Redemption may be just a click away.

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

I know my readership, and I can say without hesitation that you're a pretty depraved bunch. Luckily, the world has a fair amount of do-gooder types who are even now out there struggling to find new, innovative ways to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, heal the sick and educate the underprivileged. You? You're probably on Day 24 of an internet porn masturbation marathon. If you've ever helped anyone, it was by leaving the room so the stench could dissipate. You make me sick.

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

My friend and coworker, Gena, is trying to raise funds for the March of Dimes. Now, before you get all indignant and shout, "Hold it right there--I don't want anything to do with one of those insipid do-gooders who spend all their time helping others. I can't identify with that kind of person at all," let me assure you: Gena is just as depraved as you are. Well, maybe not THAT depraved, but close. She's a friend of mine, and I promise you, any friend of mine is steeped in depravity. Just because she's taken a few moments away from abusing her liver to participate in a little fundraising doesn't mean she's gone all Angelina Jolie on us. So calm down.

The March of Dimes is an organization that raises a lot of money to help save premature babies. How does this affect you, sitting there in your squalid abode, surrounded by 138 cats in varying stages of disease, and several hundred empty Twinkies containers? Well, think about it: Since my own son Jake was born 6 weeks premature and spent 2 weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit, it stands to reason that it's the March of Dimes who brought you such fascinating, intellectually stimulating reading as this post from November, 2005. That's right, you can thank the good folks at The March of Dimes for Jake, the inspiration for so many of the top-quality blog posts you've read here at Karlababble.com. (If you're scratching your head and asking yourself, "If the kid is so bloody inspirational, why does Karla only post about once per millennium these days?"--good question. Unfortunately, Jake no longer resides with us. Frankly, I'm not sure where he is. In the spirit of good parenthood, we decided to take him to the zoo one day, but things went haywire when we indulged in three too many bottles of Wild Turkey before heading out that morning. Long story short, when we returned from the zoo that evening, we were unloading the car, and eventually realized Jake wasn't in there. Before you self-righteously label me a bad mom, let me just inform you that I made not one but two calls to the zoo's Lost and Found department, where I was told they did a thorough search of the cardboard box under the counter and found several umbrellas, a couple of pairs of sunglasses and a set of car keys, but no 3-year-old boys. Can't say I didn't try.)

At any rate, The March of Dimes is good, good stuff. They do more good in 15 minutes than you'll do your whole life. I suggest that, in a small attempt to stave off the fires of hell, you go henceforth to Gena's March for Babies page and make a donation--however small--to this worthy cause. Not sure how much to donate? I recommend you calculate how much your meth addiction costs you per month, and donate 7% of that total. If each one of you did that, there'd be enough money to save approximately 14 zillion premature babies, cure AIDS, herpes and bacterial meningitis, and pay back the national deficit. Twice.

So, please--reach deep into your pockets. Oh, God, wait...stop that. That's disgusting. Seriously, stop that. I'm going to vomit. Christ, why do I try to humanize you degenerates?

Parties and poop don't mix.

For most of my life, I have been the kind of girl who loves a good party. If you're like some of my readers, you may think "party" means two or three pimply-faced social outcasts sipping root beer while watching Interview With A Vampire and eating mom's fresh-baked cookies, but hopefully not all of you are as socially awkward and universally disliked as that. Among my friends, parties used to involve lots of cheap (or possibly stolen) alcohol, mean-spirited laughter and the occasional harmless felony. Ah, the good old days. My liver and I sometimes sit and reminisce about those times, before a coughing fit causes me to pass out in a pool of bloody phlegm.

It's strange how things change. The most recent party I attended was just a week or so ago, and it was a Potty Party. Easy there, hippie, I didn't say "Pot Party," I said "Potty Party." And no, I'm not part of some underworld creep club that hosts golden showers in dingy tavern basements. It was my last-ditch effort at potty-training my son, Jake.

I don't know much about parenting--any of the Child Protective Service workers who have visited my house will vouch for that. But I really didn't think potty training would be a big deal. I assumed all children eventually reach an age where a few well-placed bribes are enough to entice them to pee in the appropriate location, and an exuberant display of praise and a few rewards would be enough to encourage them to keep it up. I even assumed that all children eventually reach an age where they dislike the feeling of a wet diaper or underwear enough that it creates a deterrent. Either I was naively wrong, or Jake is just especially lazy and slovenly.

I first tried to potty train him when he was two years old. Right from the start, he would cheerfully pee on command, and had no complaints about sitting on the potty reading books as long or as often as I asked. He was highly motivated by the stickers I gave him as a reward, and was proud of his successes. But he was still likely to pee himself at any time, even shortly after going on the potty. I offered bribes and praised him enthusiastically when it was warranted--but still, he'd pee in his Pull-Ups. So I tried putting him in underwear, making a big deal out of the fact that he was wearing "big boy" underwear and being sure to supply him with the ones he'd most be interested in--Spongebob, Thomas the Train, etc. Alas, he would still pee himself and blithely continue playing in his urine-soaked Elmo undies. Then I tried letting him run around naked--and the limitless fountain of toddler pee continued on unabated. I'd find him playing with Leggos as he sat in a spongy puddle on the carpet in his room. The little grimy little rat didn't even have the good sense to scoot over to a dry spot.

Why couldn't it be as easy to potty train a child as it is to housebreak a puppy? Wasn't my kid smarter than a Cocker Spaniel? Discouraged, I eventually decided to put the whole thing on hold--not even mention potty training again for several months, and then try again.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks ago; with Jake about to turn 3, it suddenly felt like I had let too much time go by. Not only is three a bit old for a kid to be running around in diapers, but in addition, Jake looks older than he is. He regularly gets mistaken for a 5-year old, which makes it even more embarrassing when we're at the grocery store and he sternly orders me to change his diaper. So I bought a book called Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day. One day! This seemed too good to be true.

And it was. While the "just one day" concept conveys a sense of simplicity and ease, the whole ordeal was a big pain in the ass. Turns out I had to throw an elaborate party for the urine-soaked little ingrate, and spent nearly as much time purchasing the supplies and putting the whole affair together as I spent raising him to potty-training age. On top of that, I had to do a long list of things so silly and ridiculous that I began to wonder if I was part of an elaborate Punk'd-style prank, and I began looking around for hidden cameras.

The party was to involve only two people--just me and Jake. My six-month old daughter and husband were banished from the house that day, as the book instructed. The first half of party day was to revolve around Jake and I potty-training a stuffed animal together; the second half of the day was to be all about me potty training Jake. The stuffed animal I chose was a bear, which we named Fred. Fred had, as the book dictated, about 9 pee accidents during the course of the morning, and 3 poop accidents. Upon "discovery" of each accident, I had to exclaim, "Oh no! Fred had an accident!" and the three of had to hustle to the bathroom to clean him up, make him sit on the potty, and then scold him gently, "No more peeing/pooping in our underwear." When did my life take a turn for the ridiculous? Yet I was determined to do exactly what the book instructed, in the hopes that one day of full-throttle ridiculousness might pay off in potty-training success, and I could get on with my life. Hence, the stuffed bear did a lot of peeing and pooping.

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

I had outfitted the bear in makeshift underwear I had fashioned myself from some Mickey Mouse fabric I bought at a fabric store. (I never thought I'd catch myself saying a sentence like that.) Making him pee himself was no problem--I just dipped his butt in some water when Jake wasn't looking. Making him poop was trickier--I had to scoop some baby food prunes into his undies. Wouldn't baby food prunes stick to his fur, you ask? Yes, if not for the fact that I had wrapped his furry booty in Saran Wrap before putting his underwear on him. When the bear was sitting on the potty chair in the bathroom, I was able to make him pee by using a discreetly hidden medicine syringe of lemonade, which I shot into the potty chair the bear was sitting on, while Jake was looking the other way. Similarly, I made the bear poop by scooping some baby food prunes into the potty chair beneath the bear while Jake was distracted. Then I'd "discover" the pee or poop in the potty and cheer excitedly at the bear's success. I'm fairly certain Jake was silently mocking me all morning, indulgently humoring me in the same way he probably will 40 or 50 years from now when he visits me in the nursing home and I hysterically insist that the nurses are cannibals who are planning to skin me and eat me. But because he's a good kid, he went along with the charade and pretended that the stupid bear was crapping himself. As the morning went along, the bear gradually got the hang of things, and was able to stay dry for longer periods of time, for which we celebrated and rewarded the bear with a treat from the snack tray I had made up...which Jake then ate, because, you know. Stuffed bears can't eat Cheetohs or M&M's.

During the first part of the day, Jake wore diapers like usual, and no mention was made of him using the potty--just the bear. At lunchtime it was agreed that the bear had graduated from diapers and was now officially a "big boy." Then Jake went down for his nap, and I beat my head against a wall for two hours in an effort to knock all traces of the morning's stupidity out of it.

When Jake awoke from his nap, I shifted into second gear. I informed him that he was no longer going to wear diapers, and I presented him with a big bag of underwear with various cartoon characters on them. He chose Thomas The Train first, and soberly informed me, before I had a chance to mention it myself, that he didn't want to "pee on Thomas." Good deal. This was going to be easy.

The book had instructed me to offer him lots and lots to drink--every 5 to 10 minutes. It also said something along the lines of, "Don't even think you can get away with offering milk and the usual boring drinks," but suggested instead offering fun and interesting drinks to encourage more drinking, since you want the kid to pee a lot. Jake never gets Juice Boxes, so I had bought some of those. He downed three of them in no time flat, plus two sippy cups of 2/3 juice, 1/3 water, as opposed to his usual ho-hum mix of 1/3 juice, 2/3 water.

What I wish the book had mentioned, or that I'd been smart enough to realize, is that LARGE QUANTITIES OF JUICE CAN GIVE A TODDLER DIARRHEA. Hindsight is 20/20, and I saw far too much of the kid's hindquarters that day. It took a lot of expectant waiting for the juice to run through his system, but when it finally hit the bladder, it was a pee fiesta. Pee here, pee there, none of it in the potty. I put him on the potty every 10 minutes as the book instructed, which sometimes netted us a little pee, sometimes not, but didn't seem to have any effect on reducing the amount of pee that soaked into my carpets and pooled on my tile floors. When the Party Diarrhea finally hit, the real fun began. Instead of his usual 2 bowel movements a day, he had about 6, none of which bore any resemblance to a solid matter. I spent a good portion of the last part of the day swabbing poop off my tile, my carpet, my child, my feet, my furniture, etc. I did not have the experience of seeing any of it actually in the toilet. A note about bathroom grout: If you are thinking of installing tile on your bathroom floor, and you plan to have children someday, consider the color of your grout. Scrub all you wish; turns out poop doesn't come out of grout all that easily.

By the end of the day, I had grimly decided the whole Potty Party was a huge failure, and that motherhood was clearly not for me. I had started a neat, organized pocket list of places I could abandon my children without being seen. Too tired from poop-swabbing to carry out the child abandonment plan that night, I decided to get some rest and start fresh the next day, so that I might be mentally sharp enough to stay one step ahead of the law after making the drop.

Strangely, the next day things just started to click. Jake, now diarrhea-free and not bursting at the seams with 47 liters of juice, started going to the potty on his own and reveling in his success. Skeptically, I tucked my Child Abandonment Checklist into a dresser drawer, ready to put the plan on hold and see how far Jake was willing to take this whole potty thing.

And he's been doing great ever since. He may never know how close he came to being left near the door to the Greyhound Bus Station men's room. Aside from one unfortunate incident in which he technically pooped on the potty, but accidentally delivered the payload onto the rim of the seat rather than in the bowl, and I didn't notice until I caught him trying to scoop it into the proper location with his hand, things have gone swimmingly.

Now I'm ready for a real party. I need to throw back some grain alcohol like Jake threw back those juice boxes, after which I plan to wake up face-down on the bathroom floor on my poop-colored grout. Anyone else in?

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

I imagine that, for the average person, it can be a bit uncomfortable to have to admit when you're wrong. But for someone like me, who is recognized worldwide for being right nearly every second of every day since birth, it's incredibly difficult and humbling to have to admit a mistake. An average citizen like you probably can't imagine.

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

Recently I made some very harsh statements about a certain sports drink. I made these statements without actually trying said sports drink, so certain was I that it couldn't possibly taste good. The bottle sat in my refrigerator, untouched for months even before I wrote that blog post, and each time I opened my refrigerator to get something, I smirked at the ridiculousness of a pickle juice-flavored sports drink. It's true; I mocked that bottle several times a day.

I never really intended to ever try the drink, but instead to merely keep it around for the express purpose of snickering at it each time I saw it. Then, last week, after several weeks without a trip to the grocery store, I eventually opened my refrigerator to find there was nothing left in it except that lonely, proud little bottle. So, much in the same way Dyckerson made both of his sexual conquests by finally settling for the lone, passed out female left in the bar at closing time, I decided to try the one item left in my otherwise bare refrigerator.

So I took a sip. At first I thought, "Hmm. That's interesting. Not as bad as I thought." I re-capped it and put it back. A few minutes later, I was back for another sip. Several minutes later, I was back again. Then again. (Replace "sip" with "snort" and this could be the same story I told at my first NA meeting a few years ago.)

To make a long story short, I am now a fan of this fine product. I found that the drink's greatest strength lies not in its thirst-quenching quality or even in its pickle-y taste, but in its ability to mask an odor. To explain: For about a month now, I've been taking an herbal supplement called Sleep N' Restore, in the hopes that it will improve my ability to fall asleep and stay asleep. I suffer from a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of a past incident in which a creepy, unwelcome pervert forced himself into my home even as my family and I slept. Consequently, I sleep lightly and fearfully, and am trying this supplement out in the hopes that I can avoid having to resort to real, doctor-prescribed sleeping pills--which you and I both know I would undoubtedly abuse, eventually winding up like Courtney Love without the flesh-eating yeast infections.

Have you ever tried an herbal supplement? If so, you know that most of them smell and taste like an unchanged kitty litter box. Why is this? I think herbal supplement makers secretly laugh at us, first because we actually buy this crap that doesn't fulfill any of the claims on its packaging and advertisements, and second because we do it no matter how hard they work to make each pill smell and taste worse than the next. There have been several different supplements that I've taken in the past and had to eventually stop taking because, over time, I got to the point where I'd inadvertently start to wretch as soon as I opened my cabinet and caught sight of the bottle.

This particular product, Sleep N' Restore, has managed to pack an unprecedented amount of stink into a relatively small pill. When you first pop the foil on one of these pills, the yellowy haze of the stench envelopes you, and you become immediately disoriented, wondering how a decomposing camel could possibly have wound up strapped to your back. You want to swallow the pill as quickly as possible just to get it over with, but it takes enormous dedication to go through with something so undesirable. (Insert your own sex-with-Dyckerson joke here.) I have discovered that Pickle Juice Sport, with its own very strong smell and taste, quickly overpowers the smell and taste of this horrible, horrible little pill, replacing the objectionable rotting carcass odor with the lovely scent of pickles. Why didn't I think of this before? I've been drinking pickle juice for years, and choking down supplements that smell like diseased feet, and never thought to mix the two.

I should know better than to rush to judgement about a product. I have to remind myself that my criticisms are taken so seriously by the masses that a single negative comment from me can cripple a new product and bring a company to its knees. I can only hope it's not too late for me to now heartily endorse this fine beverage, and hopefully bring Pickle Juice Sport's parent company back from the brink of bankruptcy. So I offer my humble apology to Pickle Juice Sport, and likewise to Jason Whitten, the face of Pickle Juice Sport, who I hastily labeled a shithead. You, sir, are no shithead.

In a final irony, I tried to restock my supply of this fabulous product yesterday by stopping at the same 7-11 where I had purchased the original bottle, only to find they apparently no longer carry it. Clearly, the CEO of 7-11 is a fan of Karlababble.com and took my negative review to heart. So I am pleading with you now, Mr. CEO, please fill your coolers once again with Pickle Juice Sport, so will I can once again, without retching, be able to swallow any yucky-smelling supplement/food/narcotic/insert-your-oral-sex-joke-here.

Thank you.

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

I understand a lot about people. For instance, I know that 90% of you keep dragging yourselves out of bed each day, day after day, for one reason and one reason only--the desperate hope that, before the day ends, you'll come into come in contact, in some way, with boobs (for the other 10% of us, just replace that last "bs" with "ze).

I know what makes you tick.

Which is why I'm pleased to provide you with a link, and an errand, that I feel confident will make your drab, sad life a little brighter.

My friend Kendra is super hot. Big deal, you may be saying--lots of girls are hot. But Kendra has a special, extra quality that not all hot girls have--she's willing to get on stage and shake it. She performs in burlesque shows...which is just plain hot, not matter how you slice it. Well, it's hot if you happen to look like Kendra. If you look like you, don't even consider it.

She has entered something called the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Burlesque Competition, in which only the six entrants who get the most online votes will get the chance to actually compete. Thank God for me, then! Because, thanks to Karlababble.com, I have access to thousands and thousands (okay, pairs and pair) of stalkers, creeps and unemployed weirdos who, while they may lack the refinement and class to appreciate Kendra's amazing talent in burlesque dancing, will nonetheless do absolutely anything asked of them in the name of partial nudity.

So please, go one and all to this site and vote for Kendra. She's the 10th one down on the left, Dizzy Von Damn. It's one vote per IP address, so if you have more than one computer, or can break into more than one house with a computer, feel free to vote as many times as you're able. You can also check her out on Myspace.

Then you can get back to carving up squirrels and arranging the body parts into your ex-girlfriend's name on the lawn. I don't want to take up your whole day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need an intervention.

Someone please help me. I can't tear myself away from Facebook long enough to write a blog post, wrap Christmas presents, feed my children, or do my weekly grocery shoplifting. Help. And don't judge me. Just help me, you self-righteous pricks.

This is too f'd up even for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) Don't eat. Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impending doom

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

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

Let me just take a moment to compose myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Help me.

The Shit-Kicker Channel redeems itself

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

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making The Team

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


I Want To Look Like A Highschool Cheerleader Again

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

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

Some of life's great mysteries

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

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

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

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

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

Your days are numbered, rednecks.

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

Case in point #1:

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

Case in point #2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exhibit A: The Acrylic Stand-Up Photo

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

Exhibit B: The Christmas Ornament

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

Exhibit C: Personalized Candy

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

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

Thank God one of you finally got it right.

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

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

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

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

12 weeks to blissful stupidity

This is the wrong decade to be on maternity leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one is going to inspire you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I spawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're welcome.

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

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

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

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

A heartfelt saga of friendship, sorrow and anal rape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

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

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

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

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

At least the vomiting gives me something to look forward to

Aw, shucks.

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

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

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

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

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