NothingSacred

An Ode to My Valentine

I know that my modus operandi is complaining, but I today, in deference to that short little winged nudist, Cupid, I think I'll wander a bit.  And perhaps mend any fences that I may have unintentionally trampled for the sake of getting a laugh.

I need to publicly declare that I recognize that I'm the weaker link.  I lucked out in the lottery of mating, and somehow was blessed with a (truly) better half. I also need to acknowledge and thank him for allowing me to air my innermost thoughts to whoever is willing to read them, even though they may embarrass him horribly.  

I need to acknowledge his continued good humor in persevering through a life with me, and then get down on my knees and thank heaven for it. You know, not a lot of people get blessed the way I have been.  A spoiled brat childhood I was never forced outgrow, an inordinate dose of sarcasm AND not a single gray hair thus far (oh, great, no wood around. You can bet my next blog will be all about my rapidly graying skull!)-- things have always gone pretty swimmingly for me, no matter how I protest and whine and sweat the small stuff.  And yet for all that bitching and moaning, Fortuna still decided to smile on me again, with The Old Man. My Old Man. 

So, here's to ya, babe.  Thanks for being not only incredibly sexy and strong, but for supporting me and inspiring me.  Thanks for putting up with my irrational behavior, nonsensical whims and general irascibility on a daily basis. Your ability to overlook my rather glaring flaws proves that you may either be sainted in the future or that you may have a severe eyesight (and/or cognition) problem presently. Your patience with my unapologetic self-centeredness is wickedly accommodating and probably borderline enabling of it.  Merci!

 I'm grateful for you sticking by me when I accidentally (not so much) tell off a stranger, especially in the cases where they just might, maybe, possibly, not deserve it. Thanks for being the guy who knows you'll never be able to read my mind, but that I'll never stop expecting you to learn how, so you continue to try. And also? Thanks so much for being soooo good at buying me cute shoes! 

I know you probably have a gross of earplugs hidden away in your closet, and I need you to know I don't blame you or begrudge you for 'em.  Just keep putting those suckers in, nodding and smiling.  

You make me believe I could be the person I want to be. And you make me laugh while doing it.  

So as you mix me a cocktail and cut me another sliver of heart-shaped cake, I'll just finish up by telling the world how great you are for letting me be a jackass and loving me anyway.  Oh, and then would you mind putting all the kids to bed and taking care of those dishes?  

Dear Hamish, the Defender

I only have a minute, but I loved this comment on my last whining post about the extreme unfairness in the division of labor over the holidays from "Hamish"-- you all know I'm a sucker for comments.  (Hint. Hint.)

I have to politely disagree with the content of the first paragraph of the above post only because of my holiday experiences with a variety of vagina laden ladies. Please hear me out....
It doesn't matter what country I'm visiting and which language I'm speaking or writing but it is pretty safe to say that 99% of those humans lucky enough to have been blessed with a vagina also have handwriting and gift wrapping skills that far exceeds the quality of the meat danglers (men) of the world. On an extreme rare occasion one might come across a man (meat dangler) that possesses the dual gift of beautiful penmanship and gift wrapping. In situations like these, and a majority of the time in my experience, one will find that the "man" in question is simultaneously cursing his meat and wishing he had a vagina. In summation:
Having a Vagina = Exceptional Handwriting & Gift Wrapping Skills
Here's a couple of suggestions to alleviate any marital misery that might ensue if you find yourself doing all of the holiday preparations next year. Find a way to coax your husband to utilize his manly tongue wagging skills and have him lick the stamps and envelopes for you! Also, it might not hurt to have "problems" breaking off the pieces of scotch tape if you are stuck with wrapping everything again - just make sure he's in the same room as you!
And remember, all you have to do is think of the joy on your friends and relatives faces when they are walking back from the mailbox with a card from your family that they can actually read - and then smile to yourself and say "At least it wasn't in manscratch!"

- that couch is fucking crazy!
Posted by: Hamish | December 22, 2008 at 03:42 PM

Hamish, First, let me say, I love your courteousness. It is sweet and refreshing to find online. I don't know if that has to do with how much you travel, but me likey. I get the feeling you are European, which makes me feel all sophisticated and continental just replying to your comments. Thanks. Secondly, according to The Sun, the couch is NOT, in fact, "crazy", but haunted. I will give you that it is possible that it is haunted by a crazy spirit. Perhaps even "demented". Maybe that is what attracted it to the hideousness of that particular divan. ;)

Also, I am pleased that you are in touch with "a variety of vagina laden ladies", but am more interested in those ladies you know who are NOT vagina laden.  Either way, I'm sure they are great gift wrappers. Ok, so while I could go off on some self-righteous feminist rant about how disgusting it is for you to stereotype, I won't. You are right. Women ARE better at those things. After bearing three boys I can attest to the fact that gender is not taught, contrary to all the bullshit they fed me in college. There are plainly some activities that men are better at than women, and vice versa. Hunting versus gathering, for example. Most have to do with eyesight and attention to detail-- and really there are physical differences for it. We girls have worse depth perception (thus not as good at hunting), but we have a better sense of color and small detail (better for deciphering poisonous berries from tasty ones... and also making pretty loopy letters and tying up ribbon). It all breaks down to the rods and the cones, no pun intended. Men have stronger rods (which do depth perception), women better cones (for color). Do you suppose that the dweebo scientists who discovered rods and cones laughed themselves silly when they came up with those monikers? I would've been snickering if I were them. 'Course, I was snickering in Bio 101 when I learned it. Probably why the prof didn't encourage me to go to Bio 102. At any rate, it makes men better drivers and women better at sewing and package wrapping. I will have to disagree with you on the wholesale portrayal of women having exceptional handwriting and gift-wrapping skills, which I think you covered the inverse cases pertaining to "meat danglers" (nice!). When I'm in a hurry, things can get pretty ugly and not every girl I know is a calligrapher. Further, I have one friend whose wrapping skills make you wonder if she was in the throes of an epileptic fit when she papered the gift. But in general, I will give it to ya.

I am a little curious about your intimate knowledge of TOM's lingual prowess, but I'll let that go, as it took me years and years to put down the paranoid psycho element of my personality! And I would try that suggestion to make him a "tape-ripper", but I'm afraid that like all other tasks he, and any other "meat dangler" out there, don't care to do, he will fuck up even that simplest of tasks in such a remarkable way that it is just easier to do it myself.

All we ladies ask for, in this rushed and harried holiday season, is some understanding. Pour us a glass of wine. Let us whine-- and don't try to fix it. We just need to vent. And then keep the kids busy for fuck's sake-- we've got work to do!!

Merry Christmas, everyone!! I will try to get back before the big day-- but you know how it is!!

Heads Up

The other night The Old Man and I were finishing up our telly-watching (that's tv, we weren't reviewing the masterworks of Mr. Savalas) and picking up the usual detritus strewn around a the family room after a night of family wrangling.  Well, I should say, TOM was doing this. I was observing from the couch where I was contemplating whether I was ready to crawl out from under a blanket and join in.

As TOM bent over to fish a car out from under the coffee table, I noticed something on his shorts.  He was wearing those long basketball shorts. Which always leads me to question if I would prefer him in those like he's some ultra-white, aging suburban gang-banger, or if I'd prefer those super-short ball-huggers that seemed to be the rage during my childhood.  I know you guys have pics of your dads wearing them.  With his athletic socks pulled up to his knobby knees. Leaning against the Monte Carlo with a can of beer in his hand.  Quality family time, I tell ya.  Its actually a damn sexy look for a girl of about 17.  For a man who has entered into the height of his body-hair growing abilities, well, shit, then it's just comedy.

But I digress. The color is what draws my eye. A glimpse of yellow on the black nylon (whatever the hell those shorts are made of).  This little blip of color is the only reason I am able to sit up from the couch, not the nagging guilt I should feel by watching someone clean as I recline.  He bends over again, I lean in and squint, what is that?  It's way up in there, so I only get a little glimmer here and there, am I even sure it is there? Am I too lazy to do anything about this?

"Babe," I say, reaching for his leg. "Bend over, I think there's something on your pants."

"Huh?" TOM comes closer and I spin him so he faces away from me. "What? Do I have something on my ass?"

'More than that," I say as I stick my hands up into the folds of cloth (my god, there's a lot of fabric on one pair of those shorts!). "More like you got something on your taint!"  I laugh as I goose the heck out him. I finally free it from his nether parts.  "There," I say and bring it up to my face to look at.  

I can't help it. I know most of you have seen me laugh. I mean, REALLY, laugh.  It's not pretty. It ain't feminine.  There's usually some snorting and spittle involved.  "A sticker?" TOM asks.

I can't talk yet, and nod vigorously. "What? What does it say?" 

"It... it says..." I gasp, I heave, I'm crying as I attempt to read the first line. I can't even read it as a whole, and have to rest between each line, as each one is funnier than the next.

*******************************

 Warning:

 CHOKING HAZARD

 -Small Parts. 

                             Not for Children Under 3 yrs.

                            *********************** 

  

I defy any of you to find a sticker funnier than that for a man's balls. 

Chicken or the Egg

            Today at lunch with my friend, C, I was shamelessly promoting how cute my newest litter-pup, Trey, is. In fact, I pondered if he was my cutest work to date, to which C threw out the theory that as one has more children they get cuter. As in, your worst looking is your firstborn, and your best is your last born. Immediately we began trying to find any holes in this theory.

        [We now need to break and all have a communal giggle at the fact that the Old Man just walked in here, flash light in hand, to ask me to check out what I thought the thing in the roof of his mouth was.  Whoa. The boys are in bed, there, Buck-O, I'm officially off-duty. You'll have to find some other lucky loser to inspect your mouth sores, Buddy.  Wowza!]

             Ok, so back to C's theory. We immediatley recognize the truth from the Wilson bro's standpoint. Owen may be funny, but technically, Luke is cuter (could this lead to suicidal tendencies... I should hope not.. but then, can I really believe anyone would commit Hara-kiri over Kate Hudson? I mean, she's cute and all, but anyone ever really notice the size of those Sputniks she call ears? Oy!). And then, we consider the Beckham Boys.  Well, without a doubt that Cruz is, indeed, the cutest of the bunch. Have you all seen that little fucker turn into the youngest, cutest B-boy ever during the Spice GIrls Reunion Tour? Priceless. Makes me wish I would've gotten Deuce signed up for some toe-tappin' instruction when he turned 2! Ok, so then we have to wonder (and only time will tell), if Trey will, in fact, be the best looking of the bunch. He's got his work cut out for him, in my opinion. As much as I love Deuce for being the sweetest little creampuff, Ace looks seriously like the Old Man... ie., super-hot. 

            What do you all think? Do kids get better looking the more you have, or are we just easier judges on them as we get older? Maybe what I think is frankly adorable at 33 was only mildly cute at 26.  And then, what if its just that they are cuter for the very fact that they are younger?!?

         Anyway, I'd like to hear your opinions on this-- and I know you all judge your kids, even if you don't want to admit it. There's no frontin' here, sisters! Tell me what you think.

                 Although, I must mention to C... I have thought of an exception: Jim Worrell's big brother. Waaaay cuter than Jim-- although I recently saw him (Jim) at Target... not too shabby, all things considered. Luckily, he didn't see me, as I ducked headfirst into a circular rack of girl's reduced-price peasant tops and when the ensuing commotion caused everyone in the vicinity to look my way I hid behind Ace and acted like I"d dropped an earring. If anyting, he saw a giant butt, but nothing too identifiable). At any rate, his older bro... what was it? John? The dark-headed one. Ay carumba, mami! That was this 14-year-old's ideal man! (Sadly, I have no actual memory of any features on his face, but only the vague impression that I'd deemed Jim's older brother superior to most beating male mammals at the time-- it was 1989, gimme a break. So for now, I'm pretty sure he looked exactly like the Old Man) But then here's a query, C: were they full-blood brothers? I seem to think he may have had a different dad... if so, that excludes them from this postulation all together.

            Additionally, C, if kids get cuter as you have more, than you having any more after The Hay will surely be cruel to the rest of us as we currently must squint or avert our gazes completely at the mere sight of your son. Especially when he smiles. If you have any cuter, I'd say Shit Creek, here we come! Paddles? Nope, don't need 'em! 

Apologies for typos and nonsense; this post powered by Big House White Wine. I'm no wino, but I gotta say... not bad for a screw top. Ha! 

How My Stupid Fucking Insurance Cuts off Its Ugly Fucking Nose to Spite Its Grotesque Fucking Face

       We’re done. The Old Man and I are finished. No, no! Our marriage is fine, but we have decided to officially retire the baby-making equipment.  I’ve made peace with the fact that God saw fit to bless me only with male children and I surrender to His higher wisdom in that, perchance, I am best suited for that. Come to think of it, for awhile there in my formative years I only had male friends, so while I now enjoy all my girlfriends more than life itself and appreciate the sweet succor that only their friendship can provide me, it very well may be that I am just rightly attuned to the needs and demands a passle of boys will lay upon me.  At the very least, it has certainly opened my eyes to some hard truths of life that heretofore I had heartily ignored. For instance, boys just don’t think about the same shit girls do. End of story.  They are inherently different. No matter what. No matter how you try to “fix” them.  They’s jus’ diff’rnt. Period.

    That said, the Old Man and I have decided to no longer bless the world with our specific DNA cocktails (I hear your chorus of sad groans, and offer you our heartfelt apologies). We know, we know.  We do good work. They are a cute bunch. But lets face it, adding another (male) mouth at this point just extends the amount of time until the two of us can hightail it to Europe and Morocco and Iceland and wherever we want to go for our great travels after we ship the last one off to college. Not to mention the baby weight! Mama’s done stretching out the ol’ temple, if you know what I mean. From here on out we’re only fixin’ her up, rather than tearing her down (well, except the nastiness Father Time and that bitch Auntie Gravity decide to wreak upon me.).

     So we start looking around at more permanent or long-lasting fixes to the whole fertility thing (as it took us a grand total of 6 tries to conceive 3 children by my last count). Fertile Myrtle and Virile Victor have the concept of conception, well, covered. As it turns out, though, the Old Man is a little gun-shy about the whole snip, snip dealio, and actually had the nerve to suggest to me that I get the procedure.  When I reminded him that I was the one who actually gestated and birthed not one, not two, but three of his progeny, I believe that he got that that option was off the table.  Or else it was the quick slap upside the head that drove that point home.

     So as he hemmed and hawed, I continued the daily struggle to remember to take my birth control pills. Which, oddly, is both difficult to remember because these three kids keep me so darn busy, and yet contradictorily simple as I think, Holy Christ! These three kids are keeping me too busy! Better take your pill to avoid having anymore! Unfortunately, I’m usually in bed falling asleep when I get a minute to have a complete thought like that, and then I have to get up and walk across the darkened house and dig the pills out of purse where I carry them around with me so that in case I remember them at any given point in the day I will have them with me to take. Is it any wonder that I actually only log about 5 full hours of sleep a night?

      So, I started investigating alternative methods and after careful consideration (ok, talking to a couple friends and figuring out it is pretty much the ONLY reliable alternative available), I decide on the IUD. I gotta tell you, the name alone is a little off-putting as it so reminds me of “IED”, which of course makes me think of little tiny shrapnel-laden bombs in Iraq. Which then makes me envision the first time the Old Man and I get down to business after implantation and well, you know, a good strong thrust into my newly buried landmine and, BOOM!!! Anyway, I finally make the appointment, thinking that will buy the Old Man a couple (okay, FIVE) years to get used to the idea of getting his junk fixed.

     Let me start out by telling you that my doctor’s office used to have two Obs, one male, one female. They were sorta like Momma Bear and Poppa Bear, except that Poppa was super-sensitive and gentle and sweet, and Momma much more brusque and masculine and a skosh intolerant (not to mention, she was the absolute embodiment of Seinfeld’s “Man Hands”—which is something altogether memorable in a “lady doctor” if you get my drift). But, Momma has recently left to start her own office, which ended up sort of being like a divorce in the office, and has left all the patients to have to choose: Mom or Dad?!?! Additionally it has left the original office (Dad’s) to be staffed by pretty much an entire new crop of ladies. So I don’t recognize anyone when I go in, and unfortunately for them, they don’t recognize me either. [If they had worked in the Ob’s office for my last two pregnancies, they would have known better than to approach me in such a stupid fucking manner and try a bit more diplomacy.]

      As I reach into my wallet to pull out my $30 office visit copay the new little twit behind the little sliding-glass window tells me that will be $650.  WHAT?!?!? “Oh, didn’t you know that? Let me go find out why that is.” Yeah. You do that. Little Twit leaves to find New Big Twit.

     New Big Twit towers over me. “Yes. Well it looks like we talked to your insurance and you have what, a 70/30? Well, you have a thousand dollar deductible and you haven’t used any of it this year so they want to put all this toward it and it looks as though someone called you on the 8^th of May. So it will be $650.” She raises her eyebrow at me.  As if.

     Clearly, New Big Twit does NOT want to negotiate or work this out with me. “Did anyone leave a message on the 8^th of May? Because if you call my house and no one answers, and you don’t leave a message, that’s not exactly communicating with me, is it?” It is sort of like a tree falling in the woods, isn’t it, you stupid fucking cow?

      I turn on my heel and leave the office, head spinning at the twin incompetence of New Big Twit AND Great-West Insurance Company. Let me get this straight? I know why I get to pay full price up front for New Big Twit: because I WILL pay. That OB office marches an insufferable amount of uninsured teenage moms and clearly illegal immigrants through its doors. Sitting in the office with them all during my last pregnancy reinforced that I was getting to pay full-price for my pregnancy services so that all these other bitches could keep squeezing out pups on everyone else’s dime! Everyone in town knows it (Momma and Poppa had a very big business… they know half this town’s lady parts)! I have a strong suspicion that this issue is what led to Momma’s divorce from Poppa in the first place! (Momma doesn’t put up with guff like working the system. Poppa, on the other hand, his poor little heart bleeds). And it looks like I will be taking my business, my lady business, over to Mama’s from now on, as Daddy OB was still clearly tolerating the free-loaders and expecting me to pay full-price for it!

       As for my stupid fucking insurance company.  What sort of absolute short-sighted mental retardation are the policy-makers at Great-West Insurance clearly suffering under??  You mean to tell me that it makes MORE financial sense to you dimwits to not pony-up for a FIVE-YEAR method of birth control with an efficacy rate greater than 99% in favor of trusting the three-child-addled-brain of mine to remember to take my pill every single day and hope I don’t get knocked up??? REALLY!?!?! Because paying for FIVE YEARS of generic birth control pills is roughly equal to one Mirena IUD, except you don’t run the risk of, oh I don’t know, me popping out another kid or two!

       There’s no way you can convince me that giving me an IUD is not cheaper in the long-term than covering pre-natal visits, sonograms, blood-tests, birth, and then an additional child’s wellness visits, shots, broken bones, occasional sniffles, etc, etc.  You fucking morons!  And you know that if my insurance had chosen to pay for it, they would have gotten the “negotiated” rate, which is sure as shit less than $650, I’m willing to bet!

      Just for this, Great-West, I may have another two kids in the next five years just out of spite! Let those scum-suckers suck up that cost! Fucking insurance bastards! I curse them with anal warts and burning halitosis!

Valentine's for the Married

Current mood: amorous

Trying to find the perfect sweet words to tell my sweet, lovin' man in his Valentine's Card. But all the cards seem wrong. And everything I come up with is... let's face it, too sarcastic. Ugh, what's a smartass to do??

Funny thing today.  The Old Man sends me the following email (along with 20 of his closest friends):

Every 14th of February you get the chance to display your fondness for your
wife or girlfriend by showering her with gifts, flowers, dinner, shows and
any other baubles that women find romantic.

Secretly...guys feel left out. That's right...left out. There's no special
holiday for the ladies to show their appreciation for the men in their
life. Men as a whole, are either too proud or just too embarrassed to admit
it. This is why a new holiday has been created.

March 20th is now officially 'Steak, Blow job & Shut the Fuck Up Day.'
Simple, effective and self-explanatory...this holiday has been created so
your ladies can have a day to show your man just how much you love him.

No cards, no flowers, no special nights on the town the name of the holiday
explains it all...just a steak, a BJ & shut the fuck up for the rest of the day! That's it!

This twin pairing of Valentine's Day and Steak, Blow job & Shut the Fuck Up
Day will usher in a new age of love as men everywhere will try THAT much
harder in February to ensure a more memorable March! It's like a perpetual
love machine.

The word is already spreading, but as with any new idea, it needs a little
push to start the ball rolling...:

So spread the word, and help bring love and peace to this crazy world.

Now, this sounds like a not so bad idea... but let's look a little closer... oh, what's that?? My husband has forwarded this idea to everyone he knows, yours truly included, and neglected to change what?!!? Oh! That's what! The date! That's right, because certainly he knows he just proposed "Steak, Blow Job and Shut the Fuck Up" day to occur... ON MY BIRTHDAY!!!

Oh yeah, baby. Ammo for YEARS off this little oversight! Mama likey!!

The Old Man as Evel Knievel

April 30, 2008 - Wednesday

Current mood: bummed The Old Man got a Harley last Friday. A beautiful, loud-as-fuck Nightster. I made him get it. After he's begged me for years and years and I always rolled  my eyes and scoffed, "Over my dead body! Those are dangerous!" I told him that without question he would need to acquire a motorcycle for the summer. It happened like this: Little Mama receives Amazon Visa bill, the card I have dedicated to buying gas and simultaneously racking up reward points to buy books from the planet's favorite bookstore (which now, incidentally, I think you can now use to buy actual motorcycles, too). After picking myself up off the floor and double-checking that we didn't, in fact, mortgage a vacation condo in Aspen on the card and that the charges did indeed just reflect fueling up a minivan and Escalade for a month, well my mind was made up. And out The Old Man went to find himself a crotch rocket. I basically forced him to go get one. Yeah, I thought of all the anxious hours I'd spend waiting by the phone for the dreaded phone call by frantic paramedics.  I mulled over the fact that my wardrobe might now have to include leather fringe and assless chaps. I realized that I could soon be married to someone who reminded me less of Brad Pitt and more of Sam Elliot. I firmly resolved I would draw the line at any "If you can read this, the bitch fell off" t-shirts. My decree to the Old Man that we would now be fuel-savers brought with it a whole slew of questions. Would we have to acquire a junkyard dog and name him Sturgis? God, would I have to go to Sturgis? I'm DEFINITELY getting my tits done before that! Would I have to start finding Mr. Sandra Bullock charming? Would this mean that The Old Man would come home with more ink? This time would it involve eagles or flags or Yosemite Sam? Speaking of tats, The Old Man was just telling me how he was pondering getting a portrait tattoo of his grandfather after seeing a portrait done so fetchingly on our rockabilly hairstylist down at Studio Boom, he thought he needed one. I made it clear in no uncertain terms that if he thought it would be just swell for me to look up adoringly at an inked rendition of his gramps smiling down at me from his chest every time I performed my wifely duties he had another thing coming and a move like that might sign him up for the no-nookie-for-life plan. To illustrate my point I offered to get a portrait of my mom tatted across my back. I think he gets it now.  So when he brought it home, I was actually surprised at how very much I liked it! It was sexy and definitely more Mission Impossible than Easy Rider. In fact I thought The Old Man looked a lot like Tom Cruise (pre-couchjump), you know since they are both short and all. I'm talking Tom Cruise circa Top Gun. Yum. It was so cool and sexy I didn't think I'd even have to resort to verifying that we aren't Harley wanna-be's. With the Nightster I'd be able to skip the "Doin' our part to go Green" sticker to let people know we know we're not Hell's Angels prospective members and we are aware that we are just a little too yuppie for all that, but yeah, we still like hot bikes. Yep, this style just might put us right on the cutting edge of Green-Cool. At the very least, it was going to cut our gas bill in more than half, so mama really didn't care at this point what people thought. That was six days ago. Yesterday, on the way home, a 15-year-old girl with a learner's permit in a white minivan changed her mind about turning right at the last second as the Old Man turned left in front of her. The bike is totaled. By the grace of God, and years of hardcore physical conditioning, The Old Man has only a badly bruised and swollen calf and one tiny little scrape on his knuckle. He's limping around on crutches and we're trying not to really think about the fact that we hadn't secured insurance yet for the thing, and contrary to our belief that there is a 30-day coverage umbrella and that under our fleet policy it is the DRIVER, not the vehicle that's insured, this is evidently a "recreational vehicle" so it falls out of that protection under our policy. Even though I made him get this as his WORK vehicle because this family was Going Green, by God! And isn't that all the rage these days? Of course, it was primarily to save a little green, but one of the handy side-effects would've been a net-positive for the environment. I was happy to be an example of how capitalism will save the environment. We changed our behavior for a fiscal, rational reason and that change would benefit the overall good by less gas-consumption (and be a big F-U to OPEC, which always makes me happy). Hell, we were even doing our part to save polar bears and even give Al Gore a reason to smile! And then some little pubescent twit had to wreck it all! I'm going to tell this little tale to the next environmentalist who tries to convince me of my wickedness. This is just clearly what happens when Republicans try to Go Green!