My Daughter: Future Creator Of The Council For Stink Prevention

I work out in the pseudo-country on Mondays/Tuesdays

I usually drag along the least resistant mini-Infidel to work slave labor for slave wages enjoy the fresh country air and scenic beauty.

I refer to it as the pseudo-country because while many of the farmhouse-styled homes have lots of acreage with big red barns and painted ponies dotting their sprawling fields, they still live in a deed restriction-controlled neighborhood surrounded by modern conveniences.

It's not country living if you can walk to the grocery store for a gallon of milk instead of being forced to massage Ol' Bessie to give up her last lactating drop.

So, the pseudo-country--they're city enough to have their very own Chik-Fil-A drive-thru but too rural to enjoy the privilege of the city sewer system.

I feel bad for pseudo-country kids. They don't even have a conveniently located curbside hole to toss their bleeding-with-red-ink schoolwork failures into like us city folk.

So, in case you haven't had the odorific pleasures of touring an area that's relying on septic tanks during a muggy day or in the aftermath of torrential rains, let me just sum up the experience for you: It stinks. It stinks real bad.

We had a high of 80 degrees on Tuesday. Crazy, I know. Why don't you and Mr. Global Warming go to the Conspiracy Corner to discuss it at length?

Anyway, it was pretty stenchy.

And then my brilliant second-oldest mini-Infidel burst forth with the most ingenious piece of stank combativeness: Utilize the city mosquito control trucks to spray heavy doses of Febreze air sanitizing mist into the feces-fragranced countryside.

Yeah, she superseded my own brilliant stench-fighting plan.

I guess she's right. It really would be impractical to try to plug in a million and a half vanilla-scented Renuzit Plug-In room deodorizers down at the Power Plant.

Make Sure You Have A Tissue Ready Before Reading This Post........

My sucktastic job has a rather long history of shafting their hardest workers. They continually deny carriers any pay increases to help offset some of our ever-staggering fuel costs despite the company enjoying a record profits gain last year, courtesy of their ad revenue ka-ching.

Lately though, they've taken their nickel-and-dime scrimping to all new depths of Scrooginess. The corporate powers-that-be have evidently decided that us lowly inkprint-stained peons are not even worthy enough to bother stocking toilet paper anymore down at our stinkhole warehouse. 

So now when us community newspaper carriers hold our weekly pity party at the warehouse it'll be a B.Y.O.B.W (Bring Your Own Butt Wipes) event.

Naturally, we weren't apprised of the T.P. cutback measures in advance.  My oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum and I had to find out the hard way last week.

I hearkened onto Sunbum's pitiful cries as she bellowed out to me from the restroom: "Moooooooom, I need some toilet paper....PLEASE!"

Paper, paper everywhere....but not a square to wipe with. I know that theoretically the warehouse supplies plenty of multi-functional paper sufficient for our wiping needs, but the thought of smearing newspaper print across my giant jiggly-juggly rear end makes me shudder with revulsion. I remember pressing newspapers to my arm as a kid so I could watch the black typed letters magically transfer onto my skin. My friends all did it, too. It was the Poor Man's version of temporary tattoos. You should have seen my Silly Putty back then. It was a tattooed freak!

So after ransacking my truck in search of something, anything to help out my poor toilet-bound Sunbum, I just gave up and started singing this catchy little song I made up on the spot to the tune of Paul Simon's Slip Slidin' Away: Drip Dryin' Today, Drip Dryin' Tooddaaaay.....When You're Out Of Toilet Paper You Know You'll Be Drip Dryin' Today! 

Sunbum emerged from the restroom completely unamused. Meanwhile, I laughed so hard at my Weird Al-inspired lyrical cleverness that I found myself in need of the facilities too. 

My dutiful little Sunbum uncovered a long-forgotten pack of tissue paper, that we'd used to wrap a last minute present, shoved into the door of the truck.

What choice did I have? Of course I used the tissue paper. After all, my body is a gift, so why not use gift paper on it? Delicate tissue for my delicate tissues.......

*I left the remainder of the tissue for the next commode inhabitant to pamper themselves with because I'm considerate like that*

I Have A Very Exciting Announcement.....I'm Finally Ready To Write My First Novel!

As you know I've been seriously mulling over the prospect of penning a book for quite some time. I've spent many a night tossing and turning while visions of a glossy book jacket bearing an author line that reads: By Elasticwaistbandlady, danced in my head.

I could feel the distinct presence of the muse of inspiration visiting me this morning as she flitted about, enlightening me with a brilliant story idea. Yes, I could literally feel this presence way down deep into the darkened recesses of my bowels.......literally.

What kind of book am I planning to write? Well, technically there's no specific categorical label for my kind of stuff just yet but I'm working on it. I think you could accurately describe this piece as being in the newly created (by me) 'Gastrointestinal Horror' genre. Barnes and Noble will likely shelve my novel somewhere in between Stephen King and Paula Deen. Maybe they'll let my book get all close and comfy on the same shelf as Morgan Spurlock and his revolutionary 'Supersize Me' documentary.

So, the basic premise involves international intrigue and high stakes drama that all takes place within the confines of my body.

I work non-stop to bring home the bacon between Tuesday and Thursday every week-- as a result I'm working so hard I don't even have time to fry up the bacon that I'm bringing home. We rely fairly heavily on frozen foods and leftovers for family sustenance on these two days. Well, as you know the Infidel family is ALL about diversity......so much so that we ate burritos for lunch yesterday, leftover sauerkraut and sausage for dinner, and I polished off 8 piping hot potstickers fresh from the skillet for breakfast this morning.

See, I bet you didn't even know that Mexico, Germany, and greater Asia were embroiled in a war, did you? But they are. Right inside the battlefield of my stomach. I'm a sort of pacifist and I can't tell you how much all this strife has made my heart burn. I may need to enlist the assistance of Major Maalox to come up with some battle strategies.

Anyway, my book will be comprised of 3 short stories entitled:
The Sauerkraut Always Rings Twice
Little Shop Of Burrito Horrors
The Potsticker Strikes At Midnight

I need to work out some pertinent details with my publisher-- especially my plan to have this novel printed on comfy 2-ply paper in case my tales of gastrointestinal horrors scares the everliving sheet out of the reader.

*My oldest daughter, Sunbum has been experiencing "difficulties" since yesterday, too. Sunbum's war only involves Mexican and German in-fighting, though which is kind of ironic because Mexico and Germany comprise Sunbum's ethnic background. She's at war with herself. Read all about it on her blog HERE.*

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.

Infidel Freak Secret Of The Week: Presidential Edition

As a human species we may come from vastly different backgrounds, ethnicities, cultures, and societal status but the one thing that unifies the brotherhood of man like no other is the fact that we all poop ~Elasticwaistbandlady Wearing A Philosophical Hat With A Little Dodo Feather Plume Stuck In It

Whenever I hear reports about Presidents both past and present staying at the homes of friends I immediately think, "Oh, what would that be like to have the President of The United States of America plop down on your porcelain throne?"
We're a family of humble means and modest toilet accommodations but if the President were to suddenly knock on my door declaring an urgent 'State Of Emergency' I would definitely let him in to cop a squat on our middle-class pot. In fact, I would consider it an honor; so much so that I'd immediately hang a plaque like the one above next to our front door proclaiming the fact that this home once harbored Presidential Poop and that makes it a historical landmark.
I haven't consulted any Realtors but surely a house bearing the distinguished honor of a Pooping President Landmark Plaque will considerably drive up the value.
Former President, Bill Clinton and his charming, easy-going wife, Hillary were frequent house guests of such notables as Ted Danson and Barbara Streisand.
Bill is reportedly the kind of guy, at least back in the day, that could pound down many a greasy-cheesy-over easy platter....you know the kind that has you fighting The Battle Of The Bowels a few hours later.
So, would you make a big stink about a President making a big stink in your house?
Would you kindly tell him, "I'm so sorry, but you're just not welcome back until you contribute to the Febreze Fund."
What if your home has thin enough walls to actually hear the Presidential potty time taking place?
Would you then stand accusingly at his next political fundraiser while pointing a finger and saying, "I know what you did last summer- and my plumber does too!!!"
Maybe not. Maybe people in positions of political power are more mature than I am.....but I doubt it.
I actually feel kind of sad that Hillary lost the nomination. With her, the country would have finally been able to jubilantly rejoice in electing our very first "sitting" President!

A Surfer Suffering From The Stomach Flu Will Never Describe It As Being "Totally TUBULAR!"

The entire Infidel family suffered from a particularly distressing case of the stomach flu last week. It was horrible. It was revolting. It was gastrointestinal drama at its peak as 8 people jockeyed for position to score seating on the 2 commodes in the Infidel household.

So, statistically, the odds of winning the toilet-line lottery in enough time without resorting to doing the demoralizing Cheek Clench-Abdominal Squeeze dance combo were not looking too good.
Along with an intimate knowledge of Montezuma's Revenge, Papi also brings a poignant wisdom; ingrained during his days as a young boy growing up in the mountainous suburbs of Mexico City. The wisest of his platitudinal phrases was oft-repeated last week: "My Churro machine is broken.....it's only making pancakes now."
Isn't my Papi like, so totally tubular? Well, I guess he had a few days last week that he wasn't quite totally tubular, but he's definitely back on his tubular game this week. We all are!

*I'm working on putting together a Bloggy Sox Exchange. Let me know if you're interested and I'll type up some details and post it this weekend*

Behold--The Magical Cleansing Powers Of The Dollar General Store!

Me and my marshmallow moon pie-eating hordes of Infidel kinfolk are unabashed Dollar Store snobs. So, based on a selective match of 29 points of Dollar Store compatibility Dollar General sinks right to the lowest rank amongst our special little Dollar Store caste system. Why? Well mainly because Dollar General loosely translates into "In General, Nothing Is Priced At A Dollar."

Aside from their somewhat insidious misnomer of a store name they do possess a most amazing main attraction that I'm a trifle reticent to share with the world at large. See, one small step inside their linoleum-floored store and you'll immediately sense that it acts as some sort of cosmic Ex-Lax pulling and tugging at your innards and manipulating the forces of nature until you end up frantically doing the crab walk/butt clench combo down the seemingly endless ceramics kitsch aisle to find the bathroom and avoid the shame of having to purchase an emergency pack of Dollar General cotton panties stamped with a giant red 'IRREGULAR' mark.

I harbor an irrational phobia of public restrooms and yet even I'm powerless to resist the magnetic pull of the Dollar General toilets. Inexplicably, even when completely devoid of "poop feeling" I know that I'll soon be visiting their bathrooms before paying for my lava lamp keychain and Goo Goo Cluster candy. I should write a book about my Dollar General bathroom experiences. I'd call it 'An Inconvenient Poop.'

Anyway, I would so rock the casbah as their ad campaign manager by playing up this unique angle of their business. In such a crowded Dollar Store market its very important to focus attention on your niche.

Infertile women all over the world have scurried to Naples, Italy just to sit in a miracle chair that entices with a promise of delivering babies. People always flock to sites that they believe will miraculoulsy cure their medical ailments. So, Dollar General can advertise how they benevolently lend a hand to the constipated public with a slogan like, "Give us your plugged-up, your bloated, and your intestinally-challenged masses." I envision entire pilgrimage tours to the Dollar General store organized by the Irritable Bowel Syndrome Association of America.

Oh Dollar General, you may never have served in an official military capacity but I salute you and your position as a General of Poop Authority and I award you the special Infidel Brown Medal Of Honor.

How Many Trees Must Die For Your Woody, Brian Wilson??!!?

Infidel daughter the second and I witnessed something rather unsettling while out on a quick jaunt to the grocery store.

See, our entire area has become an ongoing construction zone as they decimate centuries-old forests to make way for upscale shopping and fine dining housed in faux Italian Tuscan Village styled buildings. More concrete, less trees........YAY! You know that Joni Mitchell song, 'Big Yellow Taxi' that practically everybody and their greasy Aunt Edna has performed a cover of? I love that line where she earnestly sings 'They Took All The Trees And Put Em In A Tree Museum And Charge People A Dollar And A Half Just To See Em.' I can only bobble-head in agreement because around here they really have 'paved paradise to put up a parking lot.'

Infidel daughter the second pointed out a bunch of trees surrounded by a rectangular pen made of orange construction netting and kept asking me why they had those particular trees confined. Of course, I had several ideas--two of which made her crack up laughing:

1. It's a special playpen made specifically as a time-out punishment for rowdy trees who haven't yet hit their maturity.

2. A Piney Tree Petting Zoo where patrons can frolic amongst these gentle giants. They'd have to post a few 'Do Not Feed The Trees' signs, though, and maybe a 'Beware Of Trees:They Splinter' warning.

3. The state punished and imprisoned them for their massive littering crime wave. Dropping dirty needles everywhere definitely constitutes a criminal offense.

4. These were specially selected and cordoned off to keep the Infidel house in toilet paper until the year 2012. The Mayan calendar comes to an abrupt halt that year. It's reassuring to know that when the end of the world comes, our Infidel bums will be clean.

Within us all lies a little hippie side with an environmental conscience. My inner Infidel hippie enjoys patchouli oil and hairy armpits--what about yours??!!!?

The Ties That Bind.......Are Made Out Of Toilet Paper!

It's a Smiling Infidel Theme Day! Yay! See if you can guess the cleverly hidden main idea that runs through each short paragraph.

My boss had the nerve to give me my paycheck in this pissy little envelope. Third best? Third best??!!!!? Who is he kidding? None of his other employees would have gotten their bruised and battered body out of their completely demolished truck to go finish their route. None of them have gone to work the day before delivering a baby. I'm a distinct cut above the rest of his stable warehouse of manual labor donkeys. So, I waved the envelope in his face while haughtily demanding to know, 'What's The Deal, Yo?' My boss just laughed, until I told him, 'If you don't make me number #1, I'm going to throw my number #2 at you.'
I watched with eyebrow-raised interest as Mini-Infidel Daughter The Second, ironically enough, nicknamed, Monkey, crawled stealthily across the living room carpet on her belly like a jungle predator waiting to pounce. I wondered aloud if she was preparing for a home turf war by practicing some form of 'Guerilla Warfare Technique.' Monkey simply looked at me and grunted. So then, I lept off the sofa and went running all crazy towards her with my fingers extended and wiggling, while frothily yelling, 'Oh yeah? I'm declaring Gorilla Finger (thanks Urban Dictionary!) Warfare on you!' Monkey started screaming and frantically trying to retreat before finally surrendering to me and my imitation Gorilla Fingers. Sweet Gorilla Finger Victory! Perhaps I've stumbled upon a useful weapon to use on the battlefield.
(If I ever chance to meet Naomi Watts or Jessica Lange, I'm going to tell them they smell like Gorilla Fingers!) And finally, amid a chorus of vocal discontent emanating from my girls' room, I peeked in to find them walking in circles around the perimeter of their bedroom. Apparently, they feared that my son, Buster, had taken up permanent residence in the toilet, and they all got struck with poop feeling at the same exact time. Buster instructed the girls through the bathroom door, that the best way to stave off crap cramps is to walk around in circles.....and so they did. Hear the song playing? That's Soul Coughing's song 'Circles.' It goes: "I don't need to walk around in circles, walk around in circles, walk around in circles....." Well, how very nice for him. Apparently, he doesn't have to share his crapper with a gaggle of bloated siblings.

If You Don't Read This, Then The Terrorists Will Win!

Don't Let The Terrorists Win. The Task Force on Toilet Paper Terrorism issued a warning last week and raised the Toilet Paper Terrorism threat level to a Code White status for the rest of the summer. Yet, these unfortunate homeowners, and their lack of Homeland Security, was still caught woefully unprepared for the attack that took place in the wee hours on Saturday morning.

The Toilet Paper Terrorists showed no mercy as they blanketed the entire yard with shredded newspapers, leaving nothing unscathed in their path of destruction. They even fashioned a make-shift hood out of a Charmin bag and placed it over the Drill Team yard sign and stuffed the rest in the mailbox. That's a federal offense. The Task Force suspect multiple persons involved in the commission of this cowardly act of Toilet Paper Terror, and they're currently closing in on the possible funding source for these Terrorist activities. It's not HAMAS, but rather a local organization known as MAMAS and PAPAS who plied the money for the high-end, premium toilet paper found at the scene of the crime.

Only YOU can prevent Toilet Paper Terrorism. Only YOU can help take a bite out of Toilet Paper Crime. Only YOU can bring me a fried chicken sandwich. Right now. The Task Force recommends buying pressure washers to combat these sneaky Terrorists with water surges. You should stockpile poop to use as emergency projectile weaponry-it's a very strong deterrent. We learned that primitive arsenal tip from watching monkeys throw crap at each other. It seemed pretty effective. The Task Force has also advised keeping Amway sales people caged in your backyard and releasing them as a last-ditch emergency effort to stop a random act of Toilet Paper Terrorism. This will have the terrorists begging for mercy and surrendering their toilet paper supply to you.....Victory!

Who needs a crappy pyramid scheme for cheap paper goods? Not me.

Mohanna And Me Are 3-PLY Wives

While throwing my newspaper route filled with stately homes this morning, I passed a mini-mansion completely enshrouded in streams of flowing toilet paper. Amused at the undignified sight that would surely blackball them from being included for consideration to host the Annual Snooty Patootie Ladies Luncheon, I drove by slowly to throw their Houston Barnacle on one of their three driveways. Yes, THREE. That's when one of the tentacled arms of the cascading cottony soft butt wipes decided to reach out and touch someone. ME.

Nonchalantly, I continued on until my eye caught the frenetic motion of the white trash party streamers billowing wildly behind me in the wind. Two elongated strands the length of the entire truck had entwined themselves around the antenna and continued flapping around chaotically like a bewildered me at my baby shower when the ladies viciously played the "Wrap Her Up In Toilet Paper Like A Pregnant Mummy" game. This morning saw a forecast of lightning and light mist blanketing the area. That combined with the morning dew should surely break the mystical toilet paper spell enveloping me, right? No. I drove my entire route looking as though I had just gotten married Dukes Of Hazard style by Boss Hogg himself. I drove faster and still it clung to my truck with all its toilet papery might. Not even moisture and the forces of nature could break its determined bond to me. I told my Papi. He seemed wholly unsympathetic and much more interested in discovering what heaven on high such a miraculously durable toilet paper product descended from. He's convinced that this is a super secret laboratory created paper that they're keeping hidden from the public sector because the world isn't ready for such alien technology enhanced toiletries. Papi and his toilet paper conspiracy theories. He really hates it when you wipe and your fingers burst through the paper at the worst possible moment.

Obviously, this was the good stuff. What's with these privileged kids nowadays? Back in my day we used 1-ply "wipe and you bleed" cardboard toilet paper to do our T.P. dirty work. And gosh darn it, we liked it. How much disposable income do these little toilet paper hooligans have to use? Do they only throw the very finest in imported organic eggs when they're out vandalizing houses? Did they get out there still in their monogrammed crest sport jackets after a wild Saturday night down at the Country Club playing canasta? Perhaps they told their chauffeur in a haughty voice, "Jeeves, wait here a moment. I shan't be long. I'm just going to do an impromptu exterior home decorating makeover with Muffy, Buffy, Chip, and Mr. Charmin." *sigh* The sad thing is that the supremely cheap part of me felt tempted to rush home and gather up our vast empty toilet paper tube collection and fill it with this bounteous blessing of high quality butt wipes.

But then, how could my Melody see me through her toilet paper roll eyes of love?