NothingSacred

Redneck Haircut

It's official. The mullet is dead.  But during our trip down south, The Old Man and I witnessed what we fear may be its replacement on our visit to Orlando's fine tourist attraction, Gator Land.  We're not quite sure what to make of it.  This guy was walking around out in public, without a hat, so it seems perhaps this was intentional and not the result of a lost bet as I had originally assumed could be the only rational explanation for it. I would've asked him about it, but he and his pack of friends looked suspiciously like they may be white supremecists and would have no problem killing us all and dumping our bodies into the alligator marshes. 

I invite any of you that might know what would possess this chap to do this, to please leave your thoughts. Also, feel free to suggest some catchy names for this, as it will surely become trendy with all the other rednecks any second. All I could come up with is "The Accountant".

Sponsored by Trojan

Ok, I am slowly adjusting. My attitude has greatly improved. I've remembered that no matter where you, eventually the light bill comes, so maybe taking off for the beach wasn't exactly practical. Besides, I would eventually end up bitching about the heat there, right? And the giant bugs (something Colorado is blessedly lacking). And the crime. And all sorts of shit.  

Anyway, the only thing still needing re-acclimation is my skin, which I realized just now has entered a level of dehydration that leaves me looking like a cross between Magda from There's Something About Mary and one of the alligators we fed at Gatorland in Orlando (Oh Lord! Talk about Redneck paradise! That place was thick as a politician's epidermis with hillbillies! Wait 'til you see photographic evidence in an upcoming post!).

So, I just returned from my chiropractor who informed me my back was too tight to crack due to stress (weird... I don't feel stressed... course, all the kids are away, so perchance that helps??) Therefore, I will not take this chance to go on and on about this silly "stimulus package" or the fact that those fucking cretins on Wall Street gave themselves bonuses for their abysmal performances in 2008-- no, that would rile me up even more.  Instead, I will share a sweet little nugget The Old Man and I gleefully spied on St. Maarten.  It speaks for itself, I think.  Although their tagline could definitely be something like "Don't Forget Protection!"

A Grudging Return

After ten blissful days enjoying sunshine and warmth near the equator, my return home has left me a bit... grouchy. Disappointed. Depressed. 

It doesn't help that upon our return winter finally decided to peek its ugly fucking head in on Colorado. I'm not kidding when I say that I want to curl up in the fetal position, under four blankets, IN the fireplace. It is crazy fucking cold. And nothing goes worse with my new tan than red cheeks, blue lips and skin that has dried to such a degree one might confuse my hands with those of an Andean ice mummy. 

Yes, the cruise was possibly the best family vacation we ever took, and more than a little peeved that my Indian manservant, John (I'm not sure that was his real name...), no longer brings me bloody mary's in the morning and fruity deliciousness in the afternoon and glasses of wine all through the night. I miss my little on-board trainer, Peter, with his upbeat lisp and ballerina thighs and Australian accent. 

Excuse me, my nose is running it is so fucking cold.

Out-of-Office Auto Reply

The Old Man and I are taking off on a fantastic, romantic vacation...

Oh, alright! Actually... we're bringing Ace and Deuce with us, too. We're heading for our first Disney Cruise, which word on the Mommy Street is not only great for kids, but for 'rents.  So I'll report back. 

[Trey has yet to prove his ability to behave more like a human and less like an untrained chimpanzee, so he has forfeited having his family around for his second birthday. Again! (I had to take his big brothers to Disney World for his first birthday, while he enjoyed a vacation to Grandma's.)  We'll see if he's got his shit together for his third!]

So there will be no posts until I return (if I do... don't think it hasn't crossed my mind to just "forget" to re-board the cruise ship and become a tropical ex-pat.)

I am hoping to have plenty of bloggable material pop-up-- and why wouldn't it? Certainly being trapped on a cruise ship with a gazillion other fat Americans floating our dumb asses around the Caribbean in a Disney-induced family-fun-festival, I am bound to both embarrass myself and get pissed off at others, right? Sounds like a gold mine!

 If only someone would pay me to blog, I'd be able to write this sort of trip off, right? Damn, I need a job! Doing this. Anything of greater responsibility would surely be screwed up beyond repair within a matter of months. I think I might actually be able to say truthfully that I didn't know I was bilking people in a Ponzi scheme if I were employed by Jack Madoff! That's what cubicles and fluorescent lights do to me! Lobotomy. 

TOM is asking that I leave the computer at home. I think he'd actually like to talk to me or something, if you can imagine! (Listen, it's not like I want to blog from the boat or anything. Are you kidding? My cheap ass wouldn't pay for a single second of ship-to-shore rates for ANYTHING!).  But I keep thinking I may have a spare second to work on getting all these stories in my head out, and so it would be real handy to take my computer along. I wonder if I could sneak it in my bag... TOM? Are you reading this? Damn! 

Have a great few days while I'm away-- may be a good time to catch up on archives! Cheers!!

End of Times Bellwether #642: At-home Paternity Test

Has it truly come to this, folks? Really?!?! We now must have the convenient take home "who's-your-daddy" DNA kit? This is a sad, sad day, folks.  

And the guy in the picture looks so happy! You know he's thinking, "HOW FAR behind am I on child support?!?! Oh SHIT!"  And the poor kid is like, "This one? I get to look forward to shitty eyesight and balding? Oh great! Load me up on the "sorry I was never there" gifts and make-up trips to the baseball game now, Pops.  Sheesh! I can't believe my mom banged you! Either she was drunk, or you've changed a lot in the last seven years!"

"For Questions Only DNA can Answer"-- what a fucking tag line! What other questions are there that only DNA can answer? Murder. Rape. All the good stuff.  And what is with New York? Why not there? I would think with that big city and all that New York would be one of the places most in need of a handy little papa-deciphering kit like this.  I mean, in Lincoln, Nebraska, couldn't you just look around and go, "Yep. He's the one. Looks just like 'em".

Which brings me to the awesome natural ability of kids to look exactly like their dads when they are born. I hear it is a trait leftover from our cave-dwelling days.  The pre-historic "IdentiGene", if you will. Clearly everyone knows who the mother is (the fat, bloated, tired one), and then the baby comes out and yep, no question! Flat nose, protruding brow, fleshy lips, woolly-mammoth sized ears-- this one belongs to Graak!! I'm sure the Geico Cavemen are still relying on Mother Nature's paternity test. Whilst the rest of us now trek over to the Tyra Banks show to publicly embarrass ourselves and everyone who ever knew us.  

And it's true-- it still works! I tell you what, boys, if your kid pops out and doesn't have ANY resemblance to you-- either book your trip to Maury Povich, or pop on down to your local Walgreens and grab you a box of IdentiGene! Thankfully, for the little girls, they grow out of this phase pretty quickly (although not soon enough for that poor little LopAnthony twin. But then, what did her mother expect breeding with the human equivalent of Gollum?).

Confidential, eh? Yeah, except when you have to buy this box IN PUBLIC! Avoiding eye contact with the clerk, looking over your shoulder, hoping you don't see anyone you recognize (unless it's that one guy, then you'll need to take him aside for a sample. What was his name again?). 

Here's what's funny for me about this.  The lady that stops in to Walgreens to pick up a pack of gynelotrimin and canker sore treatment, sees this on the shelf, shrugs and throws a few boxes in.  You can just see her, can't you? Piling up her boxes of Identigene on the counter, the clerk's eyes bulging, and just sort of casually saying, "Yeah, I'll take a carton of Newports, too".

Interesting side note on the sociological front... would we determine the country's sluttiest city by tracking sales of Identigene? Something to ponder. 

Mariah Carey-- diva, poet, giant

Edna and I have a long-running disagreement about Mariah Carey.  She steadfastly defends her, while I cannot abide.  No, I'm not talking about Mariah's glass-shattering vocal range or any of that-- I'll give it to her, she can certainly sing.  I speak, instead, of how fucking gigantor she is, and yet simultaneously, how childlike. First thing's first.  Her size.

 There's no getting around it, Edna, Mariah Carey is akin to a wildebeest in stature.  Now listen, before you start getting all crazy on me-- I have nothing against tall women or rotund women! In fact, nearly every woman on the planet is taller than me as I'm only one inch taller than what Edna would probably consider midget (and thus horrifying and wrong). I have friends of ALL shapes, and we all beat ourselves merilessly for not looking more like Gisele and Angelina. 

 So I know the feeling of being outside the norm of quote-unquote desirability! In fact, I have a similar shape to Ms. Carey (not much waist to speak of, broad shoulders, etc-- I have yet to invest in new funbags, but my time's a' comin'!). That said, I also know that my figure dictates certain things.  IE, I cannot wear big Kentucky Derby hats.  I cannot tote around the au courant giant purses that seem to be everywhere this season.  If I did I would like like a pack mule. Fine.  I love big flow-y hippie shirts. However, they make me look like Violet Beauregard after the gum incident and so I avoid wearing them. There are certain things that my body has not cooperated with my mental images on.  Here's the problem with Mariah Carey.  It is not that she is gigundous-- and don't get me wrong, Mariah isn't FAT, she is just what one of my southern friends pig-headedly refers to himself as: "big-boned". He usually says this through a mouthful of hog, barbeque sauce running down his chins as he tries to keep his beer bottle from slipping through his greasy fingers-- it is that she shoves herself into clothes four sizes too small and 20 years too young! 

  She really is big-boned.  Have you SEEN the size of those fucking meathooks?!? How could you not? She flaunts them around like Porterhouses during every performance-- jazz-hands a flappin', waving her yardstick fingers at us. Unfortunately for her, she inadvertently calls attention to her overall gigundousness by holding them up in front of her face (only highlighting how fucking big her head is, although in comparison to the linebacker shoulders she's got, her head occasionally looks a little pinnish, particularly if she's slicked all her hair back.I know the feeling, trust me. I'm sporting that oh-so-sexy look right now).  

Now, I would be a real son-of-a-bitch if her size alone was what frustrated me to such a degree that I occasionally catch myself wishing harm to her. [Not BAD harm. Not stalker harm or anything. Little harm. Hemmorhoids. Canker sores. Alopecia. You know, that sort of thing.]

 My issue isn't her size, per se. It is how she uses it, or even how she misuses it.  Tall women are POWERFUL! They shouldn't act all weak and delicate.  And it pisses me off she tries to hide behind some little girl bullshit! Amazonian women should be strong and unapologetic. Mariah Carey acts like she just stepped off a school yard at recess whenever she's in front of a camera and it really irritates! Not to mention how she completely mistreats the public-at-large by wearing ridiculously small clothes!

There is no excuse for it. She's a gazillionaire. I've seen her place on Cribs! She gets free merch all over the place and yet only seems to keep the stuff that comes from Gymboree and Baby Gap! She's not fooling anyone into thinking she's not a giantess just because she refuses to shop outside the Missy section! If there is one celebrity who needs an emergency "very-special-episode" of What Not to Wear it is Mariah Carey. But, I think her love of miniature clothing is indicative of a larger problem. A dirty little secret the media industry has been keeping from us.  

Mariah Carey is fundamentally retarded. She has been developmentally stilted and reveals it in her weird-o rooms full of Hello Kitty shit and her love for tiny t-shirts and denim belts she thinks are skirts.  She acts like a little kid, and frankly, I feel sorry for that poor sucker who married her. You know he was thinking he was gonna be living the high life, rolling on the gravy train, eating his Count Chocula with a silver spoon, and all those other cliches.  He's a gold-digger, clear as Saran Wrap. And yet, I feel sorry for him now. I bet he wakes up scared to death about the crazy woman sleeping next to him in bed, wondering how he got there, wondering if she's gonna make him play My Little Ponies again today, or if she's going to roll over on him and squish him. 

As further evidence of Ms. Mariah Carey's undeniable, certifiable juvenile nature, I would like to present the following to you. It was the whole reason I started writing this today and then got a little carried away. Sorry.  All I wanted to share with you is this, from Mariah's book of poems, a few lines from her poignant poem, "The Unicorn".

I love my unicorn, he knows

  I am true,

My troubles go poof, my unicorn

  named Boo

 

Marxism

Naughty Games

    Every year The Old Man and I find ourselves faced with that final trek to pick "one or two" more toys for each boy as the big day approaches (that'd be Xmas, for all you people already entrenched in 2009).  This year was no different. We found ourselves swimming through crowds with the rest of the procrastinators; pushing through half-empty aisles, rummaging through the leftovers.  Basically searching for something desirable in a pool of misfit toys-- if only Hermie had been there to cry with us about it.

As we scanned the dwindling supplies at a local Wally World, a little something special caught my eye. Don't ask me why my attention was immediately drawn to it. I really wouldn't know. Ahem. 

Oh, ok-- we all know I have a notoriously dirty mind. But forgive me, I don't think this is much of a stretch.  When you see it, you tell me what it looks like! (The pic isn't the best-- we had to take it with the phone, and both of us were shaking from giggling)

Yeah! Exactly! It is Dora with her gigundous cock/joystick protruding through a giant bush! It even has a happy-to-see-you little curve in it! And howabout that tiered dickhead? It couldn't look more like pulsing man flesh unless they'd painted veins down the side of it.

 So this little gem poses a few interesting questions for us.

For instance, why in god's name did the manufacturer choose "skin" as the preferred dye color for the batch of plastic to be used as a joystick? Did they intend for Dora to look like an overzealous, outrageously well-endowed child predator? 

Secondly, did anyone else know that Dora is, in fact, a tranny? I was not hip to this, I must say. I have heard the rumors about Bert and Ernie, but not a peep on the Mommy Beat about Dora!  Now, I know that children's programming is getting more and more progressive-- showing more shows with "two mommies" or what have you, but I had no idea that Nick Jr. had gone so far as to incorporate this sort of sexuality normalization into their programming! I guess I should have been suspicious about her friendship with that little monkey and the fact that she has a verbal relationship with her backpack, but call me naive, I thought she was just your average bilingual know-it-all. 

Thirdly, I must apologize in advance for the following... 

I am sorry... 

My mind is a nasty, filthy little cavern of wicked scenarios that induce sophomoric attacks of snickering to myself.  Trust me, I paid the price in elementary school for it.  Anyway... all I can envision with this little "joystick" is little Aiden/Brayden/Jaden sitting in front of the tv, controller grasped tightly in his paws clutched into his lap as he sits cross-legged in front of the tube, whacking and jerking away, grunting and grimacing, brows furrowed in concentration.  Just beating away at happy little Dora.  Er, Dorian, I mean.  It is almost like this little toy is a precursor to days ahead when Aiden/Brayden/Jaden's mom accidentally walks in on him after he's discovered Cinemax late night.

But of course it doesn't stop there.  What of the poor little handicapped boy who was born without arms and has taught himself to do everything by using only his mouth?  The kid can paint and write and play billiards. He maneuvers his wheelchair with that whole short breath, long breath blow-tube dealy that always blows my mind every time they show it on 60 Minutes.  What about him?  He wants to play the vids, too! And with this?!?! Well, as if he wasn't a laughing stock already what with the armless thing-- now his snotty brother has pics of him effectively blowing a plastic transvestite! 

Well, you can see where this shopping trip got me and TOM!  Who can concentrate on the magic of Christmas when these days you can't help but practically trip over porn wherever you go! You'd think the toy section would be safe... then again, there's always those Bratz slutz selling themselves all over the place now, so I guess really not even the toy aisle is safe.

So much to say... so little time!

Ok, I'm already feeling so guilty about not finding any time while the kids were out of school to blog-- I hope you'll forgive me. And now that I have 45 minutes to myself before I have to go volunteer with Ace's second grade class, of course, I can think of nothing to say! At least not that can be written, edited and posted in 45 minutes!  I guess I'll just cover today's naming news...

I have been wondering when Bennifer (Affleck) would pop out that new baby, and here she is! Unfortunately, no name has been released.  But with a Violet under their belt, one has to wonder if they'll stick to the flower theme.  There are admittedly a TON to choose from... so we'll reserve judgement til the big announcement. 

Although I gotta say... I'd like to see them go with color instead of bud. Like maybe Ruby or something. Or perhaps an ode to those purple-y roots with Prune. Course, she'd be the ugly sister. Maybe Plum is a better choice-- but would that step on the toes of Ms. Paltrow with her little Apple? Hey didn't they(Ben and Gwyn) date?? Ooooh-- Jen could REALLY throw down with her hubby's ex by tossing out something like Tomato! Give that stupid ol' Gwynnie a run for her apple-money-- its a fruit AND a color! Take that, Oscar Winner! Tomato Affleck. Oh, has there been anything so lovely since Zuma Rossdale?  Right.

But that reminds me that on my little Christmas hiatus another (sorta) celeb popped, and I wouldn't be right for me not to mention that I must applaud her (and his) truly skillful naming of their third daughter. Angie Harmon and her football-player husband, Something Or-Other, had little Emery, who joined her big sisters, Finley and Avery.

  I gotta hand it to her-- well done on the lovely harmony of the three!  Take it from a mom of three boys-- it is hard to come up with three names "go" together. I certainly didn't achieve it (I blame the preganncy hormones and giving The Old Man too much input-- what does he know about naming anyway?!?!) Anyway, little Angie Harmon's brood, all with the "ee" ending, close, but different enough not to be confused.  I can see them as pretty little teenagers-- Fin and Ave sashaying through the house, and Emmy following behind hoping to steal a moment alone to try on one of their bras. Anyway, well played, Angie Harmon. Well Played. Beats the shit out of Bronx Wentz (ouch! my ears!)