The Smiling Infidel Is Your Guide To Deviant Geology



It's of vital importance to learn something new each and every day. Today, the mini-Infidels learned of a magical body of water situated between Peru and Bolivia and bearing a majestically regal name......LAKE TITICACA! Reportedly the names Lake Boobycrap and Lake Tatapoo were already taken. Interesting to note that this could possibly be the place where Lola and Tony danced their last at the Titi.....Titicaca......stupid 70's censors changing Titicaca to Copacabana.



I recently became intimately acquainted with several variations of schist. I touched schist with my bare hands in the Geology lab and I was like "Oh SCHIST.....I got schist all over my hands!" I then told my lab partner that I thought he was the "SCHIST." Not surprisingly I had to study a lot of schist for my test. Schist, I can't wait for this semester to be over. This schist's too hard.....even though I am full of schist most of the time.

This be SHALE. Sentences uttered by me during the course of the class rock practical:

• "Oh SHALE no!"
• "What the SHALE?"
• "Yeah? Well you can just go to SHALE!"

Nobody is clamoring to be my Geology lab partner. I'm not really sure what the SHALE is going on with that. :(



This is a diagram of an AQUITARD. It's politically incorrect to say this but........ you know Clay? Yeah, it's true, Clay is a total aquitard! Remember shale? Shale is one of the biggest aquitards around! "You Might Be An Aquitard.........." That's going to be my signature routine when I hit the Geology standup comedy circuit. Will you be there to see me and cheer for me? No? Pssssshhhhhh, you're such a freakin' AQUITARD!

*****I'm the oldest student by far in this class filled with impressionable youngins. We have to use hydrochloric acid a lot in Geology. I told my teenage lab partner that now he can tell his friends that he was looking at cleavage, dropping acid, and rocking out at school. His horrified expression was priceless.*****

Is It Possible To Be An Anti-Woman Woman?

I used to thoroughly enjoy listening to Dr. Laura's call-in radio show but now I've opted to sever all ties to her and her increasingly unhelpful advice.

See, I'm an unabashedly conservative chick who believes in small government, a flat tax, and personal responsibility. As such, Dr. Laura and her espousal of traditional values initially appealed to me.

However, Ive grown weary of women automatically being the culprit for their man going astray. She's adamant that all wives must somehow be abdicating their spousal duties by not putting out enough which in turn leads a husband to go looking for outside action. Or maybe the wife is too fat which is also, in her not-so-humble opinion, an egregious violation of the marital contract.

That's always been her mantra so I just tune out her woman-bashing diatribe when she's on an especially shrill holier-than-thou streak.

Lately though, Dr. Laura is on a roll consistently dispensing eyebrow-furrowing, nose-wrinkling, Whatchoo Talkin' Bout' Willis? counsel to some of her callers.

Case in point was the lady who's been a stay-at-home mom of four kids for the past 20 years. Her oldest is a college student who lives at home while the youngest is 8. Like a lot of familes across the nation, her husband doesn't earn the kind of money he used to and they find themselves struggling even after making big lifestyle cutbacks. She has the opportunity to work part-time while her kids are in school. This seems like a win-win solution to me.

Dr. Laura practically shrieked at this woman telling her "You're going to divert time and energy away from a family that needs you" and "You're undermining your husband. Working will make him feel like less of a man, like he can't provide for his family." She wasn't finished as she concluded her advice with a "You'll come home bitchy and stressed from work and take it out on your family."

Wow. Dr. Laura worked establishing her career the entire time her kid was in school. Hypocrite much? This lady wants to alleviate some of the burden on her husband's shoulders in a way that still allows her to care for her kids. Furthermore, she doesn't have babies or toddlers. I speak from personal experience that this recession is a good time to rally the family and let them know that cooperation is vital and everyone needs to help one another.

I work a couple days a week. Unlike a lot of their peers, my kids know how to do laundry, help their siblings with schoolwork, and get dinner ready. It's not a tragedy that somehow diminishes the quality of their childhood. It's working as a cohesive unit to preserve the family. Duh, Dr. Laura.

Another caller really resonated with me. She's a 30-something mom of 6 kids. I know, right, who's flippin' crazy enough to crank out 6 kids?!!? Anyway, her baby is starting Kindergarten and she wants to go back to school to finish her degree but she stipulated that it would only be during the hours her kids are at school. The lady tearfully said that everyone in her family has advanced degrees and the pursuit of education is important to her. She blurted out that she felt as though something was missing in her life.

Dr. Laura went into hysterical mode as though this woman said she wanted to trade in all her mom jeans for an Abercrombie & Fitch wardrobe and a wild campus co-ed lifestyle.

Dr. Laura's argument was the same as the previous caller I mentioned. She vociferously browbeat this poor lady telling her that her family would fall apart if she took a couple college courses because it would require way too much time and effort. Dr. Laura also said that she should take comfort in her kids and not go looking for outside accomplishments and validation. She then recommended that the caller "get some hobbies" and "read books" to occupy her time while her kids are at school.

Discouraging knowledge? Seriously? This is a major WTF? moment. This lady may need a degree in the future should the unthinkable happen. Aside from that, she wants something edifying outside of being a mommy and wife. As a career woman you'd think that Dr. Laura would understand.

Irritated and murmuring out loud, I hoped that these ladies would stand up and champion themselves against this counterproductive advice. But they didn't. Both women just meekly agreed with every word Dr. Laura bestowed upon them as though it was their personal gospel.

Why would a successful female like Dr. Laura openly discourage fellow females from achieving their own personal successes?

Naturally, she cites "Family First" at every opportunity but the slogan is as hollow as a waxy chocolate bunny from the dollar store when applied to the aforementioned situations where the family would surely benefit from the matriarch enriching her own life and in turn the lives of her family.

It's an easy formula. Trickle Down Mothering, dammit!

Trickle Down Mothering. I'm a genius. Just give me the talk radio contract to sign already.

Our Plates And Our Guts Doth Overfilleth With The Bounty Of Free Open House Tidbits

Sing It With Me, Churchy People:
Saturday is a special day
It's the day we go out to the buffet
We clean all our plates and we lick all our spoons
And then we feel bloated on Sunday!

The key to true happiness is to find joy and contentment no matter your circumstances or where you are in life.
My true happiness lies in the Holiday Open Houses that all the local stores host this time of year because nothing makes my Infidel soul soar higher than dainty little morsels of free food amidst a background of fall festivities.
We managed to hit four (FOUR!) Kroger Open Houses this weekend and even had enough spare time to make a quick appearance at our local Wal-Mart.

The mini-Infidels made the acquaintance of international superstar, The Pillsbury Dough Boy.
A word of warning: Do not poke The Pillsbury Dough Boy expecting his jolly trademark "Hee-Hee!" because he pokes back.
Coming To A Movie Theater Near You: The Pillsbury Dough Boy Pokes Back.....This Time, It's Personal!
I guess you have to build up a strong sense of self-defense when you know that people want to bake you alive in their ovens.
One day The Pillsbury Dough Boy might find that special little yeasty lady of his dreams and become The Pillsbury Dough Man.
I hope he never publishes a memoir about it.

Ever see a Goddess in a hair net before? No? Well, feast your eyes below!

It is She who rules over the mighty Steam Table Kingdom with a metal serving spoon in place of a royal scepter. She has an eye for fairness and equality as demonstrated by the perfect food proportions she scoops onto the waiting plates of her loyal subjects.

Buster's stuffing his face and getting stuffed with stuffing. Ironic, no?

Look at my little guy! He's on Round Three in the Open House Eating Ring and he shows no sign of slowing down or giving in to his food opponents. He's like a hungrier version of Rocky Balboa with a lucrative sponsorship from The Clean Plate Club of America.

Melody says: "I'll give you free cheese in exchange for free food. CHEESE!"

Stef works on her Hand-To-Mouth coordination skills using a tricky Lilliputian mini-spoon. She's well on her way to earning her Black Belt in the Competitive Food Eating ranks.

If I knew how to use Photoshop I'd erase my Elvis sideburns and double triple chin. Sorry about that.

(I told you I was fat and I don't like wearing makeup. Stop acting so surprised. And for heaven's sake, your eyes do NOT burn. Stop trying to poke them out of your head. I don't look that gruesome in this picture.)

What the World needs now.....is cake, sweet cake.......

The whole Universe revolved around the cake lady. Literally. My own mini-Infidels kept circling the table like they were in orbit.

The Shrimp Table attendant looked worried when we swooped down upon him. He briskly took off towards the safety of the butcher counter- allowing us to have our way with the bowl of shrimpy lovelies.

Do you have an upcoming Holiday Open House scheduled? Are you looking for a special guest appearance by the notorious Infidel Family to brighten up the party? We'd be happy to oblige!

Just contact our social engagements representative to make arrangements.

If that fails, just light up your giant spotlight with The Sign Of The Fork and shine it over the city to beckon us. We always heed the call of The Sign Of The Fork. Always.

Newspaper Wars Part 2: The Carrier Strikes Back

One of my beloved Chronicle customers fails to grasp the concept that by obnoxiously blocking her walkway with 2 huge trucks, I can't possibly deliver her newspaper on said walkway without smacking into her trucks.....and yet she continues to relentlessly call in to the feckless Chronicle customer service line and demand that her special walkway delivery instructions be followed.

My first instinct was to write a curt little note pointing out that when she decides to turn a public street into a private parking lot with her vehicles she's putting hers and her neighbor's homes and lives in jeopardy. If I can't see the curbside house numbers neither can the Police, or the Ambulance, or the Fire Department. Well, that's assuming that a fire truck could even manage to get anywhere near a blazing inferno of a home due to all the vehicles scattered about. Not to mention what could happen in the event of a sudden Pizza Emergency and the delivery guy gives up all hope of ever finding you and it ends with you, weeping and frozen into a pathetic state of Pizza Withdrawal.

Even though I'm completely exhausted and supremely irritated with able-bodied people who think they're entitled to special treatment, I decided to instead stuff her paper with a little letter of whimsy bemoaning my lack of any supernatural newspaper-throwing powers.

Don't mess with me, people. I'm armed with a sharp #2 pencil and a pad of paper and I'm NOT afraid to use it!

If you can't read the above correspondence that I wrote to the obviously brilliant customer who presumes that I can throw newspapers straight through 2 tons of automotive metal, here's the transcript:

Dear Cherished Subscriber,

So, you think I possess enough superhuman strength that I can deliver your paper from great distances and over 2 large vehicles parked vertically in front of your walkway?

HOW YOU FLATTER ME!!!!

Alas, I am but a mere mortal who lacks the benefit of a bionic arm.

I physically cannot possibly chuck your newspaper to your specified delivery location. Especially since I'm so busy trying to navigate my way around the many vehicles clogging your cul-de-sac.

I can't leap tall buildings in a single bound nor can I stop a speeding train. Don't tell that to my boss though because he thinks I'm the GREATEST carrier ever!

Love,
Your Carrier

I consider this akin to a Public Service Announcement.
I'm calling my non-profit group, GIVING A CLUE TO THE CLUELESS.
You can make your donation checks out directly to me.
Thanks.
Or you may choose to support my other cause benefitting newspaper workers like me who suffer from non-evolved paper carrier genetics.
If only we could grow an extra arm or something it would have make our lives a whole lot easier.

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Home Bra Repair Clinic

All teenage girls have to suffer through bouts of unimaginable humiliation in public at the hands of their mother. I'm not generalizing here. I wrote ALL TEENAGE GIRLS and I most certainly do mean ALL TEENAGE GIRLS.
Admittedly, I registered pretty high on the Dork-O-Meter as a teenage girl. However, not even my super geekiness could spin a magic bubble to insulate me from the embarrassing things my mom did.
Really, there's just so many stories to choose from regarding my mother but the one incident that stands out at the forefront of my cerebellum involves the time my mom put her intimate apparel on display for the whole world to see.
Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic. I mean, my mom wasn't writhing about in a bullet bra and garters like Madonna while moaning the words to 'Like A Virgin' or anything like that but she did decide to liquidate her entire outgrown bra and lingerie collection at our neighborhood garage sale one balmy Texas Saturday.
I helped my mom lug the endless boxes of crap out of our house and then I arranged it all on tables for strangers to pick through. I always enjoyed watching bargain hunters show up to haggle with my mom because she expertly disguised her true nature as a Master of the Wheel And Deal behind her blond suburban mom coif and big smile. Her years growing up in farm country and going to auctions served her well.
Anyway, through the hodgepodge of mislabeled boxes that were souvenirs of our last move my internal alarm barely registered a blip when I spied the gigantic cardboard container with the word BRAS written in wide-tip black Sharpie marker across it.
And then my mom affixed a sign to the front of the box that read 'ALL BRAS-$1.00.'
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo........................
I got all disgusted with my mom and I kept shouting at her "What if the neighbors see this? What will they think? What about my friends? What if they show up and they go and tell everyone that my mom is a second-hand booby holder dealer? And furthermore, who the freak even buys used bras at a garage sale?"

My mom assured me that people would buy the bras......and buy the bras they did!

Big bras, little bras, bras to match your crocs, ugly bras, pretty bras, and even bras with red dots like chicken pox!

Hordes of bra hungry women excitedly rummaged through the Big Box Of Bras. Some of them even slipped the bras on over their shirts while they exaggeratedly puffed out their chests and paraded them around our driveway like it was some sort of Goodwill brassiere fashion show. (It's significantly less popular than the Victoria's Secret one.)

I looked at the scattered menagerie of bras that fell to the ground during the height of the bra stampede and I said a silent prayer of thanks that at such a brisk sales pace the bras should be gone before anyone we knew could see what nefarious offerings my mother was peddling at her garage sale of iniquity.

Granted, now that I'm an adult I fully understand what kind of ka-ching a good bra costs-- but I still can't imagine purchasing undergarments at a garage sale unless it's sponsored by a Maidenform sales rep.
Shamefully, I also have a whole drawer full of non-operational bras. It is really hard to find a comfortable titty restrainer.....it really is. You know, the friendly clerk inside the Kohl's Intimates Department is nice enough but she's not going to let me test-drive a new bra off the showroom floor--and really that's what I need. I need to test a bra out in all conditions to see how they adapt to my lifestyle. Can I work comfortably without it riding up on me? Does it make me have the dreaded Third-Boob Syndrome after a few hours of use? Are the hook enclosures easy to manage?
These are all important factors to consider. When I find a bra that I like I'll go back and stock up on that one bra model. Sadly, most of them fail the Infidel Boob Test so they get retired to the bottom of the drawer in my 'Emergency Bra Use Only' pile.
Here at La Casa De Smiling Infidel, we are on a very tight budget. There's no wiggle room for frivolous expenditures like frilly lace ta-ta torture chambers or brand new bazonga binder cups. No, I must make do with the crusty but reliable bras I already have.
In the spirit of resourcefulness unbounded I've started my own at-home bra rehabilitation clinic to extend the life of my bra favorites just a little bit longer...... Every day I fend off the deadly clutches of the Brassiere Grim Reaper.

Observe the stretched-out condition of this bra and how all the elastic strands have started showing through.

This is an easy Bra Doctor remedy that only requires the surgical precision of a good pair of sewing scissors.

See, a few snip-snips here and a few snip-snips there and it's like new once more!(Make note of the elastic amputees cast off to the side. It was quite a successful operation!)
I'm also skilled at bending the bra hooks back into shape with a pair of pliers. I'm an expert at severing the silly rose thing manufacturers stick in the middle of the bra giving you the appearance of having three nipples. I've sewn straps down that were trying to make a clean break away from the life and times of being an Elasticwaistbandlady bra. I've wielded a Super-Glue tube like nobody's business and permanently glued the adjuster clip thingies to ensure they don't slip down suddenly and leave me "hanging."

They tried to send me back to bra rehab. and I said YES! YES! YES! There's no shame in admitting you need bra help. Let me, your amateur Bra Doctor, assist you in your journey along the brassiere restoration path.

We Saw The Incredible Hulk At The Dollar Store....And Boy, Did He Look Cheesed Off!

I always heard it speculated that the number one rule for managing The Incredible Hulk was: "DON'T MAKE HIM ANGRY." So why then would they cross-promotion this rippling green mass of fury with foofy bows meant to adorn presents?
If you notice, the corkscrew strands of ribbon identically match The Hulk's own skin and hair color. Hey, maybe that's not even ribbon after all! I mean, think about it, it is curly and it is green- that could very well be Hulk pubes out on display. No wonder the guy is so irritable- you would be too if someone was harvesting your curly dainties to make into bows.

We found Hulk hanging out in an undignified locale next to the likes of Dora La Pedora and frilly pink Pretty Princess bows. My son Buster used to be a huge Hulk fan but even he couldn't hide his disappointment and rage at Hulk's sellout. Buster has green eyes too, you know, and you don't want to make him angry, either!

Luckily for us, we were within arm's reach of an emergency Beef Jerky bag. That's the secret weapon to quelling the furious storm that occasionally brews up within Buster.

Back in my day we didn't have this wussified superhero product endorsement. Nope. Our superheroes championed awesome stuff designed to make us stronger like non-flame retardant pajamas and toys held together with nothing but poisonous lead paint.......and gosh darnit, we LIKED it! With the Hulkster now brazenly hawking resplendent gift-wrapping bows, I'm sure that a line of Incredible Hulk skin cream and lacy lingerie can't be too far behind.....

Emergency Food Storage Furniture!

Entrepreneurial Skills.......I Haz Them!

Sure, my grandiose plan to start a blog two years ago thinking I would hit it big like Dooce so the ad revenue would support me and my merry band of mini-Infidels didn't quite come to fruition-I think Dooce appeals to a larger audience because she never talks about weird things like The Secret Adventures of The Fat Flap Spy Girls- but now I'm channeling my time and energy 100% on my next grand money-making scheme.

Most ideas are borne out of a need. Well, we have 8 people trying to co-exist peacefully in a smallish house which leaves virtually zero space for food storage.
Sitting on cans of stacked-up SPAM proved pointedly painful to our derrieres, so, ever the problem solver, I'm going to start a furniture company- and not just any furniture company- a food storage furniture company.

I'm thinking of calling my new business, 'YOU'RE SO FULL OF IT!'
My first product line centers around gigantic bean bag chairs stuffed with actual beans.
Product testing reveals that black beans and kidney beans make for superior fillers resulting in unabounded squishy bean bag chair fun. Sadly, our surplus of Mexican Jumping Beans failed all product tests as did the Borracho Beans.

Here's some other brilliant ideas I have just walking around in my brain with their thumbs stuck out and a little hobo stick over the shoulder waiting for someone to give them a ride out:
1. Waterbeds filled with clean, drinkable water to fulfill your water storage requirements.

2. Potato Pearl/Flake Pillows (Not recommended for those who drool. We cannot be held liable for any mashed potato damage to your bedding)

3. Inflatable Sofas Filled With Cracked Wheat (They're such a lovely neutral shade of tan sure to match any home decor)

I can't wait to embark on my latest GET RICH QUICK! serious and long-term business opportunity. Whenever someone utters the phrase 'YOU'RE SO FULL OF IT!' I want you to automatically think of me and my ingenious solutions designed to make your life just a little bit easier. Thank you in advance for your support.

With Fondest Regards,
elasticwaistbandlady



*The baby pictured above is NOT part of any recommended food storage plan. A baby on a bean bag chair is technically a "Beanie Baby" but we're refraining from calling it as such to avoid incurring any trademark infringement action*

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.

Infidel Parenting Pointers: Prolonging The Life Of Your Crayons

Do you silently cringe whenever you have to blow 4-5 bucks on a giant box of name-brand Crayola crayons for your child only to see those crayons mashed into the carpet/snapped into pieces/wrapper-less/crayon tip-circumcised/used for furniture graffiti just a few scant days later?

We all know that purchasing cheaply-made generic crayons isn't the solution either because they're too wax-heavy and ineffective to create any artistic feats of wonder. Seriously, you'd be better off in your coloring ventures using the waxy Paris Hilton dummy from Madame Tussauds than inferior crayons imported from China.

So, what to do? Simple. The answer is in black and white. Only purchase coloring books for your children that feature black bears, zebras, pandas, and black panthers. (Make sure you're buying the animal kingdom's version of the black panther and not the supremacist organization. That could be problematic.) See, those species are already printed in their natural coloring. There's no need to sully any of your crayons. Genius. To continue on in the name of crayon preservation you must also steer your children away from any of those pesky, imaginative outbursts. Yes, they may gush excitedly, talking about how cute a purple, polka-dotted panda would look, but you must squash that creative uprising before they want to utilize and ultimately destroy all the colors in the box.

Happy Coloring!
*This Parenting Pointer Tip Brought To You By The Crayon Conservation Coalition*

My Bologna Has A First Name....... And So Does My Feminine Hygiene Product!

From skimpy personalized thongs to giant bean bag chairs, I've seen all kinds of cheesy crap stamped with the gloriousness that is my name. Sadly, after searching for many years, I've still yet to find even one line of feminine hygiene products bearing my moniker- scribbling 'MELISSA' on the front of the package with a black Sharpie marker isn't quite the same. I frequently entertained swirling thoughts of legally changing my name to Tampax or Kotex until the fateful morning I stumbled across this display at our local 99 Cents Only Store. Oh wow, the Julie's of the world really have all the luck, don't they? I'm experiencing serious monogram envy.Now Julie can join the ranks of important females with iconic names like Sara Lee, Betty Crocker, Aunt Jemima, Little Debbie, and Wendy's. I can only imagine the profound befuddlement of the poor men who reside in homes dominated by estrogen as to why their ladies keep talking about someone or something named Julie. Anyway, I've secretly placed a hidden Infidel microphone in just such a home. Let's listen in, shall we?

"I wore white pants today and Julie really let me down. I should sue Julie for the dry cleaning bill."

"I'm riding the Julie Express again for the fourth day in a row."

"Just because Julie has wings doesn't mean that Julie can fly. Kindly walk your Julie to the can instead of throwing Julie across the room"

"That stanky Julie's been all up in my business today."

"I'm so glad that Julie was with me when Aunt Flo came to visit. Aunt Flo can be a real pain in the azz but Julie absorbs everything she can dish out with no complaints!"

"No, I'm sorry, not tonight, honey. I've already got Julie between my legs."

At certain times of the month my world revolves around you, Julie. Also, I can honestly say that you've boldly gone where no Julie has ever gone before. Congratulations, Julie!

Don't you forget about me. I'll be alone, dancing you know it, baby. Don't you forget about me....don't, don't, don't. Don't you...... forget about me. Please click. Gracias!

Super Stupid Tuesday!

Texans will finally be able to voice their political opinion today when the polls open up at 7:00 A.M. Sadly, not one of my preferred Presidential candidates mustered up enough support to make it to this stage of the game. The only silver lining for staunch conservatives like me is that we'll finally escape the political ad crapfest that's been polluting local talk radio airwaves for months, now.
(Thanks to Lakeland Local for the photo. It's under a Creative Commons License. Do not copy.)
The very worst thing about Texas in a political year is the way the candidates adopt the most corn-pone accent this side of Dueling Banjos. They put on a big production prancing and swaggering around while throwing out abundant 'Hey Y'all's' and 'Howdy's' everytime they speak. Gather them up and as a collective they'd all qualify as final round contestants of every Southerner's favorite reality show, 'Who Wants To Be The Biggest Hick?'

The lady running for the County District Attorney position wins the worst offender prize. Implausibly, her ad campaign people came up with this tag line for her to draawwwllll out at the end of her radio ad spots: "Vote for me because you can't play politics with justice." Sounds like a decent slogan, right? Well, not really when paired up with the ad disclaimer that immediately follows it which states: "Paid for by the Republican Party of Crackertopia County." Right. You can't play politics with justice but you can allow political parties to pay for your candidacy. Contradictory contradiction, much?

Her ads have also included the endorsements from crime victims whose cases she helped prosecute. One dramatic lady declares, "She's a tough little gal like a Bulldog in a Chihuahua's body." Wait, what? Are you saying that the District Attorney hopeful is really a yappy and annoying dog who craves Taco Bell? What if she had curly hair and jumped through flaming hula hoops as a hobby, would she then be a Bulldog in a Poodle's body? What if she had a fugly flat nose and lazy eye, would they revise the ad to announce that she's like a Bulldog in a Pug's body? I mean breaking it down doggy style only tells me that she might have a place alongside Snoop Dogg and Tha Dogg Pound instead of the County Courthouse.

A message to the rest of you political incumbent hopefuls........ just because you run an ad where your pocket lobbyist declares you to be "The Greatest Person In The History Of Ever" doesn't mean I'm going to vote for you. I actually read and I know what your voting track record is and how you betrayed Crackertopia County time and again. I also don't really care that the Frequent Burrito Eaters Club has endorsed your candidacy or that your mom tells everyone that you always wear clean underwear and therefore they should vote for you. I vote based on what you, as a representative, have accomplished for your constituents. I'm just keeping it real, yo.

*Don't forget to vote for ME on Super Tuesday by clicking here on Humor-Blogs.com. A vote for me is a vote for comedic superiority. Let's send a message to those pundits over there who continue wallowing in humor mediocrity by sending me to the top of the ranks.*

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Show A Little Cleavage.......

The wearing of V-Neck shirts has caused me a considerable amount of pain and unmitigated anguish over the years; but sometimes you just don't have any clean tops left to wear. That's where my true tale of horror begins.

I'm journaling the experience here so that others may avoid the wretched agony that happened to me yesterday.

As I moved from one job to another I asked my daughter, Monkey to toast some bread so I could take a ham salad sandwich on the road with me. Each bite sent gritty brown crumbs cascading down into my cavernous Boobie Pit where they became trapped. It really felt like those sharp and pointy little dried bread bits were writhing about and trying to escape from the wedge of darkness they found themselves in.

Meanwhile it was causing me a great deal of distress along with profound discomfort. I mean, I'm driving, should I take one hand off the wheel to dedicate to rooting around and de-crumbing my bra? That didn't seem prudent. Should I just throw caution to the wind and lift up my shirt to shake the crumbs out? That didn't seem prudent, either. Besides, Mardi Gras is over and I don't really need any beads. I'll save flashing for when I can reap big rewards.

Aside from a few furtive digs at my bosom area, I did nothing. When I finally arrived home I flung my V-Neck shirt to the floor and started scratching and pawing intensely as though possessed by unseen forces.

The moral of the story is that you're not safe to eat toasted sandwiches unless you're wearing a turtleneck or a strait jacket. V-Neck shirts are only good for emergency bread crumb storage in case you need to leave a trail to find your way out of a dark forest.

*You can buy special Bread Crumb Boobie Protectors over at humor-blogs.com*

When Good Bras Go Bad........

There's a sinister conspiracy afoot. As your intrepid Infidel reporter I feel compelled to bring you all the details though I risk life, limb, and the wrath of the Bra Rose Manufacturing lobbyists to do so.

I've uncovered top secret information that the Bra Rose companies have aligned themselves with the brassiere bow factories for years now and they reign supreme over the garment lobby up in Washington D.C.. Yes, they're in cahoots and working together to make women's undergarments just that much more undignified. What purpose could the sewing on of insidious satin roses and tiny, ridiculous bows possibly serve? This isn't an episode of MacGyver where we can pluck the thumbnail-sized flower off and transform it into a lethal weapon by flinging it at our enemy's eye or hiding it in their Vienna Sausage Casserole to choke them to death......as though a Vienna Sausage Casserole wouldn't kill them off all on its own.

Us women already have to deal with unsupportive bras that sag and droop and create the dreaded 'Third Boob Syndrome' in the middle of our chest-- must we also contend with this extra aggravation? I just don't appreciate giving passing strangers the illusion that I have three nipples to go along with the pushed together 'Third Boob' thingie and that's precisely how it looks when you have a small, round object smack dab in the middle of your boobage. It's something that only a nursing set of triplets or a man with three hands would get excited about. No, a Triple-Nipple just ain't flattering on a woman at all. Or a man for that matter. Remember Chandler on 'Friends' who went to great lengths to get his supernumerary nipple surgically removed? I'm sure that if women wanted a Triple-Nipple look we can get a prosthetic to achieve that effect.

I understand that my harsh criticism will likely lead to a bra securities task force being created to investigate scandalous Bra Rose misdeeds and corrupt pay-offs. It could even lead to massive bra ornamentation factory lay-offs......but the truth shall set us free. No longer will we stand idly by and be used as walking specimens for some bra creator's Triple-Nipple fantasies.

Infidel Conspiracy Theory Day

I've uncovered a frightening phenomenon that's spreading rapidly amongst the haute couture fashion world of elastic waist band garments....... the slow and deliberate disappearance of pockets.

Yes, sadly, pockets have started vanishing at an alarming rate, especially in plus size bottoms. How do I know this? Well, I happen to have a plus sized bottom and I've witnessed the heartbreak of disappearing pockets first hand. No, not Hot Pockets, but pockets where you store necessary items for your daily survival in. Well, I guess in a pinch you could store your stuff in a Hot Pocket along with its processed meat and runny sauce. Without pockets, where else can I put my nacho money? What about my life-saving Chapstick? What about the booger collection lovingly spread across a Kleenex by one of my mini-Infidels who wants me to store it in my pocket for safe keeping? I have six kids and for reasons of practicality, I don't want to lug a purse around all the time.

It's glaringly obvious that those heavy-handed thugs down at the Fanny Pack Factory have orchestrated this entire thing so that we're forced into buying their fashionista boycotted product and turning around the fanny pack stock market, long since in a state of decline. They want us all to look just like geeky Aunt Irma with her bright pink neon fanny pack strapped to her side, wandering around looking for the Andy Williams Theater in Branson. Well, I know their little game and I'm staging a revolt. No fanny pack will ever grace this Infidel fanny. Never!

I'm really taking a chance letting my speculations see the light of the day, and I hope it doesn't place me on a Fanny Pack assassin hit list. I'd host a fundraiser for the cause by soliciting loose pocket change, but nobody has pockets anymore. Cruel, cruel irony.

Why Hallmark And American Greetings Called Security When I Tried To Sell Them My Card Ideas

A fit of wild inspiration hit me this week and I elected to parlay that into some dandy little homemade postcards for my Good Mail Girl peeps.

Infidel Tip Of The Day: Remember to always, no matter how secure of your writing talents, proofread. Always. Today, I sat addressing the cards to send them off to their new homes when I noticed a horrifying glitch on one of them.
This cheeky little card represents how I feel about the cheeseball inspirational stickers that came lodged in the middle of my value pack stickers featuring funky tank tops and lip gloss. I didn't want the stickers to go to waste, but I also felt a need to protect the snark credibility that only a true Smiling Infidel can accumulate. What to do? What to do? So, I slapped them onto this piece of cut-out posterboard and wrote adorable, feel good phrases underneath. What exactly is the problem then, you may ask? Take a looksie at the bottom left corner. It reads, "Hi, What's New?" and I finished it off with a delightful response of "This Weird Looking PUSSY Sore. Want To Come Closer To Look At It?"

Nuh-Uh, that's just all kinds of wrong. I intended it to mean PUSSY as in 'PUS-FILLED,' not like actual, you know, PUSSY. Don't worry, I modified the sentence this morning so none of the pure and mild Good Mail Girls will have to explain to their family why a stranger would inexplicably invite them to come take a close look at their weird PUSSY sore.

My Mom Says That Blogging Is Dangerous, And Stupid Too!

I used to regard every word that sprang forth from my mother's saintly mouth as the gospel truth ................. but not anymore. Mama always told me that I needed to exercise fiscal caution with my allowance because money doesn't grow on trees. However, the existence of a veritable orchard of Dollar Trees spread across these great United States proves her wrong. Very wrong. Then I started wondering where else she might have led me astray because my mom also told me:

• "Don't do that, or you'll go blind!"
• "Always put on clean underwear when you leave the house in case you get into an accident."
• "Don't pet stray animals or you'll get rabies."
• "Stop picking at yourself. You'll get a scar."
• "If you don't wear a brassiere, your boobs will hang down to your knees like the tribal ladies on the pages of a National Geographic magazine."
• "You have to sit out of the pool for 30 minutes after you eat or you'll get cramps and drown."
• "Don't talk to strangers or accept candy from them."
  

Well, no more. Today's the day that I defy all that my mother taught me. I'm going to disprove each and every one of her Mom-isms and show the world that Mommy doesn't always know best. So, come on all you strangers- Talk to me! Send me candy! My rebellious spirit welcomes the exhilarating danger! I may have a little trouble typing a response back to you though because I'm spending the day with my eyes crossed and my tongue hanging out to show that my face will not freeze this way forever, and ever.

The Manor Estate Known As 'Mellow Yellow'

Out of all the strikingly gorgeous color combinations in this world, why, oh why, would anyone choose to throw brown and yellow together? WHY?!!!??? The mini-infidels and I don't actually call this home, 'Mellow Yellow Manor,' because Donovan probably still has some sort of copyright law attached to his 60's classic. However, we do refer to it as 'The PooPee House.' See what I did there? I made my very own compound word! Poo aptly describes the skid mark brown trim circling around the eaves and splashed across the garage doors. I'm ever so glad they didn't go with a chunky texture paint. Yes, that definitely would have increased the 'EWWWWWW' factor to the infinite 'EWWWWW' power. The Pee part adequately covers the yellowish hue selected to adorn the rest of the homes exterior.

I sincerely hope that the house never falls under a demolition order because I can just imagine the confusion it could potentially cause among the workers. They'd argue bitterly, one saying "We can't tear it down. The house is yellow. Everyone knows if it's yellow, let it mellow." While some of the other guys will chime in with a vociferous, "Oh yeah? But it's also brown. Remember, if it's brown, flush it down!" I fear that it'll launch a spirited battle not seen since the stadium Tastes Great-Less Filling days. Things could get very ugly.

Do you really want to instigate another Civil War, people? Then you must choose your house colors wisely. The power rests in your capable paintbrushing hands.

Infidel Freak Secret Of The Week Super Extravaganza!

Think of today as a never ending Infidel Freak Secret Party! An Infidel Freak Secret Party to end all Infidel Freak Secret Parties! Three Infidel Freak Secrets like a personal Infidel Freak Secret menage a trois. More Infidel Freak Secrets than you could stuff into a special Infidel Freak Secret Party Gift Bag! All Infidel Freak Secrets all the time! Woooooooooo Hoooooooo!
This may come as a complete and total shock to you, but I'm not always a lady of upstanding behaviour and genteel manners. Sometimes I feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders and then when I look at my gargantuan bra with its harness-like straps, it pretty much confirms those feelings. What started as a bad habit has turned into a habitual routine. I like to plop my ample bosom onto tables or desks whenever I'm seated and working on a project because it's comfortable and temporarily alleviates my heavy burdens. I always think to myself, "Whew, that's really a load off my chest....literally" This horrifies my daughters to no end so I make a conscious effort to never plop my bosom on any surface out in public. We have a little chant around the Infidel dinner table, "Mommy, Mommy, if you're able, take your ELBOWS off the table." That's a gentle reminder that Emily Post would surely frown upon such barbarian meal time antics. Well, now my girls recite "Mommy, Mommy, if you're able, take your BOOBIES off the table." Even at a regular weight, this has been my curse to bear, and it's hereditary. Mock now, oh youthful Infidel daughters, but one day soon, you shall see the truth and the light. Oh yes, you shall see.
Infidel chickens should never watch frightening movies because it scares the chicken feed out of us. If you're looking for a good flick to take your Coulrophobic Anonymous group to, this ain't it. Stephen King weaves a masterful tale of a killer clown who likes to roam the sewer systems and feast on the flesh of young children. Super! I both read the book and watched the movie at 15. Consequently, I now refuse to park my vehicle anywhere near an open curbside sewer. We almost didn't buy our current house because we have a sewer manhole located directly on our driveway. I told Papi that he'll feel really sorry when Pennywise the clown pops up out of that thing someday because we settled for the first cheap house that came along. Occasionally, I have to get out of my truck in the middle of the night while working to pick up a paper or whatever, and I'll go to extraordinary lengths to avoid coming anywhere close to the sewer. I make sure to keep one wary eye on the opening at all times, just waiting for a sinister hand to come bursting out of the shadow. My parents generation worried about giant man-eating crocodiles lurking around in the sewer, but our fears loom much larger. Giant man-eating crocodiles........those were the good old days.
And lastly, 'The Story Of Ping' has delighted and graced the Infidel generations for well, ummmm, generations. My Grandma read it way back in the day! Anyway, it tells the story of a wayward duckling who lives with his mother and his father and two sisters and three brothers and eleven aunts and seven uncles and forty-two cousins on a boat with two wise eyes on the Yangtze River. As per tradition, their master calls the ducks back to the boat every night after their day of roaming the Yangtze. The last duck to cross the little bridge to the boat gets a WHACK! on his back with a little whip thingie. Ping gets the WHACK! treatment one day when he narrowly escapes becoming a duck dinner and returns to the boat late. I have six kids. Sometimes they tend to dawdle and procrastinate when I call them to get ready so we can leave the house in a reasonable amount of time, so I took a life lesson from the example of Ping. The last Infidel out the door gets a WHACK! on the back. The last Infidel to line up after playing at the park and ignoring my repeated calls for them gets a WHACK! on the back. The Infidel who takes the last ice cream cone I was saving for myself gets a WHACK! on the back.(kidding) And so on and so forth. Now, I only have to mutter the words, "Remember Ping!" and they scramble to line up and avoid coming in last. Parenting at its finest. Throw away your Dr. Spock book and pick up Ping instead.

I hope you enjoyed the Infidel Freak Secret Of The Week Extravaganza. Please leave a comment below and drive safely home. Remember, The Smiling Infidel is your convenient one stop shop for all things Infidel and Freak Secrety.

Show Your Newspaper Carrier A Little R-E-S-P-E-C-T And In Turn We Won't Pee On Your Paper

I'll never win the coveted Newspaper Carrier Of The Year Award, but that's okay with me, because revenge is sweeter than some crappy little trophy with my name scrawled across it. The photographer obviously used newspaper carrier stunt doubles, because, believe me, I've never seen anyone smiling like that down at the warehouse.

Some Houston Chronicle subscribers feel the need to whine, cry, and moan incessantly about their newspaper. You would think that people had actual lives outside of complaining about a home delivery service that they get for mere pennies a day, but no. Every day customers in the district call in to the complaint hotline using their snottiest voice, "I want my paper tied to the front door handle because I'm a laaaawwwwyer." WTH? Who cares if you're a doctor or a lawyer? Why do you have such low self-esteem that you need to lord your title over a little peon newspaper carrier? During Hurricane Rita last year, I promise this is true, people called in hysterical that they didn't get a paper. Ummm, Houston received dire predictions and an evacuation order to clear the city. Just north of here, people died, and had all their worldly possessions ripped away from them, and you're worried about a frickin disposable newspaper? This district has a lot of economically privileged people living in it and the constant barrage of asinine requests tend to reflect that. I swear some of them won't feel the warm glow of customer satisfaction until I march their paper right into their over-priced, under-insulated, mini mansions, and plop down at the kitchen table to read it to them and show them all the pretty pictures.

One particular guy on my route wins the 'A-Hole Of The Year' Award. Of course, the most demanding subscribers also never give a word of praise or thanks. They never give a tip at Christmas, and they never smile or wave cheerfully at you when you pass by. I started this route to help out with the bills when Papi went back to school a few years ago, and this butthead sobbed his little eyes out at the time that he absolutely HAD to have his paper by 5:00 A.M. That's a full 30 minutes before the allotted weekday delivery deadline of 5:30. So really, I made him a favour out of the kindness of my heart. Last October, a tornado touched down a mile from my route while I was still out throwing. The wind and the torrential rains proved severe enough to flood out the streets of the neighborhood, thus stranding me for about 30 minutes. Mr. A-Hole called in 6 times to complain that he hadn't gotten his paper at 5:00. Seriously. Okay, impassable streets, whirling tornadic activity, one sad and pathetic, dripping wet newspaper lady stuck in the middle of it all, and he's only worried about HIS newspaper? Where do people find this misguided sense of entitlement that they should have everything they want, when they want it, and damn everybody else? I began throwing his paper whenever I felt like as a form of protest, but he took his endless complaining to the boss of my boss. In a perfect world, they would have told him to screw off because he signed a contract that promised him 5:30 delivery and nothing more. We don't live in a perfect world, and they acquiesced to his demands.

I suppose that poor unfortunate souls like me, stuck in crappy circumstances because we depend on the money that our menial labor provides, just sucks up the negative and learns to bear it. However, I've started extracting revenge in small doses that satisfies the primal urge in me that wants to go and toilet paper his house and spray paint salacious things on his truck. I'm greeted every day by him standing outside scowling at me with his arms crossed. If it's 5:01, he impatiently taps his watch and shakes a disapproving finger at me. He requested sidewalk delivery. I make sure to throw it as far as possible from wherever he's standing so he has to move his mean azz to go and pick it up and feel the sting of inconvenience. It shows him that he's not the boss of me, no! I'm a wild flower of the night that can't be controlled by his dictatorial ways. The top of each bundled section gets rumpled and ripped, so I usually discard them because it really isn't fit for delivery. Well, it's fit enough for his delivery. I save them all especially for him in a neat little stack on the dashboard. I guess he made such a fuss about what time I delivered the paper, he doesn't want to hassle looking even more petty by whining about the actual physical condition. It's readable, I suppose, if you smooth out the wrinkles, and you don't mind shredded paper hanging off the corners. I get a sick sense of pleasure knowing I'm giving him the worst of the worst, bright and early, every single day.

I told my mom about all this. Understand, she's more demented than I will ever be. It just so happened that she was driving through the main thoroughfare in the neighborhood and she asked which house Mr.A-Hole lived in. I told her, and she started laughing really hard. Apparently, at that very moment, she felt the burning desire to gift his front yard with her Chik-Fil-A trash. Oh, she's so very bad. She now makes it a tradition to pass by his house and throw something whenever she's in the area. I love my mom.

Take heed and treat your newspaper carriers right or suffer the consequences!

Penny-Ante Blogging!

Ahhhh, an institution of American society, the beloved Penny Dish. These little plastic fountains of one cent wealth are often spotted snuggled up alongside the cash registers at local convenience stores. Even the finest area Dollar Stores reserved for the most discriminate of Dollar Store shoppers, will dedicate coveted counter space to the almighty Penny Dish too.

The esteemed Ben Franklin in all his infinite financial management wisdom once said, "A penny saved is a penny earned." How true and fiscally responsible, Ben! Ben Franklin:The designated fun sucker for guilt ridden penny candy buyers everywhere. What about the irrepressible Lionel Richie, who not only dances on ceilings all night long, but also croons unabashedly of his undying adoration for pennies in 'Penny Lover'? That's all kinds of wrong, Lionel. I'm not clear on what exactly the role of a 'Penny Lover' entails, but I'm pretty sure that I don't want Lionel's pennies in the sacred Penny Dish when he's done loving them up. And, yeah, I said sacred Penny Dish, because everyone knows about Pennies From Heaven.

So, you all understand the basic premise behind the ingenious Penny Dish, right? "Take A Penny. Leave A Penny." That's essentially akin to my own favorite request, "I'll pull your finger if you pull my finger." It's meant to celebrate a spirit of giving and showcase the benefits of symbiotic relationships. Why not adopt this principle towards the field of blog commenting as well?

I'm here to declare that henceforth the blog known as, The Smiling Infidel, will adopt this generous philosophy towards any and all comments. Reciprocating comments already ranks at the tippy top of the Blogger Commandments, but I know that many amongst you have flagrantly sinned against these Blogger covenants. So, I propose a program called "Leave A Comment. Get A Comment." It's simple, straight forward, and meant to give a boost to the egomaniacal comment whore residing in all of us. Stop lurking! Say something! Make your thoughts heard if only to type out the corny 'LOL!' in agreement with other commenters. Just do it! Ever wrestle with blog intimidation or a sudden onset of speechlessness? We all feel that way sometimes. I came up with a bloggy formula long ago......No Comments=Everyone Hates Me. Don't do this to your bloggy buddies. Show them the love!

A penny for your thoughts?