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

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.

Elastic Did A Bad, Bad Thing.....

First of all, allow me to wish those of the Jewish faith a very Happy Passover season.

Okay, I scored some nice Manischewitz brand Kosher Split Pea Soup mix on a grocery store clearance rack for super cheap. Hey, I know that I'm only getting a split pea....and sure it blows to think about someone sitting around disfiguring perfectly good peas to make them go farther..... but a Whole Pea Soup Mix would probably cost more and with grocery prices on the rise, I'm happy for what I can get to meet the nutritional needs of my merry band of Infidels.

The bargain price I paid for this fine and hearty meal would definitely make any good Jew worth his weight in matzoh balls beam with unbridled happiness.

What I did next, however, would instantly crush any modicum of mirth or joy- kind of like the time everything was going splendidly during the Jewish Community Center production of Fiddler On The Roof.....that is until the guy playing the role of fiddler shook his Shekels a bit too hard and fell off, fiddle and all. "Rock-A-Bye Fiddler On The Rooftop, When The Wind Blows, The Fiddler Will Rock......"

I decided that adding a few morsels of meat to the soup mix would render it more flavorful and filling. Yes, I did something naughty and violated the purity of the Kosher-observant split peas by allowing a filthy ham steak to co-mingle with them in our soup pot.

I wonder how you say "unholy alliance" in Hebrew ? I wonder what the Yiddish translation of the phrase "for something that seems so wrong, this tastes sooooooo right" is?

In English, the words are "I never knew that peas getting porked could be so delicious."

Because I'm Chick Pea-sy.....Chick Pea-sy On Sunday Morning

Well hello there, foodie friends!

Are you looking for the perfect snack to complement your luxuriantly peaceful weekends? If so, I can attest that you need to stay far, far away from the combination of Zesty Garlic Hummus dip and Baked Pita Chips. Even if the deafening sounds of crunchy crunchiness doesn't completely shatter your Sunday solace, the gastrointestinal aftermath that follows, surely will.
Listen to my Infidel admonition....... BEWARE THE LEGUMES!

Without going into too much detail, let's just say that if this flavorful duo was listed on a restaurant menu they would entitle it The Rudie-Pooty-Ripe-N-Tooty special. Oh great and holy frijole in the sky, me and the mini-Infidels did partake of the sinful hummus among us and spent the rest of the day toddling around like walking/talking Whoopee Cushions. We were deathly afraid to hug one another. :(

I talked to Carrot Jello last night because Papi said that she needs advance warning on the care of feeding of Elastic for when I visit her this summer. Rule number one: Under NO circumstance should you feed Elastic, hummus--especially after midnight because she'll wake up the whole house. Seriously, if I would have been strapped into one of those contraction monitors yesterday I could have visually seen the dramatic spikes charting across the screen with every bowel-ripping rumble. I'm not even sure that a contraction monitor has the capability of accurately recording the abdominal pressure that was going on......a Richter Scale would have proved far more useful.

Father Al Gore should focus his panic-riddled environmental agenda on the investigation and subsequent banning of hummus. Obviously hummus farts is contributory to widespread global warming and must be stopped!


CLIKETY HERE to support renewable energy credits based solely on harnessing the powerful force of hummus flatulence. Yeah, it may contradict the last sentence in this post but being contradictory is what Father Al Gore is all about.

Oh, That Explains It!

Back in the day, I thought Jonathan Frakes was the hottest Star Trek man to ever walk the face of the Earth. Then he ruined it for me by marrying that hussy, Laura, from 'General Hospital.' I remained convinced that if they held a "Most Bootylicious Crew Member" contest aboard the Star Ship Enterprise, Commander Riker would shake his groove thang and take top prize. Secretly, I wished that he would incite mutiny on the deck by forming an alliance with Worf. Together, they'd stage a coup wherein bald Captain Jean Luc Picard would have to walk the plank so my man Riker could assume the leadership position. I mean, come on, how many times could Riker be expected to laugh at Captain Picard's lame joke of, "Number Two, I order you to take a Number One!"?

Anyway, the striking similarities between Frylock and Jonathan Frakes boggle the mind. And maybe even breaks a few copyright restrictions. Truly, everything I ever needed to know in life, I learned from Star Trek.

Love Is A Many Splendored Thing

I have a startling confession to make......
I've developed an insatiable crush on an animated french fry container.

It wasn't always this way. In days gone by, discovering wiry strands of goatee hair or a pair of eyeballs peering out at me from the cardboard folds of a greasy french fry box, would have sent me into nauseated fits of hysteria. But, no more.

The Infidel family remains ensconced in a time of prehistoric TV that passed the world by, eons ago. We only count one small archaic set among our earthly possessions. No cable. No satellite. No TIVO. No plasma. Not even a fancy remote control. Nothing. However, once I saw the Aqua Teen Hunger Force clips on youtube, I knew that my fetish and interest for all things weird, was piqued. The episode that hooked me involved Frylock drawing a 'treasure map' for Master Shake to dig holes where 'X' marked the spot. Secretly, all the X's marked where Frylock wanted his new azalea bushes planted. Such a clever ploy. Such a devilishly handsome and witty character.

So, yes, I like a talking, floating, limbless, apocalyptic french fry warrior. And he doesn't even have to supersize, or dab on any of that fancy catsup stuff for me, because I love Frylock just the way he is. I fantasize about him suavely whispering in my ear, "Oh yeah, baby, who's yo FRY DADDY, now?" I wonder if I could get Papi to wear a Frylock costume in the boudoir? Hmmmmmmm.