouldn't last a minute in my world. Here are some examples of the kind of soul-crushing hardship I go through every day:<br /><br />1.) I have recently gotten hooked on some excellent lipstick. This stuff is awesome--it wears really well, it comes in a whole host of beautiful colors, and there's a pretty shine to the finish. That's the good news. The bad news? It's from Avon. Now, normally I keep a respectable distance away from Avon products, but I take my makeup recommendations from <a href="http://www.cosmeticscop.com/bulletin/BestofBeauty2006.pdf">Paula <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Begoun</span></a>, who does nothing but try on makeup for a living and report whether it's good or not. Before I discovered Paula, I used to spend 3/4 of my annual income trying out beauty products that I ultimately discovered to be mediocre or crappy. Now I skip all the random speculation and just buy what she gives high ratings to. I was baffled when she said <a href="http://reviews.avon.com/5588/31387/reviews.htm">Avon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Glazewear</span> Lipstick</a> was fabulous, but I'd trust this woman with my life, my life savings, and the secret of who my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">childre</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJkWfhCaRI/AAAAAAAAAXU/OPRI2aGRfOc/s1600-h/bumper2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188820058264201490" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJkWfhCaRI/AAAAAAAAAXU/OPRI2aGRfOc/s200/bumper2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ns</span>' real fathers are. So I bought some from an Avon rep who happened to wander into my workplace...and now I've got a monkey on my back. I need more of this stuff--lots more--but the chick who sold it to me initially no longer sells Avon, and every single other person I've ever know to sell Avon looks like something that just shuffled off the set of a zombie movie. They frighten me. Often, they drive 30-year-old cars covered in bumper stickers, and wear the same shirt all week long. And yet, now I must find a way to stifle my fear and strike up a relationship with one of these people. This must be what it's like when a cheerleader gets hooked on crack and finds herself going to the worst part of town to score, willing to risk life and dignity to get her fix.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJkHPhCaPI/AAAAAAAAAXE/S2LepHJlDIo/s1600-h/bra.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188819796271196402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 109px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 95px" height="105" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJkHPhCaPI/AAAAAAAAAXE/S2LepHJlDIo/s200/bra.jpg" width="137" border="0" /></a><br />2.) I need a new workout bra, and all the workout bras I find in the stores seem to suck. They either provide no support whatsoever, or they're thickly padded for some weird reason. If you're a 34C and have any good workout bras, do me a favor and just send me yours.<br /><br />3.) <a href="http://www.commonwombat.blogspot.com/">Common Wombat</a> was schedule to make a trip here this month and stay at my house, <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJlGfhCaSI/AAAAAAAAAXc/ScHE9XEC_5A/s1600-h/wombat.jpg"></a>but he cancelled it. That's not<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJlTvhCaTI/AAAAAAAAAXk/J9t3ROlN5Ko/s1600-h/wombat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188821110531189042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 148px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px" height="155" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJlTvhCaTI/AAAAAAAAAXk/J9t3ROlN5Ko/s200/wombat.jpg" width="157" border="0" /></a> the bad news--that's excellent news. The bad part is that, in panicked preparation for his visit, I ripped up all the carpet in my home so that after he left it would be easier to clean up the urine. Now I'm staring at bare concrete, and all for no good reason. It's hard to know how to feel about this cancelled visit, since, on the one hand, my kids are definitely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">sa</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/SAJkO_hCaQI/AAAAAAAAAXM/FxwR4W66-H8/s1600-h/wombat.jpg"></a>fer this way. But on the other hand, it just seems like I went to a lot of trouble for nothing. I was even planning on using the ripped-out carpet to roll his dead body up into for a hasty disposal at the local landfill at the end of his stay, but now I'll have to find another use for it.<br /><br />Yes, my life is full of challenges these days, but never fear, I'll get through them. With your support, and convenience of the liquor store near my house, I will manage somehow, some way. If you see me out there one of the days, wandering the streets bra-less and sporting some very nice lipstick, struggling to drag a huge roll of carpet along behind me, please stop and offer me a ride.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-47071990727007972722008-03-25T13:20:00.003-05:002008-03-31T21:13:51.687-05:00Redemption may be just a click away.You're going to hell, it's almost certain. <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R-k-gJeVxaI/AAAAAAAAAUs/eP3GQI8hd70/s1600-h/satan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181741568286377378" style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R-k-gJeVxaI/AAAAAAAAAUs/eP3GQI8hd70/s200/satan.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I know my readership, and I can say without hesitation that you're a pretty depraved bunch. Luckily, the world has a fair amount of do-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">gooder</span> types who are even now out there struggling to find new, innovative ways to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, heal the sick and educate the underprivileged. You? You're probably on Day 24 of an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">internet</span> porn masturbation marathon. If you've ever helped anyone, it was by leaving the room so the stench could dissipate. You make me sick.<br /><br />And yet...there may still be hope for you.<br /><br />My friend and coworker, Gena, is trying to raise funds for the March of Dimes. Now, before you get all indignant and shout, "Hold it right there--I don't want anything to do with one of those insipid do-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gooders</span> who spend all their time helping others. I can't identify with that kind of person at all," let me assure you: Gena is just as depraved as you are. Well, maybe not THAT depraved, but close. She's a friend of mine, and I promise you, any friend of mine is steeped in depravity. Just because she's taken a few moments away from abusing her liver to participate in a little fundraising doesn't mean she's gone all Angelina Jolie on us. So calm down.<br /><br />The March of Dimes is an organization that raises a lot of money to help save premature babies. How does this affect you, sitting there in your squalid abode, surrounded by 138 cats in varying stages of disease, and several hundred empty Twinkies containers? Well, think about it: Since my own son Jake was born 6 weeks premature and spent 2 weeks in the neonatal <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R-k-05eVxbI/AAAAAAAAAU0/zY1M1uV2_24/s1600-h/nicu.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181741924768662962" style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R-k-05eVxbI/AAAAAAAAAU0/zY1M1uV2_24/s200/nicu.jpg" border="0" height="164" width="169" /></a>intensive care unit, it stands to reason that it's the March of Dimes who brought you such fascinating, intellectually stimulating reading as <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2005/11/his-bowels-move-in-mysterious-ways.html">this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">pos</span></a><a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2005/11/his-bowels-move-in-mysterious-ways.html">t</a> from November, 2005. That's right, you can thank the good folks at The March of Dimes for Jake, the inspiration for so many of the top-quality blog posts you've read here at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Karlababble</span>.com. (If you're scratching your head and asking yourself, "If the kid is so bloody inspirational, why does Karla only post about once per millennium these days?"--good question. Unfortunately, Jake no longer resides with us. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Fra</span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R-k_tpeVxdI/AAAAAAAAAVE/1ONcfhV1ysw/s1600-h/wild+turkey.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181742899726239186" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 45px; height: 146px;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R-k_tpeVxdI/AAAAAAAAAVE/1ONcfhV1ysw/s200/wild+turkey.jpg" border="0" height="174" width="47" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">nkly</span>, I'm not sure where he is. In the spirit of good parenthood, we decided to take him to the zoo one day, but things went haywire when we indulged in three too many bottles of Wild Turkey before heading out that morning. Long story short, when we returned from the zoo that evening, we were unloading the car, and eventually realized Jake wasn't in there. Before you self-righteously label me a bad mom, let me just inform you that I made not one but <span style="font-weight: bold;">two</span> calls to the zoo's Lost and Found department, where I was told they did a thorough search of the cardboard box under the counter and found several umbrellas, a couple of pairs of sunglasses and a set of car keys, but no 3-year-old boys. Can't say I didn't try.)<br /><br />At any rate, The March of Dimes is good, good stuff. They do more good in 15 minutes than you'll do your whole life. I suggest that, in a small attempt to stave off the fires of hell, you go henceforth to Gena's <a href="http://www.marchforbabies.org/GenaHinson">March for Babies page</a> and make a donation--however small--to this worthy cause. Not sure how much to donate? I recommend you calculate how much your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">meth</span> addiction costs you per month, and donate 7% of that total. If each one of you did that, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">there'd</span> be enough money to save approximately 14 zillion premature babies, cure AIDS, herpes and bacterial meningitis, and pay back the national deficit. Twice.<br /><br />So, please--reach deep into your pockets. Oh, God, wait...stop that. That's disgusting. Seriously, stop that. I'm going to vomit. Christ, why do I try to humanize you degenerates?karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-73059888761013666562008-02-21T13:00:00.000-06:002008-02-21T13:04:19.666-06:00Parties and poop don't mix.For most of my life, I have been the kind of girl who loves a good party. If you're like <a href="http://mightydyckerson.blogspot.com/">some of my readers</a>, you may think "party" means two or three pimply-faced social outcasts sipping root beer while watching Interview With A Vampire and eating mom's fresh-baked cookies, but hopefully not <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> of you are as socially awkward and universally disliked as that. Among my friends, parties used to involve lots of cheap (or possibly stolen) alcohol, mean-spirited laughter and the occasional harmless felony. Ah, the good old days. My liver and I sometimes sit and reminisce about those times, before a coughing fit causes me to pass out in a pool of bloody phlegm.<br /><br />It's strange how things change. The most recent party I attended was just a week or so ago, and it was a Potty Party. Easy there, <a href="http://mustgethobby.blogspot.com/">hippie</a>, I didn't say "Pot Party," I said "Potty Party." And no, I'm not part of some underworld creep club that hosts golden showers in dingy tavern basements. It was my last-ditch effort at potty-training my son, Jake.<br /><br />I don't know much about parenting--any of the Child Protective Service workers who have visited my house will vouch for that. But I really didn't think potty training would be a big deal. I assumed all children eventually reach an age where a few well-placed bribes are enough to entice them to pee in the appropriate location, and an exuberant display of praise and a few rewards would be enough to encourage them to keep it up. I even assumed that all children eventually reach an age where they dislike the feeling of a wet diaper or underwear enough that it creates a deterrent. Either I was naively wrong, or Jake is just especially lazy and slovenly.<br /><br />I first tried to potty train him when he was two years old. Right from the start, he would cheerfully pee on command, and had no complaints about sitting on the potty reading books as long or as often as I asked. He was highly motivated by the stickers I gave him as a reward, and was proud of his successes. But he was still likely to pee himself at any time, even shortly after going on the potty. I offered bribes and praised him enthusiastically when it was warranted--but still, he'd pee in his Pull-Ups. So I tried putting him in underwear, making a big deal out of the fact that he was wearing "big boy" underwear and being sure to supply him with the ones he'd most be interested in--Spongebob, Thomas the Train, etc. Alas, he would still pee himself and blithely continue playing in his urine-soaked Elmo undies. Then I tried letting him run around naked--and the limitless fountain of toddler pee continued on unabated. I'd find him playing with Leggos as he sat in a spongy puddle on the carpet in his room. The little grimy little rat didn't even have the good sense to scoot over to a dry spot.<br /><br />Why couldn't it be as easy to potty train a child as it is to housebreak a puppy? Wasn't my kid smarter than a Cocker Spaniel? Discouraged, I eventually decided to put the whole thing on hold--not even mention potty training again for several months, and then try again.<br /><br />Fast-forward a couple of weeks ago; with Jake about to turn 3, it suddenly felt like I had let too much time go by. Not only is three a bit old for a kid to be running around in diapers, but in addition, Jake looks older than he is. He regularly gets mistaken for a 5-year old, which makes it even more embarrassing when we're at the grocery store and he sternly orders me to change his diaper. So I bought a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Potty-Train-Your-Child-Just/dp/0743273133">Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day</a>. One day! This seemed too good to be true.<br /><br />And it was. While the "just one day" concept conveys a sense of simplicity and ease, the whole ordeal was a big pain in the ass. Turns out I had to throw an elaborate party for the urine-soaked little ingrate, and spent nearly as much time purchasing the supplies and putting the whole affair together as I spent raising him to potty-training age. On top of that, I had to do a long list of things so silly and ridiculous that I began to wonder if I was part of an elaborate Punk'd-style prank, and I began looking around for hidden cameras.<br /><br />The party was to involve only two people--just me and Jake. My six-month old daughter and husband were banished from the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R73KSHUEtfI/AAAAAAAAAUU/xUH4Y4r_i1Q/s1600-h/party1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R73KSHUEtfI/AAAAAAAAAUU/xUH4Y4r_i1Q/s200/party1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169510359840896498" border="0" /></a>house that day, as the book instructed. The first half of party day was to revolve around Jake and I potty-training a stuffed animal together; the second half of the day was to be all about me potty training Jake. The stuffed animal I chose was a bear, which we named Fred. Fred had, as the book dictated, about 9 pee accidents<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R73KlHUEtgI/AAAAAAAAAUc/XZqYCYA0A3A/s1600-h/party2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R73KlHUEtgI/AAAAAAAAAUc/XZqYCYA0A3A/s200/party2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169510686258411010" border="0" /></a> during the course of the morning, and 3 poop accidents. Upon "discovery" of each accident, I had to exclaim, "Oh no! Fred had an accident!" and the three of had to hustle to the bathroom to clean him up, make him sit on the potty, and then scold him gently, "No more peeing/pooping in our underwear." When did my life take a turn for the ridiculous? Yet I was determined to do exactly what the book instructed, in the hopes that one day of full-throttle ridiculousness might pay off in potty-training success, and I could get on with my life. Hence, the stuffed bear did a lot of peeing and pooping.<br /><br />How can a stuffed bear pee and poop, you ask? How, indeed.<br /><br />I had outfitted the bear in makeshift underwear I had fashioned myself from some Mickey Mouse fabric I bought at a fabric store. (I never thought I'd catch myself saying a sentence like that.) Making him pee himself was no problem--I just dipped his butt in some water when Jake wasn't looking. Making him poop was trickier--I had to scoop some baby food prunes into his undies. Wouldn't baby food prunes stick to his fur, you ask? Yes, if not for the fact that I had wrapped his furry booty in Saran Wrap before putting his underwear on him. When the bear was sitting on the potty chair in the bathroom, I was able to make him pee by using a discreetly hidden medicine syringe of lemonade, which I shot into the potty chair the bear was sitting on, while Jake was looking the other way. Similarly, I made the bear poop by scooping some baby food prunes into the potty chair beneath the bear while Jake was distracted. Then I'd "discover" the pee or poop in the potty and cheer excitedly at the bear's success. I'm fairly certain Jake was silently mocking me all morning, indulgently humoring me in the same way he probably will 40 or 50 years from now when he visits me in the nursing home and I hysterically insist that the nurses are cannibals who are planning to skin me and eat me. But because he's a good kid, he went along with the charade and pretended that the stupid bear was crapping himself. As the morning went along, the bear gradually got the hang of things, and was able to stay dry for longer periods of time, for which we celebrated and rewarded the bear with a treat from the snack tray I had made up...which Jake then ate, because, you know. Stuffed bears can't eat Cheetohs or M&M's.<br /><br />During the first part of the day, Jake wore diapers like usual, and no mention was made of him using the potty--just the bear. At lunchtime it was agreed that the bear had graduated from diapers and was now officially a "big boy." Then Jake went down for his nap, and I beat my head against a wall for two hours in an effort to knock all traces of the morning's stupidity out of it.<br /><br />When Jake awoke from his nap, I shifted into second gear. I informed him that he was no<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R73KuXUEthI/AAAAAAAAAUk/7IS6qsxkheg/s1600-h/partyjake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R73KuXUEthI/AAAAAAAAAUk/7IS6qsxkheg/s320/partyjake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169510845172200978" border="0" /></a> longer going to wear diapers, and I presented him with a big bag of underwear with various cartoon characters on them. He chose Thomas The Train first, and soberly informed me, before I had a chance to mention it myself, that he didn't want to "pee on Thomas." Good deal. This was going to be easy.<br /><br />The book had instructed me to offer him lots and lots to drink--every 5 to 10 minutes. It also said something along the lines of, "Don't even think you can get away with offering milk and the usual boring drinks," but suggested instead offering fun and interesting drinks to encourage more drinking, since you want the kid to pee a lot. Jake never gets Juice Boxes, so I had bought some of those. He downed three of them in no time flat, plus two sippy cups of 2/3 juice, 1/3 water, as opposed to his usual ho-hum mix of 1/3 juice, 2/3 water.<br /><br />What I wish the book had mentioned, or that I'd been smart enough to realize, is that LARGE QUANTITIES OF JUICE CAN GIVE A TODDLER DIARRHEA. Hindsight is 20/20, and I saw far too much of the kid's hindquarters that day. It took a lot of expectant waiting for the juice to run through his system, but when it finally hit the bladder, it was a pee fiesta. Pee here, pee there, none of it in the <span id="st" name="st" class="st">potty</span>. I put him on the <span id="st" name="st" class="st">potty</span> every 10 minutes as the book instructed, which sometimes netted us a little pee, sometimes not, but didn't seem to have any effect on reducing the amount of pee that soaked into my carpets and pooled on my tile floors. When the Party Diarrhea finally hit, the real fun began. Instead of his usual 2 bowel movements a day, he had about 6, none of which bore any resemblance to a solid matter. I spent a good portion of the last part of the day swabbing poop off my tile, my carpet, my child, my feet, my furniture, etc. I did not have the experience of seeing any of it actually in the toilet. A note about bathroom grout: If you are thinking of installing tile on your bathroom floor, and you plan to have children someday, consider the color of your grout. Scrub all you wish; turns out poop doesn't come out of grout all that easily.<br /><br />By the end of the day, I had grimly decided the whole Potty Party was a huge failure, and that motherhood was clearly not for me. I had started a neat, organized pocket list of places I could abandon my children without being seen. Too tired from poop-swabbing to carry out the child abandonment plan that night, I decided to get some rest and start fresh the next day, so that I might be mentally sharp enough to stay one step ahead of the law after making the drop.<br /><br />Strangely, the next day things just started to click. Jake, now diarrhea-free and not bursting at the seams with 47 liters of juice, started going to the potty on his own and reveling in his success. Skeptically, I tucked my Child Abandonment Checklist into a dresser drawer, ready to put the plan on hold and see how far Jake was willing to take this whole potty thing.<br /><br />And he's been doing great ever since. He may never know how close he came to being left near the door to the Greyhound Bus Station men's room. Aside from one unfortunate incident in which he technically pooped on the potty, but accidentally delivered the payload onto the rim of the seat rather than in the bowl, and I didn't notice until I caught him trying to scoop it into the proper location with his hand, things have gone swimmingly.<br /><br />Now I'm ready for a <span style="font-weight: bold;">real</span> party. I need to throw back some grain alcohol like Jake threw back those juice boxes, after which I plan to wake up face-down on the bathroom floor on my poop-colored grout. Anyone else in?karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-38486794097824416912008-01-10T11:31:00.000-06:002008-01-10T16:50:36.029-06:00Karla eats a little crow, and chases it with a swig of Pickle Juice Sport.I imagine that, for the average person, it can be a bit uncomfortable to have to admit when you're wrong. But for someone like me, who is recognized worldwide for being right nearly every second of every day since birth, it's incredibly difficult and humbling to have to admit a mistake. An average citizen like you probably can't imagine.<br /><br />And yet, here I am, sheepishly confessing my one mistake in my entire lifetime.<br /><br />Recently I made some <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2007/12/this-is-too-fd-up-even-for-me.html">very harsh statements</a> about a certain sports drink. I made these statements without actually <span style="font-style: italic;">trying</span> said sports drink, so certain was I that it couldn't possibly taste good. The bottle sat in my refrigerator, untouched for months even before I wrote that blog post, and each time I opened my refrigerator to get something, I smirked at the ridiculousness of a pickle juice-flavored sports drink. It's true; I mocked that bottle several times a day.<br /><br />I never really intended to <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> try the drink, but instead to merely keep it around for the express purpose of snickering at it each time I saw it. Then, last week, after several weeks without a trip to the grocery store, I eventually opened my refrigerator to find there was nothing left in it<span style="font-style: italic;"> except</span> that lonely, proud little bottle. So, much in the same way <a href="http://mightydyckerson.blogspot.com/">Dyckerson</a> made both of his sexual conquests by finally settling for the lone, passed out female left in the bar at closing time, I decided to try the one item left in my otherwise bare refrigerator.<br /><br />So I took a sip. At first I thought, "Hmm. That's interesting. Not as bad as I thought." I re-capped it and put it back. A few minutes later, I was back for another sip. Several minutes later, I was back again. Then again. (Replace "sip" with "snort" and this could be the same story I told at my first NA meeting a few years ago.)<br /><br />To make a long story short, I am now a fan of this fine product. I found that the drink's greatest strength lies not in its<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R4V8aYBJu4I/AAAAAAAAAUE/fM5ag1IfQPs/s1600-h/sleep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R4V8aYBJu4I/AAAAAAAAAUE/fM5ag1IfQPs/s200/sleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153662141161126786" border="0" /></a> thirst-quenching quality or even in its pickle-y taste, but in its ability to mask an odor. To explain: For about a month now, I've been taking an herbal supplement called Sleep N' Restore, in the hopes that it will improve my ability to fall asleep and stay asleep. I suffer from a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of a past incident in which a <a href="http://www.karlababble.com/2006/11/day-1-kidnapping.html">creepy, unwelcome pervert</a> forced himself into my home even as my family and I slept. Consequently, I sleep lightly and fearfully, and am trying this supplement out in the hopes that I can avoid having to resort to real, doctor-prescribed sleeping pills--which you and I both know I would undoubtedly abuse, eventually winding up like Courtney Love without the flesh-eating yeast infections.<br /><br />Have you ever tried an herbal supplement? If so, you know that most of them smell and taste like an unchanged kitty litter box. Why is this? I think herbal supplement makers secretly laugh at us, first because we actually buy this crap that doesn't fulfill any of the claims on its packaging and advertisements, and second because we do it no matter how hard they work to make each pill smell and taste worse than the next. There have been several different supplements that I've taken in the past and had to eventually stop taking because, over time, I got to the point where I'd inadvertently start to wretch as soon as I opened my cabinet and caught sight of the bottle.<br /><br />This particular product, Sleep N' Restore, has managed to pack an unprecedented amount of stink into a relatively small pill. When you first pop the foil on one of these pills, the yellowy haze of the stench envelopes you, and you become immediately disoriented, wondering how a decomposing camel could possibly have wound up strapped to your back. You want to swallow the pill as quickly as possible just to get it over with, but it takes enormous dedication to go through with something so undesirable. (Insert your own sex-with-<a href="http://mightydyckerson.blogspot.com/">Dyckerson</a> joke here.) I have discovered that Pickle Juice Sport, with its own very strong smell and taste, quickly overpowers the smell and taste of this horrible, horrible little pill, replacing the objectionable rotting carcass odor with the lovely scent of pickles. Why didn't I think of this before? I've been drinking pickle juice for years, and choking down supplements that smell like diseased feet, and never thought to mix the two.<br /><br />I should know better than to rush to judgement about a product. I have to remind myself that my criticisms are taken so seriously by the masses that a single negative comment from me can cripple a new product and bring a company to its knees. I can only hope it's not too late for me to now heartily endorse this fine beverage, and hopefully bring Pickle Juice Sport's parent company back from the brink of bankruptcy. So I offer my humble apology to Pickle Juice Sport, and likewise to Jason Whitten, the face of Pickle Juice Sport, who I hastily labeled a shithead. You, sir, are no shithead.<br /><br />In a final irony, I tried to restock my supply of this fabulous product yesterday by stopping at the same 7-11 where I had purchased the original bottle, only<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R4ZV-4BJu5I/AAAAAAAAAUM/nZ2N5ausBoE/s1600-h/empty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 168px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R4ZV-4BJu5I/AAAAAAAAAUM/nZ2N5ausBoE/s320/empty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153901362249579410" border="0" /></a> to find they apparently no longer carry it. Clearly, the CEO of 7-11 is a fan of Karlababble.com and took my negative review to heart. So I am pleading with you now, Mr. CEO, please fill your coolers once again with Pickle Juice Sport, so will I can once again, without retching, be able to swallow any yucky-smelling supplement/food/narcotic/insert-your-oral-sex-joke-here.<br /><br />Thank you.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-3692903962808089622008-01-02T09:25:00.000-06:002008-01-02T13:45:40.033-06:00Partially nude and totally hot--it's why the terrorists hate us.I understand a lot about people. For instance, I know that 90% of you keep dragging yourselves out of bed each day, day after day, for one reason and one reason only--the desperate hope that, before the day ends, you'll come into come in contact, in some way, with boobs (for the other 10% of us, just replace that last "bs" with "ze).<br /><br />I know what makes you tick.<br /><br />Which is why I'm pleased to provide you with a link, and an errand, that I feel confident will make your drab, sad life a little brighter.<br /><br />My friend <a href="http://golden-state.blogspot.com/">Kendra</a> is super hot. Big deal, you may be saying--lots of girls are hot. But Kendra has a special, extra quality that not all hot girls have--she's willing to get on stage and shake it. She performs in burlesque shows...which is just plain hot, not matter how you slice it. Well, it's hot if you happen to look like Kendra. If you look like <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>, don't even consider it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3vU8IBJu3I/AAAAAAAAAT8/cjc7lvXZuLs/s1600-h/kendra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3vU8IBJu3I/AAAAAAAAAT8/cjc7lvXZuLs/s320/kendra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150944728237849458" border="0" /></a>She has entered something called the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Burlesque Competition, in which only the six entrants who get the most online votes will get the chance to actually compete. Thank God for me, then! Because, thanks to Karlababble.com, I have access to thousands and thousands (okay, pairs and pair) of stalkers, creeps and unemployed weirdos who, while they may lack the refinement and class to appreciate Kendra's amazing talent in burlesque dancing, will nonetheless do absolutely anything asked of them in the name of partial nudity.<br /><br />So please, go one and all to <a href="http://www.vivalasvegas.net/intranet/vote_main.php">this site</a> and vote for Kendra. She's the 10th one down on the left, Dizzy Von Damn. It's one vote per IP address, so if you have more than one computer, or can break into more than one house with a computer, feel free to vote as many times as you're able. You can also check her out on <a href="http://www.myspace.com/dizzyvondamn">Myspace</a>.<br /><br />Then you can get back to carving up squirrels and arranging the body parts into your ex-girlfriend's name on the lawn. I don't want to take up your whole day.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-90817903636281452772007-12-26T20:23:00.000-06:002007-12-27T18:31:56.833-06:00It'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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Yes, Christmas should be a time for people to get punished for their yearlong binges of rudeness, deceit, laziness, greed and general <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">assholery</span>. 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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hoofprints</span> in your back and sleigh tread across your face.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">me.</span> 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: <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3MDiYBJuyI/AAAAAAAAATU/LtL9RpfTstI/s1600-h/weaselnuts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3MDiYBJuyI/AAAAAAAAATU/LtL9RpfTstI/s400/weaselnuts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148462688112327458" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />Don't ask me where he could possibly have gone to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3MG7oBJuzI/AAAAAAAAATc/tuilnhyE3Xc/s1600-h/weaselnutslive.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3MG7oBJuzI/AAAAAAAAATc/tuilnhyE3Xc/s320/weaselnutslive.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148466420438907698" border="0" /></a> commission the creation of such an unholy image, but I must admit, it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">unfortunately</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> 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!"<br /><br />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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soap_%28TV_series%29">Soap</a>--only to receive something criminally crappy in return, like <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wind chimes</span> or flavored popcorn? That's what I felt like this year, considering the great gift I got this turd. I got him a <a href="http://threadpit.com/store/product.php?productid=221&cat=249&page=1">shirt</a> any one of you would kill a newborn baby to get, one with this logo on it:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3MNSYBJu2I/AAAAAAAAAT0/DCjWEoGKkDU/s1600-h/hilf.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R3MNSYBJu2I/AAAAAAAAAT0/DCjWEoGKkDU/s200/hilf.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148473408350698338" border="0" /></a> And that, folks, is the kind of unfairness that can permanently sour a person against gift-giving, and holidays in general.<br /><br />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.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-7835765591795098752007-12-19T20:06:00.000-06:002007-12-19T20:10:38.907-06:00I need an intervention.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R2nO7YBJuwI/AAAAAAAAATE/DdYC2k7LZG0/s1600-h/welcome_3.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R2nO7YBJuwI/AAAAAAAAATE/DdYC2k7LZG0/s400/welcome_3.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145871568702388994" border="0" /></a><br />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.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-14201958087372403902007-12-04T10:32:00.000-06:002007-12-04T10:36:33.632-06:00This 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.<br /><br />I also eat Pickle Salt. I have no idea what the Twang company was thinking <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R1WAcUi_PRI/AAAAAAAAAS0/W6lYV4Ntq5I/s1600-h/Twang.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R1WAcUi_PRI/AAAAAAAAAS0/W6lYV4Ntq5I/s320/Twang.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140155773753441554" border="0" /></a>when they made<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R1V6q0i_PQI/AAAAAAAAASs/HOykcZdWjwA/s1600-h/Pixy+stix+giant+size.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R1V6q0i_PQI/AAAAAAAAASs/HOykcZdWjwA/s200/Pixy+stix+giant+size.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140149425791778050" border="0" /></a> 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.<br /><br />So it can be inferred that I like the taste of pickles. But this next product? This is too fucked up even for me.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R1V4I0i_POI/AAAAAAAAASc/Bj0wxBlb4bo/s1600-h/picklecloseup.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R1V4I0i_POI/AAAAAAAAASc/Bj0wxBlb4bo/s320/picklecloseup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140146642652970210" border="0" /></a><br />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 <a href="http://mightydyckerson.blogspot.com/">Mighty Dyckerson's</a> brief experiment with heterosexuality. Even football player <a href="http://www.goldenpicklejuice.com/">Jason Witten</a>, 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.<br /><br />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.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-12310932849737644332007-11-18T09:49:00.000-06:002007-11-18T11:20:36.964-06:00My "Before" and "After" poster may include a casketIf you've noticed that haunted stare in my eyes lately, it's because <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R0BfNwsxjDI/AAAAAAAAASE/vwdaItjsA64/s1600-h/Casket550Pix.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R0BfNwsxjDI/AAAAAAAAASE/vwdaItjsA64/s200/Casket550Pix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134208265218001970" border="0" /></a>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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">CDs</span> and clothes.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I know a healthy weight loss regimen is supposed to combine diet <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R0BeEgsxjAI/AAAAAAAAARs/3Z2nAC_UNZA/s1600-h/dog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 118px; height: 122px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/R0BeEgsxjAI/AAAAAAAAARs/3Z2nAC_UNZA/s320/dog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134207006792584194" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />1) Don't eat. Ever.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">junk</span> food, but cutting out<span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">all </span></span>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.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> am</span> goddamn hungry. I lost the weight by cutting down to between 1100<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"></span> - 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.<br /><br />But in the meantime, do not fuck with me. I'm hungry. And do not leave your children and pets unattended around me.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-26985318154056636862007-11-04T12:30:00.000-06:002007-11-04T12:30:13.252-06:00Impending doomDid 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.<br /><br />A Wal-Mart is being built about a mile from my house.<br /><br />Let me just take a moment to compose myself.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Ry4CknNxx5I/AAAAAAAAARk/JcvJuVi2Uvw/s1600-h/walmart.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Ry4CknNxx5I/AAAAAAAAARk/JcvJuVi2Uvw/s320/walmart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129039853646890898" border="0" /></a> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span>, I was envisioning a Target--not a Wal-Mart. Please, anything but a Wal-Mart.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I'll start wearing baggy sweatpants every time I leave the house. I currently don't even own<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>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 <span style="font-weight: bold;">damn</span> 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.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Help me.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-59098013722638423592007-10-28T11:05:00.000-05:002007-10-28T11:18:34.931-05:00The Shit-Kicker Channel redeems itselfI never thought I'd have any reason to tune in to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">CMT</span>, 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">unhide</span> it so that I can watch the following shows:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.cmt.com/shows/dyn/dallas_cowboys_cheerleaders_making_the_team/series.jhtml"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making The Team</span></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RySxZYSD8FI/AAAAAAAAARU/nY_795klDk4/s1600-h/squad_AbigailKlein_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RySxZYSD8FI/AAAAAAAAARU/nY_795klDk4/s200/squad_AbigailKlein_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126417325427519570" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Superhot</span> 19-year-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">olds</span> in <a href="http://www.cmt.com/pictures/dallas-cowboys-cheerleaders-making-the-team/photo-gallery/21/21528/2071051/show_photo.jhtml">teeny-weeny shorts</a> 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 <a href="http://www.cmt.com/pictures/dallas-cowboys-cheerleaders-making-the-team/photo-gallery/21/21528/2612031/show_photo.jhtml">bend over</a>.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.cmt.com/shows/dyn/i-want-to-look-like-a-high-school-cheerleader-again/series_characters.jhtml"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Want To Look Like A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Highschool</span> Cheerleader</span></a><a href="http://www.cmt.com/shows/dyn/i-want-to-look-like-a-high-school-cheerleader-again/series_characters.jhtml"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Again</span></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RySx8oSD8GI/AAAAAAAAARc/r1VK0wTdCuk/s1600-h/Brittney-Bailey-x600.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RySx8oSD8GI/AAAAAAAAARc/r1VK0wTdCuk/s200/Brittney-Bailey-x600.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126417931017908322" border="0" /></a>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 <a href="http://www.cmt.com/pictures/i-want-to-look-like-a-high-school-cheerleader-again-before-photos/1571401/thumbnails.jhtml">dumpy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">yentas</span></a> 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, <a href="http://www.cmt.com/pictures/i-want-to-look-like-a-high-school-cheerleader-again-ep-101/1570609/2616443/photo.jhtml">Jay</a>, is the same trainer who works with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader rookie candidates in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">above mentioned</span> show. Strangely, he doesn't seem to think the workouts which include gratuitous bending over would benefit these girls quite as much.<br /><br />Thank you, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">CMT</span>, for giving me two more reasons to get out of bed in the mornings. And thank <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>, Jay. You know why.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-47092294535563322072007-10-15T12:08:00.000-05:002007-10-15T12:04:28.228-05:00Some of life's great mysteriesMaybe you can answer a few questions for me. I can't figure these out, no matter how much I drink:<br /><br />--Why do all middle-aged Asian ladies wear sweater sets to the gym? Don't get<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RxOct1FrmVI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/h51hMew2PVs/s1600-h/cat+hat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 143px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RxOct1FrmVI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/h51hMew2PVs/s200/cat+hat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121609512409340242" border="0" /></a> 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?<br /><br />--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 <span style="font-weight: bold;">good</span> stuff that comes on the radio? <br /><br />--Aren't baby toys supposed to play happy, whimsical tunes? One of my<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RxOcSFFrmUI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/gqXnfX8KSp8/s1600-h/mash.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 119px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RxOcSFFrmUI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/gqXnfX8KSp8/s320/mash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121609035667970370" border="0" /></a> 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 <span>creepy</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>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.<br /><br />--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 <span style="font-weight: bold;">same</span> ratty-ass pillows.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-80262371446297951932007-09-28T17:00:00.000-05:002007-09-28T16:59:45.039-05:00Your 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Case in point #1: </span><br /><br />The other day at a stop light I spotted this van, which has been white-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">trashified</span> beyond typical factory van standards with the addition of a<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Rvk16FFrmQI/AAAAAAAAAQU/55VM9UsS9aM/s1600-h/van.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Rvk16FFrmQI/AAAAAAAAAQU/55VM9UsS9aM/s320/van.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114178123770599682" border="0" /></a> window air-conditioner mounted in the back. Now, I suppose, the owner of this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">shitmobile</span> 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Case in point #2:<br /></span><br />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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Rvk3JVFrmRI/AAAAAAAAAQc/lK1EkPtMKm8/s1600-h/hotdogs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Rvk3JVFrmRI/AAAAAAAAAQc/lK1EkPtMKm8/s320/hotdogs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114179485275232530" border="0" /></a>, 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> 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?<br /><br />I used to live in Missouri, so I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">kno</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Rv10Q1FrmSI/AAAAAAAAAQk/mP3Otn4nAJw/s1600-h/hill2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 176px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/Rv10Q1FrmSI/AAAAAAAAAQk/mP3Otn4nAJw/s320/hill2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115372584240388386" border="0" /></a>w 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:<br /><br />1) Stop laughing at Jeff <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Foxworthy</span>. 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">loserdom</span>, rather than to wash up and visit a dentist like normal folks.<br /><br />2) Stop getting all giddy about fireworks every 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span> 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.<br /><br />3) Stop supporting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">NASCAR</span>. Driving is not a sport, although I can see how you might get excited about it if all <span style="font-weight: bold;">you</span> ever get to drive is a mule. But the truth is, anything you can compete in while smoking 3 packs of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Marlboros</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Godfearing</span> Americans.<br /><br />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 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">th</span> and 5<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">th</span> 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.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13503809.post-83047535134878458332007-09-21T15:31:00.000-05:002007-09-21T15:33:36.105-05:00I 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 <span style="font-weight: bold;">one</span> 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?<br /><br />The answer is yes. I am an excellent gift-giver. <a href="http://commonwombat.blogspot.com/">Common Wombat</a> 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Exhibit A: The Acrylic Stand-Up Photo</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQPbZ5FbZI/AAAAAAAAAPc/lKLDsc837zM/s1600-h/acrylic+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQPbZ5FbZI/AAAAAAAAAPc/lKLDsc837zM/s320/acrylic+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112728440453557650" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQWxZ5FbbI/AAAAAAAAAPs/cJkKfCRK6QU/s1600-h/acrylic+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQWxZ5FbbI/AAAAAAAAAPs/cJkKfCRK6QU/s320/acrylic+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112736514992074162" border="0" /></a>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 <a href="http://www.celebden.com/news-gallery/thumbs/lrg-1223-britney-spears-flashing-0.jpg">Britney</a> 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Exhibit B: The Christmas Ornament</span><br /><br />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 tak<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQOgZ5FbXI/AAAAAAAAAPM/N13i8alcOCM/s1600-h/DamnOrnament2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQOgZ5FbXI/AAAAAAAAAPM/N13i8alcOCM/s320/DamnOrnament2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112727426841275762" border="0" /></a>es 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Exhibit C: Personalized Candy</span><br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.mymms.com/customprint/">company's website</a> killed every idea I had, with their clear instruction, "No profanity allowed."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQOpp5FbYI/AAAAAAAAAPU/b13sUOBbHSc/s1600-h/kisses.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CZS-YFdycJA/RvQOpp5FbYI/AAAAAAAAAPU/b13sUOBbHSc/s320/kisses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112727585755065730" border="0" /></a> 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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> birthday rolls around.karlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02179619912129198718noreply@blogger.com24