From The Ankles Up, I'm All Business.......

But from the ankles down, I'm all party.....

More specifically, I'm a hippy-dippy, tie-dyed Bob Marley party. You should see my magnificent toe hair dreadlocks.
When wearing these shoes, my feet relentlessly tap out the Morse Code version of "One World, One Love" all day long as though independent from the rest of my body.
"Let's get together and feel alriiigghhhttt....."
That's the real reason why Asians bind their feet. It's to shut them up.
I finally was forced to adopt a zero tolerance stance prohibiting them from burning any kind of "incense" in the sanctity of my footwear. I understand that my feet may consider my Good Time shoes as their special private place where they can do whatever they feel like, but you know, sometimes I do need to get through security and ultra-sniffy dogs to get places.
Man, I'm such an unmellow fascist pouring holy water on their little smoke-filled lovefest.
Reluctantly, I did compromise and purchase some lovely socks for my feet made from the most organic hemp crops. They feel positively toasted in them.
Anyway, I think I've long established my predilection for the most bizarro WTF?-ery of novelty socks, but I've never before shared my bizarro WTF?-ery shoe fetish.
I picked up these little homage to the Grateful Dead beauties at a new thrift store that caters to teens called Plato's Closet. I visually scoured the shoes for any traces of foot funk left over from the previous inhabitants. I also did some deep and profound sole searching. I'm happy to report that these shoes were undoubtedly never worn and yet still bore an amazing price tag of only ten bucks.
I am a little disturbed to think about Plato, one of the greatest philosophers in history, as a cross-dresser, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that the sparkly tube dress and high heels in his closet were cheap. I do like a frugal man!
I only have a few pairs of weird shoes. Certainly not enough to open up my own FooFoo Feet Museum in the shoe closet just yet.
See, I have certain stringent criteria regarding price, function, and comfortability factors. I'm not easy. Not just any old random oddball shoe can apply for employment at Smiling Infidel Central.
Here's some of the lucky few who made it past the rigorous selection process:

If Papi and I ever get divorced, I'm going to date both Dr. Scholls and Mr. Vans so I can be sure that my poor, defenseless little feet will never be stinky or cold again.......

I'd Like To Dedicate A Song To The Surgical Staff Who'll Be All Up In My Business Tomorrow

At first I considered a nice Weird Al spoof for the occasion. Perhaps "Like A Surgeon" would be apropos even though really Weird Al is so flippin timeless and classic no matter the reason or the season; but instead I'm going with my final selection: Diana Ross.

Diana sums up all the meaningful things I desire to articulate when she gustily sings "Touch me in the morning......then just walk away..."

I don't really want to be touched at all, mind you. I'm not one of those kinks with a surgical fetish nor do I have to rely on my HMO to hook me up with some good touchy/feely action.

Well, normal people wouldn't give a second thought to the minor procedure I'm undergoing in the morning, but I'm not normal; I'm freaked out.

When I relayed my fears of anesthesia to the registration nurse at the hospital during my pre-op visit she simply laughed and then proceeded to ask me if I had a Living Will and if I'm an Organ Donor.

Wow, so reassuring. Yeah, I don't mind entertaining paranoid delusions of croaking on the table while the doctor harvests my plump and ripe organs like it's dollar days in the Piggly Wiggly Produce Department. I don't mind at all. Thanks registration nurse! I'm guessing you failed Compassion And Caring 101.

The best part is that I'll be working all night in 30 degree weather. Wait, no, that's not the best part. The bestest part is that the nurse admonished me with a firm "No Drinking Or Eating After Midnight Prior To Surgery" command.

She didn't specify why. Is it an instruction from The Gremlins Handbook? Will I turn into a wickedly voracious monster if I dare stuff my face past the stroke of midnight? Or is the Hospital trying to avoid another unfortunate Code Brown incident in the Operating Room? Only my physician can say for sure and I won't be seeing her until a minute before they gas me.

I'm only spending the day with the fine folks at Our Lady of Holy Moly Hospital. I'm a little hurt that they didn't want to spend the night with me, but I guess I'll get over it.

In case you're curious, we'll just categorize tomorrow's proceedings in the "Personal And Feminine In Nature" file folder.

Whoever assumed that I was going in for a sex change operation, you're wrong. I don't feel like going to all the hassle it would involve to transform this blog into The Macho, Macho Man Infidel. I'm not suffering from the heartbreak of hemorrhoidal flare-up either and I'm not getting that superfluous vaginal plastic surgery(Vagiplasty?) that's become so trendy lately.

So, if I don't see you all before Thursday, Have A Very Merry Christmas!

The Smiling Infidel Word Of The Day......Learning Words The Infidel Way!

Today's Word Is: CAMOTOE
I took my mini-Infidels to the park today to soak up some of the gorgeous spring-like weather we're enjoying smack in the middle of winter. As we strolled along I sourly noted that the "Hoochie Poochie Mama" patrol was out in full force and taking advantage of the warm temperatures by showing off their enormous belly pooches spilling out of cropped shirts and obscenely plunging low-rise jeans.

And then we saw her. A lady wearing overly-tight stretchy pants with a camouflage print. She was walking right towards us and while I don't ordinarily take in small details the glaring full-frontal wedgie digging deeper into her womanly crevices with her every step was just too much not to notice.

A camouflage pants induced cameltoe=Camotoe

And so a new Infidel Word Of The Day was born unto us. Surely it won't be too long before it finds inclusion into the newest revised edition of Merriam and Webster's Dictionary.

*Researchers at humor-blogs.com are working on inventing special cameltoe-camouflaging pants for ladies*

This Writing Technique Earned The Erik Estrada Seal Of Approval!

The August gathering of the Creative and Radical Alternative Penmanship Society, or C.R.A.P, will now come to order.

Our exclusive writing review board is a little short-staffed after the big Agatha Christie Poison Pen fiasco last week. Our condolences to the families. We're playing things a little safer this time by showcasing the finest in edible ink.

Voltaire had his favorite feather pen which, if he were alive today, would likely heatedly argue with Captain Feathersword of The Wiggles over which is mightier- The feather pen? Or the feather sword? At C.R.A.P, we eschew classic writing traditions, and opt instead for the unique. Our reviewer, Sunbum, has donned a lovely sombrero for the occasion, and filled her ink well with picante sauce to test its worthiness as a viable ink substitute. Armed with a bowl of tortilla chips, Sunbum carefully pens an important message onto the scrolled paper.

Weary of people telling her that her writing lacks zest and verve, Sunbum happily reports that chronicling her thoughts with salsa adds an instant spiciness to everything, with little to no effort. Quotes Sunbum: "I imagine that this is what a Penmanship Class in Mexico must look like. Tables filled with fresh hot sauce and tortilla chips, just ready for their eager pupils to create a written masterpiece with."

Indeed. Who wants to enter the strenuously choreographed world of salsa dancing when you can sit on your butt and become a salsa writer instead?

Sunbum had only one lament about using the Chip N Dip process. She advises that it's a technique best used when accompanied by a huge writer's block.....of cheese!
Next week, our reviewer will travel back to the beginning of writing instrument history by using a bug-eyed squid to recapture the pen and ink basics.

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.

How Do You Say 'Pull My Finger' in Spanish?

I think that as proud Americans we can all recognize the profound impact that the Mexican and Latino culture has had on our society. I mean, thanks to Ricky Martin livin la vida loca and breaking down long held bon-bon taboos, we can now endlessly shake our own bon-bons to our little heart's content without fear of reprisal or torch bearing mobs. Thanks to Mexico and their culinary specialties, we can experience Montezuma's Revenge in a whole new way. The searing pain of heartburn with a spicy international flair. Viva! Ole! Aye Carumba! Thanks to inventive Mexican styled luchador wrestling, we no longer automatically think of Zorro when one asks the age old question of , "Wow, who was that masked man??!!!??" Instead it conjures up mental images of lumbering wrestlers outfitted in butt hugging Lycra tights like some sort of sausage casing for men. Nice.

Yes, we should definitely celebrate diversity and the beneficial elements it's brought into our lives. However, I'm getting a little irritated about the flow of Spanish speaking foreigners taking American jobs and contributing to a lowering of an acceptable living wage while propagating an almost slave trade environment because they'll labor for a ridiculously low amount of money.

Just last week, this issue really hit home with me. My own beloved resident Mexican, Papi, sat typing away at the computer while I lay in bed trying to drift off to sleep. All of a sudden, a deafening noise shattered the silence of our boudoir and it immediately snapped me to attention. I bolted upright in the bed and furtively looked around the room to see where it came from. That's when I noticed Papi smiling devilishly while leaning to one side and again the same explosive sound echoed through the bedroom once more. I couldn't believe my ears. Here was Papi, a fart amateur, horning in on my territory. Irate, I started chastising Papi for his flagrant flatulent disregard for me. Who does he think he is???!!? I have 32 years experience in the field of farting, and here's this damn Mexican who thinks he can just waltz into this country and take over my job. Unskilled fart laborer. What's next? Will I lose my lead fart position because Papi will work for less? Will he take a second job and outsource me for nose picking too? Where does the madness end?

Remember how our parents generation received dire warnings about the future of America due to the nefarious 'Brown Wave?' I bet they never expected that the 'Brown Wave' would literally take over good old-fashioned American 'Brown Wave-Brown Panty' ingenuity. Times.....they are a-changing.

The music today reflects the fact that like Thalia, I too, 'Amor A La Mexicana!' We both look stupid in sombreros too. Arriba!

Sometimes I Wear Stretchy Pants.....You Know, Just For Fun

Yesterday I had to break down and wear the bane of my wardrobe....... the dreaded red sweatpants. I only wear this scarlet monstrosity when absolutely necessary. Like when all my normal, neutral toned sweats are in the laundry and I'm on the verge of freezing to death. Then, and only then, will I resort to dressing like an extra cherry tomato left over from a Fruit Of The Loom panty commercial. I'm already fat and something about wearing an eye-catching red just seems to amplify it. I'm no fashion maven but I do have my bare minimum standards. Admittedly, the red sweats are the warmest in my vast sweat apparel collection due to their super fuzzy fleece interior, but I'd rather shiver in my worn out, faded black sweats than stoop to frolicking around like "The Lady In Red." I don't shave my legs much in the winter, and when I peel off the red sweats they always leave the tell tale crimson fuzz behind desperately clinging with all their fleecy might to my spiky leg hair. My kids were concerned one day because they actually thought my legs were bleeding. It was then that I had to tell them the sad truth that

red fuzz on the legs marks the beginning symptoms of the dreaded Elmo disease. It starts with the red fur slowly creeping up your lower limbs, and before you know it the fur balls maneuver its way up your body, conquering any clothes foolish enough to cross its path. It will even invade your cleavage and sacred belly button crevice. Your speaking voice slowly dissolves into a whiny high-pitched tone and you revert to baby speech and annoyingly referring to yourself in the first person. Sadly, full blown Elmo disease follows soon after. The next thing you know, you're mechanically doing the Hokey Pokey and bending over for complete strangers and you just can't seem to stop. The yearning for a Dorothy fish sandwich wedged unto a nice sesame bun becomes a constant craving too.

Hey, this is Elmo's World! You're just living in it, sucka.

The very worst fashion move possible, ladies, is to don the hideous red sweat combo. That's right. The sweatpants and the matching sweatshirt. It gives you a certain "Mrs. Claus" quality about you. I guarantee you that if you break the ten commandments of style and wear a monochromatic sweats outfit, you'll have to contend with Santa Claus wannabes everywhere leering at you to "come on over and sit my lap for awhile and tell me if you've been a naughty or nice little girl." That's precisely how my Mom and Dad started dating. Seriously.

I owned an electric blue pair of sweatpants back in my elementary school days. I stopped wearing them when the Smurf jokes aimed at me from my peers became too unbearable. My mom assured me that I didn't look at all Smurfy. In fact, she said I looked more like a blueberry. She even unfavorably compared me to bratty gum addict, Violet Beauregarde. :( I'll never forget the Valentines Day present she gave me of a purple sweatpants ensemble with multi-heart appliques dancing across it. I wasn't a hefty child at all, but after hearing incessant rounds of teasing that I looked like a tattooed grape,I grew irritated. The only grape categories I fit into was "Grape Of Wrath," and "Sour Grapes". I shelved my Grapes Of Love outfit into the dark recesses of my closet where it never saw the light of day again until Goodwill came knocking a few years later. I pity the poor girl that it undoubtedly got foisted onto. I hope people told her that she's a stunning purple vision of loveliness and not a tattooed grape.

I guess the main moral of this story is that fruit flavors and fruit colors are best left to rolls of Life Savers candy and Gay Pride parades. Adult sized sweatpants in certain colors should be forbidden territory. By the way, I'm typing all of this while wearing my dark gray zippered sweat hoodie, and heather gray drawstring sweatpants. Hanes Her Way brand, just in case you want to replicate my sophisticated Infidel fashion savvy for yourself.