A Veritable Potpourri Of Pet Store Poppycock

Anyway, Poppycock is the official Infidel Word Of The Day. As such, I hope and yearn (bet you thought I was going to say pray, didn't you? Poppycock Prayers are blasphemous!) that you will henceforth find every opportunity you can to drop the word poppycock.
Anyway, we went to Petco today because our gorgeous pettable (Yeah, we pet our fish, and? At least we didn't name them Mrs. Paul and Gorton) Siamese fighting fish Phoenix and Poseidon have decided that they have such a sophisticated palate that they can't possibly dine on the .99 cent package of fish food I scored at the .99 Cents Only store. Snobs. Don't they know there are fish starving in Africa that would love to have their aquarium kibble?
Anyway, we spied with our Infidel eyes a garishly pink hamster cage. I asked aloud "Why? Why? Why?" Sunbum said "It's obviously a hamster-led stance for breast cancer awareness."

Anyway, we then spotted a box for a ferret habitat called "Ferretville." Sadly, it did NOT come with a lost shaker of salt, a sponge cake, or a woman to blame. The lettering on the box was in an unfortunate font style rendering the name to look like this: FEPPETVILLE. Sunbum blurted out "Hey, it's FEPPETVILLE where they make evil abomination hybrids out of a Muppet and a ferret!" "I think that Jimmy Muppet would probably cover a bitchin' song version of FEPPETVILLE. "Wasted away again in FEPPETVILLE.....searching for my lost baggy of dung....some people say that there's a weasel to blame....but I know, it's my own damn fault."

Anyway, and then we ran into a lady from church where we then proceeded to talk about our guinea pigs and their "furry butt chaps" that we have to trim on a regular basis.
Anyway, the cashier was an effeminate black dude and he kept loudly singing songs about Jesus at the register. We were his backup....temporarily. It was a long line and we got bored so we started singing "We got the fish flakes in our hands. We got the fish fllaaaakkkes in our hands....."
Anyway, we left before buying/adopting/taking any more pets to add to our ever-growing menagerie so I consider the trip a total success.

A Turkey Mercedes: The Ultimate Thanksgiving Day Parade Vehicle

So, I got this e-mail trumpeting the succulent wonders of a Turkey Mercedes. It even gave explicit instructions on how I, elasticwaistbandlady, could manufacture my very own Turkey Mercedes just in time for Thanksgiving.
I've tried out lesser turkeys. I vividly remember eating Turkey Pinto and Turkey Yugo during the holidays of my impoverished youth.
You could never dance "The Bump" after eating Turkey Pinto for fear of sudden combustion.
Isn't it enough that your flaming Uncle Rick is at the dinner table? Do we really need the whole family ablaze too?
Anyway, I decided that it's high time that I move into the luxury turkey market by taking a Turkey Mercedes out for a little test drive.

In most cases, a smoking, overheated Mercedes would be a bad thing--but not a Turkey Mercedes. It just makes it smell delicious.

When you press the Turkey Mercedes beak-shaped horn it emits a distinctively throaty "Gobble, Gobble" sound.

And you can't pass another Turkey Mercedes on the road without your Turkey Mercedes launching into either a mating dance or an Alpha Turkey Squawk-A-Thon.

The best part of a Turkey Mercedes? You'll never have to buy gas for it. No, instead a Turkey Mercedes will GIVE you gas, and plenty of it, too because the fuel components run completely on corn-based products.

Although, admittedly, the emissions system is ploppy stank-fest of foul fowl matter.

Turkey turds--they ruin everything.

I'm hoping against hope that Pebbles will release Turkey Mercedes Boy, an updated follow-up to her big 80's hit Mercedes Boy, before the next big Turkey Day rolls around.

"Would You Like To Ride In My Turkey Mercedes Boy?"

PEBBLES- MERCEDES BOY

TURKEY MERCEDES: THIS THANKSGIVING'S STATUS SYMBOL OF CHOICE.

Please contact your local authorized Turkey Mercedes Dealer for more information. Or you could just go to this TURKEY MERCEDES site on Allrecipes where you can see for yourself what all the inner workings, secrets, and just what a Turkey Mercedes is really made of.

*From Mercedes Ruehl to Mercedes-Benz....... NO actual Mercedes were harmed in the making of this recipe. Please be a responsible Turkey Mercedes owner and have your Turkey Mercedes' oil changed every 3,000 miles or every time your mom asks if you've gained weight while you're scarfing down your holiday dinner. Whichever comes first. *

The Curse Of The Pink Pantser

See these pants? I hate them. I loathe them. I abhor them. I despise them. I rue the day they were ever cobbled into existence from Pebto-Bismol stained fabric. To be fair they're not even really pants. No, they're so much worse because they're actually a blindingly pink pair of CLAMDIGGERS masquerading as pants!

Why do I even own such a wrinkly testament to the power of Fug? I'm not sure of all the minute details surrounding the inexplicable purchase but the evidence shows that the frugal side of me passed by the clearance rack at the store, spied the $1.50 price tag on these wretched pants and immediately hatched a plan.

My frugal side chloroformed and tied up the mini-What Not To Wear fashionista that also lives in me in an effort to subdue its small voice of reason so that Miss Frugality Run Amok could then wreak havoc in cheapo pants inspired by the color of pink vomit. That is the only possible explanation.

I try to avoid clothes that stand out at all costs. Owning a pair of clamdiggers that would color match the wadded up bubblegum stuck up underneath a park bench is not the way to blend into a crowd. Everytime I wear these hideous pants I half expect a kindly old lady to comment to me that they remind her of her long-gone beloved Pink Poodle, FooFee.

You know how you have clothes stuffed into the back of your drawer/closet/bureau that's reserved for your worst case clothing scenario option only? Yeah, my pink pants should really be housed in a sealed glass box mounted on the wall with a little mallet hanging alongside it and a note that reads:In Case Of Extreme Laundry Emergency- Break Glass.

I had such a laundry emergency day recently as I hadn't any other alternatives available to me other than wearing the Mary Kay clamdiggers de doom. No lifelines left, no dramatic music, no friends to call, no multiple choice......no, donning the pink pants and transforming myself into the ultimate non-superhero, The Pink Pantser was my final answer.

My mini-Infidels understand my deep and abiding pink pants hatred. When they saw me with them on a few days ago, they started laughing. My second oldest daughter, Monkey commented "Ooooh, it looks like it's The Return Of The Pink Pantser." To which I coolly strolled past her in my crusty cotton clamdiggers and remarked that yes it indeed it was the return of The Pink Pantser......and then I turned around and pounced on her while screeching "It's the Revenge Of The Pink Pantser, fool because The Pink Pantser will always strike again when you least expect it."

Well, I guess the drawstring on the pants could be used to tie up mortal enemies of The Pink Pantser in a pinch but mainly my fight-winning strategy is watching my foe fall over, completely paralyzed from laughing so hard when they see me strutting about in my Pink Pantser costume.

Hang Em' High:The Pink Flamingo Version

And then when my eyes bore solemn witness to the macabre scene left behind on the grounds of the secret Plastic Flamingo Gallows- a cry of anguish escaped my pursed lips and burst slowly forth, punctuating the eerie silence. Despondently, I tallied up the carnage of those who had met the wrong end of the noose this fateful autumnal eve.

Since when does decorating your yard with the always delightfully-kitschy plastic pink flamingo constitute a capital offense? Who made these people judge, jury, and executioner that they could play Flamingo Hangman like this? Maybe the Homeowners Association President lives here, and he's trying to send a message out to any and all who dare landscape with flamboyant flamingo panache--Do it, and the flamingo gets it. Capiche?

Well, if we're going to punish abhorrent tackiness and fug in such an appalling manner, I move to take down A Flock Of Seagulls before targeting a Flock Of Flamingos. We must also stop to consider all the sad and lonely garden gnomes bereft of their flamingo companionship. Won't you please think of the gnomes?!? Stop the senseless flamingo violence today for a better flamingo tomorrow.....

*No Flock Of Seagulls Were Harmed In The Making Of This Post Because They Ran, They Ran So Far Away. And They Ran, They Ran All Night And Day.....*