karlababble

Manipulating children since 2002

2009-01-02T14:40:00.006-06:00

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.

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.

Me: Chase, who do you want to read you a bedtime story tonight, mommy or daddy?
Chase: Da-dee!
(Brian beams, clearly happy to be the favorite.)

Me: Chase, who do love more, mommy or daddy?
Chase: Da-dee!
(Brian sits there, looking smug.)

Me: If one of your parents were to die in a fire, would you rather it be mommy or daddy?
Chase: Da-dee!
(Brian looks as if he's about to object, but I quickly fire off another question.)

Me: Who would you rather see get intestinal cancer, mommy or daddy?
Chase: Da-dee!

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?
Chase: Da-dee!

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?"
Chase: Da-dee!

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.

If cuteness could cure cancer, this would do it.

2008-11-16T12:23:00.001-06:00

So freaking cute.

I thank you, and my liver thanks you

2008-11-09T15:39:00.004-06:00

Last 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 deal breakers at the low price of "free."

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 30th birthday party for a friend of ours at a bar in downtown Fort Worth, which meant we couldn't use our standard Plan B.

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 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 8ish--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.

Jake, the 3-year-old, is an agreeable and easy child who would be fine with literally anyone coming over to play with him for an hour and then put him to bed. 16-month-old Chase, on the other hand, is the wild card 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.

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 wivving room!" "This is the dime-ing room!" "This is Cow!" "We have three TVs [pronounced "tee-dees"]--one in the bedwoom, one in the wivving room, one in the pway 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.

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 "puzzo" 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 unusual but enjoyable evening.

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 overestimates 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.

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.

You guys have inspired me to write.

2008-11-04T19:11:00.004-06:00

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 NaBloPoMo.

NaBloPoMo (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 NaBloPoMo, 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 coworker's 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 NaBloPoMo. That tells me that you are misinterpreting the word "successful" to mean "able to consistently achieve mediocrity through the written word."

Do us all a favor and vow NOT to participate in NaBloPoMo this year. If you're already committed to it, then at least remove the word "NaBloPoMo" 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-thon going on and you're determined not to be left out.

Thank you.

I don't work at Hooters.

2008-09-16T12:19:00.008-05:00

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.

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 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.

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.

So far so good, and pretty cute. But then.

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.

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."

Recently Jake's standard, "Mama, you're pitty," 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 all 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 she 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.

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.

After a couple of days of "Mommy doesn't work 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.

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.

Vindication!!

2008-08-28T22:00:00.001-05:00

AT LAST!! After enduring three years of countless taunts from you nitwits for innocently snapping a photo or two of my son doing embarrassing and/or socially unacceptable 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.

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 journey itself, rather than just trudging grumpily along to the bigger goal, which is, of course, to raise the child to adulthood.

Sometimes "finding joy in the daily grind" translates into "take poop photos and post on the 'net."

All the news you need

2008-08-11T14:33:00.000-05:00

I have many wise and enlightening things to say today. Here they are, in order of thickness:

1) I'm hungry. Dieting would be fine if not for the irritating lack of food.

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 back 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.

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. Common Wombat, 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. 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.

4) While we're on the subject of Wombat and his addiction to stalking me, I should mention that Twitter 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.

That's all I have today. I'm off to my kitchen to stare angrily at my refrigerator.

Finally, the internet isn't so high-brow and sanitized anymore

2008-07-15T18:00:00.002-05:00

For some reason that mystifies even the greatest intellectual minds, I have mentioned Common Wombat 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 thusly: 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 kinda funny. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Common Wom-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.

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.

Why, then, did I continue to link to him, post after post here on Karlababble, when I knew those links were only sending my readers to a black hole in the web? Because, goddammit, 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 de blah blah small penis? Blah de blah blah de blah Common Wombat!" See? He's perfect!

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 tfg, Mighty Dyckerson, Anonymous Coworker, and a couple of others. Yeah, sure, they were passable. But still, they lacked something. They weren't quite vile and grotesque enough. I needed Wombat.

So I begged him to return to blogging. I threatened. I pleaded. I talked you guys 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.

But suddenly, things have changed. That lazy, shiftless cretin has recently announced a return to blogging! Don't get your hopes up--I have no doubts that this is only temporary, and as soon as the sugar rush from his Twinkie binge ends, he will go back to nodding off in front of reruns of I Love Lucy. But for now, you may check him out--not at his former blog, but at his new place, which is fresh and clean and as-yet unlittered 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.

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.

It's time to take out the trash...to make room for more trash

2008-07-02T19:09:00.004-05:00

When 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 your 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 my blogroll.

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.

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 rejecting people, not accepting 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:

1) have a writing style that I admire and enjoy,
2) have stuck with me for a long time, continuing to read and comment here over the years,
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
4) can bribe me with cash, expensive liquor, or free weekly housecleaning.

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 currently 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.

Vicious slander and profanity is, obviously, allowed.

The epic battle of Good vs. Evil continues on

2008-06-22T22:55:00.002-05:00

Once again, my innocent attempts at creating wholesome friendships bites me in the ass.

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.

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.

(If you read Karlababble.com often, you're wise to my...ahem...literary style, and you know that a paragraph like that last one is always a segue to a story involving Common Wombat. So let's get on with it, then.)

Wombat is someone I met through this blog. Heedlessly ignoring all the warnings in the media about meeting and befriending people on the internet, 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.

It was in the spirit of friendship that I sent my supposed friend Wombat the following picture message from my cell phone one day as I was sitting at a stoplight:

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 UNfriendly 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?"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:

Titled: Koko Dono

Titled: National Karlagraphic

Titled: Lee Harvey Karlswald

Titled: Moore Karla

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.

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 believe that goodness will triumph after all.

A little something I'd like to get off my chest

2008-05-18T10:35:00.005-05:00

I'm sorry I've taken so long to write a new post, but it's actually your fault. Recently I shared with you 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.

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: 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.

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.

Count your blessings.

2008-04-13T15:04:00.001-05:00

You think your life is tough? Ha. MY life is tough. So tough that a lily-livered 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:

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 Paula Begoun, 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 Avon Glazewear Lipstick was fabulous, but I'd trust this woman with my life, my life savings, and the secret of who my childrens' 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.

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.

3.) Common Wombat was schedule to make a trip here this month and stay at my house, but he cancelled it. That's not 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 safer 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.

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.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and possibly a little E-Coli.

2008-04-06T01:37:00.002-05:00

I was the last of four kids, which means there exist about 4 photos of me as a child. And not even good ones, and certainly not studio pictures. That happens a lot to "last" kids. There are often about a billion photos of Kid #1, a few hundred photos of Kid #2, maybe 15 or 16 photos of Kid #3, and perhaps 3 photos of Kid #4. If you're further down the line, say, Kid #6 or #9, you're lucky if your parents have a copy of your birth certificate, much less a photo.

I was always kind of bummed out about the absence of photos of me, though. It would have been fun to look back and see what I looked like at different ages, and even more fun to see personality traits emerging in certain photos--like, if I was hamming it up for the camera, or acting shy, or wearing mom's high heels and pearls as if I were ready to be all grown up. But mostly, I felt slighted that no one had apparently been interested enough in me to take pictures. As Jodi Piccoult said in her book My Sister's Keeper, "A photo says, 'You were so important to me that I stopped everything else to come watch'."

So. I have two kids, and I am diligent about taking photos of them. Ridiculously diligent. Our Flickr.com photo tally shows that we have close to 10,000 photos uploaded, although, to be fair, a few hundred of them are of my high school friends passed out next to a pile of puke--and a few thousand of them are of me making faces into the camera as I snap my own picture. Still, though, there are also a lot of photos of my kids. I want them to be able look back someday and know that they were so important to me that I stopped everything to come watch. Case in point:

Just yesterday I was sitting at the computer in the breakfast room while both kids were napping. Or so I thought, til I heard 3-year-old Jake muttering contemplatively to himself in the kitchen. His usual routine when awakening from a nap is to come find me, so I kept on reading my emails, knowing that eventually he'd make his way into to greet me. But when I could still hear him muttering to himself a few minutes later, I got curious, and went in to check on him. As I got up, I heard the click of his little potty chair lid closing, so I got immediately hopeful that he had been responsible enough to get out of bed and head straight for the potty instead of wandering around in his Pull-Ups (which he wears for naps) until I asked him to go use the potty. We keep a little potty on the tile in the area between kitchen and living room so that if he needs to get to it in a hurry, it's close by. As I rounded the corner, I found him naked from the waist down, a good sign. He had taken off his pants and Pull-Ups by himself! Then I looked closer, and was--well, a little dismayed to see what he was clutching in his little hands. I immediately I thought, "This kid is important to me, so it is my motherly duty to take his picture." The camera was right there on the kitchen counter, so I quickly snapped this photo and then thought, "This kid is really, really important to me, so I must post that picture on my blog."

So go ahead: Shower me in praise liberally sprinkled with such words as "mother of the year," "loving," "doting," and "selfless." These are the kind of things I expect to hear from Jake when he looks back at this photo as adult, so I might as well get used to hearing them now. Go ahead, I'm ready.

Redemption may be just a click away.

2008-03-25T13:20:00.003-05:00

You're going to hell, it's almost certain.

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-gooder 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 internet porn masturbation marathon. If you've ever helped anyone, it was by leaving the room so the stench could dissipate. You make me sick.

And yet...there may still be hope for you.

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-gooders 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.

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 intensive care unit, it stands to reason that it's the March of Dimes who brought you such fascinating, intellectually stimulating reading as this pos t 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 Karlababble.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. Frankly, 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 two 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.)

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 March for Babies page and make a donation--however small--to this worthy cause. Not sure how much to donate? I recommend you calculate how much your meth addiction costs you per month, and donate 7% of that total. If each one of you did that, there'd be enough money to save approximately 14 zillion premature babies, cure AIDS, herpes and bacterial meningitis, and pay back the national deficit. Twice.

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?

Parties and poop don't mix.

2008-02-21T13:00:00.000-06:00

For most of my life, I have been the kind of girl who loves a good party. If you're like some of my readers, 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 all 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.

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, hippie, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day. One day! This seemed too good to be true.

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.

The party was to involve only two people--just me and Jake. My six-month old daughter and husband were banished from the 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 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.

How can a stuffed bear pee and poop, you ask? How, indeed.

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.

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.

When Jake awoke from his nap, I shifted into second gear. I informed him that he was no 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.

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.

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 potty. I put him on the potty 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.

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.

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.

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.

Now I'm ready for a real 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?

Karla eats a little crow, and chases it with a swig of Pickle Juice Sport.

2008-01-10T11:31:00.000-06:00

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.

And yet, here I am, sheepishly confessing my one mistake in my entire lifetime.

Recently I made some very harsh statements about a certain sports drink. I made these statements without actually trying 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.

I never really intended to ever 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 except that lonely, proud little bottle. So, much in the same way Dyckerson 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.

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.)

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 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 creepy, unwelcome pervert 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.

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.

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-Dyckerson 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.

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.

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 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.

Thank you.

Partially nude and totally hot--it's why the terrorists hate us.

2008-01-02T09:25:00.000-06:00

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).

I know what makes you tick.

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.

My friend Kendra 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 you, don't even consider it.

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.

So please, go one and all to this site 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 Myspace.

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.

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

2007-12-26T20:23:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need an intervention.

2007-12-19T20:06:00.000-06:00

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.

This is too f'd up even for me.

2007-12-04T10:32:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

2007-11-18T09:49:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

1) Don't eat. Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impending doom

2007-11-04T12:30:00.000-06:00

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

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

Let me just take a moment to compose myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Help me.

The Shit-Kicker Channel redeems itself

2007-10-28T11:05:00.000-05:00

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

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making The Team

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

I Want To Look Like A Highschool Cheerleader Again

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

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

Some of life's great mysteries

2007-10-15T12:08:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Your days are numbered, rednecks.

2007-09-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

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

Case in point #1:

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

Case in point #2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-09-21T15:31:00.000-05:00

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

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

Exhibit A: The Acrylic Stand-Up Photo

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

Exhibit B: The Christmas Ornament

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

Exhibit C: Personalized Candy

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

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

Thank God one of you finally got it right.

2007-09-07T22:30:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

12 weeks to blissful stupidity

2007-08-29T15:30:00.000-05:00

This is the wrong decade to be on maternity leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one is going to inspire you.

2007-08-22T20:18:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I spawn.

2007-08-03T18:00:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're welcome.

2007-07-18T21:10:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

A heartfelt saga of friendship, sorrow and anal rape

2007-07-07T21:12:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Spoiler alert, genius.*
--------------------

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

--------------------

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

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

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

At least the vomiting gives me something to look forward to

2007-06-26T13:30:00.000-05:00

Aw, shucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-06-13T22:00:00.000-05:00

I'm irritable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-06-01T11:20:00.000-05:00

Crap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-05-18T19:48:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

2007-05-08T22:00:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-04-29T13:20:00.000-05:00

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

"WHERE IN THE HELL IS WOMBAT??"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-04-18T09:44:00.000-05:00

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

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

In short, I like to keep very busy.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I'll call him The Antichrist.

2007-04-13T13:00:00.000-05:00

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

Head
Roach
Toby
Chief
Frog
Bear
Moose
Spanky
Hocker
Blenderhead
Fly
Squeak
Webby
Boomer
Puppy Pumper
Spot
Bucky
Cheeseburger
Crash
Little Bitty
Pan Face
Lumpy
Chogg

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why doesn't anyone ever want me dead? It's not fair.

2007-04-04T16:15:00.000-05:00

There is no justice in the world.

Kathy Sierra is someone I've never heard of til now, because, well, I'm not a computer nerd. But my husband is, and he pointed her out to me recently because apparently she's a big deal in the geek blogger world, and an even bigger deal now that she's stopped blogging because she got some lukewarm death threats. A couple of commenters said some nasty things about her, one guy Photoshopped a picture of her with a noose around her neck, she got all oversensitive about it and bam! She makes it into the top 10 searches on Technorati. She was number one for a few days.

Personally, it looks to me like the chick is overreacting a bit. As death threats go, what happened to her is pretty tame; I know you guys could do way better. Either way, I'm indignant. How come I never get death threats from you rat bastards? You're mentally unbalanced, right? And don't I repeatedly say objectionable, offensive things to and about you? In a perfect world, the combination of those two factors should be enough to get me a death threat or two that I could then publicly freak out about and get a big surge in search hits.

It's not like I haven't tried to cultivate your wrath, either. Some of you I even single out and blindly attack, unprovoked, over and over. Jesus, what more do I have to do to get a death threat, here? I'm not sure if you're too lazy or if you're just a bunch of pussies, but either way, I'm getting screwed.

What the hell has happened to the youth of America? There's no ambition anymore, no get up and go. Gone are the days of John Hinckley, Jr. and Mark David Chapman, when a dangerously unbalanced person had the gumption to channel his psychosis into action. Now you nutjobs just spend your days slumped in your filthy, cat-filled apartments, surfing the internet for circus seal porn. I blame antidepressants, the dramatic increase of which is responsible for killing the ambition of the stalker/murderer community and turning you all into a bunch of lazy crybabies trying to find your inner child. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

All I can say is I've done my part. I've said horrible things about you; I've taunted you. I've called your mothers whores, mocked you for your sexually-transmitted diseases, made more small-penis jokes than there are penises in the world. At this point, I give up. It takes two to make a death threat work, and you're not doing your part. I can't force you. You have to want to change, and until you make that decision in your life, well, things are never going to get better.

I can't do it anymore; I can't continue to be more personally invested in your psychosis than you are yourself. At this point, I wash my hands of you.

Dear Jackass, Volume 13

2007-04-01T00:24:00.000-05:00

Dear door-to-Door Solicitor:

For Christ's sake, get a real job. Any type of employment which has you dragging your uninspired ass from house to house and ringing doorbells is a straight shot to mediocrity. This is not 1932; there are plenty of jobs available. Whatever wrong turns you've taken in life that have brought you to this point, I assure you it's not too late to turn things around. In fact, I'm going to collect a huge stack of employment applications from various local retail and food service establishments and keep them by the door. Each time one of you shitheads rings my doorbell in the middle of the day when my toddler's ten minutes into his nap, I'm going to open the door and hand you one of them. Then I'm going to shove five more up your ass. Jackass.

Dear Expensive Glasswear Collector:

You, ma'am, are an asshole and a jackass of the highest order. Collecting anything merely for the sake of collecting it (mechanical teddy bears, porcelain hummingbirds, pewter thimbles) is more than enough to put you in the jackass category...but collecting something expensive that is incredibly delicate and easily broken, yet meant to hold alcoholic beverages, is, well, fucking stupid. To then insist that your guests drink from your precious, expensive, delicate collectibles at holiday gatherings--and then have a coronary when one of these useless baubles predictably gets broken--speeds you right to the semifinals for the title of "Biggest, Dumbest, Most Assholified Jackass of All Time." Your irrational love of expensive crystal champagne flutes is simultaneously a red flag to your low I.Q. and the single greatest argument yet for more lenient punishment for assault and battery crimes. Now sit tight; I'm on my way over now to cram one of your stupid champagne flutes into each of your eye sockets. Jackass.

Next thing you know, you'll be eating hitchhikers' feet.

2007-03-23T14:00:00.000-05:00

It's about time someone put their foot down in regards to the stubborn consumption of non-edible foods, and since I see none of you lazy asses are stepping up to the plate, it looks like it'll have to be me.

Not everything technically marked as "food" is edible. You can't just go stuffing every so-called food item down your throat all willy nilly, without asking questions. For instance:

Liver is often considered a food, but have you smelled that shit cooking? It smells like a decomposing corpse inexplicably being heated on the stovetop. And the biggest telltale sign that it's not meant to be eaten is that no one bothered to dress it up with an acceptable name. You know, like when you eat dead pig, it's daintily called 'pork.' And when you eat cow carcass, it's politely referred to as 'beef,' 'hamburger' or 'steak.' No one ever intended you to eat liver, or they would have come up with a palate-friendly name for it, like 'binket' or 'dwan.' Would you eat spleen? Ovary? How about lung? Then liver is likewise not edible.

Yams. I've seen people eat yams--and no, they weren't starving waifs who had to dive into dumpsters for sustenance. They chose to eat yams--in spite of the fact that yams look like something a Beagle recently gave birth to. Not edible, unless you also snack on Beagle placenta.

Mincemeat pie is an abomination. At no time should the words "meat" and "pie" ever be in the same sentence, much less in the same word. Otherwise, what's to stop us from sitting down to Pig's Feet Pie or Pork Meringue Surprise next Thanksgiving? Trust me, not edible.

Clam chowder. I've never actually tried this, but that's only because I don't eat anything that looks like a hobo just puked it up. However, if I were, by some strange miracle, to be talked into eating puke, it would have to be because it was at least given a tantalizing name to lure me in. If someone were to ask any normal, right-thinking person if they'd like a bowl of clam chowder, the only possible response should be, "Fuck you and the hobo you've been partying with!" Only in select situations should you ever consider eating anything with the word 'clam' in the title, and never should you eat anything described as 'chowder.' Why? Uh, not edible.

Cheerio Sandwiches. Sudiegirl claims it's perfectly okay to eat Cheerios-and-peanut butter sammiches. But she's nuts, so don't listen to her. I see her train of thought--"Cheerios are good. Bread is good. Peanut butter is good. I have an idea! Let's smash them all together in a pile and I bet they'll be great!" Those old Reese's Peanut Butter Cup commercials started this kind of thinking, ("Hey, your chocolate got into my peanut butter!" "Your peanut butter got into my chocolate!" Two great tastes that taste great together!) and I'm here to put a stop to it--it's just wrong and dangerous. Try applying that logic elsewhere and you'll see. "Babies are good. Rock concerts are good. I have an idea! Let's take our 6-week-old twins to see Rob Zombie!" Bad idea. Also: "Moms are good. Sex is good. I have an idea...." See? It's a slippery slope that starts with a few ridiculous food combinations and ends with deaf babies and mom rape. So, Cheerios Sandwiches? Not edible.

There's a lot more inedible foods than what I've listed here, so feel free to remind me of any I've left out--but just typing out this short list has made me nauseous. I'm going to go puke up some chowder.

This is one of those times where nudity would be an easy answer.

2007-03-17T15:00:00.000-05:00

I have a wedding to attend very soon, which sends me into that typical female tailspin regarding what to wear. My situation, though, is complicated by the fact that I'm pregnant.

"What?!" I can hear you shouting drunkenly at your computer monitor, sending a nearby cluster of roaches scuttling hither and yon. "You're pregnant?! You never said anything about being pregnant!"

Look, asshole. I don't tell you everything. What, you want to hear everything? Is that what you want this blog to be about? Okay, how's this:

My shoes are kind of hurting my feet right now. They're old and should probably be replaced, but they're so cute! I love them, and they don't make this style anymore. I should know, I've checked every bloody shoe store in town--no dice. So I took these to the shoe repair shop and had the super-nice Asian guy who can't understand a thing I say repair the little rip in the seam, and he only charged me eight bucks. Good as new! Except that they hurt my feet, and they didn't used to do that. I guess that's what happens when the soles gets worn down, or whatever. Oh, I could just 'get over it' and go buy a different pair, but did I mention how cute these are? So, so, so cute. I have a hard time finding just the right style AND just the right heel height AND just the right color AND at just the right price, all in one shoe--know what I mean? It's funny, I have SO many pairs of shoes in my closet, but I wear this one pair, like, 90% of the time! Just like I was saying to my sister the other day....

You see? You see what this blog devolves into when I start puking up every thought in my head, every mundane fact about my life? Be glad I keep it neat, only posting about once a week criticize the entire human race, and take potshots at Dyckerson and Wombat.

At any rate, back to my fashion dilemma. Normally I'd be happy to look for something to wear to this wedding; girls love to get dressed up. Unless, of course, they've recently developed a grossly distorted, tumor-like mass in their mid-section that makes literally every cute/pretty/elegant clothing item look like an old shower curtain on them. When trying on dresses today, I looked a little bit like a Dow scrubbing bubble in most of them. Okay, I may be exaggerating a little bit--I'm only four and a half months along right now. But still, that means I already have no waist left, and it turns out that most dresses are made by and for people who have a waist.

So, since I can't look glamorous, cute, elegant or pretty at this wedding, I'm going to try for a different approach altogether--I'm going for outrageous and different. Kind of like when some kids turn 14 and realize they're not turning out to be as attractive as they'd hoped, so they opt to put 42 piercings in their body, color their hair fuchsia and wear packing materials as clothing, with the idea that if they can't compete, they can at least stand out. Suddenly, this dreaded task becomes fun! Now to narrow down my options.

I could go in full scuba gear. I will refuse to take my scuba mask off even while eating wedding cake, and whenever I go I will move my arms in a swimming motion. I'm still debating on whether to also carry a spear.

I could go in a wrestling singlet, which I've already made clear my great love for. At the reception, everyone else will be drinking and having a great time, rudely oblivious to my jealousy, unable as I am to drink for the entirely of my gestation (or my parole). To avenge my anger, I will randomly pin members of the wedding party to the floor in a wrestling hold.

I could go dressed as the Hamburglar. I will reply to every question asked of me with "robble robble," and when moving from place to place, I will dash furtively rather than walking.

I could go in a gladiator costume, complete with helmet and sword. When the preacher says, "I now present Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So," I will stand up and shout, "At my signal, unleash hell!"

I know it's rude and wrong of me to take my fashion frustration out on the perfectly likable couple getting married. But I think I've come a long way in my anger management. Whereas years ago I might have vented my unhappiness by sleeping with my boss's wife, slaughtering a family of five, or urinating on gradeschooler, these days the kinder, mellower Karla has toned it down, merely dressing inappropriately at a wedding. Baby steps, see?

Of course, my final outfit hasn't yet been decided, so if any of you have experience in outfitting Mr. Potato Head, Humpty Dumpty or a Weeble, I'll consider any advice you might have for what I should wear.

Calling all geeks and thieves

2007-03-12T18:50:00.000-05:00

Through extensive, state-of-the-art studies, Karlababble Research Labs, Inc. has discovered that the vast majority of my readers are computer nerds (88.4%) and/or dirty rotten thieves (97.8%). Research also indicates that a disturbing number of you are in the advanced stages of syphilis (73%), but that's your own personal business (and that of the street bums and siblings you've passed it on to). What I'm interested in right now is the nerd/thief factor.

Do any of you know how to get around the copyright protection on a videotape? Yes, I said videotape. Remember those? From back in the '80s? That used to be your main vehicle for pornography before DVDs, web cams and spying on your mom in the shower were invented. I never thought I'd find a need to watch another of those ancient relics again, but a need has indeed arisen, and since I don't even own a VCR, I have to first get my mother-in-law to copy the VHS tape to DVD.

Don't worry, it's not pornography--I wouldn't ask my mother-in-law to copy porno for me. It's a workout video for a class I have to teach at my gym. Did you know I'm a fitness instructor? No? That's because I didn't bother to tell you, since research indicates that only .004% of you have ever seen the inside of a gym unless you were loaded on mushrooms and wandered into one upon mistaking it for a sex shop.

Either way, I'm calling upon you to help me figure out how to get around the copyright protection on this videotape so we can burn it to DVD. After a lifetime spent wreaking havoc and causing misery, you finally get a chance to do something useful.

Ask The Felon

2007-03-08T19:30:00.000-06:00

I get a lot of comments from people with the increasingly common name of Anonymous. When did that name get more popular than Bob or Jennifer? Weird. Either way, my new friend Anonymous recently left me this comment:

I suggest you try to re-write this article posted on MSNBC titled "10 tips: What to do when a cop pulls you over."

After perusing the article, I can understand why Anonymous wanted it rewritten--it's as boring as a night in bed with Dyckerson. And clearly, it was written by some goody two-shoes merely speculating on how to get out of a ticket, rather than someone who has real-world experience in the matter. Allow me to impart to you some of my vast wisdom on this subject.

What to do if pulled over by a cop

We've all been there--some of us more often than others. It's always nerve-wracking to see those flashing lights behind your car, but trust me, it gets easier with time. The first time it happens to you, you're likely to sit there rigidly gripping the steering wheel in frozen panic like an amateur, sweating and stammering while the cop speaks to you like a stern father speaks to a misbehaving 5-year-old. But by the 90th or 185th time, you'll be smiling with confidence as you stealthily cram your bag of crack cocaine into the hidden compartment you've carved into your steering column. Confidence comes with time, but here are a few tips to keep in mind until you've gotten a few hundred practice arrests under your belt.

1. Don’t try anything funny. As the police officer is approaching your car, he's got a keen eye trained on the rear window of your car. He's looking for signs that you're furtively stashing beer cans, reaching for a gun, or doing something else illegal or dangerous. Don't raise his suspicions by leaning across the seat to rummage through the glove compartment for your insurance card--he may interpret that the wrong way. Sit calmly as he approaches, and avoid doing anything more dramatic than removing every single scrap of clothing you're wearing so that you're completely nude when he gets to your window. Absent-mindedly massage your breasts as you talk to him.

(If you're thinking I'm making the mistake of tailoring this article specifically to women and forgetting that men will also be reading it and trying to figure out how it can apply to them, then you haven't met my male readers. 98% of them get mistaken for women on a regular basis, and the other 2% are pre-op. Trust me, I know what I'm doing here.)

2. Keep the chatter to a minimum. Nervousness often causes people to blab too much, which is bad for three reasons: 1) The cop will see that you're nervous, and wonder if you have something to hide, 2) He'll find the inane blather irritating and distracting, and 3) You might reveal something that can be used against you. It's always best to say as little as possible. When he leans in to look suspiciously around the interior of your vehicle with his flashlight, and asks, "Is there anything in here I should know about?" do NOT respond with, "They told me it was legal to take immigrants across the border," or worse, "I swear to God, those immigrants were alive when we left Nogales."

3. Try asking to be let off with a warning. It never hurts to ask, and it just might work, since giving you a warning is easier for the policeman than writing out your ticket and filing the paperwork that goes along with it. But the key is to be polite and respectful. Say something like, "Officer, since this is my first offense, and I've never been arrested for murder or even questioned in a murder case, would it be possible to get a warning this one time? I'll leave here and dispose of the body immediately instead of continuing to drive around with it draped across my lap like this."

4. Be prepared to react appropriately. The smaller offenses are, of course, the easier ones to weasel out of. The moment you see the lights flashing behind you, you know exactly how major your infraction is, and can immediately asess how difficult or easy it might be to get out of a ticket. Speeding? There's a fair chance you can talk your way out of that one if you play it right. Drugs? If you can stash them quickly and remain nonchalant and calm when talking to the cop, you might not get caught. But if you have a cooler of freshly-harvested human kidneys in the seat next to you, you've got a situation on your hands. At a time like that, your best option may be to fake your own death. Then hopefully you can jump up and sneak out of the morgue later when no one's looking.

5. Come up with a plausible excuse for your infraction. When a cop asks, "Why were you driving so fast?" he's not trying to prolong your humiliation, he's honestly curious about your motivation. It's an amateur's mistake to get surly and refuse to answer, or to insult the officer's intelligence by denying that you were speeding. Respond as genuinely as possible, looking him directly in the eye, and say, "I'm so sorry, Officer, I know I was speeding. I get very anxious and tense when I go more than a day or so without performing oral sex on a man in uniform. It's been 3 days now, and I don't know how much more of this I can take." You'll find that most police officers are more sympathetic than you'd think.

So there you have it: Real-life advice from a person who knows. These tactics have worked for me time and time again, although, admittedly, they're not fail-proof. Sometimes you have to sleep with a judge or two, or have a threesome with a couple of jurors. But I'll save that for a future article. In the meantime, I think you'll do just fine if you can skillfully apply my advice to unwanted interactions with officers of the law.

You could live without this information, but who would want to?

2007-03-04T13:30:00.000-06:00

Honeykbee has a keen sense of what's fascinating and topical, and what's not. Maybe that's because her profile shows that she's 250 years old, and in that time, people manage to learn a few things about life. She asked me to list the top ten things I'd rather be doing right now and/or my top ten least favorite aromas. For this reason, I must assume she's very, very, very bored. But I'm nothing if not accommodating, so here goes:

I was only able to come up with) 5 Things I'd Rather Be Doing Right Now:

1) Taking a meat tenderizer to the skull of the unidentified whore who last used the bathroom at my workplace, and peed on the toilet seat. (And just to be clear, I'm talking about a meat tenderizer mallet, not the stuff you sprinkle on. Although, now that I think about it, I might be interested in using the two together, for some added humiliation.)

2) Bringing back the word "cooze."What ever happened to this gem? Go ahead, call me old fashioned, but I long for the good old days.

3) Discovering a way to abet without first having to get mired in the cumbersome task of aiding.

4) Inventing a vastly improved bulb syringe. These ancient relics have been around since babies were first invented, and are still the only known way to clean out an infant's snotty nose until said infant gets old enough to understand how to blow his own nose. Basically, the thing resembles a turkey baster--you squeeze the bulb, then insert the pointy tip into the flailing child's nose and release the bulb so that it sucks out the snot amidst the high-pitched screams of what sounds like a badger on fire. No changes have been made to this product since its creation. The lack of advancement in this important area of medical science is unforgivable. I would like to invent one of these that is powered by a sizable motor, to vigorously suck the snot out of the child's nose rather relying on hand pumping--kind of like a mini-Shop Vac. I doubt this will make an unpleasant experience any better for the baby, but I think parents will enjoy it because who doesn't love cranking up a big, noisy motor? That and the digital color display will make this product a big hit.

5) Napping on the couch while a team of Cambodian slave children clean my house from top to bottom, and then toilet-paper my neighbors' trees.

10 Least Favorite Aromas:

1) Decomposing human corpse. (Why is it that the elderly dead smell worse than the 12-and-under crowd?)

2) Urine, particularly my own, particularly in hour 5 after I've wet myself early in my workday.

3) The combination of sprinkle-on meat tenderizer and human cranial blood.

4) The smell of liver cooking. This food smells so vile while cooking that, just to be safe, I avoid cooking anything at all, just in case it's really liver in disguise.

5) Whiskey. Most liquor is a beautiful thing, but whiskey just plain reeks. Let's all agree there are better ways to wash away memories of sex with a spouse, shall we?

6) Vanilla or cinnamon air-fresheners in restrooms. Are you one of those people who uses a plug-in air fresheners in your bathroom that smells like food? Is it because you're perpetually high? Does the smell of doo-doo ever mix well with the smell of food? And it's not just vanilla and cinnamon anymore, either--the other day I saw one that was apple pie scented. Holy pie-scented shit, Batman.

7) The smell of fear so often prevalent when a yellow-bellied Maryland sissyboy comes face-to-face (or crotch to back) with a mechanical bull. Also, the smell of feces that comes shortly afterward.

8) Feet, unless prosthetic. Those smell kind of oaky and nice.

9) Public restrooms, which is why I now avoid them entirely by relieving myself just outside the bathroom door.

10) Wal-Mart.

The well is dry.

2007-02-25T18:00:00.000-06:00

I can't think of a single thing to write about. The drugs and alcohol of my kindergarten-through-second-grade years have finally caught up with me, apparently, and my brain is as empty as the front of Common Wombat's pants. (The back of his pants is plenty full, as his neighbors and wife keep lamenting, but obviously his sense of smell died along with his last scrap of dignity.)

Either way, I have searched this brain of mine and find it utterly barren and desolate. I can't think of a single thing to blog about. Got any suggestions? Trust me, I can take any topic and run with it--the problem is that I can't think of any topics myself today.

So g'head, give me one. I'll write about the topic of your choice, no matter how ridiculous and stupid it may be...and I'm pretty sure your suggestions are going to be ridiculous and stupid. That is, after all, why you keep coming back here time after time; the ridiculous and stupid are right up your alley.

My continuing struggle to make the world a better place

2007-02-20T01:40:00.000-06:00

In this superficial culture so focused on beauty and appearance, a person who feels comfortable just being himself is truly an anomaly. When you stumble across that rare individual who clearly has no self-consciousness about looks, who feels free to dress as he wants, leave his hair uncombed, and eschew fashion trends, don't you think to yourself, "Finally! A breath of fresh air! Someone who is brave enough to go his own way! Good for him!"

No? You don't think that? Me neither. I think, "Jesus Christ, look in a mirror, asshole, before I pick you up and carry you to one." Then I follow him around and silently, but obsessively, mock him like the small, petty person I am, whipping myself into a state of total indignance that this turd has the nerve to shatter the world's quiet beauty with his careless indifference.

For example, there' s the shabby chick who has come into my workplace every few days for the past two years wearing running shorts, a baggy t-shirt, men's athletic socks and leather sandals, with her ratty hair recklessly stuffed into a messy bun on the very tiptop of her head. Not the upper back of the head, where societal standards dictate that a bun should reside, but the tippity-tippity top, where old ladies sometimes put ribbon on their ratty little dogs' heads. And it's not one of those buns you need a mirror and a comb to create, either--I'm talking about one that starts as a pony tail, and then with one more drunken half-pass through the pony tail holder, becomes short enough to look bun-length. By the looks of things, she does this one-handed while driving a 4-wheeler across a half-acre of felled timber. And there's no makeup, jewelry or anything on her to signal that she understands she's female. Yet she's a wealthy woman, from what I can tell. She can afford to buy a mirror. And a pair of ladies' socks. She could use a metric ton of fashion advice, but if I were restricted to giving her just one tip, I'd tell her, "Buy a fucking hat, and never, ever take it off."

There's also the lady I see five days out of every week, who is always, and I mean always, wearing bright red socks. Not because she's homeless and only owns one pair, either. She dresses very nicely, if you dig the middle-aged, lesbian high school principal look, and seems to have a massive wardrobe since I rarely see her in the same thing twice...except for the clown socks. I find this objectionable not because it looks bad--it's not so terrible, just rather odd. What bothers me about it is how it's clear that she's decided it's her 'signature,' in the When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple vein. I'd like to have a moment to sit down with her, put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and say quietly, "Quit being such an attention whore, and just dress normally. Why should the rest of us have to pay for the fact that your daddy didn't love you enough?"

Then there's the tall, thin, reasonably attractive 30-something gentleman I saw the other day in the post office wearing your average, run-of-the-mill men's attire--jeans, shirt, socks...and big, pink, fuzzy ladies' house slippers with purple butterflies embroidered onto them. A real struggle ensued in my head when I saw this guy--I thought and thought and schemed and struggled to come up with a way to get a digital picture of this guy without getting beaten to death with a slipper, but ultimately I chickened out. If I were given the chance to give this guy one piece of fashion advice...I would decline the opportunity. I don't want to die by choking on pink fur that stinks like feet. And a guy who will go out in public looking like that is capable of absolutely anything.

The worst offender of all: The heinous-looking fellow at my gym who insists on a workout wardrobe that consists entirely of low-cut wrestling singlets and bandana do-rags. I've included a picture of a wrestling singlet for your edification, but let me be clear in saying that this jackass looks nothing, absolutely nothing like the model in this photo. And even the model in the photo looks like a total tool in this ridiculous getup--but trust me, the dude at my gym sets new records for total toolery. He looks like a puffy Robert Plant--now, not then--who I've also pictured here for your benefit. As for the picture of the singlet, I wasn't able to find one that's as low-cut as his--it goes all the way down to his horrid, horrid bellybutton which protrudes shamelessly from his distended, matronly belly. You don't want me to get started on how these ridiculous outfits tend to showcase a man's private parts, which, in his case, should really be kept private. Or at least be set against some kind of a magnifying mirror or something. My one tidbit of fashion advice to this guy would be, "Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave your house again."

How can I make Jake's birthday party all about me?

2007-02-12T21:06:00.000-06:00

Wondering about Jake's second birthday party?

Yes, we had it, and it was an unqualified success. I think you know the standards by which I measure party success, but if not, I'll remind you by giving you this glowing statistic: The exact same number of people left as arrived--25 adults and 14 kids--proving that you can come to a party at Chez Karlababble and leave alive and unharmed, and in more or less the same physical health as when you arrived. It can happen! It's only happened this once so far, but it's a good start to a new beginning.

Not like at Jake's first birthday party, where 4 guests had their stomachs pumped, 2 had to be catheterized, and 5 woke up with a tattoo of a penis across their chin. Or Jake's baby shower, where animal control was called 3 times, 2 local high school principals lost their jobs the next day, and a parachute inexplicably failed to open, resulting in 14 broken bones and an embarrassing loss of bladder and bowel control that's still talked about in the neighborhood to this day. And not like our our 2006 family Christmas party, which ended with one dead hooker and a lengthy court trial that made national news, or our 2005 family Christmas party, after which Aunt Bessie spent months in the hospital receiving skin grafts to her pelvic region and buttocks. No, this party was a textbook example of how a 2-year old's party should go, right down to the balloons and Blue's Clues birthday cake.

The implications are frightening--can it be that I'm becoming more June Cleaver than Courtney Love all of a sudden? If so, what's next? PTA meetings, playgroups, volunteer charity work? Selling Mary Kay, hosting baby showers, buying Girl Scout cookies? Might I actually, against all predictions, live to an old age? Might Jake actually have a shot at a normal life, and a hope of staying out of foster homes and social workers' offices? Might Brian have a chance of not becoming another tragic suicide statistic? Can I really--do you think?--become a Respectable Citizen? Suddenly it seems like there's hope for me, and if that's the case, hope for all of us. Yes, even you, Dyckerson, because if I can turn wholesome and vanilla, anyone can--even a total degenerate like you. Well, almost anyone--not you, Common Wombat. Some of us may be on a path to our new destiny as pillars of our community, local leaders and heroes, but rest assured, you're still on your same old path of being found dead in a pool of someone else's vomit, wearing nothing but a pair of ladies cotton panties with the price tag still on them. You're a lost cause, but me? I'm on my way up, baby.

Who knew he'd live so long?

2007-02-07T19:30:00.000-06:00

It's that time of year again--Jake's birthday party, the social event of the season, looms on the horizon. Actually, it's this Saturday. He'll be two years old.

I know you've spent the past year plotting and planning what to get him, and I appreciate the thought you doubtlessly put into finding just the perfect gift. There's still plenty of time for you to drop those parcels off to be FedExed in time for the shindig. I do want to lay out a few guidelines before you dash off to your local shipping facility, though, to be sure you don't waste your hard-earned money on a gift that turns out to be wholly inappropriate for a small child. Some of the things you sent last year were--well, let's just say it's obvious some of you don't have children.

1) No toy guns. I don't believe in letting little children play war games with plastic guns, pretending to kill each other in mock battle. In our house, we use real guns. Don't insult my son by sending him a plastic rifle. If you can't afford to give him a real shotgun, just send a card instead. Also, just as it's rather thoughtless to give a battery-operated toy without also being considerate enough to include batteries, it's equally thoughtless to give a gun without including ammunition. If you give him a 9 mm pistol, send bullets. If you give him a grenade launcher, send grenades. Don't be a cheapskate.

2) No pornography. Do I really have to say this? You surely have the common sense to know not to do something so inappropriate. Considering the huge volume of pornography we already have laying around the house, and crammed on the bookshelf in Jake's bedroom, it would be a waste of money to send more to him when you could be spending that money on something he doesn't already have plenty of.

3) No toys with small, easy-to-choke-on parts. We've all heard a horror story about a kid who was playing with a toy that was considered safe, until a small part broke off and ended up in the kid's mouth, causing a fatality or near-fatality from choking. Safety is a priority in our house, which is why we shy away from giving Jake toys of any kind--after all, you never know until it's too late if a toy is going to pose some kind of unforeseen hazard. Instead of toys, we give Jake plenty of guns and pornography, which pose no choking threat at all.

4) No books or games which depict Christ as our lord and savior. Everyone has their own beliefs about religion, and we don't deny anyone their right to worship as they choose, so long as they don't try to push their religion down our throats. For the record, we are strict Scientologists who believe that aliens crapped us out after a particularly big meal, and we ended up on earth when the waste management system aboard their spacecraft malfunctioned and dumped out sewage in mid-flight. Even though we'd appreciate it if you would refrain from giving Jake any kind of propaganda depicting Christ as the savior, we welcome anything you want to give that depicts Tom Cruise as as the tiny little friendly, elfin, couch-jumping genius and philanthropist he is.

5) No candy. Obesity is an epidemic in America, and bad eating habits start in childhood. That's why we steer Jake away from sugared treats by offering him appetite-curbing cigarettes any time he begins clamoring for snacks. If a couple of Marlboros aren't sufficient to kill his sweet tooth, a shot of tequila usually does it.

Well, that about covers it. I think if you carefully review the above guidelines and commit them to memory, you should have no problem seeing Jake a gift that will be appreciated by him as well as by us, his watchful parents. Particularly if you also adhere to the common sense rule that any gift under $100 is just plain embarrassing and cheap. Now, I don't want to keep you here all day reading my blog; get out there and send those gifts, pronto. And don't expect a thank you card--I have a life, you know.

You may be anonymous to your wife and your boss, but you're someone special to me

2007-02-04T17:00:00.000-06:00

Once again, The Man is trying to keep me down.

I didn't want to switch to New Blogger. Despite the energetic attempts of my login screen to get me to switch, I refused on the grounds that I knew the longer I waited, the more bugs would get fixed. However, last weekend I was forced (forced!) to make the switch or not log in at all, so I switched over...but to demonstrate my defiance, I did so while holding a picket sign that read, "No means NO," one that read, "Hell no, we won't go," and one that read, "Know Jesus, Know Peace." (That last one didn't seem to apply to the situation, but I figured three displays of defiance are always better than two, and since I had stolen it from a homeless man at Mardi Gras a few years ago and had yet to make use of it, I felt it was a shame to let it go to waste.)

Naturally, I have complaints about the switch. Namely, some of your comments that were previously linked to your profiles and websites are now marked "anonymous." In fact, of the 42 comments I received on the post about my stinky, sweaty mentor, 15 of them (previously linked to actual bloggers) have suddenly been anonymized. (It is too a word. It's what happens when you anonify something.) Someone suggested this had something to do with whether you Blogger users had already made the switch to New Blogger yourselves before leaving your comments on my site, but the answer to that is 'no.' For instance, Dyckerson left one comment that remains linked to his blog and profile, and left another comment to the same post that has been anonymized. Granted, if there were a god, everything Dyckerson says would be be anonymous, but sadly, this is not the case. Besides, some but not all of the anonyified comments came from Blogger bloggers. Anonymous Coworker was included in the anonyfication, and although I'm thankful because I try daily to forget him, it's confusing because he's not a Blogger user. Maybe the smartasses at Blogger purposefully anonyfied his comment while chuckling, "Let's put the anonymous back in Anonymous Coworker.")

The blitzkrieg of anonyification continues throughout my post archives, although it thins out the deeper we go into 2006. It appears that the oldest posts have been left intact, while the newest posts suffered the most plundering.

This makes me sad because I love each and every one of you. Okay, I admit it--that's a baldfaced lie. Some of you make me want to plunge to my death from atop a snowy mountain peak...but I love most of you. Or at least like you somewhat. Or at least harbor no ill will toward you. For the most part. At any rate, I like to occasionally, when I'm on house arrest and very bored, revisit the links left by commenters in my old posts. Now, thanks to Blogger, you and I will be separated forever, like tfg and every woman he's ever seen or heard of.

It's an outrage, a cause for mourning, a catastrophe of epic proportions. I suggest you immediately write to your congressmen, storm the Capitol, or at least wake up from your heroin nod and acknowledge this travesty with a grunt or a sigh of some kind.

I'm sure this bug will eventually be fixed, but until then, I have a backup plan. For now, any time you comment, include your home address, home phone number, cell phone number and work phone number so that I'll still be able to get in touch with you even if you fall victim to the anonymizer. For safe measure, include the full credit card numbers from no less than three of your credit cards with the most available credit (and don't forget the expiration date and the three-digit code from the back of the card). This may seem a bit drastic, but I'll do anything to ensure you and I don't get separated again. You're that important to me.

Dear Jackass, Volume 12

2007-01-28T16:51:00.000-06:00

So many jackasses, so little time to blog about them all.

Dear Meaningless Phrase-Repeater:

When you constantly pepper your tedious monologues with the repeated phrase, "Know what I'm saying?" I tend to stop focusing on the point you're clumsily trying to make, and instead focus on how it seems like you're using that nonsense phase purely for filler, in the same way a third grader will add extra, bullshit words into a writing assignment to make it longer or seem like more work went into it. I suspect that your 20 minute soliloquy could be whittled down to a (still boring) minute and 45 seconds if we could pull out all the "Know what I'm saying"s. Fortunately it's not much of an issue, since I started tuning you out almost the moment you opened your mouth. I find that the greater the number of times a person is likely to ask, "Know what I'm saying?" the lower the likelihood that anyone will actually know what the hell he's saying. Or care. Know what I'm saying, Jackass?

Dear Cheapskate Homeowner:

You just had to have a big house, didn't you? "Look how big it is! And the price is great!" Good for you. Now that you're all moved in, it's suddenly occurred to you that the bigger the house is, the bigger the heating and cooling bills are. Good job, Genius. Now you spend all winter pretending it's normal to wear seven layers of clothing around the house like a hobo, while your guests sit around visibly shivering because you're too cheap to turn up the heat. Likewise, all summer long you sit stewing in your own sweat, loudly insisting it's not hot in the house in spite of the fact that every time you get up to grab another handful of ice cubes to shove down your pants, you leave a big sweat stain on the couch to mark your spot. Fabulous. Now that you've got a house big enough for entertaining, no one wants to come over lest they die of hypothermia or heatstroke. Have a nice life, Cheapskate, sitting all alone in your big house battling the elements like primitive man. Jackass.

Dear Overly-Excitable Passenger In My Car:

A small request: Do you think you could refrain from shouting, "Oh my God!" while I'm switching lanes at 70 miles per hour? Because although you're really shouting because you just remembered something funny your mom said last week, I will almost certainly always interpret the sudden, hysterical scream of an auto passenger to be a reaction to a runaway Mack truck about to sideswipe me, or a white-tail buck darting in front of me on the highway. By the time you get a chance to explain that, no, you were simply thinking of something cute you wanted to tell me, I will have already panicked and yanked the wheel to the left to avoid the imagined Mack truck or 10-point buck, which will cause us to crash into the guardrail, careen over the embankment and roll 8 times to our fiery death; then you can explain the misunderstanding to me in Hell, where we'll both have a good laugh. Jackass.

My mentor is a hack.

2007-01-21T11:00:00.000-06:00

Okay, this is just plain bizarre.

Saturday night we went to dinner with my friend...we'll call him Jim...and his wife. Jim is a great friend of mine, someone I really love and respect. But in the course of our dinner conversation, I discovered something about him that I think qualifies him as stone cold nuts. Tell me if I'm way off base here.

First, a bit of background. Jim is a clean-cut white dude in his early 30s, a fine, upstanding, church-going citizen with a Master's degree in business, and a wife and 2 children. Another friend of mine jokes that Jim is my mentor (inspiring him to repeatedly say, "Your mentor is a hack!") because Jim is the person I call when I have a question about...anything. A cooking question, a math question, a geographical question, a question regarding the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow, etc. I would argue that Jim is perhaps one of the smartest people I know, if you guys wouldn't immediately begin screaming that that's no compliment considering the boobs and morons that I associate with it. So let's just leave it at this: Jim is a smart guy. Which is why what I'm about to tell you is particularly mystifying.

Every morning Jim works out, either by running outside or by using a rowing machine in his house. He gets very sweaty and disgusting, as is appropriate for such a situation. But then! For reasons I can't fathom, no matter how many times I turn it over and over in my brain, this supposedly brainy fellow sheds his sweaty clothes and hangs them up to reuse again the next day. No, not just the shorts, but the whole ensemble, right down to the socks. In fact, in spite of his wife's strenuous objections, he'll wear them for 2 or 3 days in a row. Now, originally he was hanging his filthy, sopping shirt on the bedpost in the master bedroom of his nice, clean, attractive suburban home, but his very normal, sweet, schoolteacher wife put a stop to that on the grounds that it was stinking up the entire bedroom. So now he hangs them up in the garage.

Let me remind you, I love Jim, and my instinct is to always be on his side. I immediately struggled to find a way to jump to his defense here, so I quickly ran down a list of clarifying questions:

1) Did their washer and dryer break long ago, and thanks to a series of bad investments or possibly a chronic, expensive illness in one or both of the children, they couldn't afford to fix or replace it?

Nope. Both washer and dryer are relatively new, and in good working condition.

2) Does Jim suffer from some kind of strange skin condition, in which freshly washed clothing irritates his skin and causes him great discomfort and an unsightly rash?

Nope. His skin has no adverse reactions to common detergents and/or water additives.

3) Is their laundry room a prohibitive distance from the main part of the house--perhaps in a shed at the far end of an enormous backyard, or up 3 flights of stairs in a cramped attic crawlspace?

Nope. Their washer and dryer is in an incredibly handy, central location.

4) Does Jim only have an unusually limited workout wardrobe--say, 1 shirt, 1 pair of shorts, and 2 pairs of socks--making it difficult or impossible to wear a fresh outfit every day, and, thanks to a well-hidden gambling problem or burgeoning methamphetamine addiction, find himself without sufficient funding to expand his inadequate wardrobe?

Nope. He has plenty of clothes, and has enough money to buy more, if needed.

When I pressed him with the most distressing question, in my opinion: "Why not wash your clothes every day? What's the point of wearing dirty ones?" his reaction could best be described as bafflement. He seemed to feel that it just didn't make sense not to wear the clothes two or three days in a row, since he works out alone and therefore no one is around to be offended by the smell. We sort of stared blankly at each other for a moment before I sputtered, "But...you have clean clothes nearby! Wouldn't you rather put on clean ones than dirty ones?" Again he seemed baffled by this. He felt that, logically, there was just no need to wear clean clothes if he was just going to get sweaty again anyway. How do you explain the value of hygiene to a grown man?

The whole thing is made even more vexing in light of a confession Jim made to me a few years ago. He told me that he has an odd fear of running out of deodorant, and that because of that, he keeps not just one can of deodorant at his house at all times, but several. He doesn't feel protected unless he knows he has two or three backups in place. At the time, this seemed odd and obsessive-compulsive to me, but also made me think Jim was just a clean guy who was paranoid about being seen as anything less than clean by others. Now that I know he not only wears filthy, stinking clothes to exercise in every morning, but more importantly, is wholly unashamed of this and is genuinely mystified as to why it might be seen as objectionable to anyone, I realize that Jim is, above all else, stone cold nuts. And a hack as a mentor.

Which brings me to the next issue: The position of mentor is now open. If there's anyone out there who feels suited to the task, please submit your qualifications and experience. Applicants must be intelligent, well-versed in a variety of common subjects as well as in useless trivia, and have a normal, healthy appreciation for hygiene.

I am a philosophical observer of life

2007-01-17T09:18:00.000-06:00

Being wise and observant, I am often able to spot things that are just plain wrong in the world.

What is wrong with this trash can?

I recently had the joy of using a restroom in a Fort Worth restaurant that had this informative sign taped to the trash can:

What's more bothersome about this sign: The fact that it has turned an unsettling yellow, clearly either having been peed on one too many times, or possibly left out in the rain since 1942--or the fact that it asks you to put "personal items" in it? Should I store my purse in there? My jacket? And why are all these diapers in here? I think the more common term "feminine products" would have been more appropriate. Another extremely bothersome fact is the absence of a foot pedal to open it. I would have to put my delicate hand on this disgusting lid in order to open it and stuff it with the hundreds of feminine products I regularly have in my possession--and no way am I touching that trash can. In fact, as I remember it, I don't think I was even able to pee in this particular restroom. I walked in and became so hypnotized by this disgusting little plastic trash can that I forgot I had a bladder.

What is wrong with this shit heap?

I took this photo yesterday as I sat at a traffic light. Notice the unfortunate fellow pushing his jalopy to the gas station after it shuddered to its demise halfway through the intersection.

Nothing new or remarkable about this scene--unless you look closely. I doubt my behind-the-wheel, across-the-median photography will have enough detail for you to read the windshield, but go ahead and try:

Can you read it? It says, "$600. Runs good." Perhaps the only thing more humiliating than having to push your beater car through a busy intersection is doing so while the window falsely advertises that the car "runs good."

What is wrong with this marketing scheme?

Taco Cabana, in case you've never been there, is absolutely the worst, most tasteless so-called Mexican restaurant on the planet. The food is bland and horrible. The drinks are watered-down and gross. The restaurant totally lacks personality. Up til recently, I felt the only redeeming thing about it was the fact that going there allowed me the opportunity to sing "At the Taco, Taco Cabana" to the tune of Copacabana over and over to annoy my husband. But recently, meeting my inlaws there for a forgettable meal, I discovered there is one other upside. You can buy roofies there for $1.99. They may be small ones, but you can't argue that the price is a fair one.

What is wrong with Marion Barry's mother?

Recently I purchased a big bag of yummy frozen berries from Costco. Since I was just going to use them in milkshakes at home, I didn't really care what kind of berries they were, so I didn't bother to read the bag til I got home. Upon idle inspection while my blender whirred away, I spotted this on the front of the bag:

Some of you know-it-alls are going to call me a big dum-dum for having never heard of anything called a marionberry, but I swear this is my first time seeing that word. I've always wondered why Marion Barry's mom would be so cruel as to name her son Marion, and I assumed it was either because she never wanted kids in the first place, or because she simply had a natural, healthy hatred for men. Now I realize she was simply a great lover of berries, and felt that naming a child Rasp Barry would be too unconventional. Little did she know what an unconventional mayor he was going to turn out to be. (Or would it be fairer to say he was an unconventional crack addict? Either way.)

What is wrong with this toilet?

I demand to know who thought of this design. The little flusher thing is a big, extremely hard-to-push button on the top of the tank.

This is the last thing a germaphobe wants to see in a public bathroom (well, okay--maybe the last thing after a partially decomposed corpse, a sizable pool of vomit, or George Michael looking amorous). As I've pointed out before, I go to acrobatic lengths to make it in and out of public restrooms without having to touch one single surface with my hands. This generally means flushing the toilet with my foot...which is impossible with the poorly designed fixture pictured above. In fact, because the button must be pushed way down into the uh, button-holder thing, rather than simply tapped, you can't even flush with an elbow--even a bony elbow like mine. Nor is it possible--because I've tried--to use an inkpen or something similar to push the button, because these buttons are a bitch to push down--the pen would break before the button would depress even the tiniest amount. There is no alternative but to stick your finger on the filthy thing. And sure, you can grab a paper towel and wrap it around said finger for a flimsy layer of protection, but still, I find this to be a bad, bad design. And because there's no Department of Toilet Design for me to call and lodge a formal complaint, I'll have to express my dissatisfaction in creative ways. Therefore, every time I see one of these ridiculous button-flusher toilets in a public restroom, I will silently protest by leaving a sizable pool of vomit, a partially decomposed corpse, and George Michael in the restroom when I leave.

How Beastiality Saved My Marriage

2007-01-09T18:30:00.000-06:00

Have you ever thought of a really great title for a paper, an essay, a short story or a blog post, but then slowly realized the cumbersome burden of then having to find a way to create a story deserving of such a great title? Such is the case with this particular blog post.

There's no question the title is a solid 10 on a 10-scale. "How Beastiality Saved My Marriage." That's the kind of title that moves copy, my friend! But finding a way to justify the title with a worthy post is the difficult part.

Mr. Fabulous recently complained that my blog was lacking in beastiality references. Such stinging criticism is hard to take, but after several painful hours of honest introspection, I had to admit the little prick had a point. Make no mistake--there are beastiality references. I can think of at least two, here and here. But that's certainly, by anyone's standards, not nearly enough. Not by a long shot.

A peek at my Statcounter account proves it. I see queries for poop jacuzzi, picture crabs vagina and too fat to fit through, but shockingly few for subjects dealing with beastiality. People seek me out for tampon removal pictures, but it's becoming painfully obvious to me that when readers have questions about the tender intimacy that can sometimes occur between man and squirrel, they do not come to Karlababble.

At times like this, I have to hang my head and wonder if it's all been for nothing. I've slaved here at this computer, week after week since June of 2005, baring my soul in my struggle to come up with words of wisdom and beauty to inspire the masses--and the sudden, difficult realization that I've missed the mark by such a wide berth is...well, disheartening, to say the least.

The small consolation that now, after this post, I should get quite a few internet search hits for beastiality (having repeated the word just enough times to catch Google's attention), still seems like a case of 'too little too late.' Maybe I should just stop the madness and give up blogging altogether. I mean, what's the point? I don't know. Have you ever have one of those days when you just feel like nothing you do is good enough? Maybe I should see a therapist. It appears I've reached a crossroads in my life, and it may do me some good to talk to someone, or perhaps get a boatload of medication prescribed to me, or at the very least, have a sordid, degrading affair with the therapist. And if all that fails, maybe dabbling in beastiality will prove to be just the elixer I need to soothe my shattered soul.

Do any of you out there have a particularly attractive pet you could send me a photo of? A pit bull with some muscular shoulders, or a parakeet with a nice, tidy set of tail feathers? I've had my eye on Anonymous Coworker's cats for some time now. He parades provocative photos of them across the internet, showing those felines off like the eye candy they are, making me think he knows exactly what kind of amorous feelings he's inciting in some of his love-starved readers. I may have to give those furry little sluts just what they've been asking for.

For God's sake, I'm a prim and proper lady.

2007-01-07T16:00:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I'm misunderstood.

My sense of humor can be so vulgar and offensive at times that people who first meet me tend to think that absolutely anything goes. Not so. Although there are admittedly few things I don't find funny, they do indeed exist.

The list of things I do find funnier is far longer. Supposedly off-limits subjects that I manage to crowbar into jokes on a regular basis:

-Murder
-Rape
-Alcohol and drug dependence/rehab
-Religion
-Abortion
-Black market babies
-Terminal illness
-Physical and mental handicaps
-Infidelity
-Kidnapping
-Fatal accidents
-Trading one's sister for 2 live chickens and a quart of tequila

Don't get me wrong--none of these things are funny where they actually exist. But joking about them existing where they don't is, in my opinion, good for a chortle. For instance, it's never funny when someone says, "My aunt Betty has been diagnosed with brain cancer." But when someone says (and they do, all the time) that if given a choice, they'd rather have brain cancer than be forced to read Assclownopolis, that's good stuff.

Zing! I kill me.

Things that are not at all funny to me include:

-Potty humor
-Knock-knock jokes
-Morning radio teams that call themselves "The Zoo"
-Jenna Elfman
-Anything that requires me saying the P word for a woman's private parts. (Oh, don't play dumb, you know what word. The one that rhymes with...um...scrussy?) I don't want to be so tedious as to refer to it repeatedly throughout this post as "the P word," so from here on out I'll give it the code name 'barrymanilow.'

Don't ask me why so many women are squeamish about saying barrymanilow. I think it's just inherent in the female makeup that most of us find it hard to utter that word. In fact, I never use the C word for a woman's private parts, either. Well, okay, that's not entirely true. Once, when my son was less than a year old and had a fever of over 100, I called our pediatrician's nighttime answering service. The surly bitch who answered the phone must have been in the middle of something very, very important--probably involving a metric ton of Twinkies and a bathtub full of Ben & Jerry's ice cream--judging by her level of irritation at being disturbed by my silly little phone call. Long story short, I was eventually forced--forced!--to call her the C word. I didn't want to do it, but the lady was begging for it, and I can only take so much begging before I cave. My always proper and polite husband stood nearby gaping at me in horror, and when he tried calmly to ask me what the hell I was thinking, I very nearly called him the C word, as well. As he backed away slowly, all I could think of in my defense was that a burning hot, screaming infant can cause a woman with an already-disagreeable personality to turn flat-out wolverine-like.

But in general, without the provocation of a bitter, hateful sow bent on impeding my ability to keep my son alive and healthy, I refrain from using either of those distasteful words. In fact, let that be a New Year's resolution of mine for 2007: The next time I have an encounter with someone as miserable and as deliberately difficult as that answering service trollop, I will refrain from calling her the C word, instead opting perhaps to call her a fucking whore, or maybe a disease-riddled crotchwaffle.

My 2006 New Year's resolutions: The review.

2007-01-02T22:00:00.000-06:00

I made some resolutions last year, as you may recall. Of course, some of you weren't readers of this blog back then, and those who were are mostly drunks and lunatics, so the chances that you remember who you were sleeping with this time last year, much less my little New Year's blog post, are slim to none. No problem. I'll refresh your memory.

Here are my 2006 resolutions, with an update letting you know how I fared in keeping them:

1. I will not scale Mt. Fuji. This one was a unmitigated success. I scaled many things--2 prison walls, the homes of four hypersensitive people who unfairly refer to me as a "stalker," 3 closed liquor stores, and approximately 4,332 goldfish--but not one mountain.

2. I will eat only edible food, and drink only potable water. Do goldfish count as food? I think they do, and if so, this one was a success as well.

3. I will wear a bra when out in public. Usually my own. This one is iffy. I did indeed wear a bra consistently, and they were technically mine, if possession is nine-tenths of the law. But since I stole most of them from the locker room at my health club, many of them were sweaty and ill-fitting. Still, that counts.

4. I will speak English primarily. I aced this one, although my words of wisdom were, as usual, largely lost on fools and asshats, not to mention a few angry, braless women screaming after me as I raced out of the locker room at my gym.

5. I will do all I can do prevent flies from breeding in my car. I was doing really great on this one til the body of a hitchhiker that I left in the back seat started to decompose. Lesson learned: Next time I won't dawdle so long before chopping them up and mailing the parts to my negative blog commenters. Speaking of which, some of you guys should be getting a package from me in about a week.

6. I will use the phrase "gutless swine" in a sentence at least once in 2006. A rousing success here. I made it my new pet name for my husband, and that covered me rather nicely on this one.

7. I will not kill anyone with a machete. I'm a little embarrassed to admit defeat on this one. But I defy any one of you to stand in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for 30 minutes without gutting someone like a pig. And as for that incident at the kid's play area at the mall, I stand by my actions. That 3-year old snotnose deliberately pushed my son.

8. I will drink more in 2006. While everyone else is promising to drink less, I will take the path less traveled, and I will drink more. One of my finest achievements to date. At first I thought this one might be a bit of a challenge due to my already impressive alcohol intake in 2005. However, I discovered that with determination, any goal can be reached. I found that drinking in the shower and while driving Jake to his Mother's Day Out class gave me the edge I needed to increase my intake 20% over my 2005 numbers.

9. I will not sleep with any dictators this year. I think I met this goal, but I can't be entirely sure since I was less than diligent about noting the names and/or occupations of some people. But none of them had goatees, smoked Cuban cigars or wore turbans, I think I can safely assume there were no dictators in the bunch, although a few were needlessly violent.

10. I will read great works of literature to sharpen my intellect and help develop my analytical thinking. This was a misguided goal. I did indeed keep up with the reading of that particular blog for a time, but I found that it actually decreased my intelligence at a rather alarming rate. Luckily, I was able to get back up to my previous IQ, and then double that, by going back through my own archives are reading over my previous posts.

11. I will wipe front to back. This was an easy one to keep. I faithfully followed the front-to-back method all through 2006, although it did get a bit boring by June or so. In 2007 I intend to spice things up by wiping in the shape of a different letter of the alphabet each day. Also this year, I'm going to use toilet paper, or at least something more than just my bare hand. 2006 was a messy year.

12. I will steadfastly refuse to participate in any plots to overthrow the government. And this year I mean it. Not only was I successful on this count, but I'm so proud of the restraint I showed here that I'm including this last item on all future resumes under the heading, "Past Accomplishments."

So there you have it. Twelve resolutions: 7 successes, 3 failures, and 2 undecided. All in all, I think my 2006 resolutions did what every New Year's Resolution is intended to: Serve to make me a better person. I toyed with the idea of making resolutions for 2007, but frankly, I don't see how I can improve over the current level of perfection. However, I'm willing to consider your ideas for resolutions I should make. Please keep them short, concise, and devoid of profanity or accompanying photos of sexual positions. Bear in mind I still have a few of those "packages" I can send out to deserving commenters.

You won't have Karla to kick around anymore.

2006-12-27T22:12:00.000-06:00

It was very kind of several of you to inquire as to my well-being after the death-by-cookies post. You were worried that the delay in follow-up posting meant I did indeed die in my kitchen as all women should, and I appreciate your concern. To the dozen or so of you who actually called 911 and had ambulances sent over, however, I'm a little irritated at you. That was a bit over the top.

The truth is, I didn't end up baking after all. I still have all the ingredients sitting in my kitchen, openly mocking me, but so far I've skillfully avoided doing anything with them. I meant to, I really did! But we spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day with Brian's family, and on the day after Christmas, Brian had surgery. (Sex change? Vasectomy? Partial colostomy? You decide.) I used Brian's surgery as my weak excuse to say I didn't have time to bake, what with all the caretaking I had to do for him afterwards. (In reality, "caretaking" ended up meaning "not asking him to do household chores for a whole day," but still, it was the best excuse I had available to me at the time.) Tonight I had a Pilates class to teach, and then bright and early tomorrow we leave for Corpus Christi, where we'll be spending a few days with more of Brian's family. (I knew I should have followed my instinct and married a guy with no family, but apparently most of those kind of men are on death row or in meth labs in the back woods of rural Missouri. Which doesn't make them undesirable, just harder to meet.) Actually, the trip to Corpus was my reason for wanting to bake cookies in the first place--I wanted to take them for the family to enjoy. Later, it occurred to me that there's very little about vomiting that's enjoyable, so I realized the family would appreciate me more if I just stayed out of the kitchen.

At any rate, you won't hear from me for a couple of days while I'm out of town, so you'll have to content yourself with internet pornography and shoplifting like you did before we met. Here's the part where I should say something like, "Here are some links to a few great bloggers you can read while I'm gone--I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!" I started to do something like that, but then I realized no other bloggers are as interesting as me, and I didn't want to offer you less than the best. I'm that committed to bringing you the best quality entertainment possible.

Okay, I'm kidding. Here, read these, if you're that desperate to avoid talking to your spouse:

Watching someone spiral into madness and depravity is always interesting, in spite of its sadness.

Some chicks are smart and funny and will mail you presents at Christmas, if you suck up to them all year.

Why do you have to read mean stuff all the time? How about trying someone who's just plain lovable?

I didn't make this guy's list of "blog crushes." But mark my words, I'll weasel my way onto that list in 2007, if I have to start posting nude pictures of myself.

That should keep you occupied. See you when I get back.

The cookies that ruined Christmas for all of us

2006-12-23T10:35:00.000-06:00

A terrifying thing is about to occur at the Karlababble estate. I'm about to bake cookies.

I can hear you screaming at your computer monitors, "NO, NO, NO! Are you INSANE?! Have you already forgotten the shameful trauma that occurred when you tried to assemble a simple gingerbread house? For the love of God, stop trying to pass for a normal human!" And of course, you're right. This can't go well.

Bear in mind, I'm volunteering for this humiliation. No one asked me to bake cookies. It's just that every time I turn around, I trip over a nice, normal person cheerfully doing traditional, adorable homemaking tasks with efficiency and ease--baking cookies, cooking dinner, gardening, making crafty things, etc.--all without accidentally dismembering a passerby or igniting half the city in a roaring blaze. How do they do it? That's the question that keeps me up at night. It's not so much that I need a batch of cookies, or that I can't purchase much tastier, safer, less bacteria-laden ones in a store, but goddamnit, I'm determined to successfully complete a June Cleaver activity at least once in my life before I die of liver failure. If you jackasses can do it, why can't I?

The crazy thing is, I'm an adult now. I have a family, responsibilities. I can't really afford to risk life and limb participating in daredevil, death-defying activities like hang-gliding, bungee jumping, knife throwing, mountain lion hunting, or baking. I should think of my husband and son and say, "No, it's not worth the risk; these people need me alive and healthy for years to come."

But then I glance over at the two of them. Jake is demanding that I read Go, Dog. Go! to him for the 2,677,465th time, and Brian is having a chick-TV marathon as he watches Laguna Beach, which he will probably follow up with The Real World. And I think, "What the hell? Let's risk it."

So, in spite of the unmitigated sadness that will surely come as a result, I am about to bravely, stupidly march into that kitchen and find out once and for all who's boss. I'm pretty sure I know the answer. But I'm not so foolish as to go in unprepared for the disaster that is soon to come. I've thought of a few things I might need at the ready to attempt to hopefully prevent my early demise. So far I've stockpiled:

A stomach pump.

Funny, I always thought this thing, while crudely named, would actually be an elaborate medical device, shiny and sophisticated, requiring some sort of degree just to figure out how to operate. Instead, it's basically a $7 bicycle pump with a long hose. The question is whether I'll be able to use it on myself rather than needing the assistance of a second party, since Brian may be busy watching Dr. 90210 and Jake will be--well, still not yet 2 years old. I'll let you know afterwards how I fared.

A fire extinguisher.

This actually looks way more sophisticated than the stomach pump, which is reassuring. On the other hand, it might require more skill to operate. Again, the question surfaces: Can I use one of these on myself? If I'm engulfed in flames, will I be able to spray myself with this to put out the fire before I toast like a marshmallow? Either way, it'll make for a good blog post afterward, assuming I still have working nerve endings in my fingers, and am able to type.

Paramedics at the ready.

This one was tricky. In much the same way you can't call the police and say, "I think someone is thinking about robbing me," you also can't call 911 and say, "I think there may be a medical emergency--not sure which kind--at my house later today. I need you to come over and be ready for anything." So I couldn't procure actual trained paramedics, but I was able to find a street mime who can mime performing CPR, which is almost the same thing.

Tequila. Lots of it.

I don't think I need to explain this one. This is just one of those all-around useful first aid items we all keep on hand every day, right? Like band-aids or Neosporin or a prosthetic foot. You never know when you'll need it, but you know you're going to be thanking God that you had it on hand at that crucial moment.

So now that you know I'm setting off on my own domestic Survivor adventure, I hope you will take a moment to reflect on how much you suddenly realize I mean to you, and how crushed you'd be to lose me. I hope you're sorry for all those horrible things you've said about me, in the comments section or under your breath. And I hope for your sake nothing really bad happens to me in that kitchen today, because I'd hate to think of you spending a lifetime mired in regret, sorry that you didn't cherish me more when you had the chance.

Christmas blows.

2006-12-17T10:30:00.000-06:00

I know you people think I'm a genius, a prodigy, multitalented on so many levels that it brings new meaning to the prefix 'multi.' Okay, I don't know you think that, but just go with me on this. The point is, no matter what level of intellect and talent you assumed I possessed, I'm here to correct you, and show you how gravely you've overestimated me. Turns out I'm way, way dumber than you could have imagined. Perhaps the only smart thing I've been able to do consistently is find new, more spectacular and innovative ways to prove how dumb I really am.

Take, for instance, the gingerbread house. If you've been a reader of this blog for more than a few minutes, or if you've ever spent any time with me at all, you know I'm definitely not the kind of person who trots around the kitchen in an apron, baking delicious treats for my family. In fact, I've made exactly one cake in my entire life, and that was from a mix. I've made cookies a total of 3 times, also from mixes. My strategy thus far has been to take the considerable time and effort that I know is required to learn how to be good cook, and instead devote that time and effort to perfecting my drinking skills--which I have to say, has paid off. I'm excellent at that. But we make choices in life, and inevitably, when we choose Thing A, Thing B necessarily suffers. Thus, while I was out modeling myself after Dudley Moore in Arthur, my skills in the kitchen shriveled and died, along with two-thirds of my liver. That's the best explanation I can give you for the horror you're about to see here.

My neighbor bought two gingerbread house kits; one for her and one for me. Her idea was for the two of us to hang out together at one of our houses and assemble our gingerbread houses while her daughter and my son played underfoot. Quaint, no? Charming, even. I thought it was a very sweet idea, and really nice of her to think of me.

I should have known how it would turn out. My neighbor is good at everything. Everything! She's a great cook, an excellent host, she's crafty, and she can successfully grow all manner of flowers and vegetables without killing them in a matter of a week like I would. It's not easy living mere feet from such an overachiever, and I'd probably hate her if not for the fact that she feeds me from time to time, and brings me desserts or glasses of wine now and then. Instinctively, she must know the secret to keeping bitter, underachieving neighbors from gutting her with her own lemon zester is to ply them with food and booze. Smart girl.

At any rate, the Great Gingerbread House Fiasco netted me a few of the saddest photos in the history of photography. Below, see her adorable little specimen on the left, and my post-Hurricane Katrina model on the right.

Need a closer look? Here's Bree Van De Camp's house, zoomed in for your inspection and admiration: And no, it's not done yet in these photos. I'm only showing you how far each of us was able to get in the given time. I'm sure it got even more picturesque and fabulous when she added the final touches later at her own house. Look, she even remembered to put a doorknob on the front door!

By shocking contrast, here's my own Keebler Elf Haunted House:

I know it looks like I put it together one-handed in the shower while I shaved my legs with the other hand, but I assure you, we completed our projects under the exact same conditions. And to answer your question, I was indeed stone-cold sober at the time. Maybe that was the problem.
The next day, when my son, almost two years old, would amble around the kitchen and point to this new addition sitting on the countertop, looking inquisitively at me for the word to identify it, I would hang my head and mutter, "Uh...gingerbread house," and then quickly distract him, ashamed of the lie I was telling the impressionable, trusting boy. Because it's really not a gingerbread house, is it? It's a fucking monstrosity, a slab of iced shit, but it's not nice to say things like that to a toddler, so I lied and let him think that gingerbread houses all look like they've been peed on belligerent, fairy tale giants. One of these days he's going to see a picture of a normal, perfect gingerbread house in a book or on TV, and he's going to swivel his head to glare at me, and shout accusingly, "You lied, mommy."

A day and a half later, I did the right thing: I chucked it in the trash, putting us all out of our misery. Well, after I ate half of a roof panel. Fairy tale giant pee tastes better than you'd think.

Being good all year doesn't pay.

2006-12-10T13:02:00.000-06:00

I tried to be good this year. I did! Not so much because I felt that Santa was watching, but because I knew Child Protective Services was. And I think I did pretty well. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being reallyreallyreally bad, and 10 being reallyreallyreally good, I'd say I was a solid 7.5. Better than average. Pretty darn good. For me, at least.

Which is why I was baffled by a couple of the gifts Santa sent my way. First, there was the package of Fundies. I went to a Christmas party with friends last night. Good food, great company, copious quantities of booze, and even a gift exchange to top things off. It was the kind where each person brings a gift, and you draw numbers to see who will pick a gift first. Each person has an opportunity to steal a previously-opened gift or pick a new one. I was number 3, and since the first gift was a blowup doll, and the second gift was a plastic hand with the middle finger extended, that lit up and said "Fuck you!" when you pushed the button, I opted to pick a new gift. After all, I'm perfectly capable of using my own middle finger to communicate, and I have plenty of blowup dolls already. Little did I know what lay behind Door #3 was a package of Fundies. Pictured above, you can see for yourself how useful these babies can be. Perfect for Siamese twins joined at the forehead. Or for people who will do anything to cut their laundry load in half.

Then there were the magnets from Kendra. These were actually quite awesome. Kendra is cool for a whole host of reasons, but chief among them is the fact that she sends me stuff at Christmas time. Last year I got a very cool homemade tree ornament, which, fortunately, looks pretty nifty even without a tree to hang on. I'm trying to set the record for Most Consecutive Christmases Without Putting Up a Tree, but Kendra's ornament looks just as fabulous hanging from one of the the three little gold hooks on my mantle.

Kendra made this year's set of magnets herself. The girl is crafty! I am always baffled by how some people seem to innately know how to build entire cities out of wooden spoons and empty pudding boxes, while I can barely get myself dressed in the morning without breaking a limb. Kendra is one of those people who seems to spring out of bed some mornings thinking, "Today I shall build a TV set out of shampoo bottles," and 30 minutes later, pow! She's watching "I Love Lucy" reruns on a TV set that would put your Sony to shame, and her hair smells terrific.

At left is a picture of my new magnets, displayed on my refrigerator. First there are the "gin" and "tonic" magnets, showing that Kendra is eerily aware of the sole contents of said refrigerator. Then the pretty ladybug pattern, the funky white-and-blue face magnet, and the swirly yellowy one. And then...something sinister about that last one. Where have I seen that awful face before? Why do I suddenly feel like evil lurks nearby, waiting to pounce on me? Is it? No! It can't be....

Yep, the bane of my existence. It's not bad enough that creep has my email address and sends me all manner of deranged messages and incoherent threats, but now I have to be reminded of him in the sanctity of my home? Kendra is at once generous and vicious. Or perhaps she is just too wholesome and naive to understand the true nature of this horrible ogre. Either way, I am forced to keep the offensive image up on my refrigerator because Kendra is so sweet, and she gave me this gift in kindness. On the bright side, there's the inevitable weight-loss benefit. I expect to lose about 98% of my body weight in 2007, with that unsettling image menacing me every time I approach the fridge looking for food.

Anyway, thanks, Kendra! You rock. Now I'm off to see if I can find a sailor on leave to entice into wearing my Fundies with me. Wish me luck!

Dear Jackass, Volume 11

2006-12-06T13:00:00.000-06:00

Attention self-proclaimed musicians:

You are no longer allowed to vigorously play air drums along with songs on the radio. There will be no more dramatic thrashing, elbow flinging and hair-slinging. I see you're desperate to broadcast the fact that you're a musician, and therefore worthy of getting laid, and I sympathize with you, because you're right--other than your little once-a-month, hole-in-the-wall bar gig, there really IS nothing very interesting about you. But you're going to have to find a more creative, less desperate way to announce it. That means you're also going to have to stop shouting, "Yessss! Good TUNE!" at the start of every third or fourth song you hear on radio, followed by an energetic "look at me" display as you throw your head back and play air guitar with your eyes squeezed shut like you're in the initial moments of coronary failure. And don't tell me it can't be done, because I have friends who are musicians, and they manage to not look like total asshats every time a good song comes on. In fact, I'm convinced that's the best way to distinguish a genuine musician from a sad little wannabe--how well he's able to keep his composure when a song that he knows how to play comes on the radio.

All I'm saying is, let there be a moratorium on dipshittery. If I see another one of you numbnuts launch into a full-scale assault on an imaginary drum kit the next time a Rage Against the Machine song plays, I shall be forced to gut you with a makeshift drumstick.

The Airing Of Grievances

2006-12-03T18:49:00.000-06:00

Christmas is nearly upon us, and as part of my ongoing effort to be different to the point of being totally irritating, I'm eschewing it this year. (The previous sentence is part of my ongoing effort to find ways to crowbar the word "eschew" into conversation.)

Therefore, I'll be observing Festivus this year instead of Christmas. Those of you who have watched Seinfeld will understand immediately what I'm talking about...and those of you who have never watched Seinfeld are hereby banned from reading this blog. I don't like people like you.

In a nutshell, Festivus is the alternative holiday celebrated by George Costanza's father, who was fed up with the commercialism of Christmas. A central component is the annual Airing of Grievances, in which participants take turns letting the others know how they've disappointed them throughout the year. In the spirit of the season, therefore, I'd like to take a few moments to let some of you know how you've disappointed me.

Hoss of OldHorsetail Snake: I'm pretty sure you stole ten bucks out of my wallet when you were groping me at the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport. At first I was disappointed that you were being so grabby with me. Now I'm disappointed that you were more interested in my money than my ass.

Kendra: I have a feeling you're really good at baking cookies, and yet to this day I've never had a box of 7 dozen fresh-baked cookies of various flavors and fun shapes FedExed to my doorstep with your return address on the label. Shame on you.

Common Wombat: The internet isn't big enough to hold the list of the many times you've disappointed me. I'll settle now for simply complaining that you're probably the one responsible for all the searches I've been getting for bull rape.

Brandon: While I'll keep just between us the details of my rather personal disappointment with you, let me just take a moment to say that life with herpes isn't as glamorous as the water-skiing, hang-gliding people on the Valtrex commercials make it out to be.

TFG: Since when did your blog turn into the Diary of My Crotch? No, not my crotch--that would actually be interesting. But your crotch? That dusty relic has cobwebs that have cobwebs. Who was president the last time someone other than you laid eyes on that antique? A writer should strive to find subjects that his readers can identify with. To that end, why not write about something more people have heard of?

Colin: You first disappointed me by misspelling the name of your blog. When I pointed it out to you, you modified the title slightly to acknowledge the misspelling. Since then, you've disappointed me by failing to ship cases of British booze to my home every year on the Queen Mum's birthday. You are a disgrace to your country and my liver.

Psquared: I'm pretty sure you're the reason I continue to see the phrase masturbation with a banana on my Statcounter searches. Can you deny that you bought bananas in the last year? I didn't think so. Ladies and gentlemen, do not trust this man around the fruit salad.

This by no means concludes my list of grievances. When it comes to Grievance Airing, I could air and air all day long and not manage to get them all out. One holiday per year is not nearly enough for me to accomplish all the grievance airing I have cut out for me. I may have to consider amending Festivus to allow for a monthly Airing of Grievances, or perhaps a bi-hourly one. Did I fail to mention your name today? Trust me, you're on the list somewhere. It's just that I can't sit in front of this computer all day and night. But your time will come.

I've let you walk all over me for too long.

2006-11-28T14:00:00.000-06:00

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

When I told you recently about my doctor's incredibly long waiting room routine, you were understandably outraged, not so much at the indifference this doctor shows toward his patients, but that someone of my celebrity status and royal upbringing should be made to wait like the commoners. Thank you for your sympathy.

But now, the plot stupens.

(Yes, it is too a word. Just because I made it up a few seconds ago doesn't make it any less a word than the ones you'll find in Webster's Dictionary. Someone made those up, too.)

As I was saying: The plot stupens.

At the above-mentioned doctor's visit, I was informed that my doctor wanted me to get a lab test done--which simply had to be done at the lab across the street from his office. This meant I'd have to drive an hour from home yet again on another day to take this test. No, don't be silly--it couldn't be done at any of the 7 zillion labs near my home. Only the absolute furthest laboratory from my domicile would do. So I took off work a few days later to drive an hour to Dallas for this test...only to be sent home untested. During my short, fruitless trip to the lab, the sole thing I accomplished was to fill out a form which asked me exactly three things:

Are you pregnant? No.

What was the date of your last period? October 20th.

What type of birth control are you using? None.

When she discovered we're not using any birth control, she told me I couldn't take the test. As it turns out, there has to be absolute certainty that I'm not pregnant before this test can be allowed. The lab tech informed me that I could return the following week IF my period arrived by then, OR if I provided documented proof of a negative pregnancy test from my primary physician (a blood test, not a home pregnancy test). Which leads me to only one question:

Why, in the FOUR phone calls this lab placed to me to schedule and confirm this lab test appointment, did they not mention that I had to provide irrefutable proof that I wasn't pregnant?

But that's not even the main complaint I'm lodging here in this post.

What I really came here to complain about is my doctor's voicemail message.

See, the lab tech then rescheduled me for a tentative appointment (for tomorrow) for the lab test to be taken. The idea was that if my period arrived between then and tomorrow, all systems would be go, and I would have the honor of driving an hour to Dallas for a third time. If my period did not arrive, I was to call and cancel the lab test appointment.

So here it is, nearly tomorrow, and my virginal undies are still white as the driven snow. So I called and cancelled the lab appointment, and then attempted to call the doctor's office and cancel Thursday's appointment with him as well, since, as you recall, the whole point of that visit would be to discuss the results of the test that I am not allowed to take.

When I called my doctor at 1:30 this afternoon, here's what the exceedingly cheerful, pre-recorded voicemail greeting had to say:

Hi! You've reached the doctor's office. This office accepts phone calls on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday between 8:30 am and 1 pm, and on Thursday from 8:30 am to 10:30 am. If this is an emergency, please call 911. Click.

Which leads me to only one question:

What the FUCK?!?

The office only takes phone calls at certain times on certain days?? And for only a TWO HOUR span on one of those days??

So let's review: A typical waiting room stay (as acknowledged by the staff in their informational packet) is 4-5 hours, and I can only call the office during a select few hours of the day. And I can only take tests at one lab in the whole world.

Which got me thinking: Maybe I've been too accommodating in my own life. I really should set some ground rules for how people can interact with me. And these rules should be strict, demeaning, pointless and aggravating ones, at that. So here goes:

1) I'll only be accepting comments between the hours of 1 AM and 1:15 AM on Mondays, from 3 PM to 3:01 PM on Tuesdays, and just before twilight on Wednesday through Saturday. Sundays will be off-limits to comments, unless you're a recently defrocked member of the clergy.
2) Comments will only be accepted if they contain the words juggernaut, bootylicous, ramification or stupen.
3) If you leave an anonymous comment, your legal name has to actually be "Anonymous."
4) You must be wearing 6-inch heels or a baby's bonnet at the time of commenting.

These rules will be strictly enforced. I'm still mulling over the part about how to punish violators of these rules, but rest assured, there will be punishment, and it will probably involve crude farm tools and/or being forced to eat my cooking. For far too long now I've meekly allowed you to comment whenever and however you wanted, but no more. This is the dawn of a new, more vindictive era.

Click.

This one will bring out the romantic in you.

2006-11-22T19:28:00.000-06:00

Do you guys ever wonder what Common Wombat looked like before he lost his hair? Here's a video he recently sent me of himself and an old girlfriend of his. I think they made the video sometime in the 1980s--you can tell by his "rocker" hair. He's no longer with the girl in the video, which makes the video that much funnier. You know how sometimes after a nasty celebrity divorce, a snarky talk show will dredge up some old footage taken of that couple back when they were madly in love, and the two of them were yammering on and on about how they'd be together forever? It's always funny to see that kind of thing after the whole love affair has gone down in flames. For that reason (and perhaps a few others) you may get a kick out of watching this video.

He sent it to me in confidence, but I don't think he'd mind me sharing it with you, because it shows what a passionate person he can be when it comes to something that really matters to him. It's one of the things I love about him.

Please, take the time to watch the video, but then afterwards, don't forget to come back and leave a comment telling me what you thought after seeing our hero back in the days of his lovesick youth.

By the way, I seem to have better luck with the video link in Internet Explorer than in Firefox. If for some reason it doesn't work once, wait and try again. It's worth it.

Enjoy.

Can the word "urine" really be in the title of two posts in a row?

2006-11-21T10:22:00.000-06:00

I often lament that I have no time to blog. The other day, however, I was time-rich. Time loaded. Brimming with time. I had 30 pounds of time in a 10 pound bag. Why? Because I was stuck in a doctor's office waiting room for a good chunk of Thursday. In fact, that particular doctor's office makes it clear by phone and by mail that a typical first appointment can suck 5 hours out of your life.

No, no, you read that right. No need to go back and double-check. FIVE HOURS. Of tests? Of doctor-patient consultation? Of incredibly thorough and invasive examinations? No. Of sitting in the waiting room, staring at the elderly and the infirm. Plus, you're required to be there half an hour early, so make that 5 and a half hours.

In fact, the lengthy document they sent me by mail prior to that marathon appointment made it clear that this doctor's office is not to be fucked with regarding the time issue. The parts pertaining to time are typed in all caps and underlined, so you know they mean business.

"IF YOU WILL BECOME UPSET BECAUSE OF HAVING TO WAIT OVER 1 TO 2 HOURS WHEN YOU HAVE AN APPOINTMENT, PLEASE CONSULT ANOTHER DOCTOR. THIS IS A VERY BUSY OFFICE AND WE CANNOT COMPROMISE THE CARE OF ANOTHER PATIENT TO BE ON SCHEDULE AT ALL TIMES. YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT YOU MIGHT BE HERE FOR A TOTAL OF 4-5 HOURS."

Later, in this 8 page, single-spaced document, it goes on to say:

"YOUR APPOINTMENT MUST BE CONFIRMED THE DAY BEFORE YOUR APPOINTMENT. IF NOT, YOUR APPOINTMENT WILL BE CANCELLED AND WILL NOT BE RESCHEDULED A LATER DATE."

Notice that says, "not be rescheduled." Apparently if you don't take this policy seriously, you will be banned forever; the doctor's equivalent of the Soup Nazi credo.

Still later in this massive, cumbersome document, it says:

"WHENEVER WE ARE OFF SCHEDULE, IT IS BECAUSE OF SOMETHING THAT INVOLVES THE CARE OF ANOTHER PATIENT. WE ASSUME THAT YOU WOULD EXPECT EXTRA TIME AND CARE ALSO SHOULD THAT NEED ARISE, EVEN THOUGH IT MIGHT MAKE OTHER PATIENTS HAVE TO WAIT LONGER THAN DESIRED."

...And on and on. Seriously. They find as many ways as humanly possible to rework the phrase, "You will die in our waiting room before your name will be called."

To top it off? The doctor's name is Cheatum. I'm not making this up. It's an even more appropriate name in this case than with most doctors, because this one cheatsum out of time as well as cheatingum out of money.

There's not much to do in a doctor's office except angrily stare at your watch, but I did complete the following tasks:

- Checked in at desk.
- Peed in a cup at the lab.
- Took the vending machine by storm (yes, there was some hand-washing between the urine cup rendezvous and the vending machine attack).
-Read from cover to cover a magazine devoted entirely to shopping. Baffled side note: How is that a magazine? It's 204 pages of ads. I demand stricter rules regarding what constitutes a magazine.

And all that in my first hour.

I did learn a few things during my stay, so the time wasn't completely wasted. I learned the following:

-It's hard to scrape up a decent lunch from vending machines.-When I'm really bored I'll do things that would otherwise never occur to me, like arranging and photographing my vending machine purchases.

-While shopping is fun, magazines about shopping are mind-numbing. More boring than listening to men talk about their jobs. The lesson: Not everything should be written about.

-Peeing in a cup is fun. I'm going to start doing this at home. Does anyone know where I can purchase a large quantity of small plastic cups? No need to purchase the name labels and markers, since I'll be the only one filling these babies. I'd also like to install one of those tiny stainless-steel doors at eye-level in my bathroom wall that I can label with a sign that reads, "Please Place Urine Specimens In Here." Only, instead of that door leading to an adjoining laboratory room, it would lead to my guest bedroom, which is right next to my guest bathroom. The cups could pile up in there til the next time someone tries to come stay at my house for the weekend. That'll teach 'em.

On the bright side, I did manage to get in to see the doctor before the five-and-a-half hour estimated wait time was over; my name was called sometime in hour four. I have a follow-up with that doctor in two weeks, though, which gives me plenty of time to plan activities to occupy me during that waiting room visit. So far I've come up with the following list of ideas:

-Practice my singing
-Paint my toenails
-Do my Turbo Kickboxing workout
-Grab several urine specimen cups from the bathroom and get a headstart on filling them in the waiting room, just in case extras are needed.

That should cover about two and a half hours. Any ideas for how I can whittle away the remaining 2-3 hours?

Prostitutes don't usually smell of urine, do they?

2006-11-15T21:50:00.000-06:00

There's still more to tell you about that weekend Common Wombat stayed at my house. I know I told you some of it here, and some of it there, and you may have thought you got the full story, but oh, no. Not by a long shot. It's just that it's painful to relive those dark days, and I found it difficult to tell the horrific tale all at once. In addition, some of the more heinous memories were repressed, but are now slowly coming out in the 4-times-daily therapy sessions I've had to attend since The Weekend I Lost Faith In Humanity.

Have you read any of Wombat's blog? If not, good for you. It's all a pack of lies anyway. For instance, he claims not to be much of a drinker. That's why I was shocked and aghast to see him pounding down drink after drink at the bar we went to--he was even snatching drinks off the waitress's cocktail tray as she tried to walk past our table. Twice he yanked half-empty drinks right out of the hands of other patrons, both of whom were too shocked and fearful to do anything but settle their tabs and quickly leave, sensing a booze-fueled catastrophe was imminent. I've never been to Baltimore, but perhaps this kind of assholery is common there. We southerners are a kind and gentle people, and this type of bizarre, aggressive behavior is utterly foreign to our peaceful nature.

In the photo below, observe the drunk, belligerent look on his face. He's obviously loaded and looking for a fight. And notice he's got two drinks--a martini and a beer. You would have thought he'd been told that was the last day alcohol would exist anywhere on earth, and he'd better get his fill of it. You can see my friend Kristina on the right, nervously grabbing her own drink, aware that she only has a few seconds left to enjoy it before this lumbering boozehound gulps it down and then belches rudely in her face.

My friends and I had the good sense to usher this lush out of the bar before things got too far out of hand. But he angrily insisted that we stop and pick up some Schlitz Malt Liquor and some Mad Dog 20/20 for him to drink at my house, so we did. Our strategy was along the lines of, "Just do what this crackpot asks, and try to make it through the weekend alive." We hoped he'd drink himself into a stupor fairly quickly and the miserable night would end.

But we underestimated him. Once we got home, things got even more warped and strange. He pulled an assortment of costumes out of his suitcase and demanded we engage in role-playing with him! While he was outfitting Brian in a wooly sheep costume, I snuck off with my cell phone and tried to dial 911. But Wombat quickly found me, crouched in my closet, sobbing as I fumbled with the buttons on my phone. He stomped all our cell phones to tiny bits and then got back to the costumes.

He flew into a drunken rage when he realized he'd forgotten to pack the staff and bonnet for the Little Bo Peep costume he wanted to wear. Frightened and hoping to placate him, we frantically tried to assure him that we could fashion a makeshift staff out of a broom, and make a bonnet out of a pair of the lace cotton bloomers he wears as underwear, but he was inconsolable. But when Kristina finally put on the police hat he had given her just before his mental breakdown, he cheered up instantly and announced that we could play, "The Very Naughty Prostitute." We didn't know what the hell that was, but we felt certain we had narrowly escaped being slaughtered, so we were simply grateful his mood had changed.

Below is a photo Wombat demanded I take of him dressed as the prostitute, and my friend Kristina as the cop. It took 17 tries to produce this photo; in the first 16 shots, Kristina is visibly upset, either weeping or cowering in fear. After each digital shot was taken, Wombat would review it and scream, "NO! I told you to look HAPPY!" My heart went out to my poor, terrified friend as she tried her best to do what the crazed lunatic asked, clearly aware that all our lives hung in the balance. I tell you, we were all scared out of our minds. At one point I smelled urine and thought, "Well, one of us finally peed ourselves in fear. Who could blame us?" A quick downward glance, however, revealed that it was Wombat who had peed himself. Apparently the sight of the wooly sheep suit got him so excited he couldn't stop himself.

Well, that's all I can tell you for now. Not because I'm still too shell-shocked to face what happened (although that's partly true as well), but because I'm still scrubbing the mysterious greyish-yellow stains Wombat left on most of our furniture. Since I'm not sure exactly what these stains are, can anyone recommend a household cleaner that successfully removes puke, semen and squirrel intestines?

I'd like to thank all the little people I stepped on to get to where I am today

2006-11-12T10:32:00.000-06:00

A few months back, Bloglaughs reviewed my site. I didn't bring it to your attention then because, well, I'm a humble and simple girl, traditionally eschewing attention and praise. I bring it to your attention now because I wanted the opportunity to use the word "eschewing" in a blog post.

Note that in the 2005 Best of Blogs list, Anonymous Coworker is said to be funnier than me, which is absurd. Sure, he's funny, but funnier than me? Ha!

Ha, HA!

Ha ha ha HAAA!

Heck, this is the most I've ever laughed at the guy. Oh, I'm kidding. He's funny all right. Just not funnier than me.

At any rate, because I didn't originally make the final cut, my loyal minions stormed the Capitol and rioted, causing Bloglaughs to rethink their decision, and hastily add me. Thank you, my faithful readers. It's nice to know you scare someone other than me.

Back to the aforementioned review of Karlababble. As you might suspect, I do have some criticisms about their criticisms of me. First, one of them called me a mommy blogger, which I object to. Sure, the subject of baby poop has cropped up once or twice in this blog, but mostly I was using it to describe Dyckerson's writing. Truly, though, I think mommy bloggers write mostly about their children. I write mostly about the reasons I think 99% of the people in the world should die while I continue to live on. That's hardly maternal, in my opinion. And the subject of embarrassing public lactation or cracked nipples hasn't showed up here once, which I think pretty much says it all.

When asked if they'd read my blog again, most of the reviewers, clearly intelligent and profound, said something along the lines of "yes." One of them, however, answered, "Uhhhhhhhh, no." I must assume the garbled syllable at the beginning of that answer was a result of the inflatable sheep he was stuffing into his mouth at the time the question was asked. Otherwise, his answer might have sounded more like, "Of course, she's a goddamn genius!" So I'll give him a pass on that one. I can't speak well with latex stuffed in my mouth, either.

All in all, it was a favorable review, which is a nice thing to have. It's something I can come back and re-read when I'm feeling "less than." Like when I ask Jake if he wants me to sing the Alphabet Song, and he violently shakes his head "no," implying that hearing me sing is something one would choose only if asked to choose between that and having one's foot shoved in a blender set on "puree." Or after a demoralizing chat session with Wombat, where he regularly calls me things like "horseface nutpants" or "shitsock." My only regret is that the Bloglaughs reviewers failed to mention how I nailed the triple-axle and really stuck the landing. True, my skating is sometimes a little choppy thanks to the knee injury I suffered two years ago on the parallel bars, but most judges agree my comebackck is nothing short of miraculous. The doctors all said I'd never skate again.

Lessons I've Learned, Part 11

2006-11-10T13:30:00.000-06:00

Boobs have many uses.

I've cried on your shoulder(s) before about my dental hygienist. I love my dentist, and have been going to the same one for about 11 years. And for 11 years, I've had the same deep and abiding distaste for his dental hygienist. She's a very nice lady, but one I find so irritating I've often considered biting her and then fleeing the scene. What can I say? Sometimes incredibly nice people inspire me to bite. This is why it's much safer for me to hang out with total assholes. But seriously, is it necessary to talk to me in the same high-pitched squeal you'd use for a toddler? It it necessary to press your face right up against mine when you patronize me with goofy questions about my Christmas plans? And must you ask the same boring chit-chat questions every time I come in, and always when my mouth is open and I can't reply? All I've ever wanted from a dental hygienist is for her to be very, very quiet while she does her work, but this one doesn't shut up for one minute.

By some stroke of luck, though (hmmm...that's a weird phrase, isn't it? I know some stroke victims who would object to such careless use of the word "luck") that particular dental hygienist is now gone from my dentist's office! Did she retire? Was she fired? Did she die? Is she on the run from the law? Was she exiled to Romania? Was she kidnapped by a holdover Black Panther group? Who cares. All I know is when I went to my dentist for a cleaning yesterday, she had been replaced by a very nice, and very unirritating, lady. Yay me!

All was well and good til the sexual assault.

As she was hacking away at my gums with a tiny pick axe, I felt something soft and comfy pressing up against my shoulder. Her boob! My natural instinct would have been to shift slightly over to make room for these massive, bullying beasts, but when you're being stabbed in the gums with an ice pick, you tend to think differently. I felt I had no option but to remain snuggled against her mammaries, at least until the hacking stopped. That was probably her plan all along--to trap me at pick-point and then force her sizable boobs on me while I was frozen in fear. Luckily for me, the situation resolved itself when she moved away to fetch that little suction hose to vacuum the blood out of my gore-soaked mouth. During the Wetvac process, the menacing boobs kept their distance.

But then! Just when I thought my virtue was safe, the woman began flossing my teeth. Flossing is a process which demands close proximity, and, as you can imagine, those ample boobs wedged their way right into the middle of the procedure. This time one of them planted itself firmly against my head.

What would you do if this happened to you?

Right! You'd begin formulating a blog post. So, sprawled out in my dentist's chair, that's what I did. But when I got to the part where I imagined describing myself laying in the dentist's chair with a middle-aged boob mashed up against my skull, I snorted with laughter. You try laughing while your mouth is split open like the Grand Canyon, and a pair of hands are crammed in there, sawing a string back and forth between your teeth. No, really. Go ahead, open your mouth as wide as you can and stuff both your hands in there. Now laugh. It doesn't exactly look like laughter, does it? It looks like the onset of a heart attack, or maybe an asthma attack. And it happened three times, because each time I composed myself, I went back to formulating my blog post, and the seizure came on again. I'm not sure what the well-endowed hygienist thought was happening to me, but she ignored it and went about her business, finally removing her hands from my mouth and her boob from my head, and sending me on my way, feeling violated.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm not anti-boob. I'm totally pro-boob! There are definitely some boobs I wouldn't mind having on my head:

However, the boob I was brow-beaten with in my dentist's office yesterday isn't exactly what I had in mind during my extensive boob-on-my-head fantasies.

All in all, despite the rape, I still vastly prefer this dental hygienist over the last one. And for all I know, maybe she is just as irritating as the last one, but the boob-beating distracted me from that. Maybe she asked all the same dumb questions and prattled on in a condescending voice as if I were a little kid, but I was too preoccupied with the inappropriate touching to take note of it.

And I guess that's the moral of the story: If you want to distract someone, press a sexual organ against their head.

Day 2: Bull Rape

2006-11-08T20:05:00.000-06:00

I just returned from the doctor's office, where Brian insisted I go to get a full examination to determine if there was any permanent scarring or other bodily damage from the horrific events of the weekend with Wombat. While I was there, I insisted they bathe me in lye soap just to be sure all bacteria were thoroughly eliminated. I still think I'm a long way from feeling 100%--but with a few years of physical therapy and a reliable support group, I may be functional in society again soon. I think pills and booze will really help, too.

One thing I did learn about Wombat is that he is quite virile. For some reason I was picturing him as someone too busy with internet porn and fantasies about his mother to go out in the world and function sexually with an actual partner. I was dead wrong. The moment he arrived in the Lone Star State, he began ranting about "spreading [his] seed all across Texas." Naturally, I thought he meant that he was going to go out looking for women, which surprised and appalled me since I know he's married. To my relief, it turns out he was not interested in finding a woman, after all. To my horror, I accidentally walked in on him with the partner he ended up finding to satisfy his sexual appetite. I was shocked, but not so shocked that I forgot to snap a picture:

Beastiality is unforgivable, sick, and just plain wrong. But not being smart enough to know the difference between a real bull and a mechanical bull? That's pathetic. I'm ashamed to know this person. For Christ's sake, the thing is hollow in the back:

...or maybe that's what he liked about it? Pervert.

So you tell me: How am I supposed to put this event behind me? I trusted this person, welcomed him into my home as a friend. To find out what a degenerate he is has really broken my faith in humanity. Now I'm starting to scrutinize all my friends a little more closely. I can no longer give my friendship and trust so readily. I do feel I've learned some valuable lessons from this experience, and that's always a good thing, but the sad part is that I feel I've lost so much of the wide-eyed innocence I had. I want to go back to being the loving, caring person I was, but I don't think that can ever happen now. I'll never look at people, or mechanical bulls, the same way again.

Day 1: The Kidnapping

2006-11-06T14:54:00.000-06:00

Well, I aged 20 years, but I did survive the Wombat Invasion.

In my last post, I told you Common Wombat would be staying at my house for the weekend. I won't lie to you, I was scared shitless. Surprisingly, though, the weekend passed without the loss of a single human life--I consider that a success. However, my neighbors did object strenuously to having this miscreant near their homes. They didn't care for the sight of him stumbling around the neighborhood in nothing but a filthy, open bathrobe, chain-smoking and making passes at the neighborhood children. They called the police no fewer than 6 times to report a foul odor emanating from my house. And when 18 of the neighborhood pets went missing in a single evening, they all seemed to agree he had a hand in it.

Jake seemed to really take to him, though. The good news: Wombat potty-trained him in one weekend, which is impressive considering Jake is only 20 months old. The bad news: Now Jake sits on the toilet for an hour at a stretch, reading Hustler magazines and cursing at no one in particular, and smearing the walls with misogynistic graffitti.

I knew you’d want to see some photos from the weekend, so I have several to share—some were taken with my digital camera, some were taken by police investigators. In this first one, a trained hostage negotiator might notice that something’s definitely amiss. Here we are in the abandoned warehouse where Wombat dragged me, kicking and screaming, and proceeded to hold me hostage for a time, in an attempt to elicit an astronomical ransom from my panicked loved ones.You can see the meanacing grip he has on my now-bruised arm. You can see my brave smile as I try to broadcast to my family that I am so far unharmed. What you can’t see is the gun Wombat is jamming into my ribs under the table—nor the suspicious brown stain on the back of his pants. All ended well, though, when, just moments after this picture was taken, I shouted, “Look! A balloon!” which caused Wombat to spin around, delighted, searching for said balloon, giving me an opportunity to take the gun from him and pistol whip him unconscious. Later, I forgave him for kidnapping me, and he forgave me for pistol whipping him, and after I forced him to change into a clean pair of pants, a group of us went to a martini bar for drinks.

Much, much more happened, but I’m still too exhausted to recount it all in one sitting. Stay tuned for parts 2 through 9,267 of The Stench That Ruined My Wall-To-Wall Carpeting….

This could be the last post I ever write

2006-11-02T15:48:00.000-06:00

Ever have a really horrific experience with a houseguest? Was there ever a time when you generously opened your home to a friend or family member, only to have things quickly spiral into madness once it became apparent that the houseguest was rude, thoughtless, ungrateful, messy, and possibly dangerous as well?

That's never happened to me, but I think it's about to. Believe it or not, this asshole is going to be staying at my house this weekend. He claims he's going to be in town "on business," but I think it's safe to assume that's code for "skipping a parole hearing."

If you've been a reader for awhile now, you may recall that I narrowly escaped death last time this creep was in town. But just because I made it out alive that time doesn't guarantee I will fare so well this time--after all, we only met up for dinner that time. This time he'll be staying at my house. I shudder at the thought.

But don't worry; I've taken some precautions. I'm not so naive that I would let a shady character like this stay at my house for the weekend without taking some steps to ensure my family and I live to see Monday morning. Here are a few of the protective measures I've taken:

-I've rented a port-a-potty for him to use. I don't think my (or anyone else's) body produces enough antibodies to battle the kind of superbacteria this guy's nether regions are breeding.

-To prevent him from "accidentally" forgetting to use the port-a-potty, I've had both bathrooms in our house destroyed. Rebuilding again them after Wombat leaves will be expensive, but like my grandma always said, avoiding hepatitis C is priceless.

-I've hired 6 off-duty police officers, 3 firefighters and 5 EMT workers to stay at my house around the clock for the whole weekend. It's comforting to know they'll be here in case my houseguest causes a true disaster, but the bonus is they'll be able to help me keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't steal anything. As an extra precaution, I've taken inventory (including photos) of my panty drawers.

-I've retooled and updated my will. If Wombat should kill me during the course of his stay, whatever personal belongings of mine that aren't ruined by blood splatter during the murder will go to my sister and niece in Alaska.

-I've scattered several dead animals around the house and yard. Hopefully, these will satisfy his thirst for blood and keep him from turning to me and my family for sustenance.

-I've tented off the room he'll be staying in. It looks like a nuclear quarantine area, which clashes with the rest of my decor, but my policy is "safety first." After Wombat leaves (or is shot down by police helicopter), I'll burn the furniture in that room and put the house up for sale.

Have I missed anything? Should I alert the FBI now, just so there's a record they can look back on if anything illegal or fatal should occur? Your input is appreciated.

In the meantime, to illustrate just how messed up this dude is, let me show you the picture he sent to my cell phone about an hour ago: What IS this? Is it a picture of his penis? Is it a dead animal? Did he just point the camera toward the toilet and take a photo? I don't know exactly what this is a picture of, but I know it's something dirty and wrong. Did I make a mistake inviting this loon to my home? I really need to think before I speak from now on.

This post will literally knock your socks off!

2006-10-29T21:15:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

The truth is:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-10-22T09:00:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sandy vomit, prison rape and adoption

2006-10-11T12:01:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you. Now I'm off to pack.

I'm like "Dear Abby" for freaks

2006-10-08T11:44:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God no one watered down my tequila

2006-10-03T11:46:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

A short list of my ideas so far:

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

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

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

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

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