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 Daughter: Future Creator Of The Council For Stink Prevention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, it was pretty stenchy.

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

Yeah, she superseded my own brilliant stench-fighting plan.

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

What's Fishier Than a Catholic on Friday? I Am!

I know what you Infidelphiles are thinking. You think you have me pegged. "I know a lot about Elastic. I know her butt sweats profusely," you're thinking. "Her husband's name is Papi and he's a sexy-Mexi hunka hunka burnin' queso dip. Her six mini-Infidels spork-fight like nobody's business and one kid was accidentally born in the tub. Elastic yelled the F word at that guy once. Yeah, I have Elastic pegged."

I'm here to tell you, in the midst of my Rocked-like-a-Hurricane Blogtopia, that you don't know me as well as you might think.

What many of you Infidel-ites may not have realized is that I have utter and utmost love for all things seafaring. Seafood, sea urchins, seamen, Chicken of the Sea... no creature residing in the Seven Seas is safe from me and my undying fishy affection.

Why, just the other day I was telling a fish story to my adorable, charming, mustache-bleaching friend, the incomparable Millie Chicken. I said to Millie:

"Millie, my love, whose lips are impossibly moist and appealing..."

Millie was a bit grossed out by this, I could tell, but continued to listen politely because that's what she does at any cost: listen politely. She's just that kind of girl.

"... Millie my angel, do you know what I love most in the world?"

"Me?" she guessed, tossing back her mahogany hair and batting her eyelashes.

"So close, but sadly, no... there is one thing on earth - OK, seven other things on earth - that I love more than you. No, actually eight, because Papi and the six kids are the first seven and then I was going to tell you this other thing that I really have a hankering for and I got so discombooberated that I lost count."

"Uh-huh," Millie intoned. I could tell she was getting bored. Of course - the topic had turned away from herself to something else.

"I really love fish."

"Fish?"

"Yes. Fish. I love to eat them. I even love to write songs about eating fish. How's this: Fishedy doo and a fishedy dye... Sammy Davis, Jr. had one glass eye..."

Millie tried to covertly glance at her watch - it was obvious she was uncomfortable - and then looked up at me. Her face was strange: it wore the look of someone who'd recently rocked out hard to Rod Stewart's "Infatuation" but had suddenly remembered that headbanging is best left to people under the age of twenty. Either that, or she was suffering a sudden attack of gas.

Then, it finally hit her. I'm talking it probably took a good fifteen minutes.

"You. Eat. FISH?"

"Yes, my choicest morsel."

"That is just sick," she spat in my face.

"Why, my dear, my darling one?"

"My... best... friend," she sniffled noisily into a yellow embroidered handkerchief, "was maimed by a harpoon!"

She whipped out this picture:

"They even had her STUFFED and MOUNTED!" she sobbed into my shoulder.

Well. Was my fish-face red that day.

I didn't stick around to get the rest of the story - a nagging voice in my fish-addled brain wondered how this was even possible - but you can imagine how awkward things have been between me and my beloved Millie ever since.

And that, my friends... is a fishy story.

Finally, A Viable Third Party Emerges For American Voters!

I deliver the local community newspaper. When I picked up my bundles yesterday, I immediately noticed this headline proclaiming the emergence of a new political party. Obviously, I was overwrought with joy at such an announcement.

Judging from this snapshot taken depicting long lines of voters just waiting for the chance to make their voices heard at the polling booth, I surmise that this strange and new party must also be wildly popular amongst the constituents, too .
Personally, I loathe all 3 of the Presidential front-runners this election year. I don't know who the Democartic Party is or what they stand for, but I just may re-register as a DEMOCART and vote for them anyway.

Vote Infidel Party By Giving Me Your CLICKETY Right Here! Gracias.

The Smiling Infidel Plays Art Critic With Neither An Art Degree Or A Tweed Blazer With Elbow Patches!

I'm fairly certain there's some sort of deep and profound spiritual meaning to this fountain- it may even be rooted in mythology. I'm obviously way too low-brow and uneducated to get it because all I could think of was my own bitter disappointment that the artisans didn't go all the way and route the water to stream out the penis or at least the dolphin's blowhole.
This work of art sits smack in the middle of the entryway to Methodist Hospital in downtown Houston. We got to see it up close and personal when visiting my Grandma a few weeks ago. It's not everyday we're allowed the opportunity to absorb such artistic magnificence as a naked man riding a dolphin as though he's performing in an underwater rodeo at a nudist resort. I especially like how he's waving one arm in the air. It has a definite Yeeee-Haaawww, Ride Em' Dolphin feel to it! Of course I had to take a picture. Of course.

We looked around for some sort of donor plaque. We didn't see one but I'm guessing wherever it was the plaque read: This Fountain Lovingly Donated By A Joint Collaboration Of The Freudian Society Of Houston and N.A.M.P.L.A(North American Man-Porpoise Love Association)

A Very Special Infidel Easter Episode Without Any Special Guest Star Appearances

We're bonafide Infidels, so naturally we celebrated the resurrection of our Savior yesterday because that's just what bonafide Infidels do. However, if you assume that we traveled the traditional super-suburbanite route by getting the mini-Infidels all gussied up in matching pinafore dresses and pastel seersucker pants for a picture with the Easter Bunny followed by a gay afternoon coloring eggs, you'd be wrong. First of all, calling eggs "colored" seems racially insensitive and I certainly didn't want the E.E.O.C to show up and squash our Easter fun. Instead, we started a new tradition. I didn't have time to fill plastic eggs and hide them like I usually do so I instructed the mini-Infidels to gather around in the living room with their baskets and then we played a little game I like to call "Easter Parade." I pretended to be a giant parade float coincidentally constructed out of elastic waistband pants and an obnoxious 'Where My Peeps At?' T-shirt to look exactly like me. Wow. So there I was, gliding gracefully down the carpeted thoroughfare, tossing candy and treats out wildly to the enthusiastic parade crowd as I passed by. It was chaotic, sure, but nobody got maimed or flattened in a frenzied Skittles stampede, so it's all good.

The two eldest Infidel daughters put the squishy, glitter putty they caught during the grand Infidel Easter parade to good use. Infidel daughter the second lovingly crafted hers into a gelatinous thong bikini. It's not one of the Ten Commandments but I'm relatively sure it's written somewhere that Thou Shalt Not Construct Thongs Out Of Silly Putty On The Sabbath Day Nor Easter.

We shopped at Sam's Club on Saturday to prepare for our gala Easter dinner and Sunbum pointed out this box. Yeah, inexplicably, the words: DO NOT CRAB is printed on it. Who do those Chinese think they are telling us not to crab like that? Maybe it was a misprint and it should have read: DO NOT CRAP. The Chinese want us to stop crapping so that we all self-implode. Sneaky Chinese. They really are out to get us..

Melody desperately needs a new bed but we just don't have the space for one. Luckily for us, Sam's Club sells a practical bedding solution for the low, low price of $24.99. Melody gave her new sleeping arrangements the all-important butt-plopping test right there on the Sam's Club floor while striking a Cleopatra pose for the camera. It's a bed fit for a dog named Queen!

Cheese Balls!
Oh, those poor, pitiful little cheeses having to live life without their balls. :(

We chose the herb-marinated salmon for our main course and washed it down with a robust and fragrant grape juice vintage 2007 from the Kroger frozen aisle vineyards. Yeah, I know that you're not supposed to drink white grape juice or swill from wine glasses filled with Hi-C Punch when dining on fish. We're not completely unrefined heathens, even though we are eating off of melamine plates I scored for cheeep at Target and drinking from dollar store plastic cups.


Thank you for joining us on this very special Infidel Easter Episode. No chocolate bunnies were harmed in the making of this post........ mainly because we don't buy chocolate bunnies until they hit 75% off at the After-Easter Sales.

CLICKETY! Gracias.

Wordless Wednesday Edition:"Yep, He's A Beauty, But You Should Have Seen The Size Of The Fish Mailbox That Got Away!"

FISH!...............It's Not Just For Dinner Any More.