All Hail The Mighty And Powerful Smiling Infidel!

Apparently, Dr. Laura is retiring from talk radio life effective at the close of 2010.
She cites multiple reasons including the fact that she desires to continue giving advice in an unrestrained manner devoid of corporate repercussions......I don't believe that for a second.
It's glaringly obvious that she read my criticism of her and her increasing brusqueness just a few scant weeks ago.
Yeah, losing big sponsors like Motel 6 and Advance Auto Parts hurts but doesn't begin to compare to the stinging pain of being chastened by The Smiling Infidel.
Oh, the omnipotent power I wield with this lowly blog is frightening.
Who should the next target be?
My first vote would be two different shows/channels on XM Satellite Radio.
The Rosie O'Donnell show is indescribably bad. She actually interviewed a trio of brothers who became YouTube mini-sensations after filming the repulsive removal of a candle stick-looking chunk of ear wax from the one brother's ear.
Scintillating talk show fodder, right?
Second to go would have to be the Cosmo channel, a radio counterpart to the insipid Cosmopolitan magazine.
I've only listened twice and found that five minutes was the maximum amount of time I could withstand their endless Valley Girl drivel.
Two ladies in their late 20's and early 30's employed as professional commentators really should refrain from peppering each and every sentence with an inane multitude of "uhhhh's", "like, like, like's", and "whatever's."
They seemed particularly thrilled with their own brand of genius by using the analogy that finding the right man is like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly.
Yeah, brilliant. I've never heard that one before. It was really worth repeating ad nauseum and throwing in like, like, like to the infinite power as though that would somehow render their point significant in some way. 
Hopefully, someone slips them something into their Cosmo glass the next time they go out--something like a pill-shaped Cleverness Infusion or maybe a potent Get A Freakin' Clue vitamin supplement.
Now that the irresponsible Jet Blue airline steward and Hissy Fit Queen, Steven Slater is being inundated with TV reality show offers it's become quite clear that anyone can have their own broadcast medium these days......but that certainly doesn't mean that they should.
R.I.P Discriminating Taste And Broadcast Standards

My English Professor Has Banished Me To The Land Of B-List Misfits......

I'm currently under attack from an onslaught of Killer B's.
Does it sting?
Oh yes, does it ever.
Sadly, I don't think there's any sort of exterminating spray on the market to make it go away either.
My Professor, Professor Meso Smart, may not have ever listed the position of "Professional Head Shrinker" on his resume, but he does indeed possess an amazing knack for shrinking a Jolly Green Giant-sized ego down to miniature pea status using nothing more than a scribbly wave of his red pen.
You know, I didn't even get the benefit of receiving a nifty little dangling shrunken ego keychain to carry around with me afterwards. Is it too much to expect that Professor Meso Smart at least enshrine my deflated little speck of ego into a glass display box so I can pimp it out like a freaky side show spectacle and maybe make a little ka-ching?
I ran a little experiment to test the boundaries of Professor Meso Smart's sinister grading pen.
The rought draft for my assigned opinion essay consisted of nothing more than the blandest of facts and statistics. I then proceeded to sprinkle it with some milquetoast regurgitations of wholly uninspired data to support my opinion. Pure, unadulterated drudgery.
That effort won an emphatic "A+" from Professor Meso Smart.
I labored and agonized over the final copy of the essay for a week. I passionately employed brilliant personification and mixed it with sharply pointed verbage designed to evoke an unforgettable landscape of mental imagery in the reader's head. If you can't unleash the searing fire burning in your soul within the confines of an opinion paper, then where can you?
Professor Meso Smart read my final copy and chose to sting me with yet another Killer B.
While he declared my paper to have achieved "the highest plane of critical thinking as evidenced by my argumentation and reasoning" he also said that my "exceedingly excellent paper was marred by the usage of turgid wording."
Yes, "TURGID" as in wildly exaggerated or embellished.
Other words used to describe my masterpiece: "bombastic" and "florid."
I may have tumbled off the A-list bar stool like the uncoordinated Shirley Temple-drinking lush that I am, but last week's class set the scene for my ultimate vindication.
While reading aloud to the class from a featured article in The Houston Chronicle, Professor Meso Smart stopped to slobber and praise the writer's stuffed-full-of-adjectives style as "magnificent!" He then inquired of the class: "Who in here can write like this?"
Without hesitation, my hand rocketed straight into the air as I blurted out "ME! I write exactly like that."
Stunned, Professor Meso Smart paused, momentarily closed his eyes, and then, after a brief interlude of reflection, quietly admitted "Yes, Elastic, it's true. You DO write like this."
Victory is mine!
It's not as sweet as a warrior team of A's bursting into the classroom to vanquish the Killer B's back into the realm of scholastic injustice from whence they sprang, but just instigating a moment of stark epiphany in Professor Meso Smart made the moment so very worthwhile.

Special thanks to my flappy friend, clean counter confidant, and Vicodin muse, Carrot Jello who assures me that Professor Meso Smart refuses to award me an "A" because he's so insanely jealous of my genius. I'm convinced that's the real reason.

I Had An Explosively Big DM Movement Yesterday....

DM= Depeche Mode
Depeche Mode= French For "Fast Fashion."
I'm sure you knew exactly what I was referring to by the post title, right?
Anyway, I created this funky little fashion ensemble for my oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum.
My gosh, it looks as though this child was orphaned at birth and raised by a Flock Of Seagulls, doesn't it?
Sunbum's first words weren't "goo-goo-gah-gah" like most babbling babies. Nope, it was more like Kajagoogoo.
Did you ever watch that emotionally manipulating movie with Christopher Reeves and Jane Seymour called "Somewhere In Time?" Well, basically Christopher has to dress himself head-to-toe in authentic period clothing before venturing back in time. If he doesn't, the space/time continuum will be broken thus sending him careening back to the present day.
Yeah well, using that important time traveling criteria, Sunbum is more than ready to hitch a ride in a passing plutonium-powered Delorean headed towards the year 1985.

Here's The Valley Girl Approved Checklist That I Studied Like Scripture Before Attempting My Feat Of Creatively Monumental Proportions:

• Utilize blinding fluorescent colors as though your nickname is Neon Leon. Check.
• Scrunch and bunch your socks like you're playing an accordion made from cotton. Check.
• Flippy-Floppy hair with a totally rad headband. Check.
• 3 garishly designed plastic wristwatches climbing up the arm letting everyone know you take fashion cues from the black market watch hustlers on Madison Square. Check.
• A Vintage Guess? black denim jacket that used to belong to your mother when her entire wardrobe consisted of overalls. Check.
• Activate the Popped Collar Sequence on my mark....3....2....1....... Check.
• Black pencil skirt that allows you a justifiable excuse to back out of any and all breakdance challenges. Check.
• A groovin, grommeted belt to cinch and bind and bring it all together like a corn tortilla encapsulating spicy taco meat goodness. Fer sure. Check.

What? What's that you say? You said, Wang Chung to you??!?
Well, may the power of Wang Chung also be upon you, my fair reader.

Christian Rock Totally Inspires ME! (To Have Weird Thoughts)

We're currently slobbering all over this boss song by Houston Hometown Boy, Jimmy Needham. As me and my mini-Infidels sat in my truck this afternoon totally soaking up his Jason Mraz meets Jesus Freak guitar-drenched sound, I couldn't help but think that with a last name like NEEDHAM it's probably a good thing that he's Christian and not say, an observant Jew or a Muslim.

Yeah, calling out "NEED HAM" during a mosque or synagogue activity might be rather awkward for the cleric/rabbi involved.

*Squeeeeeeeee.....Jimmy Needham is playing a concert not too far from our house next week and tickets are only 2 dollars. Now if I could just figure out a way to wiggle out of work for the evening.*

JIMMY NEEDHAM- LOST AT SEA

And in further happy, happy Infidel news somewhat related to the influence of Christian Rock.....remember Mr. Ash Hole? Well he had the unmitigated gall to call in to the office and report that I purposely swerved my truck to the side so I could hit him! Okay, if someone almost mows you down with their vehicle, wouldn't you call 911? If it was such a matter of urgency, why did he wait 2 weeks to call the office? I told my boss that I wrote about Ash Hole and I have it documented on my blog that it happened 2 weeks ago. Hey, truth is Senior Girly-Man wanted to play the part of an elderly Bad Azz by standing in the middle of the street. At the last minute he thought better of going up against a 1/2 ton pickup and moved his butt to the safety of the curb when I revved the engine and jammed on the gas. I won this round of Chicken and Mr. Ash Hole is just a sore loser!

Everyone Needs A Hand To Hold On To (Brought To You By The Using John Mellencamp Songs As Blog Post Titles Society)

As a woman of faith my religion teaches me to be grateful for all the many small things.....and I am. Most notably I'm grateful for my impeccable gag reflex that never lets me down. It's vitally important to keep all your many bodily components running like a smooth machine. I know that my gag reflex is in perfect working order because it gets a daily workout. Whenever I hear the newscasters start their monotonous drone about "pain at the pump" or how the escalating cost of gas continues to "pinch" and "sting" it indeeds triggers moderate to severe gagging.

My husband, Papi and I both use our vehicles to earn a living. As such, the exorbitant gas prices are not "pinching us" or "stinging us"......no, no the increased fuel costs is more like a very dangerous and very venomous bite slowly "crippling" us. If we don't find a solution fast the next set of quotation marks will be wrapped around the words, "killing us."

On a recent trip to the pump for another agonizing re-fueling mission I realized that some have suffered and lost much more than me and Papi.

It looks like a tank of gas literally cost this anonymous person an arm and presumably a leg, too. I love the way the disembodied hand seems to be rising up out of the ether- or should that read rising up out of the ethanol?

I just can't decide: is the hand there to give despondent motorists a little pick-me-up High Five action? Perhaps the previous owner of the hand positioned it as a sort of symbolism representing a last dying gasp of 'HELLPPP MEEEE'? Maybe the hand once held a cute little white flag of surrender but somebody else stole it to admit defeat when it came time to go pay for their own gas purchase? Ooooh, I know, it's probably one of those mythical HELPING HANDS I keep hearing about set there to give people a hand-up not a hand-out; in which case maybe I should have closed my eyes, rubbed the hand, then spun in a circle 3 times, and made a wish.

* I was going to title this post 'The Hand Job' but my good taste reflex stopped me. I'm also profoundly grateful that my good taste reflex is in solid working order. Some of the stuff I've written lately had me worried that it was broken.*

When Your Moodiness Is Moodier Than The Blackest Black On A Mood Ring....

Shortly after the birth of our fourth daughter, Papi reluctantly resigned himself to his inevitable fate. He commented thusly, "I think we should just go ahead and buy Kotex stock since we'll single-handedly guarantee they'll enjoy skyrocketing profits a few years from now." Papi's a practical man. That's why he'll make a fine accountant.

So, I started thinking about maybe building an addition to our house in preparation for the tumultuous future that lay ahead of us. I mean, people have long built storm shelters and fall-out shelters in the event of dire emergency, so why not construct a PMS shelter as a sanctuary for the male minority of the Infidel household during the most dangerous days of the month? Fortuitously enough, I spotted this company truck while they were out working on a local home renovation project.
Who better to build an effective PMS shelter than the very people who understand what it's like to be Moody?

If you need a builder who specializes in the installation of large but tasteful wailing walls, Moody is the one to call. If you need a builder to dig out a bottomless pit of despair right in your very own backyard, Moody ranks number one in pit-of-despair customer satisfaction. If you need a builder to erect a fountain that you may then fill with your salty tears of infinite sorrow, Moody will get the job done!

*Click Here At Humor-Blogs.Com To Bring The Masses A Little Ray Of Sunshiney Infidel Goodness!*

A Tale Of Two Movies....

It Was The Best Of Films:It Was The Worst Of Films:And we had the pleasure/misfortune of seeing them both yesterday.

The Spiderwick Chronicles isn't faithful to the imaginative but dreary books. No, instead it covered all the criteria needed for an Infidel family super smiley face rating. We laughed. We cried. We saw flying griffins in the sky. We also saw scraggly Nick Nolte as a wily, yellow-eyed ogre as though that was a big acting stretch for him. And I learned that Andrew McCarthy is not dead like I once believed. I'm so relieved. Maybe I'll get to live long enough to see Pretty In Pink Two:The Midlife-Crisis.

Jumper did jump all right.......directly on to my Worst 10 Movies Of All Time List! You know how there's always at least one attention whore person who insists on standing up at the most inopportune times to talk about the most inappropriate thing (You know the one. The kind of person who talks about French-kissing in the middle of a crowded church meeting) and all you can do is stare down at your shoes and avoid eye contact because you're so embarrassed for them? That's how craptastically lame the dialogue was in Jumper. The main guy actually said: "Thank you very much. I'll be here all week. Don't forget to tip your usher."
I've seen wittier repartee on Cartoon Network. They should have hired the Spongebob people as scriptwriters. The action sequences were completely shaky and hard-to-follow. It felt like back in the day when I couldn't afford cable and I'd try to watch it through the scrambled signal. It's never a good sign when the people around you in the theater continue yawning and whispering "Is it over yet?" to each other. No, it'll never be over because not one, but TWO upcoming sequels are planned. I don't know why. Jumper has only jumped over one thing.....THE SHARK!

In life there must be sour with sweet. Light with dark. Buffet with ala carte dining. Old Willy Wonka and New Willy Wonka. Sunshine with rain. So, there must also be movie joy with movie pain.

*humor-blogs.com only owns a bootleg copy of the Elmo In Grouchland DVD. They force their guests to watch it over and over and over again.*

Huey Haters Of The World Unite!

Ain't No Livin In A Perfect World........
but this in-your-face graphic declaring my blog a magically enchanted Huey Lewis-Free Xanadu is a pretty dang good start towards perfection!

There's a prophecy that tells of a devious and silver-fingered false prophet who will descend down upon an unsuspecting blogging people proclaiming himself as the "preeminent" authority of all things musically good and holy in an effort to lead them away from the truth. That false prophet is already here among us, and his name is Diesel. Don't be led astray by his charmingly deceptive ways because no matter what delusional things he asserts, Huey Lewis still doth bloweth.

Let not your hearts be troubled by this charlatan as he tries to woo you away to The Promised Land Of Huey Lewis. Sure, Diesel will cunningly lure in unwitting victims with whimsical tales of a golden, lite-rock Utopia when in actuality it's more akin to Pinochhio's Pleasure Island where the Huey Lewis-immersed inhabitants eventually find themselves transformed into blandly vanilla azzes donkeys plopped on stools in a seedy old sports bar, mindlessly braying along to the horrors that only Huey's doo-wop vocals, interchangeable melodies, and predictable lyrics can bring. Friends, I am the chosen one to lead you towards musical truth and light.

Me and my posse of Huey Haters have our own slogan and everything.
Huey Lewis And The Old School News: "We hear him singin-- we hatin, he's the original white and nerdy. Holy cow, he's so white and nerdy."

Diesel is a self-admitted radio corruptician who will stop at nothing to sabotage the airwaves with his inane Huey Lewis song requests. The most dreaded words in radio history? "And now we present an All Day Huey Lewis Music Marathon." JT may be bringing 'SexyBack' but Diesel is hellbent on bringing 'HueyBack'--to what end one can only guess. Don't you ever sigh when you hear people phone in to the DJ asking for the same song thats inundated the radio for the past 25 years? I do, and I think "Shazam! Please for the love of all that is good and musically copacetic pack up your Huey Lewis Greatest Hits CD collection and go rendezvous with your Cult of Huey Lewis brethren down at the old roller disco rink turned fall-out shelter . There you can worship freely at the altar of Huey Lewis hidden away behind beer tab curtains and some faded Bananarama posters and spare the rest of us the agony."

Theres a time and a season for everything.......and Huey had joy, he had fun, he had seasons in the sun, but he's an 80's relic better left behind with parachute pants.
Cool is a rule, but sometimes... OK, pretty much all the time... Huey's bad. Personally, I Want A New Drug every time I have to involuntarily allow him to penetrate my sacred earhole.
One that'll make me unconscious-- dreaming of Mountain Dew-- one that makes me deaf when the radio plays yoooooouuuu, when the radio plays you.....

It's no longer hip to be square, y'all. We must march forward and embrace progress because yes, The Heart Of Rock N Roll is still beating. Only now its in the chests of flop-haired EMO boys and rap fusion groups. You have a huge devoted fan base, Diesel but do you really expect the music aficionados among them to stop the world and melt with you? This Huey obsession could lead to the dreaded slippery slope. Today Diesel's using a monogrammed Huey Lewis bib to sop up all the drool that spills forth whenever someone utters the trigger word 'Huey.' Tomorrow we could very well see him banging a cowbell in tribute to Loverboy or talking about a PB&D(Pat Benatar and Diesel) sandwich or he suddenly decides that he 'Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore' and it becomes all REO Speedwagon all the time. Posts about Rick Springfield can't be far behind.

I'm an avowed anti-Huey as shown in this post. In response, Diesel challenged me with a snipey '1 2 3 4, I declare a Huey War.' What could I do? I heeded the call. He's made terroristic threats that if I lose the Huey battle I must display his pathetic Huey Lewis banner for all of 2008 on my blog. The vile thing shamelessly pleads with people to sign a petition to send Huey off to the waiting arms of The Rock N Roll Hall of Fame. I don't negotiate with terrorists and neither should you. We must all unite as one to protest this affront to our auditory sensibilties and make signs that scream out:

LISTENING TO HUEY MAKES MY BOWELS GO ALL KABLEWIE!

ENJOY CHOP SUEY, NOT HUEY!

HUEY LEWIS AND THE NEWS LED ME TO A LIFE OF BOOZE!

MENTIONS OF HUEY MAKES ONLY DIESEL FEEL WET AND DEWY!

(I flunked out of The Academy For Incendiary Protest Sign Makers)

The moment of reckoning has arrived. Choose ye this day. Will you succumb to the mediocrity that pocks each and every grossly overplayed Huey tune or will you rise up and support me in my quest to banish blah and uninteresting music from permeating the blogosphere? VOTE NO TO ALL THINGS HUEY! A vote for me keeps this blog definitely Huey-Free permanently for all eternity. Yippee!

Opinion Polls & Market Research

*Special thanks to Huey Haters President, NCS for her mad photoshop brilliance and to the always pithy, Millie*

Won't Santa Be Surprised To See 'Eunuch' On Wish Lists This Year??!!??

Yeah, true enough, having a personal eunuch really would be awesomeness personified. I mean you could utilize them in the way that sultans and emperors alike did for centuries and have them guard your personal harem or station them next to your glowing fireplace as an interestingly exotic conversation starter when entertaining your friends and family this holiday season. Won't your snobby neighbor, Bob just keel over with jealousy at the sight of your fancy new eunuch??!!?

Before you rush out and grab the first eunuch that comes your way just bear this fact in mind: There's a tag attached to the back of every eunuch stipulating that they're DRY CLEAN ONLY. Scrubbing them up with simple soap and water will only lead to additional shrinkage and don't nobody want to see that.

Luckily, theres a cleaning service that specializes in the particular grooming needs of the average eunuch-- A place where eunuchs don't mind getting hung out to dry. Why else would they name their establishment UNIK Cleaners? Obviously the owners were just too cheap to spring for the additional letters to make their neon sign read properly as 'Eunuch Cleaners' but I'm sure that doesn't detract in the slightest from their dedication to producing gleaming, bright eunuchs spit-polished until they sparkle.....thanks UNIK Cleaners!

*The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Nicholas would soon leave a shiny new eunuch there. But please be sensitive to the feelings of eunuchs this Christmas season and don't sing Jingle Bells or Silver Bells around them. They loathe songs that remind them of ding-a-lings.*

Very Short And Funny Eunuch Commercial Here

It's Sasquatch Day Down At The Salon!

After 33 years of waiting, I finally got to experience the thrills of my 'first time.'

I've listened to many a people talking excitedly about their blissfully fantastic first time, but I chose to abstain from such things and hold out because I didn't want an impugned reputation as a 'painted lady.' Well, on Friday I finally did the deed.....

.......and got a pedicure!

My mom treated us both to a nice hour at the spa because she didn't want me going to Colorado with ugly feet. Yeah, what people think of my feet are the least of my worries when I'm about to meet a veritable buttload of dazzlingly gorgeous and witty bloggy women this weekend.

So, our spa venture just wouldn't seem complete without a nice waxing. I've never waxed anything, unless you count waxing nostalgic or waxing poetic. Or the time I kissed the Turtle Wax boy from the car wash in my wild youth..... Anyway, the very petite Vietnamese lady had me plop my hulking frame down in one of the salon chairs that backs up to a sink so I could lay down and get slathered up in hot wax on my upper lip. The warmth of the honey-like amber wax made me feel all comfortable and cozy until......she let it RIIIIIIIP! Without warning, the lady yanked the gauze off the left side of my mustache. Reacting to the immense pain, I slid down the vinyl chair, all the way to the floor. Did I get any compassion or caring? No. The lady called out in her sing-songey language to all her salon co-horts so they could enjoy the show too. And then she smiled big, and patted the seat as she instructed, "You get back in chair now. Me have one more side to do....."

And now you know why Bertha The Bearded Lady down at the circus was that way- Obviously she had a deep-seated phobia of hair removal products. I'm so never getting waxed again. Do you think Melissa The Mustachioed sounds nice? What about Melissa And Her Malevolent Man Whiskers Of Mayhem?

Hey, Who Put The 'Hit Me!' Sign On The Back Of My Truck?

NOT The Official Truck Of The Smiling Infidel--------> My F-150 is crumpled and slated to be picked up by a salvage crew tomorrow.
This morning I proved how 'HARDCORE' and 'BAD ASH'(badder ash than jean knee, anyway) I really am because a random stranger wanted to hit it with me. And they did too, taking me by surprise from the rear. Yeah, I'm a big hit. A really big hit.

While blithely driving down the road this morning, a full sized GMC truck slammed into me going between 50-60 miles per hour. We weren't at a red light. I didn't have my brakes on. There wasn't any other traffic at 5:15 A.M. except us. The force of the impact knocked the sandals right off my feet. She hit me so hard that:
1. The XM Satellite Radio display dislodged from the dashboard.
2. The tailgate of my truck got pushed all the way up into the rear tires.
3. The front bench seat of the truck completely broke and flopped backwards.
And then, as I lost control of my truck on the rain-slicked road, and finally managed to stomp on the brake, the little beyotch who hit me jumped out of her completely demolished truck, apologized, blamed the accident on her brakes failing, and then ran off. Yes, she freakin ran off under the pretense of searching for a pay phone and never came back to the scene of the accident.

So, what does that mean for me and my Infidel truck? It means that:
1. I assume she doesn't have any insurance and my insurance will have to absorb the cost.
2. I refused medical treatment because I don't have health insurance and I'm scared to death of how much ambulance and medical bills could amount to.
3. I have a huge bump on the back of my head and bruises running the entire length of my left leg along with a stiff neck.
4.My boss came over with his truck and I had to go and throw the rest of my route with a splitting headache because I criss-cross back and forth and nobody could finish it but me.
5. My beloved truck, so very close to being paid off in 18 months, is likely totalled and I'll have to start all over again. (I got the call this afternoon. It IS totalled.)
Luckily, my officer friend who looks the other way when I run stop signs on my route, came within 3 minutes of me calling him and worked the accident scene, saving me from having to pay a tow truck fee by telling the guy to charge it as a county tow.

I walked away from a really bad accident relatively unscathed even though I wasn't wearing a seatbelt. The wrecker guy told me the newspaper bundles absorbed a lot of the force, thus saving me from further damage. I didn't have any of my mini-Infidels with me. I didn't injure my golden, money-making, paper-throwing arm. I have really good insurance with Progressive who got me a rental vehicle and claims adjuster within a couple hours. I was able to save my cherished butt towel before it got towed away. Yep, I be one blessed Bad Ash Infidel, alright.

The Agony Of Defeet!

As of this evening, I, The Smiling Infidel, will henceforth assume the titles of, The Limping Infidel, The Hobbling Infidel, or Walking Like I Have A Stick Up My Butt Infidel.

I'm such an uncoordinated dork. Do you ever see people working in an industrial warehouse setting wearing open toed sandals? Well do you??!!? We won't even discuss Bruce the J.Lo impersonator who wore his clear plastic high heels one night to his extra job down at the loading docks. He's an exception to the rule. No, anyone with an ounce of common sense should know better and put on steel toe boots or sneakers accordingly. My feet get so nasty sweaty in the Houston heat, I practically make Odor Eater shoe inserts feel like everyday is stinky feet buffet day! In an effort to get some ventilation cooling action, I unwisely chose to don the sandals. Any Podiatrists out there should look away now so that you won't be exposed to the shocking pedi horror that follows next. The sandal decision cost me dearly as I rolled a palette jack weighted down with several hundred pounds of newspapers across my left foot. Excruciating doesn't even begin to cover it. See that gnarly black stuff on my toes? That's where all the skin peeled backwards, leaving my little toe broken, and the rest of them bruised and swollen. Yes, my little piggy did indeed cry "Wee, Wee, Wee, Wee," all the way home. Not even the obscenely long hairs cascading down from the tops of my toes could form some sort of hair bubble shield to protect them from the crushing weight of the palette jack. I hope showing some closeup skin pics on my blog won't attract any unsavory types or foot fetish weirdos.

To sum it up: I drive a truck with a standard transmission. My injured foot controls the clutch. I have to work every day. I'm currently hopped up on Excedrin to dull the aching sensation before I toddle off to my job in a few scant hours. And now, with the blemished and unsightly condition of my feet, I have no hope of winning the Footsies International Competition for 2007. :( No Footsies for you! This Is What It Sounds Like When Dr.Scholls Cries.......