Don't Say It.....Spray It!

Sometimes I really question the fortitude of our youth. Do they have what it takes to make it in today's world and thrive? We all know that the key to life long success lies in completing your tasks and projects at hand, no matter how difficult.

So, I looked onto these local neighborhood STOP signs with great concern. The one on the left bears graffiti, spelling out an ode to Mr. 2 Legit 2 Quit himself, M.C. Hammer. Yes, the sign reads 'STOP! Hammertime!' The second sign, around the corner from the first, contains the uplifting message brought to the masses by Journey back in the 80's.....'Don't STOP Believing!' Wise words, indeed.

But then the signage stops abruptly, right there, without any further instructions or details leaving me, the casual passerby, to wonder what became of these fine young graffiti artists, determined to maketh their mark upon this world. Surely, two paltry signs can't contain the extent of their vast creativity. I mean, there's so much more they left unfinished. What about:
1. Don't STOP Thinking About Tomorrow- Fleetwood Mac
2. Don't STOP The Dance- Bryan Ferry
3. STOP Me If You Think That You've Heard This One Before-The Smiths
4. STOP In The Name Of Love- The Supremes
5. STOP Dragging My Heart Around- Tom Petty
6. STOP! Dimentica!-By The Italian Singer, Tiziano Ferro
7. I'll STOP The World And Melt With You- Modern English
8. STOP That Train- Bob Marley
They could even get lazy and just slap an exclamation mark onto the sign making it 'STOP!' as a homage to the smash hit by Erasure.

One day, I hope my proud graffiti artists learn about the satisfaction that comes from a job well done and they'll re-commit themselves to finishing this great work.

As a funny side note, we here at La Casa De Infidel delight in singing Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing' while we're struggling with the call of nature and looking for a suitable toilet. We sing it "Don't Stop Believing.... HOLD ON TO POOP FEELING!" Sometimes my mini-Infidels will take us by surprise and retort with a comeback tailor-made by the fine folks from REO Speedwagon. "I CAN'T FIGHT THIS FEELING ANYMORE!"

FUDGE-O-RAMA!

I love me some fudge. You may even say I'm a fudge connoisseur-sampling and casting eyes of lust towards the tantalizing candy store displays with sweet heavenly fudge stacked into neat little tiers, just ripe for the picking. My vast fudge experience has brought me into contact with many flavors and varieties, so I can say without hesitation that the fudge I found below is my least favorite kind. I shudder to think of the advertising for her.......'Phyllis Fudge! Now With More Pieces Of Real Phyllis In Ever Fudgy Bite!'
So, does Phyllis Fudge call her bicycle a FUDGEsicle? When she does her taxes and claims her new nose hair trimmer as a business expense, does the IRS agent roll his eyes and disgustedly say,"'She's always trying to FUDGE on her taxes." Does she tell her kids that Judy Blume's book, 'SuperFUDGE' was written for her? When she eats nuts, does she exclaim loudly, "New and Improved Phyllis Fudge......Now With Nuts!!!!!"? I wonder if she follows the stereotype and bakes FUDGE to give out at Christmas while people whisper amongst themselves, "There goes that FUDGE woman giving out FUDGE again." Maybe she could start her own company. 'FUDGE'S FUDGE.'

With an awesome name like that, she needs to get out of the real estate game and record a hot track to transform her into a Pop Princess. Maybe something like Fergie's 'Fergalicious' except she could call it 'FUDGEalicious.' Mmmmmm, FUDGE. Can you see it now? FUDGE Live And In Concert With Cake. Suh-weet!

The Ties That Bind.......Are Made Out Of Toilet Paper!

It's a Smiling Infidel Theme Day! Yay! See if you can guess the cleverly hidden main idea that runs through each short paragraph.

My boss had the nerve to give me my paycheck in this pissy little envelope. Third best? Third best??!!!!? Who is he kidding? None of his other employees would have gotten their bruised and battered body out of their completely demolished truck to go finish their route. None of them have gone to work the day before delivering a baby. I'm a distinct cut above the rest of his stable warehouse of manual labor donkeys. So, I waved the envelope in his face while haughtily demanding to know, 'What's The Deal, Yo?' My boss just laughed, until I told him, 'If you don't make me number #1, I'm going to throw my number #2 at you.'
I watched with eyebrow-raised interest as Mini-Infidel Daughter The Second, ironically enough, nicknamed, Monkey, crawled stealthily across the living room carpet on her belly like a jungle predator waiting to pounce. I wondered aloud if she was preparing for a home turf war by practicing some form of 'Guerilla Warfare Technique.' Monkey simply looked at me and grunted. So then, I lept off the sofa and went running all crazy towards her with my fingers extended and wiggling, while frothily yelling, 'Oh yeah? I'm declaring Gorilla Finger (thanks Urban Dictionary!) Warfare on you!' Monkey started screaming and frantically trying to retreat before finally surrendering to me and my imitation Gorilla Fingers. Sweet Gorilla Finger Victory! Perhaps I've stumbled upon a useful weapon to use on the battlefield.
(If I ever chance to meet Naomi Watts or Jessica Lange, I'm going to tell them they smell like Gorilla Fingers!) And finally, amid a chorus of vocal discontent emanating from my girls' room, I peeked in to find them walking in circles around the perimeter of their bedroom. Apparently, they feared that my son, Buster, had taken up permanent residence in the toilet, and they all got struck with poop feeling at the same exact time. Buster instructed the girls through the bathroom door, that the best way to stave off crap cramps is to walk around in circles.....and so they did. Hear the song playing? That's Soul Coughing's song 'Circles.' It goes: "I don't need to walk around in circles, walk around in circles, walk around in circles....." Well, how very nice for him. Apparently, he doesn't have to share his crapper with a gaggle of bloated siblings.

Better Never Sing 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot' To Heather, Because She Will!

Every since my oldest mini-Infidel and I heard news reports about the former Mrs. McCartney, Heather Mills, savagely beating Sir Paul over the head with her prosthetic leg in a fit of rage, we've worked it into an endless amount of jokes. (I bet 64 year old Paul never anticipated this turn of events when he wrote his song 'When I'm 64)

Our favorite? Well, whenever the radio plays 'Legs' by the legendary bearded H-Town band, ZZ TOP, we start giggling about Heather Mills. I always thought that song trite and stupid. I mean, I've got legs, and I'd venture to say that the overwhelming majority of women do. Do I know how to use them? Certainly I do. To stroll to the counter at the Donut Shop. To chase my laughing mini-Infidels in an effort to recapture my bra that they're wearing as a hat. To conduct human hair growth experiments to see how long the leg hair gets in between shavings. For serious things too, like putting both legs in so I can do the Hokey-Pokey and turn myself around. There's just no limit to the uses for my lower limbs.

So, um, Heather Mills also has legs, prosthetic or otherwise, and boy, does she know how to use them! We silently dedicate 'Legs' to Heather each time we hear it, and we even have our own made-up choreography where we flail our arms up and down in a chopping motion. Maybe she was really influenced by John Mellencamp's song 'Get A Leg Up,' well, before she brought it crashing down on a Wing-less man.

(In case anyone thinks I'm grossly insensitive, I thought Heather did an amazingly fantastic job on Dancing With The Stars)

A Lite Version Of The Smiling Infidel!

Sometimes, when me and my Infidel posse go to the store, we find that the automatic doors won't open no matter how hard we jump up and down on the rubber mats lining the entryway. I always tell my mini-Infidels that it means I'm way too skinny for the automated system to register that I'm standing on it, and that signifies a need for a quadruple banana split...STAT! Yeah, I'm just like the big, bad wolf standing outside the door, stomping vigorously on the mat while bellowing, "Let Me In! Let Me In! Or I'll Huff And I'll Puff..." Well, see, all that physical exertion does make me huff and puff. A lot.

My tribe of mini-Infidels insist that it doesn't, in fact, mean that I'm too divinely petite to trigger the automatic doors. They think it means that the store is actually closed. Such heathen liars! Heathen liars that ain't getting none of my banana split, might I add.

Melody.......Grand Master Of The Tit-For-Tat Game!

My Melody got a cute new fishy bathing suit courtesy of the end-of-summer-clearance onslaught going on at all the local stores. As if. We wear flip-flops and shorts in Houston 9-10 months out of the year. Yep, we're just one long continuous season. One long continuous HOT season interspersed with a few hurricanes and tornadic activity, that is. Yeah, Richard Marx was definitely singing about H-Town in his song, 'Endless Summer Nights.' So, what goes better with a picture of an adorable girl than an adorable story?
As I sat on the sofa, talking on the phone with my mom and fending off nosy Melody with my free hand, she mentioned something about Melody's chubbiness. I put the phone to my shoulder, and teasingly told Melody that her Grandma said that she had a fat butt. Melody blinked her eyes, and asked, "What Grandma?" I told her it was my mom. Melody smiled and blurted out, "Oh, your mom? The one who pooped her pants?" I couldn't stop laughing, and at that point my mom sighed mightily as she hung up and asked if we were ever going to let the story of her dire misfortune go.

No, we probably never will.

I Wish I Had A Moose. I'd Name Him Dr. Seuss. And Turn Him Loose With My Goose To Cause Terror On A Caboose.

I'd like to welcome you to a very special edition of The Smiling Infidel! It's tailor-made to cater to the easy-reading needs of your inner pre-schooler. I've got rhymes! No big words! And pictures! Lots of pretty pictures! In color!

On Saturday, as my truck got severely hit and folded like a MAP, I felt my tender red neck SNAP and I still sort of feel like......

Says I, this is teh SUCK! Only 18 more payments until I own my beloved Infidel TRUCK! Those dreams vanished with the WTF? hit-and-run chick gone AMOK. (It does rhyme. Quit picking on me)
Wow, what LUCK, Progressive insurance paid off my old TRUCK and I still managed to make a decent BUCK! So, I immediately set forth to buy a new.....(Oddly enough, both these pictures detail the same color and style as my before and after Infidel trucks)
Did I take my new truck to go SHIRK and LURK with Captain KIRK while eating Jamaican JERK? No! I went immediately to WORK! (I have never in my life sung and danced while throwing papers. I do have a Cabbie Cap like the Newsies boys do, though.)
Sometimes I just want to POUT as I throw my paper ROUTE (II need my truck to work. I need to work to pay for my truck.*sigh*) I'm dorky like URKEL and hopelessly trapped in a.........
Like a Donut that needs DUNKIN and a Bronco that's BUCKIN, still I continue to....


Well, I do keep on truckin, except on that fateful day that was CRUMMY, when a girl who's downright SCUMMY made me into a real live .......
I'm going to break in my new truck just like a Smiling Infidel SHOULD- by only putting on high heels and my State Farting Champion T-shirt and rolling around on the HOOD. Be cool like me? Coked-up, man-beating, OJ-dating Tawny, only wishes she COULD!

This Chicken Ranch Special Always Includes Legs, Breasts, And Thighs!

Well, 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas' is fine and dandy and all, but I live in The Best Little Infidel House In Texas! And who rated them as the best, anyway? Is there some kind of whorehouse survey and customer comment card that they distribute to the clientele before they put their pants on and leave?
A local Houston legend passed away on Sunday and I felt compelled to memorialize him on my blog. The much ballyhooed and plastic surgery-enhanced, Marvin Zindler, campaigned tirelessly for the little guy, and hosted a weekly 'Roach Report' dirty restaurant review. His trademarked catchphrase? A loud bellowing of "SLIIIIIMMMEE In THE ICE MACHINE!" There's even a song about him and his pursuit of busting eating establishments with the dreaded slimy ice. The man is a bonafide legend solidified with his very own WIKI page. Outside of the Houston market, though, he's most notable for his part in shutting down the La Grange Chicken Ranch whorehouse and battling with local authorities who didn't want to give up their painted ladies and the revenue it brought it in.

Dom Deluise played a Marvin Zindler-esque character named Melvin Thorpe in the movie, but everyone knew that the basis was rooted in the true life account of the events that unfolded in 1973.

And now for a retro "Oh no, she didn't!" moment from my awkward youth:

My mom let me watch 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas' with her, even though I was only 9. My dad comes from a very morally puritanical family. How puritanical? Well, I'm related to Bill Hybels, the Pastor of the largest congregation in all of North America. So, all the family gathered together at an elegant Indiana restaurant that summer of 1983 for my Aunt's rehearsal dinner. As glasses clinked with festive toasts and chatter sounded above the knives slicing up the sumptuous Chicken Kiev (I have a photographic memory when it comes to food) I innocently asked the lady next to me if she had ever seen 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas.' You know how in movies when somebody drops an outrageous tidbit into conversation and everyone stops to stare slack-jawed at them? That's what happened to me. That is, until my very proper Grandma abruptly whisked me away to the bathroom to sternly tell me that 9 year old girls should never discuss anything related to the word 'WHOREHOUSE' in polite company. I wonder if using brothel, house of the rising sun, bordello, or No Tell Motel would have been more acceptable?

R.I.P Marvin Zindler-Who Will Rid Our City Of The Insidious Slime In The Ice Machine Now?

Hey, Who Put The 'Hit Me!' Sign On The Back Of My Truck?

NOT The Official Truck Of The Smiling Infidel--------> My F-150 is crumpled and slated to be picked up by a salvage crew tomorrow.
This morning I proved how 'HARDCORE' and 'BAD ASH'(badder ash than jean knee, anyway) I really am because a random stranger wanted to hit it with me. And they did too, taking me by surprise from the rear. Yeah, I'm a big hit. A really big hit.

While blithely driving down the road this morning, a full sized GMC truck slammed into me going between 50-60 miles per hour. We weren't at a red light. I didn't have my brakes on. There wasn't any other traffic at 5:15 A.M. except us. The force of the impact knocked the sandals right off my feet. She hit me so hard that:
1. The XM Satellite Radio display dislodged from the dashboard.
2. The tailgate of my truck got pushed all the way up into the rear tires.
3. The front bench seat of the truck completely broke and flopped backwards.
And then, as I lost control of my truck on the rain-slicked road, and finally managed to stomp on the brake, the little beyotch who hit me jumped out of her completely demolished truck, apologized, blamed the accident on her brakes failing, and then ran off. Yes, she freakin ran off under the pretense of searching for a pay phone and never came back to the scene of the accident.

So, what does that mean for me and my Infidel truck? It means that:
1. I assume she doesn't have any insurance and my insurance will have to absorb the cost.
2. I refused medical treatment because I don't have health insurance and I'm scared to death of how much ambulance and medical bills could amount to.
3. I have a huge bump on the back of my head and bruises running the entire length of my left leg along with a stiff neck.
4.My boss came over with his truck and I had to go and throw the rest of my route with a splitting headache because I criss-cross back and forth and nobody could finish it but me.
5. My beloved truck, so very close to being paid off in 18 months, is likely totalled and I'll have to start all over again. (I got the call this afternoon. It IS totalled.)
Luckily, my officer friend who looks the other way when I run stop signs on my route, came within 3 minutes of me calling him and worked the accident scene, saving me from having to pay a tow truck fee by telling the guy to charge it as a county tow.

I walked away from a really bad accident relatively unscathed even though I wasn't wearing a seatbelt. The wrecker guy told me the newspaper bundles absorbed a lot of the force, thus saving me from further damage. I didn't have any of my mini-Infidels with me. I didn't injure my golden, money-making, paper-throwing arm. I have really good insurance with Progressive who got me a rental vehicle and claims adjuster within a couple hours. I was able to save my cherished butt towel before it got towed away. Yep, I be one blessed Bad Ash Infidel, alright.

If You Don't Read This, Then The Terrorists Will Win!

Don't Let The Terrorists Win. The Task Force on Toilet Paper Terrorism issued a warning last week and raised the Toilet Paper Terrorism threat level to a Code White status for the rest of the summer. Yet, these unfortunate homeowners, and their lack of Homeland Security, was still caught woefully unprepared for the attack that took place in the wee hours on Saturday morning.

The Toilet Paper Terrorists showed no mercy as they blanketed the entire yard with shredded newspapers, leaving nothing unscathed in their path of destruction. They even fashioned a make-shift hood out of a Charmin bag and placed it over the Drill Team yard sign and stuffed the rest in the mailbox. That's a federal offense. The Task Force suspect multiple persons involved in the commission of this cowardly act of Toilet Paper Terror, and they're currently closing in on the possible funding source for these Terrorist activities. It's not HAMAS, but rather a local organization known as MAMAS and PAPAS who plied the money for the high-end, premium toilet paper found at the scene of the crime.

Only YOU can prevent Toilet Paper Terrorism. Only YOU can help take a bite out of Toilet Paper Crime. Only YOU can bring me a fried chicken sandwich. Right now. The Task Force recommends buying pressure washers to combat these sneaky Terrorists with water surges. You should stockpile poop to use as emergency projectile weaponry-it's a very strong deterrent. We learned that primitive arsenal tip from watching monkeys throw crap at each other. It seemed pretty effective. The Task Force has also advised keeping Amway sales people caged in your backyard and releasing them as a last-ditch emergency effort to stop a random act of Toilet Paper Terrorism. This will have the terrorists begging for mercy and surrendering their toilet paper supply to you.....Victory!

Who needs a crappy pyramid scheme for cheap paper goods? Not me.

Sins Of Light-Minded Laughter Abounds!

While I sat, perched at the computer last week, my oldest daughter, Sunbum, nosily peered over my shoulder so she could read my iTunes play list. Of course, the only thing she noticed immediately was the one marked with a bright red 'Explicit' next to it. Sunbum asked me, "Mom, whys that song marked expliSHIT?" After I got done laughing at her ironic gaffe, I explained that objectionable language probably earned the track an explicit rating.

So, yesterday, as we're frolicking through Michael's Craft Store for yet more ribbon to add to my ever-growing, obscenely massive ribbon collection, Sunbum suddenly shouts to me from a couple aisles away, "Hey Mom! Do you know how to CROTCH-STITCH?!!??"

Well, if I did, I could have sewn myself back together after her very painful birth. Now, that's expliSHIT!

Infidel Conspiracy Theory Day

I've uncovered a frightening phenomenon that's spreading rapidly amongst the haute couture fashion world of elastic waist band garments....... the slow and deliberate disappearance of pockets.

Yes, sadly, pockets have started vanishing at an alarming rate, especially in plus size bottoms. How do I know this? Well, I happen to have a plus sized bottom and I've witnessed the heartbreak of disappearing pockets first hand. No, not Hot Pockets, but pockets where you store necessary items for your daily survival in. Well, I guess in a pinch you could store your stuff in a Hot Pocket along with its processed meat and runny sauce. Without pockets, where else can I put my nacho money? What about my life-saving Chapstick? What about the booger collection lovingly spread across a Kleenex by one of my mini-Infidels who wants me to store it in my pocket for safe keeping? I have six kids and for reasons of practicality, I don't want to lug a purse around all the time.

It's glaringly obvious that those heavy-handed thugs down at the Fanny Pack Factory have orchestrated this entire thing so that we're forced into buying their fashionista boycotted product and turning around the fanny pack stock market, long since in a state of decline. They want us all to look just like geeky Aunt Irma with her bright pink neon fanny pack strapped to her side, wandering around looking for the Andy Williams Theater in Branson. Well, I know their little game and I'm staging a revolt. No fanny pack will ever grace this Infidel fanny. Never!

I'm really taking a chance letting my speculations see the light of the day, and I hope it doesn't place me on a Fanny Pack assassin hit list. I'd host a fundraiser for the cause by soliciting loose pocket change, but nobody has pockets anymore. Cruel, cruel irony.

Oh, Here He Comes......He's A Wheat Eater!

We returned home last week to find this enterprising solicitation fastened to our door handle. Now, I'm sure that Edwin Lopez is a very nice young man, but his letter seeking out new landscaping clientele concerned me.

Yes, Edwin must have somehow found out about our super secret Infidel food storage stash and he wants to come and claim it for himself. We have six mini-Infidels eating us out of house and home- why should we share our bounteous wheat blessings with Edwin just because he mows our lawn? I wonder if he's a picky wheat eater? I mean, could I safely trust him around our Cream Of Wheat supply and Wheat Thin crackers, or does his wheat appetite demand freshly ground primo wheat only? I don't know if I feel safe anymore with a self-professed wheat eater prowling the streets of the neighborhood. Maybe we should invest in some heavy padlocks to keep our wheat storage from being violated by wheat-obsessed Edwin?

Edwin blows. Hey, he even says so right on his own letter!

I Wonder If I Could Use A Celebrity Twin Discount Down At Denny's?

Annie over at Anniethology wants to see your celebrity look-alikes! Forget about Simon Says-that's so old school. I compliantly obey with whatever Annie Says!

One day I hope to meet my Grudge look-alike and together we'll lock arms and sing selections from that musical tale of revenge and woe, 'West Side Story.' "I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty, and witty, and GAY!"

My very simian-like arms are definitely ready for their close up, Mr. DeMille! I'm just waiting for yet another installment to the Planet Of The Apes film franchise to show off my natural talents. Like my hairy arms? I got the matching mustache and sideburns too!

Elastic And Her Towel Of Many Colors......coming soon to a shower near you. I wish I was as pretty as toothy Donny Osmond.

Grand Prize Losers Of The Baby Name Game

Tori's naughtiness has left an indelible stain on my once pure and virginal mind with her many unseemly and raunchy fan innuendos. I'm going to have to listen to at least 6 hours of Christian rock to make penance. I hope you're happy now, Tori, turning my wholesome blog into a veritable den of iniquity! So, anyway, today I'm giving all of you the gift of a threesome. Don't get too excited- I'm referring to three recent sightings of some very craptacular names.

*Now that's some OLD Dick!*------------------>

I can't reveal my confidential source to you, but in the past month, I've run across a man named Peter P. VanDong. Yes, P.P Van Dong. Not since Dick VanDyke has the world seen a more unfortunate name. I'm secretly hoping that the P. stands for Piper or Peck. Anyway, he lives in a million dollar house, but can't pony up money for one of his bills. He's a deadbeat. Worse than that, he's a deadbeat who's complained bitterly every single day about getting his service cut while only coughing up a 20 dollar payment for his delinquent account. You can tell a lot from a name. The double euphemism was likely no accident.

Twas a time when I pined away for Bill Nye The Science Guy and I dreamed of him personally teaching me all about reproduction, and one day getting married to him in a lavish ceremony complete with his and hers matching lab coats. Today I spotted this baby announcement with one super crappy made-up name on it.....Deason Wade Nye. No, not, Deacon, which is legitimate, but Deason. Oh Bill, how could you?!!!?? I would have had your baby and named him something nice too. Maybe, William The Science Guy Nye Junior.

And finally, before naming your precious little one, please make sure to google your top name contenders prior to the birth. You don't want your baby to share his or her name with those who have sullied reputations, do you? Case in point, a lovely family we know through Church recently named their baby something that made me break out of my usually super sugary sweet character to remark to my oldest girls, "Whoa, did they name her after an exotic dancer?" To test my theory, I did a quick google search to confirm my suspicions, and found that all but one of the top ten listings showed various strip clubs and adult movies. It seems that a performer who shares the same name with the afore mentioned adorable baby has appeared in a fine feature film called 'Chocolate Honeys 4.' Nice.

If only I could just smack some people upside their heads with a 'Traditional Baby Names' book, the world would be a much better place.

I Have A Number One Fan! And It's Never Even Tried To Hobble Me Either!

I'm smokin hot! How smokin hot am I? So hot that I got my own Infidel Fan Club, baby! Yeah, that's right, a lesser Infidel celebrity might feel annoyed at fans following them around, but not me. In fact, I welcome fans of all shapes, sizes, and colors, because I'm very diverse like that. It may seem a little co-dependent, but I'm just not happy without at least one fan in every room. Never before have I felt so cool. I recommend that everyone get a Fan Club for themselves!

Want to join the Infidel Fan Club? Simply send your Infidel Fan Club membership dues to the President of my Fan Club who's located at Houston Lighting And Power Company. They're doing a FANtastic (bad pun alert!) job keeping my Fan Club going although interest usually wanes during the wintertime. *Here's the newest members of my Fan Club right here!*

The Residual Effects Of Your Dog Reading The Children's Classic, Ferdinand The Bull

Here at the Smiling Infidel homestead, we're raising a kinder, gentler type of beast. Look at our usually ferocious Chocolate Labrador, Reagan, as he takes time out of his busy butt-licking schedule to stop and sniff the flowers. Oh, alright, he's really sniffing flowery weeds because we have a fat and lazy white gringa gardener named elasticwaistbandlady who sat around blogging this Spring instead of spreading the weed killer granules like she was supposed to. I wish I could fire her. It's so very nice to see Reagan expanding his smell palette outside of our crotches to include delicate floral scents too.

Once Upon A Time, A Girl Infidel And A Boy Infidel Met And Fell Madly In Love

Just when I defiantly said, "That's it! I'm getting out of the MEME game forever!," someone went and pulled me back in. My tingling spidey senses tell me that you're laughing at me, Millie. I'm only doing this because Toni asked demanded me to and she's one of my all-time favorite bloggy buddies. So here goes, 8 things about my sexi-Mexi Papi and me:

1. Like most tales of true love, ours also has a soaring and unforgettably sweet beginning. We shared our first date at Pancho's Mexican Buffet on the very day when Kurt Cobain's bloated body was discovered and news of his death blanketed all the media. Tres romantique, no? And here's where I wrote a post about it using only Nirvana song titles.

2. Our special, special love song is Adina Howard's 'Freak Like Me.' I used to sing it to Papi while gyrating around seductively. In my maternity overalls. At 9 months pregnant. I modified the words to accommodate Papi since he really isn't a "roughneck n**ga" kind of guy. I instead sing it as "I need a REDNECK BROTHER that can satisfy me." Changing words to classic songs just for my Papi because that's how much I love him.

3. Shortly after we met, I used my genetically superior rolled tongue to show Papi how astoundingly far I could spit watermelon seeds. One seed veered a little off course and smacked Papi right in the middle of his forehead where it stuck. Our eyes met, and Papi professed, "I must have you and make you mine." True story.

4. We're musically incompatible and I've never matured past the 'LOUDER! LOUDER! LOUDER!' speaker volume phase. Papi often times comes home to yell out "Turn down that music, girlie. It sounds like a freakin cantina in here!" I tease him about one day opening my own Cantina and calling it The Freakin Cantina.

5. My Spanish sucks. My in-law's English sucks. I credit this for avoiding any major family melees over the past 13 years.

6. I'm the resident Infidel prankster around here. One time I thought it would be hysterically funny to stand up on the toilet seat while 7 months pregnant to look down on Papi showering and then throw a cup of cold water on him. Ummm, I did, and the toilet seat broke sending me careening into the shower, curtain and all. As I laid there stunned, fully clothed, getting pelted with water, and wrapped up in the fallen shower curtain, all Papi could say was, "What happened? What happened? What the Hell just happened?" I never did that stupid thing again.

7. When people talk about fears of Mexicans taking over the United States, Papi just laughs and tells me that they've already conquered us with love by marrying up the white gringos/gringas. He does have a point there. Conquistadors Of Love!

8. Papi delivered Melody, the youngest of the mini-Infidels, himself when the midwife didn't make it on time. Yes, he really did.

Papi's an optimist. I'm a pessimist. Papi says "BUTCH UP, girlie!" when I whine. Papi says "With faith in God and hard work, nothing is impossible!" Papi's motivated. I'm prone to extreme bouts of laziness and procrastinating. Papi's a classic Type A. I'm a classic Type B. Papi's the no-nonsense disciplinarian. I'm the official nagger/arbitrater/candy briber/threatener. My approach doesn't work as well. Papi's righteous and churchy. I'm much less so. We've made a great partnership for 13 years, though. Oh, and I never feel like I have to hide the fact that I'm using the toilet from him by running water or anything else. Poop freedom- that's the secret to a long and happy marriage.

This Georgie Porgie Pudding Pie Will Never Be Accused Of Kissing The Girls And Making Them Cry!

As usual, I'm just getting a little behind on premiering this very special edition of Gay Tuesday Wednesday. That's okay, though, because there's nothing in this world that Mr. George Michael loves more than getting a little behind!

George Michael is a tragic reminder that I lack the possession of a supernatural 'Sixth Sense' gift. No, I'm not talking about seeing dead people, I'm referring to my non-existent Sixth Sense Gaydar system. I can't see dead people. I can't see gay people. I can't even see dead gay people. Liberace could be haunting my house at this very moment and I wouldn't even know it. :( Before I settled down and became the right-wing zealot I am today, I used to live with two gay guys who teased me endlessly whenever we'd play a rousing guessing game of 'Gay Or Nay?' When George Michael sashayed into our conversation, I vociferously defended his heterosexual honor only to have my roommates giggle at me and declare, "Oh Lissa, you're so innocent." How did they know? How could they see beyond the macho exterior squeezed into delicious butt-hugging jeans? Of course, they were spot on about George and kept their perfect 'Gay Or Nay?' game point average.

So, fellow Gay Warriors, as you head out on this glorious Gay Tuesday Wednesday Hump Day on your mission to reclaim all that is gay and rainbow bright back for the common masses of happy humanity, just remember these sage words from our featured musician of the day and his song, 'Monkey,' "Why do I have to share love with a monkey, a monkey....aye, aye, aye aye?" Simply prophetic.

Happy Gay Hump Day!

And A Caterpillar Shall Lead Them....

This weekend marked the baptismal covenants of mini-Infidel Number 4! We nicknamed her 'Caterpillar' to denote her distinctive furry little eyebrows and I'm proud to say that she stood out from the rest of the typical Nursery crowd with her fantastic baby unibrow. Besides making a commitment and getting baptised for the remission of sins, the day was also made special by the date....07/07/07- a fact which one of the presiding speakers pointed out that 7 holds a place in the scriptures as a number that represents Spiritual perfection and fullness/completion because it's the number of the Covenant and of the Holy Spirit. Caterpillar's middle name begins with an 'X' and we jokingly call her 'Agent X.' It only seems right that our little Agent X should embark on her baptismal mission during such a numerically interesting day. Perhaps we should refer to her as Triple OOO7 from now on! Go forth and sin no more, my child. Sin no more! How I yearn to have my own iniquities washed away again so that I may start anew. I wish I could call a 'Do Over!' and get a second chance. Shouldn't the first one be like a practice for the real thing? I LOVE this picture! Mainly because the jumper Papi picked out ran a little on the snug side thus giving appropriate meaning to the term 'Tighty Whities.' Is it sacrilegious to pull out wedgies while in your holy gear?
Okay, either my son plans on joining a gang and he's practicing potential gang signs or he's an ardent fan of the disgraced former President Nixon. Papi looks glazy-eyed just thinking about all the impending baptism excitement. And finally, a shot of the extended Smiling Infidel family. Rocio, the one squatting in the front, just barely escaped a smackdown from my S.Q.U.A.T team. I'm sure you're all dying to know where I am, right? I'm just practicing the art of blending in for my upcoming line of 'Where's Infidel?' books and posters.

Congratulations my little Caterpillar for making the choice to follow our Savior!

Why Hallmark And American Greetings Called Security When I Tried To Sell Them My Card Ideas

A fit of wild inspiration hit me this week and I elected to parlay that into some dandy little homemade postcards for my Good Mail Girl peeps.

Infidel Tip Of The Day: Remember to always, no matter how secure of your writing talents, proofread. Always. Today, I sat addressing the cards to send them off to their new homes when I noticed a horrifying glitch on one of them.
This cheeky little card represents how I feel about the cheeseball inspirational stickers that came lodged in the middle of my value pack stickers featuring funky tank tops and lip gloss. I didn't want the stickers to go to waste, but I also felt a need to protect the snark credibility that only a true Smiling Infidel can accumulate. What to do? What to do? So, I slapped them onto this piece of cut-out posterboard and wrote adorable, feel good phrases underneath. What exactly is the problem then, you may ask? Take a looksie at the bottom left corner. It reads, "Hi, What's New?" and I finished it off with a delightful response of "This Weird Looking PUSSY Sore. Want To Come Closer To Look At It?"

Nuh-Uh, that's just all kinds of wrong. I intended it to mean PUSSY as in 'PUS-FILLED,' not like actual, you know, PUSSY. Don't worry, I modified the sentence this morning so none of the pure and mild Good Mail Girls will have to explain to their family why a stranger would inexplicably invite them to come take a close look at their weird PUSSY sore.

Let Freedom Ring!

Even in my semi-incapacitated state, I still found a way to celebrate the Fourth Of July with my Papi by infusing my own special brand of Infidel verve.

After we gorged ourselves on a very patriotic, Founding Father-approved meal of hot dogs, baked beans, and apple pie, we sent the kids to bed.......and then the real fireworks show began!
As the loud explosions and crackles rippled through the night air from our many neighbors who chose to take their paycheck and light it aflame; I utilized the festive opportunity to disguise the sound of my own loud explosions and crackles. Surprisingly, Papi didn't react with the oohs and aahs that a good show commands. Why, he didn't even bother to clap or cheer wildly while clamoring for an encore presentation. Instead, he chastised me, and thus, I felt compelled that on that day, of all days, to rise up and defend myself against his oppressive tyranny.
After all, who is he to infringe on my inalienable rights set forth in the Constitution? Neither I, nor my gastric track, will be silenced. We have the right to our freedom of expression and never should flatulence suffer the inhumane bonds of restrictive repression. That's just wholly un-American. Nay, sayeth I, I'm choosing to let freedom ring and give my gas the independence that it deserves. After a day filled with discussion of how much we love this country and the story of its founding that lends itself to an obvious hand of divinity in the process, how could Papi possibly quibble with me?

The Agony Of Defeet!

As of this evening, I, The Smiling Infidel, will henceforth assume the titles of, The Limping Infidel, The Hobbling Infidel, or Walking Like I Have A Stick Up My Butt Infidel.

I'm such an uncoordinated dork. Do you ever see people working in an industrial warehouse setting wearing open toed sandals? Well do you??!!? We won't even discuss Bruce the J.Lo impersonator who wore his clear plastic high heels one night to his extra job down at the loading docks. He's an exception to the rule. No, anyone with an ounce of common sense should know better and put on steel toe boots or sneakers accordingly. My feet get so nasty sweaty in the Houston heat, I practically make Odor Eater shoe inserts feel like everyday is stinky feet buffet day! In an effort to get some ventilation cooling action, I unwisely chose to don the sandals. Any Podiatrists out there should look away now so that you won't be exposed to the shocking pedi horror that follows next. The sandal decision cost me dearly as I rolled a palette jack weighted down with several hundred pounds of newspapers across my left foot. Excruciating doesn't even begin to cover it. See that gnarly black stuff on my toes? That's where all the skin peeled backwards, leaving my little toe broken, and the rest of them bruised and swollen. Yes, my little piggy did indeed cry "Wee, Wee, Wee, Wee," all the way home. Not even the obscenely long hairs cascading down from the tops of my toes could form some sort of hair bubble shield to protect them from the crushing weight of the palette jack. I hope showing some closeup skin pics on my blog won't attract any unsavory types or foot fetish weirdos.

To sum it up: I drive a truck with a standard transmission. My injured foot controls the clutch. I have to work every day. I'm currently hopped up on Excedrin to dull the aching sensation before I toddle off to my job in a few scant hours. And now, with the blemished and unsightly condition of my feet, I have no hope of winning the Footsies International Competition for 2007. :( No Footsies for you! This Is What It Sounds Like When Dr.Scholls Cries.......

Even Sleeping Beauty Had A Special Shield To Keep Bird Poop Off Her

I didn't want to move in any closer to capture this Kodak moment and startle my droopy man boob prey. So, you'll have to put on your bifocals to examine the minute details of this picture......if you dare.

What is that white stuff caked all over him, you may ask? Is it tribal warrior markings? Is he a fallout victim from a Liquid Paper factory explosion? Did he get run over by a county truck painting median lines on the road? No. Why, it's nothing but 100% genuine bird crap! Yes, Rip Van Winkle awoke from his slumber with a long flowing beard and tattered clothes. But Houston's very own Tit Van Tinkle will arise from his stupor to find himself being used as a human Port-A-Potty for the entire avian population situated around his home. He had a lit cigarette smoldering in between his fingers too. I would expect nothing less from him.

I wonder what he's dreaming about while the birds line up on the tree branches above to take a dump on him? Maybe he always had aspirations of living life as an immobile park statue? Perhaps he's silently humming a little B.J. Thomas tune? "Bird Poop Keeps Falling On My Head.........."

My Mom Says That Blogging Is Dangerous, And Stupid Too!

I used to regard every word that sprang forth from my mother's saintly mouth as the gospel truth ................. but not anymore. Mama always told me that I needed to exercise fiscal caution with my allowance because money doesn't grow on trees. However, the existence of a veritable orchard of Dollar Trees spread across these great United States proves her wrong. Very wrong. Then I started wondering where else she might have led me astray because my mom also told me:

• "Don't do that, or you'll go blind!"
• "Always put on clean underwear when you leave the house in case you get into an accident."
• "Don't pet stray animals or you'll get rabies."
• "Stop picking at yourself. You'll get a scar."
• "If you don't wear a brassiere, your boobs will hang down to your knees like the tribal ladies on the pages of a National Geographic magazine."
• "You have to sit out of the pool for 30 minutes after you eat or you'll get cramps and drown."
• "Don't talk to strangers or accept candy from them."
  

Well, no more. Today's the day that I defy all that my mother taught me. I'm going to disprove each and every one of her Mom-isms and show the world that Mommy doesn't always know best. So, come on all you strangers- Talk to me! Send me candy! My rebellious spirit welcomes the exhilarating danger! I may have a little trouble typing a response back to you though because I'm spending the day with my eyes crossed and my tongue hanging out to show that my face will not freeze this way forever, and ever.