Dear Jackass, Volume 12

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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?

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?

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

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

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

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

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….