What Not To Name Your Baby: Hooker Edition

This Civil War hottie not only boasts a whopping big sword but he may also be the founding father of the popped collar phenomenon.
Do you know who he is? Why, it's none other than General Joseph Dalton Hooker, commander of the Army of the Potomac. Although I prefer to call him by his street name: JO-HO
Does his last name sound vaguely familiar to you? It should.
Apparently Hooker's military headquarters acquired the unsavory reputation of being more of a bar and brothel than a war strategy think tank.
General Hooker wanted to keep up troop morale......the operative words being 'keep up.' Hooker allegedly requisitioned a passel of prostitutes to entertain his men, hence, the modern day association with his surname.

My oldest mini-Infidels broke out laughing when I relayed this lively little historical tidbit to them.

And then, as I'm wont to do, I started brainstorming a list of baby names that would be forboten if your last name was Hooker.

If you're reading this blog right now, and you happen to be a Hooker, then this is a valuable service I'm providing FREE of charge just for you. No hourly rates or a clandestine rendezvous at the No Tell Motel necessary.

MINNIE HOOKER- Works the red light district in Munchkinland.

HARRY HOOKER- Clientele includes Big Foot fetishists.

PENNY HOOKER- Lives below poverty level with Lionel Richie's Penny Lover.

CANDY HOOKER- Will satisfy any sweet tooth.

CASH HOOKER- Doesn't accept credit cards.

MERRY HOOKER- Is never filled with sadness.

KAREN HOOKER- Has a heart of gold.

SUMMER HOOKER- Gets three seasons off a year.

CRYSTAL HOOKER- Has an attached 'Handle With Care' label.

JUANA HOOKER- Are you an undercover cop?

LONDON HOOKER- Carries a lot of pounds.

CHARITY HOOKER- Accepts food stamps as payment.

RICH HOOKER- Has a golden parachute along with a golden mattress.

MARINA HOOKER- Got tired of the Lot Lizard competition at truck stops.

CHEYENNE HOOKER- The pride of Wyoming!

AMAYA HOOKER- Well am I??!?

RANDY HOOKER- Enjoys the job immensely.

PATTY HOOKER- Has no limbs.

RUSTY HOOKER- Hope you got your tetanus shot first!

CHRISTIAN HOOKER- Must be okay because it's in the Scriptures.

IMA HOOKER- You're a Hooker, wouldn't you like to be a Hooker too?

JEAN HOOKER- Only works on Casual Fridays.

MIA HOOKER- Is a proud graduate of the Hooked On Phonics:Tarzan Edition Program.

SEYMOUR HOOKER- Take our scenic Hooker Tour today!

VIOLET HOOKER- Needs the Heimlich Maneuver, STAT!

BERTHA HOOKER- Well they gotta come from somewhere.

BUCK HOOKER- Can be found soliciting outside the Dollar Store.

(My standards prohibit me from listing GAYE HOOKER and BUTCH HOOKER without parentheses. Ta-Da! Parentheses makes judgment lapses more acceptable.)

Studying History has an infinite boring factor built into it. I prefer the National Enquirer version of historical events as opposed to painfully dry textbooks penned by the class of intellgentsia solely responsible for keeping the professorial elbow patch factories in business. See how a little spark of ingenuity combined with an angle that's been marinating in salacious sauce all day really brings a Civil War history lesson to life??!?

Dang, I should be a History teacher.

Things

The things that make me laugh:
This blog post featuring some of the most hideous prom dresses known to womankind.
FASHION BINGE

The things that make me cry:
Spending days, nights, and untold hours agonizing over writing an 8 page research paper......and then realizing that discussing the finer scientific points involving theistic evolution is way, way, way beyond my intellectual depth. It's a good thing that I had my blah-blah-blah backup writing technique on stand-by. Did you know that you can stretch out sentences simply by learning how to wield a lofty arsenal of adverbs? It's always a seriously, perfectly, obnoxiously, enormous(ly) truth(fully).

The things that make me go hmmmmmmm:
Chickens aren't usually a part of your everyday balanced vegetarian, Alcoholics Anonymous, egg-free diet, but apparently their balls are. Wait a minute, a chicken with balls? Only if they're born and bred over at RuPaul Farms.

You Know That You're A Warped Mother When.....

You start screeching dialogue at your kids culled directly from the pinnacle of all horrendously tragic child abuse movies, "Sybil."

My own mom allowed me to watch it when I was but a young Smiling Infidel. Either she was confused and thought Sally Field was reprising her flying nun role or she just wanted me to see real suffering so that she'd look like an Angel Mom sent down from on high by comparison.

Come to think about it, my mom and I also watched "Mommie Dearest" together when it was on a non-stop HBO marathon run. Maybe that was her way of instilling a deep and abiding appreciation of padded hangers.

Anyway, the pivotal scene in "Sybil" shows the monstrous mother giving poor Sybil an enema on the kitchen table. The mom then strolls off to play a peppy little ditty on the piano while she cackles in a lunatic voice: "Hold your water, Sybil! You hold it until the very last note, you hear me?"

Horrible movie. And yet I can still quote it.

It's like pulling hen's teeth to get my oldest son to brush his teeth. Which, come to think about it, if he keeps up his unhygienic ways he just may need some hen's teeth transplants in the near future.

I decided to pin all my hopes for an eternity of cheap dental visits on the Toby Mac toothbrush I found on clearance at Wal-Mart.

My son LOVES Christian rock artist, Toby Mac. I love that the Toby Mac song plays for over 4 minutes and the toothbrush won't work until it senses brushing motion. I never thought I'd advocate kids putting Christian rock in their mouths.......pet rocks? Maybe.

It just so happens that after years of diligent practice, I've perfected my own cackling in a lunatic voice skill. I often use it to yell at my son, "Keep on brushing, Buster! You keep on brushing until the very last note, you hear me?"

In my defense, my son never brushes his teeth while lying down on the kitchen table. I don't even know how to play piano. That makes it okay.

Don't feel powerless in your struggles with tooth decay. Invoke the name of Toby Mac to act as your personal dental hygiene savior!

I would encourage all of you to stuff some Christian rock in your mouth today. Here's some for your ears.

My Man Papi Makes It So Easy To Be An Abiding Subservient Wife......

Oh, that man of mine. How I just want to hang on his every word and fulfill his every whim and desire.
Do you want to know why I've chosen to poo-poo feministic ideals in order to properly hearken unto the wise counsel of my husband? It's because Papi's a genius of evil mastermind proportions, that's why.
While discussing our future and the future's of our half-dozen offspring, Papi turned to me and delivered the most inspired sermon I've ever heard. With a serious face he preached The Word According to Papi as such: "Girlie, this is what we're going to do: As soon as we shove that last kid out the door and we're liberated from parental slave status, we're going to move out to the country and become nudists so that there's a ZERO percent chance any of them will ever want to move back home."
The powerful force of Papi's words brought a small tear of joy to my eyes.
First though, I'll need to invest in some decent aprons with a built-in underwire support bra.
While I may not fully understand the complexities of the lobster's nervous system and whether or not they experience pain while getting boiled alive, I can most certainly attest to how it feels to have my own pendulous boobs boiled and steamed......it hurts like a MOFO and it did indeed transform Dangly Thing #1 and Dangly Thing #2 into a nice scarlet shade of lobster-red.
I won't bore you with the specifics except to say it involved me cooking without wearing my nursing bra and a giant pot of boiling potatoes on the front burner. Yeah.
Only an Englishman/Irishman would boil and ruin perfectly good boob meat like that.
My Mexican-born Papi also likes to frequently articulate his grandiose superiority complex by telling me that we Americans need the Mexicans here because they are akin to fulfilling a Conquistador of Love role in modern American society.
Well, when you look at it like that, I guess by Papi agreeing to be my husband these past 15 years, he's doing one of those crappy jobs that no other American wants to do.
Ever the dutiful wife, I'm going to spend the rest of the day crocheting a special bullwhip cozy for my sweet little taskmaster out of the clothes we won't be needing in about another 12 years or so....

Add Another Food Commandment To The Bible Diet

And it shall read thusly: THOU SHALT NOT EAT ANY FOOD WITH THE WORD "TURD" IN IT.

We'd fallen into a blandly stagnant Easter dinner tradition of green beans and honey ham, so I decided to mix it up a little this year.

I was standing in the middle of the grocery store entertaining alternative dining possibilities when I spotted the magical orange clearance sticker slapped onto the side of a frozen Turducken concoction.

I was greatly relieved as the runner-up option was rabbit which seemed inherently wrong to serve up on the hallowed day of the Great Easter Bunny.

A Turducken is a Cajun specialty most fowl. It features a partially de-boned turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken stuffed with oyster stuffing and covered in a spicy, orangey blend of spices.

If you serve a side of bacon you can almost have an entire petting zoo of animals fighting their way through your intestinal tract.

Turduckens allow you to eliminate three species of beast in every single bite. And that is precisely why the world will never fear being conquered by a fleet of small poultry.

Maybe us Infidels have a hillbilly palate that can only appreciate the finer things in life like Funyuns and pickled pigs feet because the Turducken Taste Trial was a resounding flop.

So, lesson learned: We shall henceforth stay far, far away from any food item with 'TURD' featured prominently in the name.

If you call it a Turd, and it answers to the name, Turd, then it must taste like a Turd.

I've never actually tasted turd before but based on yesterday it could be that the "TURD" part in TURDUCKEN might indeed be a secret stuffing ingredient that those sneaky Cajun's don't want the general public to find out about.

Remember they are the ones that eat the deadly Poke Salad as discussed in my favorite grunting song, "Poke Salad Annie....The Gator's Got Yer Granny."

I wouldn't put anything past them.

I may be a unrefined Yankee living in the South but I can come up with fanciful recipes, too.

I want to start a TURDUNKIN trend....it'll feature a powdered sugar glazed turkey stuffed with real Dunkin Donuts stuffed with various fillings like Bavarian Cream and gooey raspberry jelly.

I'm taking orders now for your next holiday gathering.

I Wrestled With Your Angels--On Easter Day, No Less!

Have you ever found yourself wondering what West Side Story would be like if the Sharks and the Jets were replaced by Maori Indians in pink shirts rivaling for the coveted "King of the Big Balls" title against another gang of native New Zealanders?
Have you ever pondered the state of bowling alley facilities on an international scale?
Have you ever decided to start crooning lovely yet heartbreaking songs while spraying foot funk disinfectant and wearing your monogrammed bowling shirt?
Have you ever wanted to enjoy an all-access backstage pass to a bowling alley but you thought you'd have to be a roadie and do naughty things with the alley manager for the privilege?
Really? Well, that makes you slightly odd like me.........but, on a brighter note, I did find the perfect video for us to enjoy!

I'm so glad to discover that bowling alleys in New Zealand look exactly like those in America. Whew! I don't think I could have gone on living another day without getting verifiable video proof.

(This should definitely qualify under the category of: "Learn Something New Every Day.")

The Smiling Infidel Explains The Unexplainable: S'MORES TORTILLA CHIPS EDITION

We Infidels will climb the highest Target shelves and swim across an ocean of fountain drink seas in search of new culinary adventures.
We'll journey to the very ends of the aisle just to seek out rare and exotic wonders.
We'll be as our pioneer ancestry--traveling the linoleum plains with all our immediate possessions stowed away in a cart as we pursue the newest in flavor explosions for you, our dear readers.
We'll even navigate the treacherous express lane frontier just to bring pure, unadulterated joy to your ailing tastebuds.
Our latest snack food-finding mission yielded a bounteous but unique crop.
BEHOLD: S'MORES TORTILLA CHIPS
(Note how they're "authentic-style." Yep, it's imperative that you stay far, far away from the black market tortilla chip impostors.)

If you can stomach eating stuff coated in brown dust then a bright future awaits you down at the Gorilla Fingers Grill. (Don't look that one up on urbandictionary.com)

Crunch & Munch: That's their Tortilla Chip Tasters Task Force code names.

Chip & Dip: These two are a rogue band of chip eaters--circumventing the Tasters Task Force and causing biting mayhem wherever they go.
I see we have a wily double agent in our midst.

Young Melody pulls the tried-and-true "damsel in distress" maneuver......

So she can willfully bump off the competition and hoard the bag of chips all to herself!

Sometimes great combinations come together through a series of miraculous events......while other times great combinations arise out of necessity--like when there's nothing left in your pantry to eat but some stale tortilla chips and a half bag of marshmallows, so you sprinkle some cocoa powder on top and call it dinner.
I'll let you decide which was the inspiration for this product.
Before you ostracize your fellow man for their unsightly brown-streaked fingers, I hope you'll remember this post and restrain your brown dust prejudices.
Eating the S'more chips is cruel enough punishment.

[The Smiling Infidel Theater-located in the lefty section of my brain-is currently putting on an amusing production explaining the origins of S'mores tortilla chips. Apparently a stereotypical Mexican was crossing the Texas border late at night while clutching a bag of tortilla chips. Well, he accidentally but fortuitously slams into a cowboy, thus dropping his chips all over the cowboy's campfire s'mores. The accusations go back and forth: "Listen, pardner, you jus done dropped your dang tortilla chips into my s'mores" with the Mexican rebutting with a: "No Senor, you drop your s'mores into MY tortilla chips." And then they both trepidatiously take a bite of their concoction....they find instant flavor combo Xanadu....and go into business with one another suckering stores like Target to carry their product. I love happy endings.]

I've Been Recruited For A Secret Task Force.....

Today I found myself a tad befuddled when an e-mail cropped up in my inbox with the mysterious subject title of: Gonzalez Hunter Job Offer.

Okay, what exactly does that entail? I've never actually hunted Gonzalez before. Is this a pursuit of Gonzalez in the singular form or should I wait until there's a whole herd of Gonzalez's gathered together?

Ooooh, I know: I'll just wait for the next Gonzalez Family Reunion to make my move. How hard can it be? Armed with a Sharpie marker and a package of sticky name tags I can magically transform myself into any member of the Gonzalez family and then infiltrate their ranks from within.

I'm pretty sure I was targeted for this monumental albeit dangerous assignment because of a secret buried in my ancestry. Yeah, unbeknownst to me, I was likely descended from a long line of Gonzalez Hunters. It's just an evolved component of my sophisticated DNA......you know, like Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Van Helsing.

Although I'll have to be extra cautious to avoid falling prey to any wily Gonzalez's trying to sink their teeth into my Infidel flesh. They say that once bitten you'll appear normal without any adverse effects, that is, until the taco truck rolls by blaring "La Cucaracha"; that's the trigger that transforms you into a full-blown Gonzalez wherein you find yourself helplessly floundering about zombie-like to the oompa sounds of an accordion while your recently sprouted Pancho Villa mustache sways to and fro with the gentle breeze.

I'm going to buy some kind of Gonzalez Hunter protector gear. Dang it, I have to take precautionary measures. I just can't afford to chance it and end up having to superimpose the letter "G" over all my monogrammed stuff.

I just had a thought.....what if I'm only supposed to hunt Speedy Gonzalez and not just any old random Gonzalez? Nobody's been able to catch that slippery little Mexicano rodent in decades. I bet my Gonzalez Hunter performance bonus depends on it.

Crap, crap, crap.

Just Because Tiny Tim Makes Me Irrationally Happy........

Tiny Tim says: "God bless us, every one....while we Tiptoe Through The Tulips!
Amen.

And All The Sailors Say: "Elastic, You're A Fine Girl....."

The sailors also say: "What a good wife you would be."
They obviously haven't had many in-depth discussions with my man, Papi.
Okay, so I've only flung myself into Hokey Karaoke twice in my entire life.....and the world is a much better place for that decision.
Coincidentally, both of the times I faced sudden stage death I chose to sing the most recognized of the ode-to-chicks-named-after-alcohol songs, "Brandy."
Hey, I tend to stick with what I know.
Maybe next time I'll diversify and perform a totally sober version of "Margaritaville." I'll whip out a salt shaker during the grand finale and proclaim: "Here it is! As Jimmy Buffet as my witness, I will never search for my lost shaker of salt again......"
As me and my backup singer Sunbum took the stage, I huskily spoke into the microphone dedicating the song "to all my peeps who find infinite musical inspiration from the stylings of Kroger in-store radio."
And after that lively intro, a bunch of raucous DOO-DOO burst forth from the speakers.
That would be the DOO-DOO background chorus.
The Looking Glass sure did like to surround their "Brandy" with a lot of DOO-DOO.
At the end of our performance I gleefully told the audience that I had been saving up all my powerful DOO-DOO just for them.
They didn't seem impressed.
Anyway, before each and every "Brandy" refrain I encouraged the audience to sing along with me. Nobody did. At least not out loud.
Undeterred, I embraced my inner lounge singer and started dialoguing in between the lyrics...."What did all the sailors say? Come on, I can't hear you! All the sailors said Brandy, you're a fine girl...."
By the way, I was wearing my amazing tie-dye sneakers. I credit them with keeping me swaying and stepping in time to the Brandy-soaked rhythm.
The remainder of non-participating mini-Infidels later remarked that roughly half the audience did indeed lip sync along and seemed genuinely amused at our antics. The other half though, well, they appeared torn between looking embarrassed for us and/or sitting completely stone-faced as though "Brandy" didn't have the power to save their mortal soul.
Luckily, I know different and can readily bear the testimony of "Brandy" at any given moment.
Oh, I saved the best part for last. The venue happened to be a gathering of Constitutionally-minded people participating in the newly-instituted 912 Project that's predicated on an ideology based not on politics, but on principles and values.
I wanted to start a Conservative Conga Line, but my inner voice nixed the idea. It might be viewed as a tad too risque to lead a room full of people into grabbing at stranger's hips while lining up, one behind the other, to shake it jungle-style to Gloria Estefan. As it is, I think some folks already assumed that I must have spiked my Diet Coke with a hidden Brandy flask.
I'll admit it: I DO LOVE my "Brandy."

The Looking Glass guy who sings "Brandy" looks nothing like I assumed! The official article on Wikipedia details how he started a heavy metal band just a few years later. How you evolve from squeezing out soft processed cheese like "Brandy" to heavy metal, is beyond rationality. It is amusing to note, however, that the Red Hot Chili Peppers also did a rousing cover of this song.

I don't care what anyone says: I'm going to make it a point to serve up "Brandy" at all my parties.....and you should too! I bet Brandy likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain while wasting away in Margaritaville with her friends Jose Cuervo and Sherry. Poor Sherry, she's still on the run from that stalker, Steve Perry. He's relentless even though she told him it would never work out because Sherry Perry makes for an abominable married name.

I Would Have Preferred A Kosher-Observant Stimulus Bill......

Despite Obama's virulent rhetoric on the campaign trail decrying the use of earmarks, he just passed a stimulus bill with close to 9,000 of the bloated little darlings.

I firmly believe that all omnibus bills, TARP, or whatever the flying fart they're calling it by today, should be examined by a Rabbi or a Muslim Imam beforehand. We can implement our own style of a Jewish/Muslim peace pact as they diligently work together to make sure that the government's massive spending bills at least adhere to Kosher and Halal regulations.

This would also serve as a great concept for an inventive new T.V. series in the vein of the odd couple crime-fighting partnership genre.
"Habib Ali dazzles with his pearlescent white teeth and award-winning beard that has taken him to certain victory in the ZZ Top Look-A-Like Contest, 3 years in a row. He's also a mild-mannered Imam who enjoyed crocheting festively patterned skull caps for the poor and engaging in marathon prayer sessions. Hezekiah Sharon is a Torah-loving Testament of righteous manliness; living big matzoh ball dreams and driving the local ishas crazy with his boisterous blonde curls that descend from his yarmulke like effulgent rays of sunshine. Together they'll join forces to storm the corridors of Washington D.C. and ensure that all unhealthy fat and hamminess is rooted out and expunged forever to save the American taxpayers. We admiringly call them "Heroes".........but the crusading duo chooses to refer to themselves as "The Pork Patrol!" (The Pork Patrol: A new comedy about an American tragedy; debuting this fall on the Fed Up With Feds Channel)

I'm offering up this sage little bit of whimsy free of charge for any bacon-slashing politician running for re-election in the next few years: "I'm not a vegetarian.....but I play one whenever government pork is shoved in my face."

In 2010 Vegetarian Conservatives Will Rise Again!

P.S. My beloved fellow citizens: I tried so hard to protect you from the truth that your newly anointed class of effete leaders (both left and right) despise, disdain, and harbor the most insidious contempt for you lowly "commoners." Anyways, it's time that you see for yourself in this :16 second clip how Senator Chuck Schumer of New York really feels about you and me. To him we're "the chattering class" who doesn't really care what Obama does, says, or signs. Is he right Americans?

P.P.S. Is anyone else getting a pay raise in these turbulent times of economic moan&groan? Are you being rewarded for abysmal job performance and low approval scores? Well, the United States Congress is. Congratulations American suckers.....as of last week we are now being coerced through our tax dollars to pay even more to our Congressional leaders for their deplorable 18% satisfaction rating. Yes, they voted themselves a fat pay raise. It's good to be the Kings and Queens in a royal dictatorship, isn't it?

My English Professor Has Banished Me To The Land Of B-List Misfits......

I'm currently under attack from an onslaught of Killer B's.
Does it sting?
Oh yes, does it ever.
Sadly, I don't think there's any sort of exterminating spray on the market to make it go away either.
My Professor, Professor Meso Smart, may not have ever listed the position of "Professional Head Shrinker" on his resume, but he does indeed possess an amazing knack for shrinking a Jolly Green Giant-sized ego down to miniature pea status using nothing more than a scribbly wave of his red pen.
You know, I didn't even get the benefit of receiving a nifty little dangling shrunken ego keychain to carry around with me afterwards. Is it too much to expect that Professor Meso Smart at least enshrine my deflated little speck of ego into a glass display box so I can pimp it out like a freaky side show spectacle and maybe make a little ka-ching?
I ran a little experiment to test the boundaries of Professor Meso Smart's sinister grading pen.
The rought draft for my assigned opinion essay consisted of nothing more than the blandest of facts and statistics. I then proceeded to sprinkle it with some milquetoast regurgitations of wholly uninspired data to support my opinion. Pure, unadulterated drudgery.
That effort won an emphatic "A+" from Professor Meso Smart.
I labored and agonized over the final copy of the essay for a week. I passionately employed brilliant personification and mixed it with sharply pointed verbage designed to evoke an unforgettable landscape of mental imagery in the reader's head. If you can't unleash the searing fire burning in your soul within the confines of an opinion paper, then where can you?
Professor Meso Smart read my final copy and chose to sting me with yet another Killer B.
While he declared my paper to have achieved "the highest plane of critical thinking as evidenced by my argumentation and reasoning" he also said that my "exceedingly excellent paper was marred by the usage of turgid wording."
Yes, "TURGID" as in wildly exaggerated or embellished.
Other words used to describe my masterpiece: "bombastic" and "florid."
I may have tumbled off the A-list bar stool like the uncoordinated Shirley Temple-drinking lush that I am, but last week's class set the scene for my ultimate vindication.
While reading aloud to the class from a featured article in The Houston Chronicle, Professor Meso Smart stopped to slobber and praise the writer's stuffed-full-of-adjectives style as "magnificent!" He then inquired of the class: "Who in here can write like this?"
Without hesitation, my hand rocketed straight into the air as I blurted out "ME! I write exactly like that."
Stunned, Professor Meso Smart paused, momentarily closed his eyes, and then, after a brief interlude of reflection, quietly admitted "Yes, Elastic, it's true. You DO write like this."
Victory is mine!
It's not as sweet as a warrior team of A's bursting into the classroom to vanquish the Killer B's back into the realm of scholastic injustice from whence they sprang, but just instigating a moment of stark epiphany in Professor Meso Smart made the moment so very worthwhile.

Special thanks to my flappy friend, clean counter confidant, and Vicodin muse, Carrot Jello who assures me that Professor Meso Smart refuses to award me an "A" because he's so insanely jealous of my genius. I'm convinced that's the real reason.

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.......

One Of The Most Clever Music Videos I've Seen In A Long Time

As an added bonus, I absolutely love the song too. Oren himself directed this snappy and brilliant little video that moves seamlessly along with his lyrics.

I Had An Explosively Big DM Movement Yesterday....

DM= Depeche Mode
Depeche Mode= French For "Fast Fashion."
I'm sure you knew exactly what I was referring to by the post title, right?
Anyway, I created this funky little fashion ensemble for my oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum.
My gosh, it looks as though this child was orphaned at birth and raised by a Flock Of Seagulls, doesn't it?
Sunbum's first words weren't "goo-goo-gah-gah" like most babbling babies. Nope, it was more like Kajagoogoo.
Did you ever watch that emotionally manipulating movie with Christopher Reeves and Jane Seymour called "Somewhere In Time?" Well, basically Christopher has to dress himself head-to-toe in authentic period clothing before venturing back in time. If he doesn't, the space/time continuum will be broken thus sending him careening back to the present day.
Yeah well, using that important time traveling criteria, Sunbum is more than ready to hitch a ride in a passing plutonium-powered Delorean headed towards the year 1985.

Here's The Valley Girl Approved Checklist That I Studied Like Scripture Before Attempting My Feat Of Creatively Monumental Proportions:

• Utilize blinding fluorescent colors as though your nickname is Neon Leon. Check.
• Scrunch and bunch your socks like you're playing an accordion made from cotton. Check.
• Flippy-Floppy hair with a totally rad headband. Check.
• 3 garishly designed plastic wristwatches climbing up the arm letting everyone know you take fashion cues from the black market watch hustlers on Madison Square. Check.
• A Vintage Guess? black denim jacket that used to belong to your mother when her entire wardrobe consisted of overalls. Check.
• Activate the Popped Collar Sequence on my mark....3....2....1....... Check.
• Black pencil skirt that allows you a justifiable excuse to back out of any and all breakdance challenges. Check.
• A groovin, grommeted belt to cinch and bind and bring it all together like a corn tortilla encapsulating spicy taco meat goodness. Fer sure. Check.

What? What's that you say? You said, Wang Chung to you??!?
Well, may the power of Wang Chung also be upon you, my fair reader.

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...."

My Baby Is Growing Up So Fast.......

Can you believe it? Ophelia, the youngest member of the Infidel family, is already driving!
Granted, she doesn't have a license or insurance or even a Jack-In-The-Box antenna ball, but hey, those missing qualifications don't seem to stymie the thousands of folks driving every single day in these here United States.
Naturally, while elated at Ophelia's developmental progress, I'm still a trifle disappointed with her and the way she brazenly displayed her innate carjacking skills.
Poor Barbie was caught completely unaware as Ophelia ambushed her, nibbled on her head, and then crawled into the Barbiemobile for a quick joy ride around the living room.
I am Ophelia's mother and so of course I very sternly admonished my little guinea pig heathen for her criminal behavior before sentencing her to punishment in the Time Out Corner.
She pooped all over the Time Out Corner.
Such defiance!
I guess I'll have to dispatch the Rescue Heroes patrol car (with real working siren and lights!) to lay down the law with Miss Ophelia.
I should probably warn Jake Justice beforehand though that Ophelia has a thing for plastic men in uniform. He needs to be prepared when she strikes with sharp-toothed retaliation.
Ophelia, the Chomp&Gnaw Outlaw Scofflaw.

P.S. Ophelia won't be receiving her PHD, but we are working on a custom plate that says "OH GEE!" in reference to her initials O.G.

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............

The Smiling Infidel's Shop of Homemade Valentine Cards Is Now Open For Business!

Caterpillar, my 3rd grade daughter with big bushy caterpillaresque eyebrows, decided to make her own Valentine cards for the class exchange.
I elected to join the artsy fartsy extravaganza too since it's not often that we drag out the multitudes of crafty buckets, and crafty crates, and crafty boxes from the crafty storage locker.
John "Thank God I'm A Country Boy" Denver himself inspired me to create this one-of-a-kind construction paper masterpiece for my beloved husband, Papi.
OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

If you've been reading this blog since 2006, then you understand the joke. If you haven't, then you need to dedicate the next two weeks to soaking in all 650 posts. Pronto!

Okay, back in April 1994, as Papi and I drove to Pancho's Mexican Buffet to enjoy our first date, we heard the news that the dead body of Nirvana front man Kurt Cobain had been discovered. I wrote a post using all Nirvana titles HERE.

Anyway, I'm not a Sentimental Lady at all (much to Bob Welch's disappointment) but because of Kurt, I'll never forget the momentous occasion of our first date.

Here's my scrapped Valentine's Card rough draft:

YOU FILL UP MY SENSES.....

LIKE A DEAD GRUNGE ALT ROCKER

I decided that wasn't as romantic as reminiscing over me and Papi's shared love of Pancho's delicioso chili rellenos.

Neither was discussing our post-date adventures:

YOU FILL UP MY SENSES....

LIKE THE STINK IN THE BATHROOM

Papi's a lucky, lucky man, for this year he'll celebrate with not one but TWO fancy cards custom-

designed especially for him by his loving wife.

OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

There's a lot of naughty hidden messages on this card. You can squint and holler at Lurlene to fetch you your readin spectacles all you want, but you won't be able to read them. I used a special ink that can only be deciphered by the eyes of my one true love.

I'm also going to make some scandalous lingerie out of crepe paper streamers, gingham fabric scraps, and some googly eyes.

One day, when Sinnamon Bunns from the Shady Lady Cabaret gets her own craft show, then she can give you a personal tutorial on how to construct the classiest nipple pasties you've ever seen out of heart-shaped crafty foam.

I cannot tell a lie:

Taco Bell Hot Sauce moves me to do strange and wondrous things with scrapbooking scissors and a hot glue gun.

OUTSIDE: (SAUCY!)

INSIDE:(Needs a sample pack of Preparation H)

HAPPY VD EVERYONE!

VD=Valentine's Day not Venereal Disease....which is too bad because I've got this great idea for a line of VD cards that feature a real condom in the middle......