Your days are numbered, rednecks.

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

Case in point #1:

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

Case in point #2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

My continuing struggle to make the world a better place

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."

I am a philosophical observer of life

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.

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

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.

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

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?

July 14 is "Cannibal Cow Day!"

Are you:

-Hungry?
-Desperate for attention?
-Utterly lacking in dignity or self-respect?
-Willing to do humiliate yourself for a handful of fast food?
-In possession of a full-body cow suit?

If you answered "yes" to the above questions, you're in luck! Because the Chick Fil-A fast food restaurant chain has come up with the most brilliant promotion known to man. Observe the ad below:Wait, wait--I know what you're thinking. It sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? When you hear of something so wonderful, so unusual, and totally free, it's only natural to be suspicious. And yet! I assure you I did not Photoshop this ad or alter it in any way--it really is a true and valid promotion. Yes! You can schlep your retarded ass into a public restaurant wearing a full cow costume on July 14 and receive a free combo! That's...hell's bells...nearly four dollars worth of processed chicken!

Careful though, cowboy. Read the fine print. It has to be a full cow costume. Don't try to sneak by just wearing a cow's head mask, or half-ass it in only a set of hooves and a tail. If you want to reap the bounty of a whole combo meal--that's a sandwich or nuggets, fries and a drink--you have to be tricked out from head to tail in a full-body cow suit. Hopefully you've already got a couple of those hanging in your closet, but if not, you can probably buy a decent one for $80 or so.

At this point, the laziest among you may be thinking, "Um...shouldn't I just keep my $80 and use it to buy myself twenty combo meals over a period of weeks or months?" Harrumph. Frankly, you embarrass me and shame yourself with such uninspired thinking. Sure, it would be way simpler, cheaper and easier to skip the whole costume idea and just pay for your deep-fried fast food like anyone else, but in doing so, you'd miss out on the opportunity to make a total jackass out of yourself and look like a moron as you sit on a plastic chair in the local Chick Fil-A restaurant trying to ram a chicken nugget through the mouth hole of your filthy cow suit.

So hurry; time's a-wasting. July 14 is the big day, and since it's nowhere near Halloween, it's not going to be easy to find the required attire in the local stores. Your best bet is to order it on the internet and pay for expedited shipping, just to be safe.

Oh, and email me a photo of yourself with your yummy prize clutched triumphantly between your hooves. I want to savor the moment with you.

This just in: People are bad.

I've spent a lifetime being foolish.

I naively believed in the good of man; I truly believed that we are all born good, and while circumstances can cause some of us turn a little bad, for the most part we remain basically decent. It pains me to admit that I was wrong. People are born evil.

But what a flower-sniffing sap I was. Once, in a college writing course, my professor asked us to pick one of two viewpoints--that people are basically good or basically evil--and write a paper defending that viewpoint. Naturally, being the wide-eyed young idiot that I now realize I was, I ranted on about how of course people are basically good, and only through extreme influence do we sometimes, tragically, take a misguided turn for the bad. What an idealistic little Mary Poppins asshole I was.

Today, cold, hard truth smacked me in the face. I was sitting around minding my own business (probably musing about how the world is one big happy Brady Bunch episode) when I overheard a cherub-faced little boy of about 8 chattering away to his father about a cartoon he had seen on TV recently, featuring Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. The distracted father was trying to do some work on his laptop while the kid yammered on, excitedly describing one of the coyote's elaborate anvil-as-weapon attempts on the road runner's life. The father muttered the occasional, "Mmm-hmmm," or "wow," in a flat, monotone voice. The kid was too young to understand that his father wasn't listening to a word he was saying, so he took his time meandering to the end of the story, wherein, as you might imagine, the road runner escapes once again, leaving the frustrated coyote steaming. The kid was the picture of childlike innocence, so excited about this silly cartoon...until! He wrapped the whole thing up by wistfully commenting, "I hope someday the coyote catches the road runner." To which Father Clueless mumbled, "Yeah, that'd be great."

What? This adorable little serial killer in training wants the coyote to catch the road runner?! What kind of parents raise a little monster like this? That'd make for a fun cartoon, wouldn't it?

Scene One: Coyote chases road runner; road runner narrowly escapes, a sweet, innocent smile on his beak.Scene Two: Coyote devises new plan to catch bird; road runner narrowly escapes once again, emitting an exceedingly cheerful, "Meep, meep!" and continuing to look angelic and huggable.

Scene Three: With grim resolve, coyote chases road runner again, this time with a fresh look of wild-eyed determination. At the end of a long, feverish chase, Coyote catches road runner, ripping into the bird's delicate throat with his teeth, amid the bird's tortured screams of agony. Blood-spattered coyote gleefully feasts on road runner's tattered carcass by the side of the highway, while cars whiz by, the occupants indifferent to the carnage.

Scene Four: Crazed from the taste of blood, the coyote goes on a maniacal killing spree, butchering and devouring every animal and man that crosses his path. Eventually, when he has decimated the entire population of the dessert, he begins to infiltrate other cartoons, slaughtering Mickey Mouse, Spongebob Squarepants, the Powerpuff Girls, the Afflac duck, the Geico gecko and the Energizer Bunny, as well as scores of others. The 8-year-old boy mentioned above sits in front of his TV cackling with demonic glee, rubbing his chubby hands together as he begins to map out his own plan to kills his parents, neighbors and classmates and boil them all together in one massive stew pot.

So there you have it; my rosy view of the world has been shattered. I now admit that yes, the world is a steaming cesspool filled with villains and cads, and when empty-headed hayseeds like myself stubbornly insist that people are innocent and kind, our foolish naivete only makes it easier for the scoundrels to pillage and plunder.

Well, no more. From this moment on, I will no longer bumble through life with a fairy tale notion of the goodness of mankind. I will approach every stranger with the belief that he is not a friend, but a bloodthirsty killer on a rampage, more likely to gut me like a fish than say hello. I will sleep with one eye open. From here on out, it's kill or be killed.

And I'm starting with that little 8-year-old, cartoon-loving murderer-on-training wheels. Next time he looks up, he's going to see an anvil blacking out the sky.

It's Not Easy Being The Sane One, Part I

For quite some time now, I've suspected that I'm the only sane person in existence on a planet teeming with the mentally ill. I've long been compiling evidence to support my theory, and I think you'll agree that my findings are pretty shocking. The list is long--too long to cram into one blog post, so I'll let you in on just a couple of the facts I've collected that prove that the whole world, (with the exception of yours truly) is batty:

--There are people out there who eat chili with Ritz crackers instead of saltines. Yeah, you read that right. Ritz goddamn crackers! Chili is perhaps the world's greatest food, something to be eaten in winter or summer, for breakfast or dinner. And it's an absolute requirement for anyone with a hangover. The idea that mindless peasants all over the world are fouling this manna from Heaven with the sweetened cardboard that is Ritz Crackers is horrifying and shameful. I can only pray these people will be punished in the afterlife.

--Even as we speak, in bars all across America, millions of people are blithely sipping margaritas made with sweet and sour--and pretending they taste good. Sweet and sour is vile, wretched stuff, and should never be consumed. It's probably perfectly good for rinsing out a kitty litter box or flushing out a radiator, but it's not suitable for the delicate human digestive tract. Its very existence began as a practical joke, I'm sure. Some lazy 20-something bartender got tired of mixing up real lime juice and sugar each time a customer ordered a margarita, so he devised a scheme to make things easier for himself, therefore freeing himself up to take more breaks to sit in his car and get stoned during his shift. At first, he probably just mixed up a huge vat of of lime juice and sugar and stored it in the refrigerator, where it could be swiftly accessed any time a customer ordered a drink. But after a couple of days he probably realized the lime juice was going bad when stored that way--and no way was this lazy prick willing to mix up a new jug daily. So the shiftless swine stopped using lime juice entirely, instead throwing in some limey sugary powdered Koolaid-type crap thereafter known as sweet and sour. His piss-drunk customers didn't notice or complain, so the a-hole bragged to all his bartender friends that he'd found a way to make drinks faster and smoke pot more on his shift than anyone else he knew. The sensation caught on, and voila--fast-forward to the present day, where I can be seen in restaurant after restaurant, bar after bar, year after year, asking waiters and bartenders if I can get a margarita made with lime and sugar instead of sweet and sour, only to be met with a blank stare as if I had just asked if I could please have the manager's panties blended up in my drink. Am I the only sane person left? Why does everyone cheerfully accept drinks made with sweet and sour, when sweet and sour tastes like sugared bile? My liver demands better. Nay, after the hell it's been through, my liver deserves better.

Oh, the list goes on and on. I'll let you in on the rest of it, but I'm sure you're reeling from these first two shockers. Yes, the world is a sick place. Thank God that there's still someone like me--perhaps the only sane one left--to speak the truth and stand up for what's right and decent. Now I call on you, my faithful readers, to join me in my fight. The next time a waiter tries to slip some sweet and sour past you, break the margarita glass over his head and disembowel him with one of the broken shards. Next time you see some halfwit desecrating a bowl of chili with Ritz crackers, ram the spoon up his nose. We can't just sit back and watch the world go to hell in a handbasket.

Thank you.

Don't judge me. There's a reason I'm this way.

You guys are a vicious, catty bunch; I realize that. Passing judgement, criticizing at every opportunity. I know you think I'm evil, wrong, a bad parent and a bad person, maybe even a criminal and a lunatic. But I swear, it's not all my fault. If you could see the hell I deal with every day, the sheer insanity I put up with in this house, you'd have a lot more sympathy for my flaws.

Case in point:

This is a photograph of what my husband considers a properly cooked bowl of oatmeal.
No, your eyes aren't deceiving you--it does indeed have the consistency of puke soup. He puts a couple of scoops of perfectly good oatmeal into a bowl, drowns it in a pony keg of milk, and microwaves it for a split second and voila! A bowl of slop that looks like something you'd expect to eat in a POW camp.

This is the kind of absurdity I deal with every day. Was he raised by a roving band of gypsies who subsisted on gruel and bread crusts? Does he think this is normal, acceptable behavior? Or is he really trying to drive me mad? I suspect it's the latter. I think he has devised an elaborate scheme to repeatedly commit small acts of absurdity in the hopes that over time he will be able to drive me to complete hystseria.

The man can't be reasoned with. I've tried to explain to him that this is what properly cooked oatmeal should look like: It should be one solid mass that you have to break into chunks with a knife. It should be so thick and gummy that your jaw aches from chewing it. It should be cooked to a point of dryness normally seen only in attic insulation. You should be able to turn the bowl upside down without the slightest resulting movement from the oatmeal itself. Washing the bowl afterward should require the use of a jackhammer and a bottle of adhesive remover. But he just stands there as I explain this, blinking his eyes at me in silence, as if I'm the crazy one. Then he slinks off to slurp up his curds and whey, either unaware or unconcerned that all across America, nursing homes are packed to the rafters with the toothless elderly who are eating the exact same meal.

Why is he doing this to me? I have a theory that he plans to drive me to the point of dementia, then have me committed to a lockdown mental institution so he can have complete control of the TV at all times. But I am not to be underestimated. I will devise my own plan to drive him crazy first, whereupon I will have him committed, and I will have free reign to leave all the kitchen drawers and cabinets open, and leave the toilet paper roll off the holder.

The challenge, of course, will be how to drive him batty. It won't be easy, because by nature I am an incredibly reasonable, agreeable person, loved and admired by all. A pillar of society. Therefore, it will be difficult for me to consciously attempt to behave in ways that a person might find objectionable or unreasonable. It comes so easy for Brian, but it will be a real challenge for me. But you'll see; I'll rise to the occasion.

Clearly, Mike pissed off the wrong person.

Poor Mike. He messed with the wrong girl.

I mean, it's a given that it had to be a female who did this to the back of his truck, right? Because when a guy pisses off another guy, he gets punched in the nuts. But when a guy pisses off a girl, he gets bleach poured over all his clothes, or an "anonymous" disparaging phone call to his wife/girlfriend/mom/boss, or, in extreme cases, a bunny rabbit simmering in a pot on his stove. Perhaps because men are (usually) more adept at delivering an effective ass-beating, women have had to get more clever and creative when seeking revenge. That's why God invented Judge Judy, who is, as far as I can tell, one of the few checks and balances in place to deter vengeful girls from doing real damage in their revenge-seeking exploits. The more cautious of the angry girls stick to that old, tired "shoe polish on the truck windows" trick, pictured above, which is something that's probably very rarely punished in the court system. Unfortunately, it's not very satisfying, as far as revenge tactics go.

Myself, I like to stick to a few of my own original revenge methods:

- Steal his porno magazines and tape color photocopies of David Hasselhoff's face over the faces of the girls inside. This one may take him months to figure out, because most men aren't aware that women have faces. But when he does eventually catch on, it'll scar him for life, possibly even making him subconsciously attracted to Hasselhoff.

- Get a job where he works, and then start up a sexual affair with his boss. Eventually use your pull with the boss to get the guy demoted to janitor.

- Put a severed human leg in his bed. The logistics of this one are tricky, but I can tell you from experience that it can definitely be done.

- Change his computer's internet home page to something awful.

- Break into his house while he's sleeping and chloroform him. Then, dress him in a blood-soaked clown suit and put him back in bed the way you found him.

- Marry him and have a baby with him. Then you have free reign to make his life miserable for decades. Brian has no idea he's a victim of this one.

But I guess shoe polish on the windows can be a good one, too, depending on how clever the libelous graffiti scrawl is. It is a little mystifying, though, that Mike was in such a godawful hurry to get where he was going that he didn't have a few minutes to clean up his truck window before jumping in and driving off. Hopefully he at least had the good sense to change out of the bloody clown suit.

No Shit, Sherlock (Part 1)

Women's magazines are notorious for making gradiose promises and not following through. Every issue of Cosmo claims to hold the key to teaching you how to have orgasms so intense that you will actually lose teeth, while every issue of Self claims to reveal how to get rock-hard abs by working out for no more than 10 seconds per day--but if you buy these magazines and read these supposedly mind-blowing articles, the only thing you learn is how gullible you are. These articles remind me a lot of how I used to write essays in high school. When asked to write a 1,000 word essay, I'd start with a 20 word premise and then try to flesh it out with a lot of B.S. til I reached the 1,000 mark. Eventually the process devolved into reading what I'd written over and over, looking for new places to tuck in extra words. I would have made an excellent women's magazine writer.

A recent issue of Shape magazine touted this revelation:

"Holy cow," you might be thinking. "This is just what I've been looking for!" Secrets! Success! How exciting! Finally, this article will reveal why some women are willowy and delicate, while others are stubby and squat. Apparently, the willowy women know some dieting secrets that the stubby ones do not, and these secrets are the keys to their success. Huzzah! Stumbling upon this article may be the single greatest thing to ever happen to you!

Slow down there, cowboy. These articles are always a big disappointment. You know how sometimes the key point in an article will be highlighted in a larger print, to draw a reader in? It's a sentence that's in the article itself, but simply printed again in large print and perhaps encapsulated in a colored box to draw the reader's attention to that important point. For example, if an article is about the sexual abuse of livestock in America, a particularly compelling sentence would be featured in large print, such as, "There are over sixty 'leven zillion farm animals raped by rednecks every day in America, most of them in West Virginia." The idea is that the point is so essential to the article that it should not be missed. Hopefully this blurb is so profound that you'll read it and say, "Whoa. That's incredible." If you saw it while reading the article, this crucial point will be driven home. If you saw it while idly flipping pages in the magazine, this line will draw you in, forcing you to read the article.

With that in mind, observe the blurb from the Secrets of Successful Dieters article:

Whoa! That's incredible! Thank God I found this enlightening article! I must cut these pages out and frame them! I must email them to all my friends! Attention dieters: Eat less and work out more! AT LONG LAST, THE SECRET IS OUT!

No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for the tip. Up til now I'd been carefully planning my diet in such a way as to strive to take in an additional 400 calories each day until I reach my ultimate goal of 55,000 calories a day. I've also been seeking ways to trim the physical activity out of my day so that eventually I won't have to get out of bed to pee or refill my bedside trough, thereby burning calories unnecessarily. But now! I will look into this whole "eat less, work out more" revelation. It sounds so crazy it just might work.

But I know that instead of laying on my couch reading the articles in Shape magazine, I should really be thinking of ideas for freelance articles I could submit to them. If they think the abovementioned article is print worthy, perhaps they'll go for these ideas:

Smoke Less to Avoid Lung Cancer

Walking Causes Wear and Tear on Shoes

Scared of Heights? Stay at Ground Level

Water is Very Wet

This is a Magazine Article

Books Are Useful If You Know How To Read

Cold? Wear A Sweater

See how I'd be perfect for this job? I'm just as good as pointing out the painfully obvious as anyone out there, and I'm just as good at filling a page up with total bullshit. Heck, look how many of these nonsense blog entries I've written, and you fools just keep coming back.

9 our of 10 polled say they'd rather remove their own spleen with a corkscrew than attend a baby shower

There is no feeling worse than the fear and dread that overcomes me when I find a baby shower invitation in my mailbox. I'd rather clean the rhino cage at the zoo with my toothbrush than go to a baby shower. For those of you men who don't know what goes on at these colossal bore-fests, they're pretty much all exactly the same, and they go like this:

10 to 50 ladies arrive in skirts and sandals, wearing Brighton jewelry and bearing gift bags. They sit around making stiff and uncomfortable small talk with one another, fake smiles plastered on their faces, for a good 45 minutes while waiting for God-knows-what...more guests to arrive, the food to be arranged in a pretty semi-circle on the table, whatever. The aforementioned small talk always involves labor and delivery stories. Anyone attempting to strike up a conversation that's not related to the pain of pushing a human head out of one's hoo-ha is swiftly punished, as the other ladies close in on her and pummel her about the head and neck with their handbags. The guest of honor and her mother work the crowd, appearing unspeakably thrilled to see each guest. Hair and shoes are complimented even in cases where a person would have to be high on glue to really like the hair and shoes in question. Finger food and some kind of non-alcoholic punch is available on a table nearby, but no one goes near it until the hosts physically shove a few people toward the table to get the ball rolling. Meanwhile, a couple of the expectant mommy's friends scuttle around handing out whatever accoutrements are necessary for the 45 tedious, insipid games that will be played throughout the affair. These games appear to have been created by grade-schoolers for grade-schoolers, so it's no problem to use only a couple of brain cells to play them while you use the rest of your brain formulating your escape plan. "How much time do I have to put in here before I can leave without looking like a dick?" The comedy is that every single smiling skirt-wearer there is thinking the exact same thing, and when one person finally does bow out politely with a made-up excuse, the rest of the attendees practically trample each other following suit. It's like a stampede of well-dressed cattle, mooing, "Congratulations!" as they body-block each other trying to get to the door first.

The truth is, I've been to a couple that weren't so bad. In fact, the one I went to in December for my neighbor was downright nice. The good showers all have one thing in common: Booze. I know, it sounds just plain wrong to have booze at a baby shower, but I'll argue that there's no situation where it's more necessary. My own shower had plenty of it, even though I couldn't drink any. (I didn't mind, though; I was high on coke at the time.) How else but half drunk can a person be expected to listen to a throng of women shriek in perfect union, "Oh my God, so CUUUTTE!!" each and every time a gift is unwrapped? The unwrapping of the gifts takes forever, and is mind-numbing to everyone but the guest of honor and her mom. After the 26th chorus of "It's darling!!" I always feel like jumping up and yelling, "Okay, we all agree! Itty bitty dresses are goddamn adorable! Let's move this thing along!"

So let this be a public service announcement to all you women. A baby shower doesn't have to be torture. Follow these few simple rules to prevent a trampling death at your shower:

1) No games. None. Okay, I understand this suggestion might just break the heart of your mother, who, for some inexplicable reason, has her heart set on some baby shower games. Fine--two games max, then, and let them be along the lines of "Guess how many diaper pins are in this bowl" rather than, "See who can diaper a baby doll fastest." Under no circumstances should a game be incorporated that takes more than 4 seconds to play.

2. Provide booze, I beg you. Make it clear on the invitation that booze will be provided; this will greatly increase the number of attendees, and therefore, gifts. You can try to keep it classy if you must, with white wine or some kind of froofy champagne spritzer hell, just as long as there's alcohol involved. No one should be expected to buy you a gift and put on a skirt without at least getting a glass of wine in return. Hopefully several. And a handful of pills.

3. Have it at your own house. I realize others are probably throwing this shower for you, rather than you throwing it for yourself, but they can just as easily throw it for you in your own house. Your mumsy and girlfriends can do all the setup and cleanup for you, just as they would if the shindig were thrown in some other location. This is important because a good half the reason these affairs are so uncomfortable is most of the attendees have never been to the house of the aunt or girlfriend who is hosting your shower, which adds to the oddness factor. And it's odd enough without trying to cram in extra oddness where it's not absolutely necessary.

4. Open your gifts quickly. You can still coo and squeal over each hat and each stuffed bunny, but coo quickly, for Christ's sake. I know it seems like everyone is thrilled to see each gift, judging by how loudly they're screeching at every pair of tiny booties you hold up, but trust me, they're only doing this to mask how incredibly uncomfortable they are, or to keep from nodding off. Possibly both. Plus, it's a sociological fact that any time you throw a crowd of total strangers in a room and deprive them of alcohol, they tend to get nervous, eventually turning shrill and bird-like. If you don't want one of your coworkers pecking one of your cousins to death, pick up the pace a little.

5. This is an option for girls who, like me, have mostly male friends: Don't make it a "ladies only" affair. If you're thinking there's no man alive who would attend a baby shower, then you're underestimating the draw of free booze. Probably 50 people attended mine, about half of them men. Besides, no one wants to go to a baby shower alone because they're expecting it to be so godawful boring, so lots of couples will attend in cases where, had it been ladies only, the lady might have sawed off her own foot just to have a valid excuse not to attend. As in, "Oh Cindy, I'm sorry I couldn't be at your baby shower--I was so mad that I had to miss it! I was at the hospital getting fitted for my prosthetic foot, and couldn't hobble away. But I know your mother took photos of you holding up each and every single bib and box of diapers that was given to you, so make sure I get to look at those sometime soon! I'm dying to see!"

That pretty much sums it up. Please, pass this advice on to any expectant mothers you know. Especially the ones you and I both know, so that the next time I get invited to a baby shower I don't have to resort to self-mutilation to get out of attending.