Dear.....Shopping Idiots

I've linked up with Dazee for her Dear_____. You can write to anyone or anything and let us all know what you think. In honor of the recent holiday season, I've decided to focus on shopping for my Dear ____ letters.


Dear Hobby Lobby,
I adore you! Also, you suck for being so fabulous that I can blow 12 hours and a week's salary with you. I have drawers full of crafty shit that I AM going to use...someday. Gotta go now, because I have to make another wreath and cross stitch a picture of Jesus. But first, I have to finish my paint-by-number of an Italian villa and complete a scrapbook of my favorite episodes of Breaking Bad. I'd really like to try out the new embossing kit I bought, as soon as I find something around here that needs to be embossed. And I would really like to finish the 47 stockings for the whole freaking family by next Christmas. Oh shit...I'm out of sequins, so I'm going to put on my hand-crafted flip flops and my Bedazzled jeans and head back over to see you, Hobby Lobby. I'm just glad you aren't open 24 hours a day, or my child might starve to death because I spent all my grocery money at your store. At least she would look good in her rhinestoned jacket and hand-beaded necklace, right?


Signed,
One Crafty Biotch


Dear Creepy Man in Target,
I have a few questions for you. First of all, do you own any shirts from this decade, or are all of them circa 1983? Secondly, do you own any shirts in YOUR size (XXL, according to that gut hanging out from under your shirt), or are all of them circa size medium? Also, why the hell are you hanging out in the toy section? Doesn't that violate your restraining order?


Signed,
Watchdog Momma


P.S. I know it was you who farted over there by the board games.


Dear Wal-Mart,
Your annual profits are about $13 billion. I am all for capitalism, and think that's just dandy. However, would it kill you to take a teeny portion of those profits and hire 2 or 3 extra cashiers during the holiday season? And maybe - but this is just my opinion - 1 person to clean the bathrooms? Otherwise, I'm going back to Target and shop with that fat farting pervert.


Signed,
Holding My Nose

Go visit Dazee, and play along.  You know there's something you want to say in a Dear ____ letter!

Jose Cuervo Helps Me Make Cookies

Let's learn to make cookies with our friend, Jose Cuervo.


1 cup of lemon juice
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup of sugar
1 tsp salt
1 cup of brown sugar
1/2 tablespoon cinnamon
4 large eggs
1 cup nuts
2 cups of dried fruit
1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila


Pour one level cup of Cuervo and drink to check for quality. Quality control is very important in this recipe!


Take out a large bowl and the electric mixer. Take another shot of tequila to make sure it's still ok. Beat one cup of butter in a big fluffy bowl.


Add one peastoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to taste the Cuervo one more time...you know, for that whole quality control dealy.


Turn off the mixerer thingy and lick the beaters. It's best to turn off the mixering machine BEFORE you lick the beasters.


Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.


Pick the frigging fruit off the floor. Rinse it with tequila.


Mix on the turner.


If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaters just pry it loose with a drewscriver.


Sample the Cuervo to check for tonsisticity.


Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who geeves a sheet. Check the Jose Cuervo. Is it still ok? Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.


Add one table.


Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. If you don't have any sugar, then add some other sweet shit, whatever you can find. Pour in half a bottle of cinnamonomon.


Add some baking power and then have a shot of Cuervo with your cat.


Mop up the cat vomit with a broom or sumfin like that.


Greash the oven.


Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over.


Don't forget to beat off the turner.


Finally, finish the Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the wishdasher.


Cherry Mistamas!

This is the post where you can call me a dumbass.

Back in early October, I wrote about my fabulous ass-busting, ankle-twisting episode right before I was leaving for Las Vegas on a business/pleasure trip. If you are a new reader, here is the link to that gem. I can’t believe that some of you may not have experienced my entire body of work in order to fully appreciate my depravity. Get to work, people! READ!


Anyway, this was over 10 weeks ago, and since then my ankle has continued to swell and I’ve been limping around like Horace Pinker from the movie Shocker.

You totally need to watch this movie!

Notice from this movie poster that Horace Pinker was executed on October 2nd. This is the same date that I hurt my ankle. Coincidence? Hmmmmm….


Anyhoo, I never had my ankle x-rayed, but when I went to my OB/GYN last week (don’t freak out men, I’m not going to give any details) he was concerned about my ankle swelling and made me an appointment with a podiatrist, Dr. W.


My husband had an accident about 4 years ago and shattered his heel, so he was referred to this same podiatrist. Now, I’m not one to just go around gawking at men (probably because most of them aren’t worth my gawk), but this doc is HOTT! And you know I’m serious when I add an extra “T” on the end of the word.


I showed up at my appointment and the nurse took me to get x-rays and then showed me to an exam room. By the way, I love going to a doctor’s visit where they don’t weigh you. It’s like when you put money in a vending machine and it spits out an extra bag of M&Ms. BOO-YAH!


So Dr. Hottie came in the room and asked me this very important question:


“Ummmm, why are you naked?”


What? I wasn’t sure what all he needed to check out. You know what I’m sayin’? {Wink,wink}


So he starts pulling and pushing and poking around. On my FOOT - okay, people? He kept asking stuff like:
“And it’s been HOW long since the injury?”
“So you’ve just been walking around on it every day?”
“Have you ever seen a naked podiatrist?”


Ok, he didn’t really ask that last question. I was just making sure you were still with me here.


Then Dr. McHandsome looks at the x-ray, and guess what he saw?


My goddamn fibula is broken! By the way, this is the point where you get to call me a moron/idiot/dumbass for waiting so long to take care of this. Go ahead…I can take it!


So now I’m in a walking boot thingy for 5 weeks, at which point I go back to see Dr. Fabulous. He was also pretty concerned about the ligaments on the outside of my ankle, but he wants to get the bone healed and then we will think about an MRI if it’s necessary.


Between now and then, I think I will buy a sassy piece of lingerie to wear to my next visit. Because, APPARENTLY, it’s frowned upon to be totally naked in the podiatry office. Who knew?

Things That Get On My Damn Nerves - facebook Edition

Do [fill in the blank] To Support This Cause

I am all for supporting great causes, but some of the crap that takes place on facebook in the name of these causes is just ridiculous. The most recent example: “Change your profile pic to a cartoon from your childhood. The goal? To not see a human face on FB till Monday, December 6th. Join the fight against child abuse and copy & paste to your status to invite your friends to do the same.”


Exactly how the hell is this supposed to work? Maybe an abusive parent sees Scooby Doo on facebook and says, “Well, shit! I don’t think I’ll beat my kid today!”


Or perhaps Papa Smurf will induce warm and fuzzy feelings in the abuser, and he will take his kid out for ice cream instead of making the poor child live in the closet (like my pool boy, Ruben, and that greasy naked guy from my last post. Go ahead and look ladies - and some of you gentlemen - I‘ll wait).


What if the abuser sees a pic of Wile E. Coyote and starts ordering all kinds of gadgets from Acme to use on his poor child? Yeah, you didn’t think about that, did you? We’ll just see how you feel when the news comes on and reports that some child had a giant anvil dropped on his head or was blown up after eating Fruit Loops mixed with gunpowder. WAY TO GO, FACEBOOK USERS!!!


So, after thinking about how totally ridiculous and futile this campaign was, I promptly changed my profile pic to Foghorn Leghorn. Not to prevent child abuse, but because the FogLeg totally ROCKS! “Ah say, ah say, boy! Don’t beat yore kiddo!”

If You Don’t Re-Post [this long ass diatribe] Then You Hate Jesus

Have you ever noticed that facebook has a lot of people with way too much time on their hands? (Hello, Black Kettle…I’m the Pot!) And they LOVE to issue challenges. Like this one:


One facebooker has challenged all believers to put this on their wall.....In the Bible it says, "If you deny me in front of your peers, I will deny you in front of my Father, at The Gates of Heaven." This is a simple test. If you love God and you are not afraid to show it, repost this.


Well, damn! If I don’t post this, then apparently I’m going to Hell. It says so right there on facebook! What about the fates of all those people who died before facebook was invented? Oh, crap! Everyone who has died before last week went to Hell!


After all, isn’t there something in the Bible that says, “No one comes to the Father except through your facebook status?”


Maybe in Leviticus???


Don’t get me wrong. I love Jesus and the troops and the children and the cancer survivors and the Chilean miners and the Haitians (except for that one topless chick with the droopy boobs - don't they have Victoria's Secret in Haiti?), but can we get over the condemning shit? Just donate some money or screw a soldier (or a Haitian). I’m sure they would appreciate that more.


Well, gotta go change my facebook status to where I keep my purse: “I like it under the coffee table.”


And then could someone please get over here with a crane and some sort of pulley system to get my naked ass out from under the coffee table after my husband misinterprets that whole little post?  You might wanna bring some Vaseline or Crisco, as well.

{Sigh} And while you’re at it, bring me a hand basket so I can get packed….

Fat Girls Make Better Shoplifters

I’ve got a little story that will make you proud you are NOT from the state of Oklahoma. For those of you who are from Oklahoma….uhhhh, sorry, I guess.


This seems like a classic Wal-Mart story, but it actually took place at a TJ Maxx in Edmond, OK. Allegedly, 28-year-old Ailene Brown and 37-year-old Shmeco Thomas are facing felony shoplifting charges after being caught by the loss prevention officers at the Maxx.


It may not seem like much of a story so far. Shoplifting happens all the time, right? Well, read on, reader people.


Ailene and Shmeco were (allegedly) using their bodies to conceal the items they were (allegedly) stealing. These paunchy plunderers were (allegedly) sticking items under their breasts, belly fat, and beneath the skin hanging under their armpits.


Ok, still not impressed? Stay with me, folks! I’m about to tell you what they were shoplifting (allegedly). Here is an alleged list:


Four (4) pairs of boots
Three (3) pairs of jeans
One (1) wallet
Gloves


Perhaps I should add a pictorial display just so you can fully appreciate the magnitude of the items this dynamic duo were (allegedly) stuffing into their crevices and overhangs.


Four pairs of boots



Three pairs of jeans - probably size XXXL

Holy giant globs of fat, Batman!  I can't imagine all of this, $2600 worth of merchandise, fitting under the blubber layers of two women.  I'm (allegedly) pretty well-endowed in the chest area, so I tried to put a pair of boots under there at home.  KLUNK!  They fell right out.  I was able to successfully walk around with a bottle of nail polish under there, though.  So how much flippin' fat do these beefy bandits have be toting around to (allegedly) conceal 4 pairs of boots?  And that's not even including the jeans, wallet, and gloves!  DAMN, Gina!

Oh, when I was searching for pictures of boots, this came up:

Ahhhh, look at the...ummmm...boots.

I tried to hide him under my boobs, but he was kinda greasy and kept sliding out.  So I locked him in the closet along with my pool boy, Ruben.

The one question that is burning in my mind is, "What did the loss prevention officers do with the merchandise that they (allegedly) retrieved from the body canyons of Ailene and Shmeco?"  Did they put it back on the shelves for other unsuspecting shoppers to purchase? 

Just in case, I suggest that you don't buy any boots or jeans from TJ Maxx this season.  And I think you should probably smell any wallets or gloves before you purchase them.  If you catch a whiff of cheese, sweat, tuna, and J.Lo perfume, put them back on the rack and back slowly away.  Then go home and sniff some bleach.

So let's meet the fleshy fashionistas.  

Ailene and Shmeco - The Portly Pilferers

And what the hell kind of name is Shmeco?  Is it Yiddish?  For some reason, her name reminds me of the word "shmeckel," which means "small penis" in Yiddish.  Oy vey!  Somehow, I don't think that's what her mom was going for. 

In a related story, a teenager in Brooklyn (allegedly) jacked an $84 turkey from a deli.

First of all, HOLY SHIT!  Eighty-four dollars for a farkin' turkey?  Maybe you should eat more ham, Brooklyn!

By the way, when I was searching for pics of "turkey in my pants," this picture came up:

Well, alrighty then!

But I digress.  I tend to do that...a lot.  Anyway, back to the story.  The larcenist lad, Deon Williams, had 2 yoots as lookouts when he (allegedly) crammed a 12-pound turkey down his britches and walked outside.

A hooker on the street corner asked, "Is that a turkey in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"  Okay, that part didn't really happen, but it would have been wicked if it did.

The butcher, Sergio Marte, chased the thief out of the store.  Deon yelled, "I'll give it to you - don't touch me!"

The butcher quipped, "I don't want to touch you - just give me the turkey!"  The heister dropped the turkey and the butcher bent over to pick it up.  At this point, the little piece of shit (allegedly) hit the butcher in the jaw!  The butcher, being a tough Brooklyn boy, picked up the poultry and returned it to the deli case.

[Note to self:  If you buy a turkey in Brooklyn, beware of a distinct "crotchy" odor."]

This entire fiasco was captured on video surveillance, and young Deon was captured a couple of days later.  The judge will probably sentence him to 30 seconds of community service and warn him to steal steaks next time because they are easier to conceal in your drawers.

Moral of this way-too-long, rambling story:  GET A FUCKING JOB AND STOP (allegedly) STEALING!

This post has been read and edited by my attorney (allegedly).

...And Don't Call Me Shirley!

Well, the Opto-Mom is sad….very sad. Actor Leslie Nielsen has died {sniff, sniff}.

I’m not ashamed to say that I absolutely adore goofy comedies. Nielsen played Dr. Rumack onboard a near-fated flight in “Airplane!” and the hapless Detective Frank Drebin in the “Naked Gun” movies. If you haven’t seen these movies, then you are seriously missing out on some insane silliness that will keep you in stitches.


Let’s just use this post to review and enjoy some of the choice lines from these two Nielsen characters. In other words, I’m mailing it in today.


Rumack: You'd better tell the Captain we've got to land as soon as we can. This woman has to be gotten to a hospital.
Elaine: A hospital? What is it?
Rumack: It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now.


Rumack: Can you fly this plane, and land it?
Ted Striker: Surely you can't be serious.
Rumack: I am serious... and don't call me Shirley.  [my favorite!]


Rumack: Captain, how soon can you land?
Captain Oveur: I can't tell.
Rumack: You can tell me. I'm a doctor.


Rumack: What was it we had for dinner tonight?
Elaine: Well, we had a choice of steak or fish.
Rumack: Yes, yes, I remember, I had lasagna.


Frank: That's the red-light district. I wonder why Savage is hanging around down there.
Ed: Sex, Frank?
Frank: Uh, no, not right now, Ed. We’ve got work to do.


Hapsburg: I don't recall your name on the guest list.
Frank: That's OK. I sometimes go by my maiden name.


Frank (on his love, Jane): But there she was, just like I remembered her. That delicately beautiful face, and a body that could melt a cheese sandwich from across the room. And breasts that seemed to say, “Hey, look at me!” She was the kind of woman that made you want to drop to your knees and thank God you were a man. Yeahhhhh. She reminded me of my mother all right, no doubt about it.


Dr. Meinheimer: Lieutenant, I really do hope you find the people responsible.
Frank: Well, I’m sorry I can’t be more optimistic, doctor, but we have a long road ahead of us. Like having sex, it’s a painstaking, arduous task that seems to go on and on forever, and just when you think things are going your way… nothing happens.


Hapsburg: You do speak French, don’t you?
Frank: Unfortunately no, but I do kiss that way.


Frank (on the environment): I want a world where Frank Junior, and all the Frank Juniors, can sit under a shade tree, breathe the air, swim in the ocean, and go into a 7-11 without an interpreter.


Frank: It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Jane: Goodyear?
Frank: No, the worst.


Thanks for indulging me today. Surely this has brought a smile to your face.

 I know, I know...stop calling you Shirley!

Take My Thanksgiving Quiz - Seriously! It's FUN!

As I was cooking today, I started thinking about my bloggy friends from around the country.  I thought it would be interesting to do a little Thanksgiving quiz.


No, I’m not going to ask what you’re thankful for today. I’ve seen enough of that on facebook lately: my family, my job, my friends, my health, blah blah blah.  This is more about your Thanksgiving meal, traditions, and vernacular.  I’ll ask the questions and put my answers underneath.  You guys can put your answers in the comment section.  I look forward to reading them!


1. Do you call them sweet potatoes or yams?
Sweet potatoes, or occasionally sweet taters, if I'm feeling particularly redneck-ish.

2. Do you stuff your turkey or serve your dressing/stuffing separately?
Separately. It’s quite an ordeal, as I make enough for 150 people, even though we only have 5-10 people eating here.


3. Do you call it dressing or stuffing?
Dressing.


4. Anyone have any weird or unusual traditions?
I usually perform an interpretive dance to “U Can’t Touch This,” but my ankle is still bothering me, so I just sang it this year.


5. Do you dress up for the Thanksgiving meal or go casual?
Casual. OMG, I barely have time to put on pants, much less dress up, though we do use our nice china for the meal.  I'm usually decked out in my Texas A&M t-shirt or sweatshirt (depending on the weather).  Gotta be ready for some football after the meal.  Gig 'em Aggies!!!

6. Do you have a traditional turkey dinner or do you have Chinese takeout or PB&J or something?
Traditional.


7. What is your favorite pie and/or dessert.
Banana pudding.  Just ask my newly enlarged ass.

 8. What is your favorite side dish.
Asparagus. It’s yummy and it makes your pee smell funny…what other side dish can do so much?

 9. How do you like your sweet potatoes/yams prepared?
I like the sweet potatoes mashed, mixed with sugar, butter and vanilla, then topped with brown sugar and pecans. (Let me know if you want the recipe…it rocks!)

 Now wasn’t that more fun than “What am I thankful for?” Because honestly, I don’t want to hear it; unless, of course, you are thankful for me. In that case, please ELABORATE…ARTICULATE…TITILLATE!


I’ll get you started:


10. I am most thankful for Opto-Mom’s:
a. wit
b. hotness
c. dancing skillz
d. blogging

 11. The Opto-Mom blog post that has made me the most thankful this year is _____.


12. My thankfulness of Opto-Mom can best be described by this one word: ____.

13.  Opto-Mom is my favorite blogger of all time:
a. True
b. Totally!
c. Hellz yeah!

Golly, that thankfulness thing WAS kinda fun! Hope you all participate!
Truly, I am thankful for all of the new readers and friends I’ve met since I started blogging earlier this year.  I love you all!

They Can Take My Life, But They'll Never Take My Gravy!

Ok, readers. I’m really pissed off. First of all, I went to the airport to get one of those pat-downs, and I was turned away. Apparently, you have to buy a ticket and actually plan to get on a plane before they let you in the security line. UGH!


Seems discriminatory against someone trying to get a little touchy-feely action, but that’s just my opinion.


So, I was going to buy a ticket to Wisconsin and get my pat-down on. However, it turns out that the TSA has banned several items this holiday season. Here is a list of these banned items:


Cranberry sauce
Creamy dips and spreads
Jams
Gravy
Soups
Liquor
Snow globes


What the hell, TSA? Just. What. The. Hell???


This means that I can’t take my cheesy Ro-Tel dip on the plane with me. And how am I supposed to endure a flight without gravy?


I can understand the banning of liquor, because they want you to buy the fine liquor they offer on the plane. That’s just simple economics and marketing. Fine. But until they start serving gravy on the plane, I feel that we should be able to bring our own. What am I supposed to dip my pretzels in?


I just can’t seem to relax during a flight if I don’t have my little container of spinach-artichoke dip with me. Can I get an AMEN over here? I already have my Chicken in a Biskit crackers packed in my carry-on bag, but now they shall go dipless. It’s a damn travesty, I tell you!


And can someone please tell me what the TSA has against snow globes? I never go anywhere without my “Bigfoot Riding a Sled” snow globe. I think this should be classified as a national emergency. Take us to DEFCON 4!

Me TRYING to have a Happy Thanksgiving

The worst part of it is the ban on cranberry sauce. If I’m going to visit my sister-in-law in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving, what am I supposed to do about cranberry sauce? What if they don’t have cranberry sauce in Wisconsin? Someone call the ACLU, because my cranberry rights are totally being violated.


I assume that some wacky terrorist has tried to hijack a plane with strawberry jam and a cheese ball (I just flippin’ love those cheese balls!), so they have ruined it for the rest of us.


Thanks a lot, terrorists!  No, really...THANKS!

The Mommy Diaries - My Mom Jumped Off a Bridge!

My darlings, I have introduced you to a few members of my family, including my dad and my grandfather. As you can tell from these stories, I have quite an eccentric family.

My mom, Susan, was no different, but I haven’t really talked about her because she passed away at the young age of 46 due to a stroke.  It totally freakin' sucks every day of my life, but she was so funny and left me with so many great memories, I thought I would share her with you guys.  I’ve decided to introduce you to the adventures of Susan through a little segment I call “The Mommy Diaries.”


Now don’t worry, I’m not going to be all sappy and mopey. I shall continue to blog with my usual semi-amusement and attempted hilarity.


So, ONWARD….


Let’s start our story with a little bit of background. My mom (Susan) was raised with her sister Julia and her brother Jimmy. When my mom was 12, her mother got re-married to a man with 2 kids, Jan and Brad. Here are the kids’ ages when the couple got married:
Susan 12
Jan 13
Julia 14
Brad 15
Jimmy 16

Yeah, it was like the Brady Bunch, but these people actually had hormones, and I‘m pretty sure they never said anyone was “absolutely dreamy.”


With five teenagers in the house, you know it’s got to be wild, but my mom and Jan (the two youngest) were the ones who gave my grandmother the most trouble. For some reason, they always did the exact opposite of what they were supposed to do.

Now, we’ve got a big bayou that runs through our little town.  Back in the 60’s this bayou flooded, and the result was lots of contaminated water.  Of course, you had little urchins that insisted on jumping into these sewage-filled waters because the water level was high enough that they could jump off the bridge without suffering a broken neck. 

My grandma worked at the hospital and had seen lots of illnesses (but no broken necks!) from the contaminated water, so she warned all of her kids, but especially the adventurous Jan and Susan, NOT to jump into that nasty ass water.


Yeah, you can see it coming, can’t you?


The next week, my grandma went to Susan and Jan and asked them if they had been jumping off of the bridge. “Of course not,” they replied with big innocent eyes.


I think this is the look they were going for:

Who, me?

Then my grandmother pulls out the town newspaper, and VOILA! Guess whose picture was on the front page in MID-FUCKING-AIR jumping into the crusty bayou water? If I have to tell you the answer, you apparently haven’t been paying attention.


Front page news in my town.

Watch for more "The Mommy Diaries" segments, including when my mom made a kid pretend to smoke cigarettes and when she stuck her foot in her mouth with a royal flair!

I Am The Finder Of Lost Children

I was at The Wal-Mart (the ninth circle of Hell) this weekend and there were some young ladies selling baked goods outside. They were all about 11 to 14 years old and were trying to raise money for their church youth group trip.

Of course, I stopped by to make a purchase. Not because I’m a hog-ass who was craving cookies, mind you. It was for the children, people! For. The. Children. And…and…for Jesus! Yeah, that’s the ticket.

For Jesus and children, not chocolate and muffins.

For faith and humanitarianism, not gluttony and cravings.

I’m a selfless individual sacrificing my figure for those in need. Got it? Ok, good. Now we can continue.

After I made my purchase and a small donation, I turned around to walk off. The young ladies, who were very sweet and polite, were calling out stuff like, “Bake sale!” “Everything is just $1!” They had a lot of goodies left, so they were really trying to get rid of this stuff.

Then one of the girls called out, “We’ll dance for you!” Then another one said, “Just a dollar!”

Shit! I could practically hear every child molester in the county perk up and run to their non-descript white vans, in search of $1 dances by churchy pre-teens.

I really don’t think the girls meant anything bad, but it still creeped me out, and I wanted to go stand near them with my .38 and shoot anyone who tried to mess with them. Did I mention that there were no adults supervising these little ladies? No adults. I believe they are old enough to sell baked goods by themselves, but would it have killed one of their parents to stand out there with them, just to make sure they were okay and that none of them said anything stupid? Like, perhaps, inadvertently making offers of dancing that could attract some of the more unsavory members of our society…

Let me tell you, nothing pisses me off more than child predators. I think death is too pretty a fate for these asshats. I think prison is too good for them, even if they acquire an unwanted cellmate/boyfriend named Big Bubba and a raging case of anal herpes.

These “people” will never be rehabilitated or cured. They will just get better at avoiding prosecution, usually by murdering the child so they can’t tell anyone.

I think convicted child predators should have their body parts cut off with a dull butter knife, starting with their ding dongs. Each day they would have another body part removed, without the benefit of anesthesia, of course. I’m sure that went without saying. Just to mix it up a little, I think a rusty chain saw or machete could be thrown in from time to time. Whack off a finger one day, a toe the next, until there is nothing left but a torso and a head.

Then send the nub to live on Anthrax Island. And surround the island with hungry sharks and lots of stingrays.

And that’s actually my “nice” plan. I’m keeping my “naughty” plan in the vault in case someone ever messes with any of my family members. I can tell you that it involves cockroaches, a scalpel, and rubbing alcohol.

I recently went to Chuck E. Cheese for a birthday party. Many of you know how I feel about this place of torture. Here is a refresher for those who need it. I attempted to get out of it by sticking an ice pick up my nose (which, consequently, is also part of my naughty plan for dealing with child molesters) and feigning a nosebleed. No one was fooled, so I had to go. DAMN!

I was TRYING to play skee ball when I noticed a little girl who was about 2 or 3. She was crying and looking around for someone she knew. The poor kid was terrified! I called my daughter over to make the toddler feel more comfortable. We tried to get her name, but she wasn’t talking at all, just crying.

My heart was breaking at this point. She held my daughter’s hand, and we looked around for her mom. The child didn’t recognize anyone, so we found the nearest Chuck E. Employee, and handed her over.

About 20 minutes later, I saw the little girl walking around again BY HERSELF, still crying! WTF, Chuck E. Employee? My daughter and I again took responsibility and walked the child all over the restaurant and gaming area, asking each parent if they were missing a child.

No one was even looking for the kid! I would have been tearing the place apart if I had a child that young who was missing. That’s the nice thing about having a 9-year-old. I can sit over in the dining area and drink Dr. Pepper and sneak pieces of pepperoni off of the pizzas and stick my finger in the cake icing while she plays games. But who the hell lets a toddler roam around with absolutely no supervision?

Chuck E. Cheese, for all its faults, is a pretty secure environment. Though now I wonder, since the Chuck E. Employee just gave up on finding a little kid’s parents, and turned her loose to fend for herself.

I finally asked for a manager, and she assured me that she would find the kid’s parents. She told me later that the parents were outside smoking, and that’s why we couldn’t find them. I personally think the dumbass parents must have been smoking crack. Would any normal parent just leave a baby to wander around by herself? Hell no! You’ve gotta be a crackhead to do that! And this child was lost for at least 45 minutes. I don’t know how long it takes to smoke crack, but my guess would be about 45 minutes.

This was not the first time I found a lost kid at Chuck E. Cheese. It also happened a couple of years ago, but I found the mom really quickly. (She was actually LOOKING for her kid - imagine that!)

I think I’m going to become like Eddie Murphy’s character in The Golden Child. You can just call me The Finder of Lost Children. Hopefully, I won’t have to go to Tibet or fight any biker gangs. For real, I just got my nails done.

Hey, TSA…You Can Touch MY Junk

I guess you’re all aware of the TSA’s new so-called safety procedures. Have you seen the blogger who told the TSA agent not to touch his junk while he was receiving one of the new enhanced pat-downs? That sounds kinda fancy, right? “Enhanced” usually means to make something better. So, are these new groping pat-downs better?


Well, hells yeah they are!


I’ve decided I’m going to start flying A LOT more. I want my junk touched! It’s like I can be molested in the name of national security. Awesome!


WHAT? The Opto-Mom needs a little action over here! Don’t judge.


The deal is, they have these new full body scanners, which basically show you totally naked. If you refuse the full body scanner, you get sexually molested by a TSA agent.


From now on, I’m refusing the body scanner. After all, I would be totally embarrassed for some stranger to see me naked. I don’t think I look all that good naked. However, I FEEL fabulous! I’ve got some nice firm areas and some fantastic soft parts. Ok, I have mostly soft parts, but they feel lovely, if I do say so myself (and I do!). If you fondle me with your eyes closed, I am frickin’ HOT! Or so I’ve been told by my pool boy, Ruben.


{Oops, did I say that out loud?}


The reason I don’t want to do the body scanner is because I’m afraid the scanner watcher people in the other room will have this conversation:


SW1: Oh my God! Come look at this, Scanner Watcher 2!
SW2: What the hell?
SW1: I’m not sure what *this* area is supposed to be.
SW2: Is that her…ummm…
SW1: No, that’s over here.
SW2: I’ve never seen one like that.
SW1: And what is this hanging down part?
SW2: Dunno, but that can’t be good for anybody!
SW1: {holding head sideways} Is this a weapon?
SW2: No, I think that’s hair.
SW1: Who has hair in that area?
SW2: I guess this lady does. Up here, is that cheese?
SW1: Yep, looks like Swiss.



So, no body scanner for the Opto-Mom! I think I could totally have fun with the pat-down though. Here is how I imagine it would go:


TSA: Now I’m going to feel near your groin.
Me: Okay. Mmmmm, Mama likey!
TSA: Ma’am, I’m just checking you for weapons.
Me: Yeah, could you check just a little to your left? Ok, now faster. Uh huh, that’s right!
TSA: Turn around. I’m going to check you from behind.
Me: I’ve heard that before.
TSA: I’m going to place my hand….here.
Me: Ooooh! Guess I got my Christmas goose early!
TSA: Now I’m going to check under your breasts.
Me: Not unless you buy me dinner first and call me your sweet love dumpling.


I wonder if they would let me on the plane after all that. Who cares? I could just buy a ticket to another flight and get violated at another gate. Good times!


I suggest you take the whole family along. They will even give one of these enhanced pat-downs to your toddler. Try explaining that to your kids when you have the whole good touch/bad touch conversation.


“Honey, it’s not okay for anyone to touch you in your private areas. Not Uncle Zeb. Not your teacher. Not the priest. The one exception is that chubby, hairy dude at the airport with the bad breath and sweat rings. He is going to prod all of your private parts to make sure you’re not a miniature terrorist. Oh, I mean ‘enemy combatant.’”


These TSA agents are pretty sharp. They are not fooled by a three-year-old girl with pigtails and dimples. No siree! That’s terrorist enemy combatant material right there!


{Are you feeling the cynicism here, readers?}


However, there is talk that Muslim women will be exempt from these pat-downs. They can only be searched around their heads. Well, that’s really freakin’ helpful…if she decides to smuggle a bomb in her goddamn nostril. I don’t feel it’s even worth the time to search the 3.5 inches of flesh they are allowed to show. Does everyone see the irony here, or do I have to say it and piss off the politically correct crowd? Do I?


Okay, let’s put it this way: If planes are being blown up with Polident, you should concentrate on searching little old ladies. If planes are being hijacked by middle-aged men in funny hats who drive tiny go-carts, then focus on all the Shriners who come through the line. If the weapons of choice for terrorizing our flying machines are juice boxes and stuffed animals, then feel free to frisk all of the toddlers getting on the plane. However, if 99% of hijackings are inflicted upon us by Middle Easterners, then perhaps the TSA could use a little bit of fucking common sense and give a second look to Middle Eastern passengers.


Or we could just perform anal probes on every single passenger to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings.


I have a few suggestions for the TSA. Hopefully, they will take note so we can all be happier:


1. Have someone of the opposite sex do the fondling. I think we would all enjoy it just a little bit more. Unless you’re a homosexual, and then you can be fondled by an individual of the same persuasion. If you’re from Yemen, they can have specially trained goats to frisk you. No discrimination…everyone should have fun while having their sexy bits felt up at the airport.


2. Make sure that Agent Groper is good looking. Seriously, no one wants to be probed by an ugly person. If the travelers enjoy the violation of their bodies, they are less likely to complain.


3. Two words: hand warmers.


4. Institute a “Get to Know Your TSA Molester Day” at the airport. They can have hors d’ouvres and cocktails (no pun intended), and perhaps we can play some of those super fun icebreaker games.

5.  I think that all passengers should receive a back rub before their pat-down.  It will be kind of like foreplay.


If this whole enhanced pat-down thing doesn’t work out, I have another idea.


Pay attention here; this is good:


Each passenger will step into a specially designed booth. This booth will have sensors that detect explosives. If an individual sets off the sensors, then he is automatically detonated. Case closed. No long drawn-out trials and hearings. It’s just bye-bye terrorist…oops, I mean, “enemy combatant.”


That, my friends, is what is known as the perfect deterrent. BAM!

My Daughter is a Buttaholic

If you’ve read my blog for a while, you may be familiar with my daughter, the fabulous Miss Smarty Pants (MSP). She is 9, and has recently turned into a buttaholic.

 Yes, I’m pretty sure positive buttaholic is a word.

 I was driving down the road with MSP and her cousin in the back seat. I didn’t have the radio on, so they started singing Baby Got Back (aka I Like Big Butts).

A cappella.

 Ahhhh, the beauty of childhood. Until they get to the line, “Oh baby I wanna get with ya, and take your picture.” I, being a master of the classics, know what line is coming next:

 “My homeboys try to warn me, but that butt you got makes me so horny.”

 Fabulous.

In about 3 seconds, I am going to have two 9-year-olds singing about being horny. Those of you with kids know how it works. You get two or more kid brains together, and they get curiouser than usual. How can I shut them up before they sing this line and then inevitably start asking me what horny means?

 Shit! I’m down to 2 seconds. Let’s see….alternative meanings of “horny.” Here’s what flashed through my silly little mind in the remaining 2 seconds before the end of the countdown:

Love of deer hunting - No; they might tell their teacher that their daddies were horny this weekend.
 Addiction to bull fighting - Maybe; could put forth the notion that horny=dangerous.
 Musician who plays the trumpet - Nope; because one of them will ask the music teacher if she’s ever been horny.
 Dude that honks his car horn when a cute girl walks by - Ok, this one has merit. It could possibly work without me getting a phone call from the school.

Before I can decide for sure, the girls sing the line I’ve been dreading:

“My homeboys try to warn me, but that gut you got makes me your homie.”

Uhhhhhhh. Ok. "Homie."  That actually kinda rocks!  Potential crisis averted. WHEW!

Here is another example to support my daughter’s status as a buttaholic. I was purchasing the movie “Grown Ups,” and my daughter informed me that she wanted to watch it as soon as we got home.

Looks like a fun movie for kids, right?  NOT!

When the movie came out in theaters this past summer, I wouldn’t let her see it because I heard it had a lot of adult content, and we don’t allow her to watch stuff like that. Note that this is coming from the woman whose kid was singing Sir Mix-A-Lot the day before. Stop judging me!

I told her that her dad and I would watch it first to see if it is okay for her to see. “But whyyyyy can’t I see it? It looks funnyyyyyy,” she whined.

[At this point, I was cussing Hollywood. They make this movie and show the previews with lots of kids saying funny stuff, everyone having fun at a waterpark, and the dads peeing in the pool. What kid wouldn’t think that this movie was geared toward them? Thank you so much, Hollywood, for targeting kids with the movie trailers and then filling the actual movie with sexual innuendos and lots of T&A. Oh, and also for blowing the whole tooth fairy scam that parents are running. Yes, they let the cat out of the bag about the tooth fairy not being real in this movie. What is your game, you evil Hollywood people?]

I looked at the back of the movie, and think, “Bingo!” I told her that the rating showed that there was {gasp} NUDITY!

“Oh, yuck!” she replies. That’s my girl! Nudity is bad! Stay fully clothed for the rest of your life, little Miss Smarty Pants! Go to college and always keep your girly parts covered and don‘t have sex until you‘re 30!

When we get in the car, she digs the movie out and starts to read the back. “Mom, it just says male rear nudity, so that’s ok.”

“Ok?” I practically screech. “You want to see naked man booties?”

Then, with the very dramatic eye roll thing she does so well, she said, “Mom, everybody knows what a butt looks like. DUH!”

WTF? Who is this child? I know she’s growing up, because for Halloween this year, instead of being a fairy or a cheerleader or a genie or a princess, she decided to be a chain saw psycho.

And now she’s an expert on asses? Good Lord, I am NOT ready for this shit!


P.S. Anyone know where Buttaholics Anonymous meets?

When a Reservation Isn’t REALLY a reservation

Reservation: [rez-er-VEY-shun], noun - 1. the act of keeping back, withholding, or setting apart. 2. assurance given of an arrangement to secure accommodations at a restaurant or hotel, on a boat or plane, etc.

~~~~~~~~

Do you know what it means to make a reservation? Yeah well, I thought I did too until two separate episodes informed me otherwise.


I was pregnant with Miss Smarty Pants, and Signore Sexy Pants took me out to dinner because, shit, that’s what you do with a pregnant woman…you feed the hungry biatch! He had made a reservation because this particular restaurant, a Japanese restaurant, was always crowded. When we arrived, Signore gave the lady our name, and she told us to have a seat.


I’m not naïve. I expect that there will be a short wait, maybe 15 minutes, even with a reservation. But they kept us waiting for AN HOUR AND A HALF! You do NOT come between a pregnant woman and that scrumptious fried rice, people!


Oh, how many times did Signore approach the little lady at the front, only to be told, “Five more minute, round eye man.” I’m not sure how I resisted the urge to jab out her eyes with a set of chopsticks. It was like that episode of Seinfeld where they were waiting for-freakin-ever for a table. I couldn’t even have a beer or a glass of wine or a fifth of vodka because I was 8 months preggo!


Signore did go to the bar to get us a drink, so I told him to bring me a Dr. Pepper. “How about if I get you a water?” he said. “Wouldn’t that be better…for…uhhh, never mind! Dr. Pepper it is!” He quickly dropped the whole you-need-to-drink-water-and-cut-back-on-caffeine bullshit when I eyeballed him with the mommy glare I had been practicing.

Then, of course, I had to pee 12 times during the hour and a half we sat there. Can someone please explain to me how an 8-ounce glass of Dr. Pepper can produce roughly 7 gallons of pee? Logic has no home in the body of a pregnant woman.


Everytime I came back from the bathroom, I would walk by the bar area and sneak a lime or a cherry out of those little containers, thinking that if they arrested my hungry, stealing ass, then the police would almost for sure bring me some food in jail, right? If not, I would use my one phone call to call Pizza Hut delivery.

Just about the time I was creeping to the dining area to beg people for their leftovers (WHAT? I was desperate - eating for two, and all that shit!), we got called to a table and FINALLY got some damn food. Thank God I managed to get out of there without any hunger-induced assault charges being filed.

~~~~~~~

The other instance in which I had a totally effing useless reservation involved those bastards at U-Haul. About three weeks before Signore Sexy Pants and I were moving from Houston (aka Grand Theft Auto City), I called the U-Haul office and reserved a U-Haul for the Friday I needed it. They asked what time I wanted it, and I told them early morning. They were supposed to call me the Thursday night before or that Friday morning to let me know at which location I could pick up my massive moving machine.

So the morning of the move, Signore went to work, because God forbid he should take one freakin’ day off. He had only worked for that company for 8 years without a day off. I guess the policy was 10 years before you get a sick day or personal day.


Alrighty, I’m done ranting about Signore’s stinking job for now.

But really, don’t you all find that just a little bit ridiculous? Eight damn years? Shit!

Ok, ok, sorry…back to the story. So Signore is at work, and I get all of the boxes piled up beside the front door. I vacuum, mop, and fill in the nail holes in the wall with deodorant. Yes, solid deodorant works great to cover up holes. And your walls smell powdery fresh too!


By this time, it was 10:00 a.m., and the U-Haul office hadn’t called me yet. So, I gave them a call to check on the status.


“Hmmm,” she said, “I guess someone will call you when we have one ready.” Well, that was vague and unhelpful.


FIVE HOURS LATER…my friend that was supposed to give me a ride to the U-Haul office was about to leave town. So I called them back to make sure they hadn’t forgotten me.

The lady who answered told me that I had already called once, and she didn’t have time to talk to me. THAT SNIPPY BITCH!


Oh, readers! You would have been so proud of me! I didn’t even raise my voice, but very patiently explained that I had reserved a U-Haul for that morning, and it was already 3:00 in the afternoon. Ya know what she said?


“We don’t DO reservations.” Then the bitch hung up on me!!! Yes, she did!


Ooooh, I was so pissed! I went to pick up Signore Sexy Pants (he had carpooled that day - just call us tree huggers), and he decided we should stop by one of the U-Haul locations on the way home. They told us that they didn’t have any U-Hauls available, and that we should have made a reservation.


We. Should. Have. Made. A. Reservation. Holy shit! What a great idea!


Are you seeing why we were ready to move from Houston, land of idiots?


Most of the U-Haul offices closed at 7:00 p.m., so Signore decided to call them at 6:30 because we were getting a little freaked out by this time. They told him to stop bothering them because we had been calling all day.


WTF? This was the third time in almost 9 hours, and the only reason we were calling was because WE STILL HAD NO DAMN U-HAUL!  Please refer again to the definition of “reservation” at the top of this post. Does any of this resemble that definition? I didn’t think so!


The next morning, we got up bright an early and called AGAIN. They told us they didn’t have any available today because they were all reserved. Yeah, well, we reserved one for ohhhh, about 24 hours ago, so perhaps we could be put at the top of the list. The lady said that we should have picked one up the day before since that’s when we had a reservation.


AGGGGHHHHH! {Banging head against deodorant-coated wall.}


After explaining the situation, the lady got her supervisor. Mr. Supervisor-Man informed us that there wasn’t much he could do because all the ones he had were already reserved for someone else, and it wouldn’t be fair to take one away from someone who was depending on it.

Not fair?

If I could have reached through that phone and yanked that smarmy son of a bitch through it, I totally would have. But he was going to “see what he could do. And we‘ll call you, so don‘t call us.”


We waited until noon, at which point we went to the Ryder dealer. They had one truck left, and it was at least 8 times too big for what we needed to move. We rented the damn thing anyway, even though it cost us about twice as much as we were expecting to pay (Hello, Mr. credit card! Nice to see you again!).


The truck smelled like pork ‘n’ beans and armpits, but we were totally thrilled with it! As soon as we walked in the door from picking up the armpit/bean truck, the phone was ringing. Guess who it was?


Go ahead…guess!

If you said Hugh Hefner offering me a job, well…you’re really sweet (or a total smartass), but also wrong.


If you said the U-Haul people, then you are an effing genius. They had a vehicle for us.


Well, too late suckas!!! We have dumped your rude, non-reservation-honoring asses for a wonderfully stinky Ryder truck.


Booo-yah!



Girl, You Need Some Product in That Hair!

I remember when I was a kid/teenager.  When we went into a beauty salon, we asked for some hairspray or mousse or gel, or whatever it was that we needed.  Nowadays, you have to ask for "product."  It's not "a product," just "product."  Don't get this wrong or you may get the stank eye from the ladies at the hair salon.

Stank eye with lots of product.

On a side note, is it just me, or does Taylor Swift always look like she's giving the stank eye?

Stank eye or a kid trying to look sultry?

But I digress....

I was in the beauty salon the other day to get some de-tangler stuff product for my daughter's hair.  The lady helping me was just gushing over this new stuff called it's a 10.  This stuff is supposed to be "just awesome for the hair, just awesome!"  I looked at the bottle and the description said, "miracle leave-in product."  Huh.  Not very descriptive.  So I decided to get more info from the hair lady.

Me:  Well, what does it do?
Hair Lady:  It just makes the hair so AWESOME! 
Me:  Does it make it curly, straight, shiny, lustrous, smooth, full?  What?
Hair Lady:  Yes, it's AWESOME! 
{key word here is awesome}

Me:  But what is the purpose of it?  WHAT DOES IT DO TO THE HAIR?
Hair Lady:  Well, it makes it just...
Me:  If you say "awesome," I will gouge out your eyes with a hair pick.
Hair Lady:  ...awe.....uhhh.  Super!  Your hair will look super!
Me:  Does it add volume, brightness, length, health, charisma?
{charisma- WTF?  I was just jacking with her at this point.}
Hair Lady:  Yes, and it has vitamins!
Me:  Ooooh, vitamins!  Does it have A, C, D, E, B12, niacin, zinc, and riboflavin?
Hair Lady:  Oh, it has everything, hun!
Me:  What about essential amino acids?
Hair Lady:  It has everything essential!  It's awe.....errr....fabulous!
Me:  Does it have phenylalanine, leucine, selenocysteine, and glutamine?  {Yeah, I took biochemistry, biatches!}
Hair Lady:  Oh girl!  It's got everything you need for fabulous hair!
Me:  What about flatulanine?  {I totally made that one up!}
Hair Lady:  All the essentials, sweetie!
Me:  Well, that sounds great, but I don't think I can buy it unless it has hask placenta.
Hair Lady:  Ohhh, I'll have to ask somebody about that.

So she leaves for a minute to ask a placenta expert, I assume.  While we're waiting for her return, let's discuss the whole hask placenta thing. 

"What is a hask," you may ask.  Hey, that rhymed!  Well, I don't know what the hell a hask is supposed to be, but hask placenta comes out of a sheep after she births a lamb.  EWE!  (Bad pun, I know...)

Let's put some sheep afterbirth on our heads!

Baaaaa!

Apparently, sheep placenta is supposed to be excellent for the hair.  I have heard this over and over, but just don't understand it.  If it's so good for hair, then why don't sheep have hairy placentas?  Huh?  Answer me that!  I've seen tons of sheep placentas (TMI?), and not one of them was hairy!  Guess I debunked that theory!

Ok, we done with that topic?  Good.

So hair lady comes back and informs me that there is no placenta in this product, but they do have some excellent hask placenta product.  She brings me the package, and I pretend to search the back. 

Me:  Oh, but it doesn't have flatulanine.  Guess I'll have to check around.  Bye!

And I left her standing there wondering what the hell flatulanine is.  Maybe she'll Google it and come upon my little post.  Hee hee hee...