I Don't Really Know How I Feel About Black & White Marriages

We recently got invited to the wedding reception of a cute young couple whose parents are both in our ward at church.
Their wedding colors are black and white but I think they may have taken their color scheme a bit too far because the bridal registry listed a request for not one but TWO toasters........one black and the other white.
Twas' A Tale Of Two Toasters!
What I can't decide is if this startling appliance move represents a spirit of integration or the atrocity of segregation.
Will the toasters sit side-by-side symbolizing a harmonious yin and yang or will they be forced to perform toasting tasks based solely on color?
All right, all you boxes of toaster treats, let's line it up........Dark Chocolate Pop-Tarts on the left, Vanilla Milkshake Pop-tarts on the right, please.
Perhaps they're wisely anticipating that the newlywed novelty will wear off fairly quickly and they're looking for some cheap thrills and entertainment in the form of toaster races.
Who's toast will get done first? *cue soaring adventure soundtrack music* Find out and see on the all new heart-stopping reality action series "A Watched Toaster Never Pops.....Or Does It?" *swelling ominous music*
There's a real possibility that these two may end up succumbing to the illicit seedy world of illegal toaster gambling.
"I'm putting everything I got on white. Let it ride, baby!!!"
Maybe owning two toasters is just the new status symbol of choice among the whippersnapper set.
Maybe they're saving all the brown, crumbly toaster leavins' in the little trays in hopes of constructing them into a magnificent artistic rendering of their wedding day to hang above the mantel.
Maybe they got stock in the Eggo waffle company as a wedding gift.
Oh, there's so very many possibilities and questions here.
On the plus side though, the happy couple can always "get toasted" together anytime they want.
After all, isn't the sharing of quality time the secret to marital success?
I think it's only apropos that we propose a "toast" to the bride and groom and offer them much toasting happiness for all time and eternity............or however long their toaster warranties last.
Whichever comes first. 

Weird Dream Wednesday

Bad puns are a predatory and invasive species.

I never wanted to tell you of my many afflictions but it's time you all knew the soul-crushing truth......I suffer from TERMINAL SEVERE ACUTE INCURABLE BPS.

Oh, the torturous heartbreak that is BPS: Bad Pun Syndrome.

My BPS symptoms started flaring up again last night, cleverly waiting until I was floating in a dream state with my BPS defense system down.

Blame it on too many doses of Muskrat Love but I endured an entire dream sequence that revolved around not the cheesy 70's superstar duo, Captain and Tennille, but instead their pillowy soft bedspread material counterpart.......The Captain and CHENILLE.

It was horrifyingly real and very upsetting especially since I'm ardently anti-chenille.

I think the chenille manufacturers strategically place conspiratorial musings against the rest of us on their bedspreads using the little puckered dots that's synonymous with chenille.

It reads like Braille so that only blind people can run their hands along the dots and decipher the true secret of the chenille bedspread.

The True Secret of the Chenille Bedspread....sounds like a Nancy Drew novel, doesn't it?

However, because of my sheer determination not to succumb to the ill effects of my BPS disease, I survived the night of BPS mind games.

I must be strong and the next time The Captain and Chenille rears its ugly head I can tell it (Don't) Do That To Me One More Time because not even Love Will Keep Us Together!

Accept No Imitations!

Look at the prize I picked up while browsing the "Authentic Mexican" aisle at Target.
He's in a red shirt....I think that means this little manly slice of Authentic Mexican burrito is on sale at a bottom-of-the-jalapeno-barrel clearance price.
I haven't seen Authentic Mexican products marked this low since their brand closeout of Farting Queen Refried Beans.
SCORE!
Much better than the disappointing spectacle I found over on the "Fake Mexican" aisle.
It was just some guy slathered in self-tanning lotion while wearing a black pipe cleaner mustache and sitting atop a stick donkey that he called Pedro.
He kept leering at me and asking if I'd like to see some "Mexican Impersonator Churro."
Quasi-Mexi Sicko!
People, you must take heed and beware the Authentic Mexican impostors invading your local retail outlets.

*THIS POST HAS BEEN FLAGGED BY THE COMMITTEE AGAINST OFFENSIVE CHURRO REFERENCES*

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

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

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

It's like an Infidel family tradition now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a symbiotic relationship at its finest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did score some giant breasts. On sale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dropping The F Bomb On The Ones You Love....

So me and my sexy-Mexi husband Papi were lounging about in bed on Sunday night, ready to drift off into the land of Infidel dreams, when I suddenly turned to him and eagerly whispered "Hey, I really want to EFF you right here, right now" into his ear.

Startled and perhaps a bit frightened, Papi looked at me askance with his lovely manicured eyebrows arched over huge, rounded eyes.

Undeterred, I persisted. "Yeah, come on, Papi, you know that you need a good effing and it just so happens that I'm available to give it to you hard and fast."

And without further commentary I rolled over and stealthily effed Papi's mocha-toned belly with the loudest mouth farts mankind has ever heard outside of the Association for Professional Raspberry Blowers. I exerted so much effort I nearly asphyxiated myself.

Papi informed me that I was "freaking crazy" as he grabbed the bed sheet and daintily dabbed at the remaining spittle encircling his belly button.

See, there's two 4-letter F words used in the Infidel household: Fart and Foof. If I ever tell you that I'm going to "EFF you up real bad" you should tremble in fear because that usually means that either your olfactory senses are about to be assaulted or you're slated to receive a charitable donation of Smiling Infidel saliva somewhere on your person. My personal foofing technique involves a preference for flabby arms as it usually provides superb foofy-fart acoustics.

When people shrilly scream "EFF OFF!" at me, I regard that as a spirited but friendly call to some sort of impromptu FOOF smackdown challenge. Ooooh, an EFF OFF competition. Good thing I packed some Chapstick. This is going to be a long day.

I don't mean to turn this into a braggy blog but the truth is that I have, in fact, effed a lot of people in my 34 years on this planet. That number includes my own self. Yeah, that's right, I eff myself sometimes. When I think about you, I FOOF myself......... Yep, I'm a regular F***(FOOF) Extraordinaire! I also have a lot of kids. I guess that makes me the very embodiment of a Mother F***er (Foofer.) Sweet!

*Gratuituous FOOFING Action In This Video. Watch At Your Own Risk!*

I Finally Called It Quits With Bernard On Monday

I really thought that things were going to work out between Bernard and I.
He came highly recommended. In fact, multiples of noteworthy people testified as to Bernard's greatness......and then tattooed it all over his backside. They used glowing terminology filled with praise like "an instant classic!" and "amazingly brilliant!" These accomplished folks swore that once I got involved with the genius that is Bernard, I'd never be the same.
They were wrong.
For the past three weeks Bernard and I remained steadfast and inseparable companions. I gave him a chance to win me over. Yes, I really did, but he disappointed me at every turn.
Ours was a co-dependent relationship. Sure, I desperately needed Bernard, but his silent nagging to pick him up whenever I had a free moment really grew tiresome.
I fervently believed that by focusing on developing an intense love, or at the very least, some sort of deep understanding of him, it would conquer all our problems.
Instead Bernard lorded his academic superiority over me. He insisted on using lofty verbage so archaic that not even the combined super sleuthing team of Merriam &Webster could decipher what the freak he was talking about.
I knew from the beginning that Bernard was a bit cerebral. I struggled with his difficult, plodding nature, but I always had faith that I could change Bernard by cradling him in my arms for hours at a time while tracing his every curve with my highlighter-stained fingers.
Don't judge me, but once, in a fit of sleep-deprived insanity, Bernard and I carelessly tumbled into bed together.
Turns out he's just as boring in the sack as he is everywhere else.
Sad.
I could never take Bernard out in windy weather. Mostly because he's so dry he'll spontaneously burst into flames and cause an epidemic of wildfires. I can't have that on my conscience.
Weekend At Bernie's? Yeah, try THREE Weekends with MY Bernie. He's a little slice of pocket-sized deadweight.
So on Monday I summoned up the courage to tell Bernard that he had caused me a lot of headaches and untold grief. Bernard didn't even respond when I pulled the final plug from the respirator keeping our relationship alive. And then I told him that I never, ever, ever want to see him again.
Bernard took it surprising well when I banished him to the corner of my kingdom to sleep forever with the fishes......the silverfishes, that is.
Enjoy the Bernard Buffet, little paper-eating critters!

I Know Where James Bond Lives

Even without the numbers I knew it was his place.

There was a Moonraker Landscaping Service pruning a giant Thunderball topiary and James was out grilling some fresh Octopussy with this guy who had a Goldfinger.

So much for Bond's private hideaway lair as being "For Your Eyes Only." He practically had the whole Casino Royale there partying it up with him at his makeshift Baccarat table. (It used to be one of those Thomas The Tank Engine tables with real wooden bridges and stuff!)

The Spy Who Loved Me? Uh-uh, sister, he's The Spy Who Loved Everyone! Good thing that Diamonds Are Forever because James Bond's love sure isn't.

Well, Tomorrow Never Dies and we can all Die Another Day, right?

Even though the party was an easy View To A Kill target for The Man With The Golden Gun he chose to drink a martini instead. It was a chocolate martini with a toothpick-skewered gummy bear in the middle.

Whew, that guy like so didn't scare The Living Daylights out of me. Good thing, I'm a Live And Let Die kind of gal, you know?

If I was James Bond's security adviser, I'd recommend replacing the telltale 007 numbers on the mailbox with a nice bronzed set of 99's and getting a nameplate for the top that says "Maxwell Smart" or "Ethan Hunt" you know, something a little less obvious than a nameplate that reads " Bond...James Bond...."

Well, I Guess Just Anybody Can Get A PHD In Texas These Days.....

Here I am, struggling with the very basic of courses at a community college while my neighbor tools around town flaunting her PHD to anyone and everyone.

It sickens me.

It enrages me.

It makes me want to march down to the Courthouse and demand that I be given my PHD, too!

Surely, by this time, I've earned a PHD in Blogging with a Master's in the Art of Sedentary Living.

The Courthouse only awarded me a paltry and inconsequential GDS.

What the heck am I supposed to do with a flippin GDS??!??!?

Become a Greasy Donut Server? Maybe a professional Gigolo Date Scheduler?

"I'm just a Gigolo, and everywhere I go, I take Elastic the Scheduler with me....."

How about a Gay Dar Salesman? I'd suck at that. I defended George Michael's hetero manliness until the very day he got caught by Police buying chorizo inside a Los Angeles public restroom.

Perhaps a Giant Daisy Sniffer would be a nice career change for me. I already have the requisite super-sensitive nose skills along with tons of expert daisy-sniffing experience.

Guardian of Dirty Seals? Yes, all the bronzed statues will show me holding a scrubby brush in one hand while patting the head of a smiling but filthy seal with the other.

Grave Digger Supervisor? I've already done that.

R.I.P. Goldilocks the fish and Jasper the dachshund.

I hate my neighbor and her sudden windfall of good fortune.

I wonder if I can put my Grave Digger Supervisor background to work?

I wonder if my neighbor's PHD is transferable............

I Keep My Friends Close And My Chin Hairs Closer

You know how certain weed species get introduced to an area outside their native habitat and they immediately set out to virulently choke out the natural landscape? Yeah, well, wiry chin hairs keep cropping up to destroy my natural beauty despite the Herculian efforts aimed at eradicating them.
As I pondered the uses that an overabundance of chin whiskers can provide, I indulgently chuckled. I envisioned myself taking the hoity toity art world by storm as I create abstractly avant garde masterpieces using only the bristles of my custom chin hair paintbrush. I'm a humanitarian at heart but I'm woefully short of the required hair length necessary to weave a wig for Locks Of Love. I'd like to maybe make my own line of chin toupees for the hair follicle-challenged hipsters out there. It must be agonizing to attend poetry slams and indie rock concerts devoid of the de rigeur goatee. How I weep for them. I yearn to transform my own hirsute misfortunes into soul patch happiness for others.
I try to remain optimistic about life despite my smooth skin shortcomings but then I ran into my old friend Mrs. Sam at the park on Saturday.
As we chatted, my eyes kept disobediently gravitating towards Mrs. Sam's jutting chin. And then the stark realization occurred that Mother Nature is nothing more than a cruel and insidious harpy.
Mrs. Sam and I go wayyyyy back. So far back that I've actually blogged our most scintillating tales complete with hand-drawn pictures from the second-oldest Infidel daughter. From making a binding verbal pledge vowing that we'd never cannibalize one another's family in a time of famine to animated discussions of us potentially teaming up to run for President/Vice President, Mrs. Sam and I have mused about many things.
At the time (2006) Mrs. Sam seemed adamant that I ascend to the top of the ticket since a black candidate could never win a Presidential election in America. Surprise!
Mrs. Sam And I Are Both Immortalized In That Song Called "Doin Tha Butt"
An Anti-Cannibalism Contract Between Friends Who Don't Have The Last Name Donner
Anyway, I'm 30-ish, white, and I suffer with the heartbreak of strikingly noticeable black chin hair that furls and curls as it makes its way across my chin like a giant scraggly tumbleweed. Mrs. Sam is 50-ish, black, and suffers from an extreme proliferation of shaggy white chin hair as though her face is merely masking her real identity as the Abominable Snowman.
Ebony and ivory NOT living together in perfect harmony. Side-by-side on our chin pores, so gross, oh Lord, why can't weeee(afford electrolysis).
Do you see the unfairness of the situation?
Everyone desires to stand out in a crowd but this just isn't the way to go about doing it.
A chin hair swap would absolve both of us of our heavy unwanted hair burdens. I have what Mrs. Sam wants and she has what I need. If that's not possible, how about just some decent chin hair camo or chin hair ammo? Is that too much to hope for?
How I long to one day have the authority to truculently shriek: "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.........cause I don't have any" to an advancing foe.
*sniffle*

I Was So Hungry Last Night I Could Have Eaten A Whale.....And So I Did!

I inadvertently stumbled upon a miracle of the evolutionary process as I prepared a tray of garlic bread slices for the oven.
From the thoroughly scientific research I did in my kitchen I've concluded that whales originally descended from bloated commas and whimsical paisley patterns.
Need to see some hard data that backs up the validity of my hypothesis? Just look at Photo Evidence #1 down below.
By shifting the bloated commas and bread paisley in a clockwise position, they wondrously transformed into a pod of baby Shamus!

Photo Evidence #2

Some lucky souls have witnessed the miracle of the Virgin Mary appearing before them on their tortillas while others have unexpectedly come face-to-face with the image of Elvis himself-and all his sideburned glory-embroiled upon their fried peanut butter & nanner sandwich.

Me? Well, my oven and I got to play host to a whole loaf of Orca-shaped bread.

The spirit of Free Willy lives on through the power of yeast!

Notice the perfect oval eye? All the better to see you with, my pretty!

See the small indention where Shamu's mouth is? Who knew he kept his lips pursed like a whale version of Napoleon Dynamite? I wonder if his lips hurt "real bad" too?

Look at the curled-up position of the tail. Okay, that's enough looking at whale butt. Gosh, if this whale tail isn't safe from ogling, what hope does my own whale-sized butt have?

Also make note that this particular miniature killer whale species was marked for immediate extinction. Yeah, you can blame us Infidels for making them disappear and disappear quickly but it should also be said that death was imminent for this Shamu bread family.

Just take one long look at them, they're completely brown and crunchy. That's what they get for not putting on proper sunscreen.

Their blowholes laso have the remarkable capability to spout cascading streams of garlic-tinged butter.

That butter-peddling harlot Paula Deen probably goes on Whale Toast Watching Tours all the time......and she never closes her mouth either.

Ahhh, better than a butter I.V.

If you happen upon a pod of Shamu bread lurking quietly on bakery shelves, I would seriously advise against placing them in your aquarium.

Your mail-order sea horses will conquer and devour them.

Instead, buy a box of Goldfish crackers to feed your adopted Bag O' Orca.

How about inviting your oddly eccentric friends, Jonah and Captain Ahab over for a Whale Eating party??!??

The moment that reps from SeaWorld see this post they're going to start opening up food booths featuring outrageously over-priced slices of Shamu toast. You know I'm right.

I hope they deal me in for a profit percentage.

The dinner ended in tragedy. Despite my conservationalist spirit arising to encourage the Infidel Family to "Save The Whales" they continued on, ignoring my whale-saving pleas until there weren't any whales left to save.

Poor me, sitting here all leftover whale deprived.

The Infidel Way To Deal With A Christmas Spirit That Suddenly Turns Ugly

What's more natural than taking your family on a festive holiday hay ride during the weeks leading up to Christmas?
Well, leave it to us Infidels to turn something wholesomely natural into something grotesquely unnatural.
So there we sat cheek-to-cheek on the back of a hay-stuffed trailer along with a bevy of shivering strangers.
Aside from an occasional cough or sneeze the hay ride adventure lurched forward with nary a peep.
I spontaneously tried to rally the mini-Infidels into singing some Christmas carols to break the chilled winter silence and bring cheer to our fellow passengers.
One chorus of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer later, I sullenly pulled my knit cap down to cover my flushed face as the entire trailer of sour-faced people glared at us.
I didn't realize that we had stumbled onto the "Silent Night/Quiet Night/Shut The Freak Up Night" hay ride tour.
Hey, getting your heiny stabbed through your britches with a thousand points of dried-out hay isn't pleasant for anyone but we must think of our brave hay ride pioneer ancestors and how they soldiered on with a song on their lips and bugs in their teeth.
As though our failed attempt at turning a lackluster hay ride into a cheery Hay Ride:The Musical! event wasn't mortifying enough, then my second oldest mini-Infidel, Stef had to act like she was a couple jingle bells short of a Jingle Bell Choir by making some very oddball Christmas music comments.
Stef actually remarked out loud that she gets The Carol Of The Bells and Tubular Bells mixed up.
Okay, one tune rejoices in the coming of the Savior while the other one provides an ominous backdrop for a demonic exorcism.
Yeah, I certainly can see how those two songs can be confused.
I may have to one day explain to Stef that Chuck Berry's rowdy sing-a-long "My Ding-A-Ling" isn't really about bells on a string........ No, it really isn't. Sorry if I ruined the illusion for you.
So, while still laughing at Stef, the rest of us started dreaming up a collaborative Medley Of Bells to accompany any nice Christmas exorcism. A tune soaring and dramatic enough to make old Ebenezer Scrooge smile perniciously as he gets the drop on his visiting spirits with a strategically placed Ghostbuster brand ghost trap now with ectoplasm inhibitors.
Ebenezer Part 2:Revisited.....He Ain't Fraid' Of No Ghost(s)
We got as far as combining AC/DC's Hell's Bells, Tubular Bells and the always creepy Michelle, My Belle before we knew we had hit upon a Christmas Exorcism music gold mine!
And if that fails to vanquish evil spirits, you can always use the special demon-smashing Silver Bell included with every Bell Medley CD purchase.
Ooops, Up, Side Yo Head, scary possessed thingie!
Just hear those demon slay bells jingling ring-ting-tingling too. That's right it's lovely weather for a nice exorcism with you.
*The official Bell Medley Pack may also be used to ward off annoying family, co-workers, and bill collectors, too;but only on Christmas. Product expires December 26.*

Houston Ninja Deodorant: Strong Enough For Chuck Norris But Made For A Ninja!

I walked into the kitchen yesterday to see the eldest of my mini-Infidels, Sunbum, standing there draped over the counter clad totally in black from head to toe.

She wore her favorite black basketball shorts coupled with a solid black T-shirt. Black anklet socks adorned her feet while her nails gleamed bright with glossy black fingernail polish. And to finish off the look, she perched a black knit cap atop her pony-tailed head.

I remarked that she must have joined the Houston Ninja Squad because only a Houston Ninja struggling with our extreme temperatures and high humidity would think to eschew the stuffy traditional ninja gear to adopt black shorts and T-shirts as an official uniform.

Sunbum just laughed.

It's no good to camouflage yourself to become one with the shadows during the black of night if your prey can SMELL your stanky self coming at them from a mile away. I think that's something like Lesson #420 in the Ninja Handbook.

If Anyone Needs Me I'll Be In My Kitchen Shooting Rock Videos Inside A Bowl Of Tomato Soup

When I'm tired, I get a little bit loopy......and then the non-stop parade of drunken giggling begins. Now, new and improved drunken giggling with banana-scented flying spittle!
Comedy Clubs can do away with the 2 drink minimum and just require guests to show up after having worked two days straight with little to no sleep. I can guarantee they'll be more loosened up and ready to laugh at whatever mediocre comedian takes the stage. Heck, a crowd like that will double over and almost wet themselves when the owner starts the show by pointing out the emergency exits and the No Smoking sign.
The club can make up revenue in food sales.
I know. I've worked 2 days straight and I'm feeling a weird bubble-headed sensation along with being faminous.
I made that word up. Ravenous+Famished=FAMINOUS

Okay, if I go to sleep now I won't wake up to get my mini-Infidels off the bus or drive my girls to Homeschool Teen Camp because I'll immediately enter a comatose state that not even a kiss from my true love, Papi will be able to awaken me from.
So to keep me awake, I watched a heralded video debut on youtube from a group called The Urgency.
It features young men who may or may not have just escaped from junior high detention hall in enough time to make it to the video shoot.
Personally, I'd expel them for singing about the raunchiest of things while a woman who looks twice their age shakes it in a sequined goddess outfit. The poor thing can't even open her eyes because her lids have been spackled with more glitter than you'd find at a Princess Party for a hyper 5 year old.
Oh, and did I mention that it appears as though they're singing in some sort of hazy purgatory that looks an awful lot like they took a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of a bowl of tomato soup?
This video presentation is brought to you in part from our sponsor, Campbell's Soup, because Campbell's is Mmmmm Mmmmm Good.
The funniest for me was some of the comments posted underneath this video masterpiece.
My favorite read: "At first I thought they were gay. And then I found out that they're actually from New Hampshire, and I was like, yeah, that explains a lot."
I've been quoting that piece of brilliance all day today.....and then following it up with a bout of drunken giggling complete with another round of banana-scented flying spittle.
You see what a crappy economy is doing to the entertainment industry? Do you??!!? Instead of special effects created hot molten lava or shooting flames, these young ingenues are forced to settle for prancing around in a hot steaming bowl of tomato soup.
Maybe they should have added The Urgency onto that ridiculous pork-laden 700 billion dollar governmental bailout.
Ooops, excuse me. At last count our New World Order commander, Presidente Bush had tacked on yet another 200 billion.
Round and round the trillion dollar debt grows. Will it stop? Nobody knows.

As a complete bonus, the lead singer of The Urgency bears a startling resemblance to that randy goat herder, Balki Bartokomous.
People, how can you take punk rock seriously when your lead singer looks like Balki Bartokomous and adds a weird superfluous "S" to the end of his song lyrics?!??!?
"Well, of course you can't, don't be ree-dee-cu-lous."

*I've tried to spare your intestinal mechanisms from churning and working overtime this fine day but if you really MUST see the video I'm mocking, it's HERE.

Dan Patrick Wants To Be Your FOREVER Senator!

Most politicians only jabber on about Hope And Change For The Future. But one Texas Senator is truly turning his thoughts towards the future--the very, very, very, very, very, very distant future, that is.

We received the above survey and newsletter from Senator Dan Patrick's office last week. Apparently he expects to live out another 517 years or so while serving in the Senate because he's prognosticating exorbitant property taxes for the year 2525 while discussing what he plans to do about it.

He's like our very own Property Tax Specialist Nostradamus.

That's very comforting to know that us mortal citizens can rely on a political man in command to reduce our wallet-draining Texas property taxes........and it'll only take 517 years for Senator Patrick's big action plan to come to fruition!

Okay, if Texas Senators serve terms spaced out in two-year increments, then Senator Patrick only has to win approximately 258 more elections.

Whoa. I hope his campaign invests in some quality heavy-duty campaign gear and signage because it needs to last a really looooong time.

By the time 2525 rolls around, Senator Patrick will likely be nothing more than a giant dictatorial brain pickled in a super-sized Mason jar like something out of A Wrinkle In Time.

You know the folksy duo, Zager And Evans , prophesied what life would be like in the year 2525. They didn't seem to mention anything about property taxes, though. They instead included lyrical wording like "In The Year 2525, if man is still alive. If woman can survive."

Well, we know at least one man will still be alive in the year 2525 and that man is Senator Dan Patrick!

IN THE YEAR 2525- ZAGER AND EVANS (3:24)

*I couldn't resist writing a short piece of snark on the survey before mailing it back. Honestly, the 2525 wasn't just a singular typo-- 2525 was repeated ALL OVER the page. I theorize that whatever aide or intern that typed this up was probably listening to his Ipod and jamming to this melodious song that discusses a post-apocalyptic world circa 2525. I'm inspired. I'm going to go buy something expensive that costs around $517.00 and then I'm going to finance it for a dollar a year for the next 517 years. Yep. Sounds good to me.*

So Then We Were Game Playing While Role Playing While Playing At The Pool......ALL At The Same Time!

I believe in evolution.

In the beginning of the summer, the oldest of my mini-Infidels, Sunbum found her thrill on BOOberry Hill. She'd slowly and silently ascend from the depths of the shimmering pool water with her face completely veiled by her long, dark hair. Then Sunbum would turn towards me and whisper "Seven Daaayyyyyssss" in her most chillingly malevolent voice.

Now, my Sunbum retains a bronzed mochalatta-coloring to her skin. Sadly, this automatically disqualifies her from auditioning for the lead role of Samara if ever they produce a third installment of The Ring movies. The American film was adapted from Japanese cinema, so I guess Sunbum could wait around to see if Mexico will make their own version of it. In which case, Sunbum should be practicing hissing out the Spanish translation for Samara's big line: "Siete Diiiaaassssss."

You know, that Samara probably was a real terror but only because she got freakin sick and tired of having to channel her best Scooby-Doo ghost voice to keep chanting "Seven Days. Seven Days. Seven Days", ad nauseum. I can imagine her wanting to break out of her two word rut only to be shut down by the dictator-like director bellowing at her, "Samara baby, nobody really cares about your thoughts on global warming or your tips on how to decorate your well with rustic charm. Just give us the phrase that pays."

The same thing happened to that nice old lady from the "Where's The Beef?!!!" commercials.

Us Infidels may homeschool, but that doesn't mean that we're sitting around trying to outclever each other by transforming our geeky thoughts into a super-secrety, anagramatically-correct code.

Well now it's closing in on the end of the summer and Sunbum has grown weary of repeating her "Seven Daaayyysss" tag line. So, she began mixing it up a little by flipping it into an odd sort of word association game between the two of us.

Anyway, in me and Sunbum's improv word association repartee, I like to pretend that I'm really the announcer on Password guardedly whispering out the answers in hushed, secretive tones while wearing a gaudy, powder blue polyester suit.

Here's how it works: Sunbum stays in her demonic child character and gives me fresh, new phrases to work with in order to make a complete sentence.

A Few Of Our Recent Favorites: (My Answers Are After The Dotted Line)
Seven Eggs................To Make A Proper Souffle
Seven Berets...........The Kind You Find In A Second Hand Store
Seven Craig's..........And I Bought Them All For Cheap On Craig's List
Seven Cakes............For Seven Brothers
Seven Meg's..........If You Add In Seven An's You'd Get Seven Megan's
Seven Ches..........Down At The Communist Assassin Clone Production Plant
Seven Lays(potato chips)..........Told You I Couldn't Eat Just One
Seven Chang's..........To Beat The Crap Out Of The Five Browns.
Seven Pegs............ In The Lost&Found Down At The Legless Pirate Bar
Seven Legs..............My Pet Octopus After His Unfortunate Smoothie Machine Accident

Okay, it's your turn to add on!

*Sunbum did not actually watch The Ring or The Ring 2 or Ringu. She already has me for a mother. Isn't that psychologically damaging enough?*

Wow, My Dreams Are Bigger Than Even My Gargantuan Rear End.....

This morning, as I arrived at the warehouse where I work during the blackness of the eerily quiet predawn hours, I couldn't help but glance around and notice several teen boys milling about, helping their fathers.
Yes, I mentally noted each of the teens' youthful bronzed skin and lustrous black curly hair owed to their Spanish ancestry-- and then a lofty and unexpected idea formed in my mind........with portly Lou Pearlman out of the way and in jail I could totally become the next boy band creator/guru this world so desperately needs.

Holy wow, I'm going to be RICH!
I'm envisioning kind of a Menudo boy band of old paired with a Jonas Brother sound of today. I want to overhaul these mop-topped teens and turn them into a kind of Mexican Jonas Brothers trio! First, I need to know if the sons of my co-workers are willing and able to learn to perform the Jonas Brother song catalogue in Spanish.
In my mind, my little imaginary Telemundo announcer is going crazy and screaming out in his deeply exaggerated voice, "Los Hermanos Jonas(Ho-Nas) en vivo a todos Fiesta supermercados!!!!Yaaaa!" (My Spanish sucks. Forgive me.)
Today I'm going to see if I can take out a small business loan. I hope they'll give me the money even when I tell them that I need it to buy tight and shiny metallic pants and matching leather shirts for my new boy band.
The next order of business is to draw up documents giving me 50 percent of all the boy band's future earnings.....and then getting the boys to sign it without reading it.
My 10 year old son, Buster practices his rap skills daily courtesy of Christian Rock hip-hop guy, Toby Mac. Buster has expressed interest in being that token rap guy who always jumps into the middle of a pop song with no warning and breaks it down. He already has a BLING chain that I bought him from the vending machine at Kroger's. I also have 4 daughters that with a nice pair of vinyl go-go boots would make great back-up singers.
The Mexican Jonas Brothers........I don't know. My sleep-starved brain works in very mysterious and devious ways. This all seemed like such a plausible and fantastic idea before I took a nap.

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.

Do You Have What It Takes To Join The Ranks Of The Fat Flap Espionage Elite?

Hello, my name is Elastic and I represent the FFC (Fat Flap Central). We're currently looking to recruit some of the finest fat flappers this country has to offer.
The Flapper movement has come a long way since its inception during the swinging 1920's era. See, back then our covert operatives spirited away top secret documents and other items of interest by concealing them within specially made compartments located under each fringey tier of their flapper dress.
Times have changed though, and to keep up, we've had to modernize our stable of Flapper spies. I guess you could say that we're bringing 'FLAPPY' back. Yeah!
So ask yourself this, do you listen to your "gut instinct?" Do you have a jiggly Jell-O fat roll? Is your belly a flippy, floppy flap of flub? Would you describe your abdominal area as a prominent protruding pouch of pooch? Then YOU have all the qualifications necessary to start an exciting new lucrative career with us!
Stop laying around letting your belly collect dust, lint, small objects, stray kittens and put your flab to work for us.
We will train you how to utilize your girth into becoming the perfect smuggling tool. You'll learn the finest techniques of stealing and then securing the sensitive information underneath the confines of your own gut.
Big baby bellies.....they're not just for hanging over the waist band of your pants anymore!
We'll also instruct you how to use the specialized technology afforded to us by the Ziploc plastic bag company so you don't ruin any of the classified documents with your blubbery sweat.
I've long since retired as a field agent but let me tell you I honed my fat flap concealment skills by sneaking individually wrapped packages of cream-filled Ding Dongs out of the kitchen. If I didn't have a built-in place to hide them then I would have had to contend with my kids pouncing on me and begging, "Mom can I have some of that, pleeeaaassse?"
Sure secret agents look all glamorized in the movies but we're 100 times more efficient than any Bond girl that ever walked the planet.
Think about it, Halle Berry or Denise Richards stroll in and all eyes immediately fixate on them. Meanwhile, people can't look away fast enough from us fat flappers .
It gives us the perfect cover to infiltrate where the stunningly beautiful can't.
We may be portly but we're still patriotic and we won't put up with any double agent activity.
I remember one especially fiendish double crossing operative who tried to play us for a fool. We caught her using her secrety belly roll to secretly smuggle out the secrets to Burger King's secret sauce. She had plans to sell it to the Chinese.
We took swift action to ensure that her Fat Flap spy days were over. Our in-house plastic surgeon gleefully performed a mega-tight tummy tuck on our Commie loving ex-agent. Yeah, that'll show her!
When I read about former Clinton National Security Advisor, Sandy Berger getting busted filching important documents from the National Archives by stuffing them inside his socks, all I could do was shake my head. What an amateur Sandy Berger is. If only he could have harnessed the hiding power that his belly flap had to offer.
We here at the FFC have dispensed with the cliche expression for keeping something a secret. 'Keep It Under Your Hat' has now become 'KEEP IT UNDER YOU FLAP!' Surely, this is a motto to live by......
So if you're interested in joining the FFC team we'll have recruiters out at all nationwide Krispy Kreme locations.

Welcome To Whacked-Out Conspiracy Theory Wednesday!

I am a master of deductive reasoning.
I recently stumbled upon an amazing discovery that completely explains the many questions swirling around Michael Jackson's ever-changing appearance.......

Michael Jackson is obviously part of the secretive underground society that orchestrated The Pop Star Pigment Exchange Program.
Yes, Michael's been a melanin donor for years, giving white musicians a little color in their lives.
How do I know? Well, I have photographic PROOF, my comrades.

Remember Howard Jones, the super-whitey creator of memorable 80's hits like Things Can Only Get Better and Everlasting Love? Yeah well, he looks a little different now today than when you last saw him.

THIS is the new and improved Howard Jones courtesy of The Pop Star Pigment Exchange Program. Wow, what a difference a few melanin donations can make! No more tanning bed marathons for Mr. Jones now.
I hear Howard Jones is currently looking for employment as Morgan Freeman's stunt double.

*I have insider information that Vanilla Ice is still hoping for some much needed street cred to launch yet another career revival attempt. He's currently enrolled in The Pop Star Pigment Exchange Program and is looking for a record deal under his new stage name, Chocolate Ice*

The Amazing All-Purpose Wooden Spoon.......It Will Stir, Mix, Discipline Your Child And Act As A Makeshift Microphone

There's a family that lives in our neighborhood who suffers from an extreme case of suburbanitis. You know, they look the part, and act the part with their 3 children, mammoth SUV, nice 2-story brick home with a Chemlawn manufactured yard, and endless conversations about getting their toddler into the "right" pre-school. We actually live in the low-end spectrum for this area so the most they can hope to achieve is the title of Ghetto Debutantes.

So, they have a 6 year-old son with an interesting Widow's Peak hairline named Logan. I have a 6 year-old son with an interesting Widow's Peak hairline named Logan, too! We see this family pretty frequently at the neighborhood pool during the summer months and have since both our Logan's were tiny little boys.

The Middle-Class Socialite wannabe Mom absolutely fascinates me. She can go from sharing her favorite meatloaf recipes with her poolside gal pals to shrieking at her son and threatening to beat him with a wooden spoon in seconds flat.

I know, a wooden spoon. Wooden Spoons: The spanking instrument of choice for Betty Crocker devotees everywhere. You can whip up a cake and whip up your kid all at the very same time!

I always figured that the wooden spoon paddling was just an empty threat because I employ the use of empty threats myself. I always tell my mini-Infidels, "Don't make me take off my belt because I'll burn your little butt with it," and then they start laughing uproariously because they know that:
A. Fat woman pants don't usually have belts hence my elasticwaistbandlady screen name.
B. The only belt I own is silky and scarf-like. It would be akin to getting a pounding from a paddle made of dryer sheets. Yeah.
Imagine our surprise when one day the lady stopped her bellowing and actually pulled a wooden spoon out of her purse and gave her son a butt-whooping right there at the pool. (Nothing severe. I don't sit idly by while children get abused. This was just a couple smacks on his rear end for being disobedient.)

I'm working on this theory that ardent environmentalists out devoting their entire lives to saving trees from destruction have ulterior motives. I think they got wooden spoon whippings as children and now dedicate themselves to tree preservation work in an effort to bring the wooden spoon manufacturers to a screeching halt. I wonder if young Logan will grow up to ban wooden spoons from his home like Christina Crawford has likely banned all padded hangers from hers? I wonder if Logan's wife will offer to "spoon" with him and will be baffled when he runs from their marital bed, screaming?

Anyway, it's hot time, summer in the city once again and that means seeing the Wooden Spoon Whipper Family down at the pool. I know this is so wrong but the intrinsically devious part of my mind wants to bring my own wooden spoon to the pool so I can (jokingly) threaten my mini-Infidels with it in front of that family just to gauge a reaction. I have these wild thoughts of maliciously brandishing the spoon and twirling it above my head like a lethal weapon. (Think Indiana Jones and his leather whip)

We saw a 3-pack of wooden spoons at the Dollar Store. They were teak and of fairly high quality for Dollar Store merchandise. Yep, these spoons should carry an endorsement from The Wooden Spoon Whippers Society of America promising that they will never break or crack while being used to correct an errant child. Upon seeing the wooden spoon threesome, that intrinsically devious part of my mind whispered to me again and told me I should buy those spoons and wrap them up with pretty ribbon and leave them at the door of The Wooden Spoon Whipper Family's house.......So far, I've resisted but I don't know how much longer I can hold out.