Dance And The World Dances With You......Sometimes

Kroger's grocery traditionally only plays the lamest of the lame on their in-store radio. They're single-handedly resurrecting the soothing soft rock favorites that time (mercifully) forgot.
After a particularly mind-numbing shopping experience where the overhead speakers blared both the Titanic theme song and "The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald" back-to-back, I came to the conclusion that their programmer harbors an unhealthy ship wreck fixation.
Keep that man away from a career in the cruise ship D.J. field!
Sometimes the music is so bleak that I automatically go into announcer mode with my snarky-malarkey radio voice. My announcements usually go something like this: "Sad Sack Radio: All the saddest songs, all the time! Kindly vacate the rat poison and kitchen knife aisles before the next suicidal tune in this very special Depress-A-Thon music mix!"
If you happen to survive the sentimental sounds wreaking havoc on your emotions then you'll be well prepared to take on over the narcolepsy-inducing aspect of so many sllllooooowwwwww songs played right in a row.
It's not just on major thoroughfares that you have to worry about people falling asleep at the wheel. It's a good thing Kroger's sells No Doz tablets, otherwise the shopping basket fatalities resulting from customers nodding off while pondering which Hamburger Helper to buy this week would be much greater.
How many eggs and pasta sauce jars must be sacrificed before Kroger's deigns to plays some peppier stuff?
I get the slow music strategy, though. It's all a sinister marketing ploy.
See, the more plodding the music, the greater the likelihood a customer will linger longer. The shoppers essentially become unwitting victims, aimlessly wandering down the aisles in a lite rock-infused daze. Muskrat Love always has that effect on me anyways. So, basically, all of this leads to impulse buying and increased spending.
It's freakin diabolical but incredibly genius at the same time.
So imagine my surprise while shopping last Friday night, with my entire entourage of mini-Infidels in tow, when the K-Roger Discotheque actually played a kickin' J. Lo song. Not just that, but it was a funky dance remix of J. Lo's club hit "Get Right."
I was powerless to resist the rump-shaking urges that "Get Right" always induces. I swear that the milk section had been completely vacant prior to my dancing jiggling exhibition with giant string cheese tumbleweeds rolling down the desolate aisle. But then, much to my horror, I turned around slowly just in time to witness at least 5 other Kroger shoppers frozen in shock, staring at me with wide eyes and mouths agape.
Apparently my milk shake doesn't bring all the boys to the yard.....but it does bring all the customers to the dairy aisle.
Embarrassed at my uncharacteristic display of craziness, I took my mini-Infidels and hid in the secluded safety of the clearance corner until I was sure that all the involuntary spectators had moved on.
Sunbum, the oldest, kept reassuring me that it was fine. She remarked that the people looked on disapproving because they wondered what the heck someone could be so happy about that they'd dance a jig right in the middle of the grocery store. Sunbum said they were probably jealous of my uninhibited spontaneity.
I'm sure that's it.
The moral of the story is that one should always avoid the advice set forth by hand-painted plaques and cheesy gift shop merchandise.
I did indeed dance like no one was watching. Regrettably though, people were watching. In fact, it felt as though ALL the eyes of Texas were upon me eyeballing my lack of rhythm, grace, and coordination.
I could almost hear that mysterious voice from Field Of Dreams echoing, "IF YOU SHAKE IT, THEY WILL COME!"
Well then, I guess in the future I'll be a little more discerning about where and when I choose to bust a move since it's like a beacon for all to gather round and stare in wide wonder.
Here's a few helpful lifestyle tips I've composed just for you:

• Sing Like Nobody Is Listening You Just Had Your Vocal Chords Removed.
• Work Like You Don't Need The Money Vindictive Vinnie And His Sidekick Liver Lips Louie Are Waiting At Your House, Crowbar In Hand, For This Month's Protection Payment.
• Dance Like Nobody Is Watching You're At A Southern Baptist Convention.
• Love Like You've Never Been Hurt Everyone Is Made Out Of Peanut Butter And You'll Go Into Anaphylactic Shock If You Get Too Close.
• Blog Like Nobody Is Reading You Ain't Making No Money Out Of It. (Oh wait, I think I already got this one down.)

P.S. This is my new theme song to life. The first few lines address the unfortunate occurrence of getting laughed at while dancing--to which Aussie Ben Lee chirpily croons "I Feel SAD For You, You Never Take A Chance!" Awesome.
BEN LEE--WHAT'S SO BAD ABOUT FEELING GOOD?

When The Fray Met Shakira: A Love Story

Once upon a time there was a white bread, piano-driven adult contemporary band called The Fray. Oh sure, their music was pleasing and agreeable enough to find airplay in grocery stores and offices across America......why, they even provided the emotionally manipulative backdrop music for a cheesy TV drama or two. However, few could argue that The Fray's sound was tediously formulaic--with each song becoming virtually indistinguishable from the next.
That was until they decided to cover Shakira's iconic track "Hips Don't Lie." The Fray succeeded in making the funniest, most deadpan cracker version of a spicy dance song ever in recorded history thus proving that musical diversity is truly a beautiful thing to behold.
The End.
Congratulations go out to The Fray. You indeed "make a woman go mad!" (with laughter)

The Smiling Infidel: Currently Starring In Woody Harrelson's Killer Sequel "Natural Born Pickers." (Death To Blueberries!)

How much pickety-pickin power do we pack?

Well, I don't like to boast but me and my troupe of mini-Infidels have ascended to the highest levels on the competitive picking circuit.

We're currently poised to win Mexico's biggest game show WHO WANTS TO BE A MIGRANT WORKER!

Last week we found our thrill on Blueberry Hill as we deftly filled bucket after bucket with a grand total of 12 1/2 pounds of blueberries within 2 hours time.

It's especially amazing considering that drought conditions severely limited the amount of blueberries available. It forced us into getting all up in the blueberry bushes business. We even engaged in some unscrupulous shakedown tactics. Primitive but effective.

My favorite trick involves dressing up in blue from head to toe. It makes it easier to become one with the blueberry. Once I infiltrate their ranks I convince the blueberries that I'm protecting them from the savage pickers on the hunt all around them. Then I coax them into the bucket with a promise of entrance into my special Blueberry Relocation Program. They don't know that's actually secrety code for "Operation Bucket To Belly" until it's too late.

[Insert Maniacal Laughter Here]

It was a sweltering 101 degrees as we picked and sweated and saw mirages of The Great Blueberry smiling down upon us from afar. We entertained ourselves by singing everything from "Hollaback Girl" to Bread's Greatest Hits.

And then an older lady with a voice that perfectly parroted Edith Bunker burst our blueberry pickin bubble of happiness by continuously screeching for "Bob." It went on for at least 20 agonizing minutes.

"Bob......Boooooooooobbbbb......BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBB......where are you BOOOOBBBBBBB??!??"

After enduring such a lengthy onslaught of this woman's shrill whine I certainly couldn't blame Bob for running off to play a game of solitary hide and seek.

I don't know what possessed our normally subdued selves, but with the exception of my oldest son Buster, the rest of us started imitating the lady by simultaneously calling out for our very own imaginary friend named Bob. It got way out of hand. We used the bushy landscape as camouflage when saying things like:

"Hey everybody, Bob is a palindrome.....from front to back he's exactly the same!!!"

"Bob plus O equals BOOB!"

"B-O-B stands for Blueberries on Bob!"

And then Buster clamped his hand over my mouth and frantically whispered, "Mom, you HAVE to stop RIGHT NOW or Bob is going to come over here and he's NOT going to be happy."

That made me uncontrollably spray out a bunch of blue-tinged saliva in laughter.

I ain't fraid' of no BOB!

BOB was probably off Bobbin' For Blueberries somewhere. No, not really. Boo, the youngest male heir in the Infidel household, accomplished that stupefying hands-free feat all on his own when he spotted a lusciously plump blueberry dangling off a low-hanging branch. Boo crouched down and in one fearsome moment he lunged, his pointed teeth bared as he aimed for the blueberry target. In one tremendous gobble he devoured it whole. He's more Jaws on a blueberry diet than he is a mere mortal boy.

So then fearless mini-Infidel leader Sunbum commenced to brazenly yelling out a roll call with oddball names not usually seen outside of psychedelic nightmares incited by consuming a fermented blueberry or two......or three(dozen). She wanted to see if any of our fellow field workers would answer her.

I guess it's just too much to hope for that persons going by Boogaloo Shrimp, Jermaine, Pocahontas, Tyrone, Mathias, and Huffy would all be assembled in one place at the same time.

It's possible that we all turned a bit delusional and loopy courtesy of the complimentary heatstroke that came FREE! with every blueberry bucket picked.

Or maybe we're just the most obnoxious and orneriest gang of purple-fingered blueberry pickers this side of the fruit bowl.

If you see us heading your way, clear a path.....your blueberries are belong to us!

And Now Who Is Left In The Music World That'll Sing Love Songs To A Rat??!???

Michael Jackson.......He's either moonwalking in Heaven right now or experiencing an episode of flaming hair deja vous somewhere in Hell. I really can't say for sure. All I know is that I'll be plugged into my iPod until the overly dramatized and hysterical fervor surrounding the passing of the supposed King of Pop dies down.
He was the King of Pop. I'm the Queen of Poop. I certainly hope that my passing will be trumpeted by an equal amount of tear-soaked hubbub.
Really, enduring the endless parade of stone-faced and somber commentators remark one after another about the "tragic" passing of Michael and how music's brightest light has just been extinguished is just a little more than I can bear.
These are the same people who thought nothing about capitalizing on the salacious stories surrounding Michael for the past decade. These are the same talking heads who laughed uproariously at all the Michael Jackson jokes.
It's only been a few hours since the man breathed in his last breath and I'm already irritated at the less than sincere weeping and wailing rollicking over the airwaves coupled with endless MJ music marathons. So completely gag-worthy.
Even the alternative stations are getting in on the all-Michael-all-the-frickin-time bandwagon by playing the worst Michael Jackson covers ever heard outside of the Tone Deaf Karaoke Club. There is no escape. Chris Cornell's sllllooooww mooooo version of "Billie Jean" blows. Ditto for Fall Out Boy's pathetic attempt to revive the mercifully long dead ditty, "Beat It." Vampire Weekend performed an electronica version of "I Want You Back." Sadly it's every bit as bad as it sounds. Alien Ant Farm remains the sole exception in this category because their "Smooth Criminal" remake rocks.
Child molesters shouldn't be so slobberingly revered regardless of how wonderful their musical talent is. Sorry. There's a valid reason that Michael sang "Pretty Young Thing (PYT)" and not PMT ( Pretty Middle-Aged Thing).
The greatest memory of Michael Jackson--the one that'll stick with me forever and for always?
That would have to be the day my oldest son Buster thought that Michael was some sort of advocate for the Jewish way of life. He was absolutely crushed that the news reports kept discussing comments made by Jackson that would seem to indicate that he was, in fact, rather anti-Semitic.
Confused, Buster turned to me and said "What do they mean that Michael Jackson doesn't like Jewish people?!?!? He's got that song dedicated to them: I Wanna Rock With JEWS!
Sing it with me gentle readers with your solitary single sequined glove raised high in the air. Do it to pay your respects for the passing of dear old Michael Jackson.....sing it loud, sing it proud.
"I WANNA ROCK WITH JEWS.......ALL NIGHT!"



R.I.P. MICHAEL JACKSON

I Reached Into The Record Bin And Unexpectedly Got POOPELOO All Over My Hands!

You should always exercise extreme caution when rifling through a crate of old records......you just never know what sort of sensory horrors may be lurking within!

Sure, I completely anticipated running my grubby little Infidel fingers over a hairy Bee Gee chest or two or three, and maybe exposing one of Herman's Hermits to the light of day......."Something Tells Me I'm Into Something Good......." but, I most certainly was not expecting to have my hand land in a big pile of old POOPELOO. Fresh and new POOPELOO is fine. Crusty vintage POOPELOO reeks.
Notice the record cover? It's POOPELOO to the third power!!!!!
You can just imagine some of the very unfortunate conversations that took place upon POOPELOO's release:

• I put POOPELOO on the record player. It sounded like crap.
• Don't you know who I am? I made POOOPELOO! (Yeah, you and every other human, freak.)
• I found POOPELOO on vinyl at the record store today! Ewww, that's nasty. Did you complain?
• Hey, did you release a 7-inch POOPELOO? (Perhaps you should consult a doctor about that.)
• Have you listened to POOPELOO lately? (Oh, is that what you call it? I call it 'The Plop Plop')
• Hey, wanna do the POOPELOO with me? (Uh, no thanks. My anti-diarrheal medicine has just kicked in.)
• Every time I put POOPELOO on the record player it scratches and skids. I freakin hate POOPELOO skid marks.

Thank your lucky stars that records weren't produced in a scratch-n-sniff format. It might have worked out okay for "Strawberry Fields Forever" but POOPELOO, not so much.

Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the more discriminate Antique Mall shoppers I found a box that held quite a remarkable assortment of International cheese.

Most notable is our fine feathered friend, Paul Severs. Flanking Paul on either side of his forehead are golden blond wings that could potentially start flapping in the wind at any given moment, thus elevating him above the Non-Oh La La Zo Sexy riff raff.

After all, you little people should know that you're not truly Oh La La Zo Sexy material like Paul if you're not wearing a powder blue mesh undershirt that doubles as a fish net/laundry bag/chest hair trap along with a twee Mickey Mouse pin on your lapel. You also have to make sure to narrow your eyes for the camera while positioning your mouth in an awkward and uncomfortable grimace like you just ate a bad crepe over at the Oh La La Zo Sexy Cafe. Sure, it may appear as though Paul is squinting at the sun but he's actually working his potently seductive allure.

Please, allow me to remind you just who is the master and commander of all things Oh La La Zo Sexy. It's most certainly not you and me, my friend.

Although, in Paul's defense, he does have some amazingly rock hard abs. I should know. Just look at the picture, I got my hands all over them!

Stop The Violence.....Join The 'Save The Combos' Commission Today!

Everyone regards Carrie Underwood as some sort of battered and dipped, chicken-fried Southern goody two shoes--however, the maniacal lyrics embedded within the hit song "Before He Cheats" reveals her true deviant nature.

I couldn't care less that she "dug her key into the side of his pretty little souped-up 4-wheel drive." No, what I'm talking about is infinitely more maleficent.

People, the truth is Carrie Underwood advocates the senseless murder of innocent bite-sized snack food.

It's unconscionable.

I cringe in horror whenever she flippantly growls out the line "He's teaching her how to shoot a Combo."

Using delectable little morsels of processed cheese as target practice is just wrong. They don't deserve this kind of persecution for simply seeking refuge within the crispy confines of a cracker shell.

Shooting helpless Combo snacks.....is this the new redneck sport of choice? Will there be an officially declared Combos hunting season or will rampant shooting sprees force entire Combo families to cower in fear all year long?

I hope these barbarians at least eat the Combo bounty they so ruthlessly slaughter. The trigger-happy thugs should also make their clothing out of the cellophane Combos bags, you know, in the interest of upholding the highest in hunting ethics

Hanging a Combos trophy above the mantel as a braggy centerpiece will be a difficult proposition for even the most experienced taxidermist to handle since Combos come pre-stuffed and doused in artificial colors and preservatives.

I fear a future where unregulated Combo shooting--spurred on and encouraged by Miss Underwood--leads to the Combos population teetering on the brink of extinction.......I'm going to open up an official Combos sanctuary/wildlife preserve.

In my mouth.

I'm so undeniably altruistic.

Let's join together and stop all this Combo hating, shall we? We tend to oppress that which we don't understand.

I know that the coupling of Oompaloompa orange cheese that resembles a load of ear wax on the end of your Q-tip along with tubular crackers that flunked out of the Flat Cracker Academy may seem a little unorthodox but we should allow the Combos union to flourish in eternal snacky happiness.

Don't hate. Don't discriminate. Don't exterminate.

Coombos: They ain't Funnyuns or fried possum tail, but dangit, they're somebody's junk food baby.

Carrie Underwood and her extreme anti-Combos hate must be halted post haste. I'd rather that the bleach blonde tramp in her song be taught to shoot pork rinds--the bastard child of the snack food world.

The Best Name For A Rock Group In The History Of Ever!

MEN WITHOUT PANTS

If I was a DJ I'd funk up some old Men Without Hats tracks with new stuff from Men Without Pants and call it a "We Don't Need No Stinkin' Dress Code Remix."

Do The Safety Dance.....Without Pants Or Hats!

We Spotted A Colossal Hung Dong While Cruising The Streets Of Houston

*WARNING: This post may offend your puritanical sensibilities. May I redirect you to something more sanitized and boringly wholesome? Perhaps you'd like to visit The Pioneer Woman and gaze upon yet another cow snapshot? It's all part of her Billion Bovine pictorial movement. What about cow labor laws? Are those cattle getting reimbursed for their exploitation at the hands of that scurrilous Pioneer Woman???!? Anyway, I cannot be held responsible for any facial marks you may incur from furiously slapping your hand to your gaping mouth while reading the shocking contents of this post.*

In its three plus years of existence The Smiling Infidel has never once featured Hung Dong pictures. So when the opportunity arose to capture this magnificent Hung Dong, I seized upon it. I consider my friend Carrot Jello to be one of the most spiritual and morally upstanding people I've ever met; and yet even she giggled like a little girl at the sight of an eerily glowing Hung Dong that beckoned to us from beyond the darkened roadway.......well, actually, she giggled after recovering from the whiplash she suffered from my abrupt full speed U-Turn action.

I think we're all in agreement here that HUNG DONG is an unfortunate name for a food market.
Can you imagine putting Hung Dong on your resume? "Uh yes, I worked briefly as a janitor at Hung Dong. It was a filthy thankless job trying to keep that Hung Dong clean. I got tired of mopping up constant spills."

The Infidel family usually shops at Kroger's grocery store. I used to own a T-shirt that I got during a customer appreciation promotion. It screamed "I LOVE KROGER'S!" in big white letters. Now let's just picture a similar giveaway from Hung Dong, shall we? I'm thinking it might give off the wrong impression to walk around wearing a garment that declares: "I LOVE HUNG DONG!" across the front.

As a general rule Hung Dong refuses to sell cocktail smokies. You'll never find a store circular advertising "The Hung Dong Now Has Little Weenies!" No, clearly the Hung Dong prefers to engage only in mondo sausage sale celebrations. They must maintain and protect their image and street cred, people.

I wonder if Hung Dong is a chain, a franchise, or a one location only kind of store? Does the owner walk around bragging to everyone he meets about his amazing Hung Dong? The proprietor obviously takes good care of his Hung Dong. Notice the impenetrable shield designed to keep Hung Dong safe?

I'll bet certain words are forbidden within the confines of the Hung Dong boardroom. In regards to discouraging sales figures the manager avoids his first instinct to sigh excessively and say things like "Oh crap, the old Hung Dong is really sagging these days." Other banished terms include "droopy" and "limp." Approved Hung Dong business words: stiff, steady growth, spread sheets, endurance, and greater volume.

So is Houston the only place where you can find a decent Hung Dong? Do other cities have a Hung Dong or will we Houstonians gain yet another title to add to our growing collection that includes The Fattest City, The Space City, and Bayou City? Hung Dong Houston. I like it. I can envision the tourism board pamphlet now: Come Visit Houston.....You'll Love Our Hung Dong!

Meanwhile, Deep In The Heart Of Texas........

The inferno like heat relentlessly baked, broiled, and roasted a visiting Carrot until her exterior reached a feverish shade of red.
We may have overcooked Carrot a teensy bit in the scorchingly hot Texas sun. She can never again package herself as a raw Carrot although thanks to the aftermath of her intense sunburn she can now be marketed as a pre-peeled Carrot or a southern-fried Carrot. I bet that's a delicacy somewhere.
What did we do and where did we go during the 5 glorious days that Carrot stayed here in Houston? Here's a brief rundown:

• I treated Carrot to her very first Happy Hour where we indulged in Everything's Bigger In Texas-sized mixed drinks. (Half-Priced Cherry Limeades at Sonic Drive-Thru are fantastique!)
• We finally got to experience the thrill of being on a slow boat to China.....quite literally. Yes, when we shelled out the exorbitant fees to embark on the guided Riverwalk tour we had no idea that our voyage would be on the Love Boat's sister ship, The Dull Boat. We weren't sailing on a ship of fools. It was more like a ship of drools as people nodded off from sheer boredom. You know it's a bad tour when the host excitedly points out Christmas lights strung around a tree off on the left and people dining on overpriced pasta on the right. Well, that's when we actually could understand what Captain Moses was saying. Most of the time his accent was a cross between Mr. Bean, the teacher on Charlie Brown, and that Mush Mouth from Fat Albert. Captain Moses proved incapable of such lofty goals as parting the Red Sea. In fact, Captain Moses couldn't even part his own hair. He slammed into the pier upon docking leading Carrot to exclaim "HOLY MOSES!!!!" The elderly lady in the back of the boat was our favorite. She churlishly yelled out such charming sentiments as: "Back in my day the boats moved a lot faster than this....." and "Hey, is that Captain even speaking English??!?"
• Carrot moved me and I moved Carrot. Together, side-by-side in the claustrophobic stalls of the Antique Mall, our bowels moved in perfect harmonic unison. That's true friendship.
• Everyone knows that avowed church slackers plop themselves in the very back of the chapel so they can be as ornery as they wanna be without detection from the more pious of the congregation. The Infidel Family always parks their rears in the rear. Always. Carrot's soaring angelic voice rose above all of our section's off-key hymnal mumblings that we try to pass off as singing. Carrot was the pride and joy of the back aisles last Sunday.
• I nearly collapsed in laughter when our Relief Society leader perkily announced that we'd be "waxing cheese" at this week's Enrichment meeting. Carrot and I were the only ones who thought it was funny. I suspect that none of the sweet sisters in that room made inappropriate jokes about hairy cheese triangles that needs a good Brazilian waxing. Some churchy people wax poetic.....we wax cheese.
• Carrot confided in me that the crushed ice from our refrigerator leaves the best aftertaste. I told her to write up her testimonial for inclusion in our upcoming Smiling Infidel Travel Lodge brochure. "Infidel ice is the best!!! It makes you forget that everything else there tastes like overcooked butt."
• While feasting at Dumass Tacos, Carrot cheekily approached a group of redneck construction guys and asked them to repeat the song she'd heard them crooning while waiting in line. It involved titties and beer and rhymed with phrases like "Thank God I'm not queer." They happily complied and then allowed her to snap pictures of them with their redneck cruiser: A jacked-up, souped-up, painted-up Dodge truck. Then they revved their engine and squealed the tires on their way out of the parking lot leaving me and Carrot to sing "Just a good ole' boys not a meanin' no harm......" for the rest of the day.
• While here, Carrot lovingly slaved over a hot stove to make us coffee cake. It didn't have any coffee in it. She also made us Monkey Bread. It didn't have any monkeys in it.
• We successfully completed the Houston Buffet Invitational competition. Carrot now understands why Houston is known for cheap eats. She also now understands why Houston has won the title of "Fattest City" by Men's Health magazine four years in a row.
• My mom gave me tickets to see Happy Days: The Musical. Carrot and I stealthily upgraded ourselves to box seats during the intermission so we could get a closer look at The Fonz in his super tight jeans. We were so close we could see one of the actors spit when he started to sing. Fresh Bonafide Theatrical Spittle On Tap. Awesome.
• We both got emotional while singing along with Dan Fogelberg. ( I know!)
• I confided in Carrot that nobody else in this world can make me laugh until I wet my pants like she can. I'll be packing extra undies in my purse in preparation of the next Carrot rendezvous.

Things We Didn't Do While Carrot Was Here:

• We did not visit NASA or Space Center Houston. I was secretly fearful that we'd get accidentally launched into space like in that cheesy 80's movie "Space Camp."
• We didn't get around to solving world peace or global warming. However, Carrot did buy us some nifty bedside tables which we outfitted with some super green energy saver lightbulbs. This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine......
• We never stopped singing Glen Campbell's monster hit, "Galveston." The slightest provocation would launch Carrot into crooning the main chorus and then I'd join in. Turns out the main chorus is the only lyrics we know. "Galveston, oh, Galveston......"
• Carrot met both my mom and dad and yet she still didn't work up the courage to ask for my hand in marriage. What's that all about?
• Papi treated me like a lady of leisure during Carrot's visit; even going to work in my place. Consequently Carrot didn't get to fulfill her "Day In The Life Of Elastic" dreams. We did eat chili dogs twice in one day, though. I think that more than makes up for it.
• Despite sharing close bathing/bathroom/clothes changing/sleeping quarters we never accidentally saw each other naked. That honor is reserved solely for MILLIE who saw me in all my naked Infidel glory last year in Oregon. Poor, poor Millie.
• Convince Carrot to move here. Oh well, there's always next time she visits.

I'm Putting Some Carrot Jello Into My Bed Tonight!

Ah, the great state of Texas..........
It's home to a many and varied wondrous things.
Things such as those cute little critters known as armadillos. Things such as armies of ready and willing taxidermists that can transform the tragedy of a squished roadkill armadillo into the triumph of a kitschy beer bottle holder provided you don't mind armadillo particles in your alcoholic beverages.
Yes, it's great to be a Texan....most of the time.
Sadly though, despite searching near and far, there' s simply not a satisfying and delightful Carrot Jello to be found anywhere.
Oh believe me, I've been in pursuit of a replicate Carrot Jello companion for years, all to no avail. How hard is it to find some decent Carrot Jello around these parts? A good Carrot Jello is bouncy and beaming with shininess on the outside while also showing there's substance on the inside....well, substance aside from all the shredded vegetables.
Regrettably, I've only found pale imitations of Carrot Jello greatness that either had a surprisingly fruity center or worse yet, absolutely nothing inside.
Carrot Jello doesn't come in a pre-molded design for there's nothing quite like a good Carrot Jello. It's a recipe that stands on its own, totally unique from the other moldy Carrot Jello wannabes.
I found the best Carrot Jello two summers ago in another state. It wasn't the kind that you can pack up and take home with you though I may or may not have tried to slyly stuff Carrot Jello into my suitcase to smuggle back home.
Anyway, I've been going through severe Carrot Jello withdrawal symptoms ever since.
So really, what choice did I have but to get on the phone and beg for a fresh shipment of Carrot Jello to be sent to me straight from the wilds of Seattle?
My bundle of Carrot Jello arrives today. I plan on experiencing a complete and total Carrot Jello overdose for the next 5 days.
I secretly want to keep Carrot Jello all to myself but if some of you are just dying to know where you too can get a heaping helping of delicious Carrot Jello you can go to her amazingly funny blog here: CARROT JELLO
She's also 100 percent cuter than that inferior Carrot Jello picture I posted at the top.
We have a whirlwind itinerary all lined up that includes: A stop to meet with the royal proprietor of Dumass Tacos, a date with the karaoke machine at Incredible Pizza (we're definitely going to rock a "Brandy" duet), dual chin plucking marathons, and maybe, as time permits, we'll even engage in some adventures in roach killing.
Here in Texas the roaches are not only as long as your middle finger but they also fly. We'll need cucaracha nets and safari hats equipped with a built-in RAID sprayer.
Act now and maybe some of you can book this first-class Carrot Jello to show up in your city for a special appearance. Perhaps this can turn into the Carrot Jello World Tour 2009. The first stop on the tour? H-Town: Home of The Smiling Infidel!

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!*

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.