Me And My Daughter Went Out Clubbing This Weekend!!!

It wasn't the first time I've taken Sunbum out clubbing, either.

Yeah, I know she's only 14 but we've been going to the club since she was a baby.

It's like an Infidel family tradition now.

There's always an abundance of fresh meat at this club and it's yours for the taking!

Sure there's also a bunch of real turkeys and the occasional ham but at least they separated out the fruits into their own section.

I've picked up and taken home many a cheeseball from the club. They seem harmless enough but let me tell you, as you step on the scale after your brief encounter, you realize that they definitely DO NOT respect you in the morning!

They never ask any questions at the door. Nope, with one flash of my I.D. the bouncers allow us both to sashay right in to Sam's Club.

We don't usually drink while at the club but I was feeling spendy on Saturday. I ponied up the money for a large mixed drink on the rocks.

(Country Time Lemonade infused with a dash of Fanta Orange pretty much rules the soda world)

We don't go to Sam's to see or be seen but we've definitely established a mini fan base.

Whenever we walk by the food demonstrators they greet us with a hearty and sincere HELLO.......and then they make a ritualistic food offering to us as though we're some sort of Sam's Club goddesses. Maybe we are.

It's a symbiotic relationship at its finest.

Admittedly, we only go clubbin' to check out the ladies.

I like all kinds of ladies. Fat ones, skinny ones, ones serving Cream of Lox.....Tough ones, sissy ones, even ones with Chicken Fried Crocs!

Sadly, our recent visit was bereft of any decent ladies-in-hairnets action.

I furtively searched through the harried throng of focused club-goers hoping to find a glimmer of hope or some kind of sparkle that one only sees when the fluorescent lighting hits the chrome-plated lid of the electric skillet just the right way.

Alas, there was no sample lady lovin' going on anywhere in the entire club.

This woeful development led me to sing a mournful version of Beyonce's Single Ladies.

"WHERE'S MY SAMPLE LADIES....ALL THE SAMPLE LADIES? WHERE'S MY SAMPLE LADIES.....ALL THE SAMPLE LADIES?"

Sunbum took the cue and we made it a duet event to remember.

The final tally didn't look so good for us club-going Infidels.

Nobody asked us to dance. We had to buy our own drinks and there was nary a scrap of dried-out pot pie crust on a sample platter to be found anywhere.

I did score some giant breasts. On sale.

A small consolation for our otherwise fruitless night out at the club.

Maybe there's a Sample Lady Strike that nobody told me about.

They're probably all holed up somewhere covert feasting on frozen mini pizzas and Fiber One bars together.

I bet they're throwing back their heads and laughing (with their mouths full) at the pain and suffering they're causing Sam's Club patrons.

I hope I get an invite soon to their private sample-eating party club.

I invented the BEST secrety handshake ever. My gang sign is three fingers. I call it "The Sign Of The Fork."

I'll be more than happy to share it with this rogue bunch of Sample Ladies if they'll only let me in.

It's So Quiet You Can Hear An Egg Drop.....

Steel Yourself: I'm about to allow my unabashedly disgusting self run free and wild. If you venture further into this post you run the risk of never being able to accept a dinner invitation to a Chinese buffet again. And really, wouldn't that be tragic?
Okay, I've noticed that most public restrooms insist on stocking the frustratingly useless phenomena that is 1-ply toilet paper. I guess they haven't figured out the financial truth yet that the money saved by purchasing inferior TP will only end up being spent on a bigger supply of anti-bacterial soap. Why? Well, because in test study after test study in my very own home, I've discovered that your digits will inevitably tear through the toilet paper at the most critical moment leaving you with the nastiest of gorilla fingers. (Buy the quilted toilet paper- for the bum you save just may be your own!)

How dastardly is this stuff? Secret agents should use it to pass along confidential information because it practically dissolves on contact.

Anyway, I'm utilizing the facilities at McDonald's and as per natural for me I turn around to have a gander at the bounteous waste swimming around in the bowl before I flush. I rationalize that it's a medical necessity to take notice of any and all things shooting out of your body. I mean, I don't obsess over it....it's not like I drag out my little magnifying glass during Potty Time to correctly identify everything I ate for dinner embedded in the solid chunks. I'm just a strong proponent for staying cognizant of your physical being because detecting a change early-on can prevent serious repercussions from potential illness. Aside from all that, bodily expulsions are just plain interesting. Why else would the 'Milk, Milk, Lemonade' song still make me have to entreaty the assistance of Kegelling to keep from peeing myself? So, upon my quick pre-flush examination, I noticed that the coarse 1-ply toilet paper had predictably disintegrated immediately and transformed into a mushy glob of swirling, white comma-shaped pieces ebbing and flowing against a pale yellow backdrop.

It looked exactly like a toilet bowl full of egg drop soup.

Fortune Cookie Of The Day: Confucius Say Tis Better Not To Ask The Origin Of Egg Drop Soup And Try Sweet-And-Sour Soup Instead.

Charity Never Faileth......Really, You Should Never Say Never!

I really do try to act as a living embodiment of The Golden Rule- Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You.....Weeeeelllll, most of the time anyway. A few years ago I had one of those perfect "teaching moments" fall into my lap while driving home from the grocery store with my truckload of mini-Infidels.

I remember that day vividly. The scorching Houston summer heat bore down upon us and I had to double up the butt towel patrol to protect my truck's seats from the sea of saltiness whooshing out of me. As we drove onto the main street that runs through our neighborhood I could clearly see the trash guys struggling to lift the heavy receptacles at the curb. The two kept taking turns tugging trash cans to the truck while the other stood still, hands on his knees, beet red and panting for air. How I pitied these men and wanted to help ease their burdens.......oh alright, my heart doesn't exactly circulate blood filled with purely altruistic motives. The truth is that at that point I had two kids still in diapers. I knew that it was imperative to keep these guys from dropping with a severe case of heat stroke because that would mean we'd be stuck with the rancid bag of crappy diapers festering in the garage for another week. And then I remembered the box of Fruity Popsicles we just bought at Kroger's.........

I pulled over and got out with the open box of Popsicles to offer to the trash guys. I intended for them to select whatever flavor they wanted because everyone should have their free agency; even in Popsicle flavor selection. Besides I wasn't quite sure of proper cultural etiquette. Gifting a fruity purple Popsicle to an hombre from a Spanish speaking country might be construed as an insult to his manhood and I desperately wanted to avoid that. Both men smiled at me and I was delighted to discover that the language of frozen yumminess on a stick is Universal and requires no words which is lucky since my High School Spanish teacher, Senora Cottle, never taught us the right phrase to use when approaching strange men on the street and offering up our goodies.

The one guy plucked the entire Popsicle box out of my hand. I guess his mamacita never warned him of the dangers of accepting ice cream from strangers. So, I stood there waiting for them to make their selection and give me back the box. They didn't. Instead, the men took the box to the driver which I thought was a really sweet gesture........and then they waved at me while yelling GRACIAS! and took off leaving me Popsicle-less and with a truck full of cheesed-off mini-Infidels. They kept bugging me asking why I didn't give the trash guys something else other than their beloved Popsicles. I tried to reason that waving around a bag full of zucchini or a box of Frosted Flakes cereal might have made the moment a bit confusing for all parties involved. I didn't let the garbage guys get away with it, though. No, I silently cursed them that they would become cross-eyed from an insanely painful bout of brain freeze.

Launch Charitable Effort Round Two:

I'm a slow learner. Later that same year we had a precipitous drop in temperature around Christmas with freezing drizzles of rain showing up at mid-day. By then we had a different team of trash guys. I don't know maybe they have a trash guy time share condo somewhere that the first group gets to enjoy in the winter along with their absconded Popsicle bounty. I watched as the trash truck mosied slowly up the street. The lone garbage picker-upper guy was wearing only a faded blue tank-top despite the harsh weather conditions. I tried to squash that naggy still small voice in my head advocating that I take immediate action in helping this fellow child of God. I lost. Really, what could I do? I ran to get one of Papi's super warm hooded sweatshirts to give to the shivering trash guy. You know what? He happily took it. Then he shook the sweatshirt out and turned it over as he held it up in the air examining it. My moment basking in the glow of charitable goodness was fleeting as he then walked up to the cab of the trash truck and threw the sweatshirt inside. With a big smile and a hearty GRACIAS! the truck lurched forward, rounded the corner, and disappeared out of sight with the tank-top guy holding onto the back rails while still shivering.

I sincerely hope that someone, somewhere recorded these moments into The Book Of Life. I'm sure that I should be able to gain some leeway for my many transgressions due to my selfless act of keeping the seat of a trash truck toasty and warm on a bitterly cold winter's day.