When Life Hands You Scraps....

Make a funny T-shirt about it.

Thanks to my friend, Mormon Family Man, I now have the most fashion forward ensemble to wear to the next Scrapbooking meeting. He used his unfettered genius to create this stunning apex of T-shirt perfection. I'm predicting that I will be the belle of the scrapbook ball, sure to win hordes of new friends and banish my pariah reputation among the glittery, coordinated, and cute.

Act now, and for the low, low price of $15.99, this T-shirt can be all yours. Or you can buy the thong version of it for that special scrapbooker in your life. Hey, Omar, wouldn't the wife look stunning in one of these? Great Christmas gifts! They're also "Made In The U.S.A". Thank goodness, because I know that personally, I only want good, old-fashioned, American know-how going into my thongs. I shudder to think of our lucrative thong market here outsourced to foreigners, don't you? We must rally together, and only buy American made thongs or the terrorists win!

Don't Mess With Mother Nature

When Man And Beast Collide
(SHUT UP! This is so NOT an ode to bestiality. Sicko!)

My beloved Infidel Mobile suffered a few minor wounds last week after a freakish accident. I throw a rural paper route out in the boondocks on Mondays. Buttloads of lovely scenery, minimal traffic flow, cool country breezes, and wildlife galore. However, as Crocodile Hunter learned today, even a friend of nature can be struck down in a heartbeat.

A month ago, Sunbum and I encountered the mythical "wasp of the undead." This annoying thing just adamantly refused to go away or die. Not unlike Paris Hilton, except she's a W.A.S.P, not a wasp. This creature flew into our truck causing Sunbum to hurdle from the back seat to the front with amazing agility. I slammed on the brakes, turned around, and then squashed it with a rolled up paper. This thing laid in scattered pieces against the back window. Yet, a mile further down the road, Sunbum again scaled the seat shrieking, "It's ALIVE! It's ALIVE!" I openly mocked her, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed the tiny wings flapping and the antennae moving around. Horrified, we both jumped out of the car screaming. Wielding my newspaper instrument of death, I began smacking the wasp again. A concerned resident came outside to check on all the commotion. Sunbum had fits of hysterical tears streaming down her face, while I couldn't stop laughing. I assured her that everything was fine, and I picked up the wasp particles in a plastic bag to dispose of it. I couldn't resist shaking the bag at Sunbum one last time and telling her, "Look! It's still moving". Yes, she started screaming again. Obviously, I'm an unfit Mother.

Last week, we lived through another live edition of "When Animals Attack". Summer sees explosive deer population growth, and they meander around foraging for food and trying out for Bambi:The Musical! God graced them with incomparable beauty to compensate for their incomparable stupidity. The deer hordes often run out in front of my truck at the very last possible minute, forcing me to swerve. Playing a game of "chicken" with deers really sucks. I always lose. I spied the two does at the side of the road from a fair distance and prepared to step on the brake. Sure enough, they dashed across the road, causing me to come to an abrupt squealing halt, and sending Sunbum and I violently lurching forward, rendering our neck and shoulder instantly sore. Luckily, I did miss colliding with those two deers, only to have a stray buck dart out of nowhere and crash headfirst into my truck, both denting it, and damaging the bumper. Startled, the deer got up and ran off into the woods. Happy ending for deer lovers, sad ending for Ford truck lovers, and venison eating people.

And All My Hope Is Gone.......
(Morrissey understands completely)

Featured in the top frame, is the remaining figment of what was once a majestic flowering Esparanza bush filled with sunny yellow blooms. The bottom photo, illustrates how it looked in all its former glory, before the hot Texas sun laid waste to it. Esparanza means "Hope" in Spanish, therefore, I am now completely hopeless.

Well Done Boobs
(But I ordered medium rare)

And finally, I took the kids out to the pool a few days ago sans sunscreen; for ME, not for them. Let's just say that I'm glad my name isn't Robin, because I would henceforth be referred to as "Robin Red Breast". I'll have to curtail wearing V-Neck shirts until the sunburn subsides, lest someone assumes that I am indeed the infamous "Scarlet Infidel", with a scathing mark branded across my chest to prove it. Notice the lack of corroborating photos on this one? Nature has proven itself cruel and vengeful enough without me temporarily blinding you with my natural assets too.

I'll One Up Your One-Upper

Because I'm the undisputed Queen of One-Upmanship. Yeah!
Not to be outdone by blogger feiend Radioactive Jam's latest pathetic attempt to make a monkey out of me, I just upped the monkey ante in our high stakes monkey showdown. This time, it's personal.........

This is Infidel daughter number #2, nicknamed, "Monkey" at one year of age due to her goofy personality, incredibly long ape-like limbs, and a frustrating penchant for fearlessly scaling the kitchen counters and then jumping off them. No, you animal, we don't call her Monkey because of her flea pickin grooming habits, nor does she engage in throwing her poop at anyone. She's a perfectly lovely and civilized Monkey, she is, whose main diet staples consist of bananas, banana pudding, and banana bread.

So, what you see here is a living, breathing "googly-eyed" Monkey wrapped inside another monkey while holding a miniature pet monkey and thinking about monkeys as she stands there in her monkey socks. Hah! Beat that! You can't, because I'm the Queen of this here Banana Republic. (20% off all khakis. This week only.) Just crown me with the Bubbles approved hairball tiara already.

Don't Let Them Shoot Your Kite Down

What sage philosophical advice that is!

Nick Heyward-Kite

My daughter, Monkey, is completely enthralled with this song as well as the most delicious Englishman in a tweed blazer to ever live, Nick Heyward. I suspect it's because they both have cute little matching overbites and earnest puppy dog eyes.

This song is so infectiously perky, you'll lose all bodily control and will find yourself powerless to resist tapping your foot, nodding your head, humming along, and lusting after cute geek Nick Heyward. Powerless, I tell you!

This video looks like it was filmed using the exact same location and extras from the "She Blinded Me With Science" set, minus a few wild haired Einstein look alikes.

The Smiling Infidel Theater Proudly Presents........

A Reversal Of Fortune

Crikey! I wrote the script for this little beauty mahself. It's based on a gripping true story, and takes inspiration from Meryl Streep's classic, over the top, gnashing of teeth/ rendering of garments performance in the 1980's weepfest, "A Cry In The Dark".
*All the dialogue is spoken in a cornball Australian accent that only classically trained actors possess*

Here is our brightly colored protagonist, Dingo. So fresh. So munchy. So youthful and pink with a seemingly bright future ahead until tragedy strikes.....



MY BABY ATE

THE DINGO!!!!!

Well, to be more precise my baby ate a whole Dingo pack. Look at his face, you can see that alpha canine, Reagan, feels deeply ashamed at decimating an entire pack of Dingoes. Or maybe his countenance reflects remorse due to the churning blur of "real chicken bits" combined with pig lips and monkey hips, swirling around in his paunched belly.

I don't know mate, but I better win a "Best Accent" blogger award for my stunning narration skills. I also had to sacrifice and eat ten pounds of chocolate glazed donuts everyday to gain weight and dye my hair "Jethro's Black Gold" color, just for this role. Now, go throw another shrimp on the barbie and fetch me a medium rare Skippy burger, and bring me that Crocodile Hunter guy so I can poke him with a stick while saying, "OOOOHHH. He doesn't like it when I do this." Now, that I've mastered the same foreign tongue and mannerisms as Greg Wiggle, he'll beg me to give him a starring role in my next production. Then, he'll be mine! All mine.......

Let Me Hear You Say This......

Sock Is Bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
BANANAS
This Sock Is Bananas!
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins written about by everybody from Chaucer to Pope Gregory XIII to the screenwriters of the gruesome crime film, "Seven". I couldn't eat spaghetti for months after watching this movie. Do you hear me? Months! Envy corrupts your mortal soul and affects not only your salvation but also how you live your life and deal with your fellow man on a daily basis.

As such, I'm calling out my blogger feiend, Radioactive Jam, as a sinner, because he will soon feel the pain of extreme sock envy. RAJ thinks he's cornered the market on goofy monkey socks. Au contraire, mon frere! Monkey see, monkey do. My Monkey socks are better. WOO HOO!

I have a matched set that not only features an amusing monkey face but also has a cascading series of appealing, golden-ripe bananas, and profound life altering words printed along the bottom. I envision it as advice Gwen Stefani herself would issue if she ever became a self-help guru. "Just GO BANANAS, my child, and set yourself free".

Notice, that unlike Radioactive Jam who refused to allow his foot to be photographed for our entertainment purposes, I, The Smiling Infidel, have no such qualms. In fact, I once enjoyed a lucrative career as a monkey sock supermodel until a tragic mishap with some confused simians at the King Kong disco afterparty cut my promising future short. We all know very well how revolting GORILLA FINGERS can be.

So, how bout them nanas, Raj? Think you can outmonkey a monkey? Think we can literally go toe to toe in monkey sock competition? I bet you don't have the bananas to even try. I have three words for you.......BRING IT ON!

I Believe In Miracles!

Hallelujah and praise be! Generally, I'm not the holy roller type at all. However, amazing grace entered into my life today and I can only interpret it as a sign from above that somebody up there likes me. I mean, really, really likes me. (Channeling Sally Field always lightens my mood)

No, I didn't find an inspirational image of the Virgin Mary delicately etched into my Pop Tart this morning. Nor did I convert to the revolutionary Church Of The Farting Preacher. Instead, I've fretted countless hours this week about the Sharing Time assignment given to my Primary class at Church. It involves props, 7-8 year olds, and horror of horrors, public speaking. Whenever public speaking is required, I nearly hyperventilate, and I start praying like a school child for a Snow Day to cancel the event. Given that I live in Houston, my Snow Day prayers have never been answered. Thankfully, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Last night, I opened up my e-mail to find a glorious message declaring all Church meetings canceled today due to the heavy fumes permeating the Chapel because of recent renovations. It's a freakin miracle! The heavens doth opened up, and poured me a blessing, the likes of which my heart could not contain it all.

This means, of course, that I now have a whole other week to squander and procrastinate. HE knows me so very well. Amen.

Do Loose Lips Really Sink Ships?

Mine don't!

As you all well know, I lead a double life. I am also known as, Infidel:Mistress Of The Night, due to my occupation as an "Independent Contractor".

Daytime proves difficult for me to stay awake and alert. Often, I blog while my kids practice reading out loud, just to keep my borderline attention deficit mind focused. The more gregarious side of me emerges in the wee hours of the night.

So, I've forged friendships with many like minded people toiling during the graveyard shift too. I have Barbara at Exxon, Matzo Man and June at Krogers, Gus the overnight delivery guy, and my bald little Police Officer friend, I'll call, "Bubba".

I keep Bubba plied with a complimentary newspaper every day, and extra coupons on Sunday for his wife. In turn, he looks the other way as I careen around corners, run stop signs, and terrorize the neighborhood animals. Actually, I just stop to converse with the animals in the street using my annoying, high pitched faux British accent, and they usually scamper away frightened beyond belief. Dr. Dolittle, I ain't. Bubba and I laugh, we talk, we gossip, and I pinpoint him to neighborhood trouble. I'll tell him where I see raucous parties, and he keeps the drunken, pain in the ass teenagers out of my way. It's a beautiful symbiotic relationship.

Papi's always telling me that I need to stop lingering to talk so much. He says, "Just get your work done, girlie, and come home". Well, today, he had to eat his words because sweet vindication is mine.

Running late for work, Papi hurriedly flew out of the house this morning, forgetting to take even his wallet with him. Twenty minutes later, he called me all sheepish and embarrassed. He had been stopped for speeding and needed me to give him his license information. A few more minutes passed, and then Papi called me back. Turns out the officer who pulled him over was none other than my Bubba. After figuring out that Papi is indeed the husband of the chatty newspaper lady in the red truck, Bubba didn't write him a citation, telling him, "I'm only letting you go because I'm friends with your wife". SCORE!

My incessant middle of the night banter has led to the generous offer of seedy buns by Matzo Man, free hot chocolate from Barbara, and now curried favor with one of Houston Police Dept.'s Finest. HA! My blah blah saved Papi's butt. I kept him afloat. Maybe, I'm actually living up to my reputation as a "dinghy" wife, and it's not such a bad thing after all!

Skye Edwards - What's Wrong With Me

Oh Skye, Morcheeba just isn't the same without you.

However, her new solo effort is the official INFIDEL flavor of the week. Amazing song. LOVE IT! Albeit the video is also amazingly disturbing. The lovely Skye Edwards apparently is not a product of nature after all, but instead cobbled together from bits and pieces like a Nubian Princess version of Frankenstein. So, that's the real secret to her beauty, hmmmm?

Where's Igor when I really need him?

Shaking The Family Tree

While I'm on the subject of my little Stinkbug, Melody, I asked her today what color my shirt is (lime green), and she told me, "You give me chocolate and then me tell you". We've literally created a monster, but then given her genetic pedigree, I'm not all that surprised.

My Grandma Dee is a fiery red headed force to be reckoned with. Back in the days where no woman ventured into upper management she braved the uncharted frontier and found herself as the head of computer security for Miles Laboratories. Yep, that's where they make "PLOP PLOP FIZZ FIZZ Oh, what a relief it is", Alka-Seltzer. I had lots of those T-shirts as a kid and a lifetime supply of Flintstones chewable vitamins too. Point is, my Grandma is a hard line, domineering woman, that had solely men in her employ, and they trembled in fear before her.

From birth, our Melody has exhibited a lot of these finer qualities, including a fierce independent spirit. Melody also overcame the dominant Mayan Indian genetics to closely resemble my German/Irish Grandma Dee, right down to the squinty green eyes. As such, Papi has taken to calling her, "MINI DEE", instead of Melody.

We must train her to use her powers for good instead of evil.......

A Deeper Shade Of Soul

We live in a multi-cultural and diverse world. As such, we have felt parental compulsion to teach our children that judging others by the color of their skin is inherently wrong and displeasing to their Heavenly Father who regards us all as his spiritual sons and daughters. We've emphasized the philosophy of embracing color blindness so tenaciously that we are now reaping the fruits of our labors.

Our 3 1/2 year old daughter, Melody, cannot and will not distinguish colors at all.

In an effort to persuade her to learn them, I use the one technique she always responds positively to.......CHOCOLATE. So, last week I purchased the huge 2 pound bag of brightly hued, candy coated goodness that is M&M chocolate candies with the intention of teaching colors using a reward system. Whenever she correctly identifies the candy color, she's earned the right to claim it as her own. Man cannot live on the knowledge of M&M colors alone, so I change up the routine every few days. Yesterday, I asked Melody, "What color is my shirt"? (It was purple) Puzzled, she stared long and hard at my shirt before furrowing her brow and declaring, "Me not know". After a week of working on color concepts with her, I lost my patience and rudely sighed while brusquely telling her, "Fine then Melody. What color is my butt"? To which she smiled and yelled out, "WHITE"!

That earned her a whole sandwich bag full of M&M's.

The Smiling Infidel Theater Presents........

The movie extravaganza known as , "Snakes On A Plane", opens in theaters today!

I'd like to think of myself as a sort of well rounded Renaissance type of woman, (emphasis on the well rounded part), who enjoys acquiring new talents and skills. So, now I'm going to try my hand at screenwriting. Today, will see the advanced blog screening of my film project proposals bound for Hollywood executives.

You know how movies go in spurts? One genre or plot will find wild success, and other film projects will typically scramble to follow suit and capitalize on the trend. Remember all those body switching movies of the 80's, kicked off by Tom Hank's flick, "BIG", only to find a resurgence now in a new millennium with the remake of "Freaky Friday", and "13 Going On 30"? I think "Snakes On A Plane" will kick off a new era of a different kind of action movie combined with upfront honest titles.

Without further ado, allow The Smiling Infidel Theater Productions to lull you into a euphoric mood with a perusal of our exciting film offerings below. Possibly, coming to a cinema near you in the future.

Now, START scrolling downwards to gawk at the proposed setups that I'm just waiting to be greenlighted.............

CAKES On a Plane!

A group of ecstatic Weight Watcher members, returning from their complimentary trip won for most pounds lost, find themselves a victim of the ultimate sabotage. Jealous Jenny Craig conventioneers willfully distribute cakes and assorted calorie dense, sugary sweet, completely irresistible treats throughout the cabin and overhead compartments. Facing the moderation fears they have worked so diligently to overcome, the trapped bevy of newly svelte Weight Watchers silently pledge to stay calm and not touch the offending pastries, but one lick of delectable cream cheese icing off the tip of a finger instigates a manic feeding frenzy. Chaos and havoc ensues as the flight attendants lock themselves in the galley out of sheer terror. By the time the plane lands, half have eaten their way into a sugar comatose state, while the other half have emergency personnel slicking them up with Vaseline for easier removal from the aircraft.

Atkins Diet Products have offered to bankroll this one for me. Body By Jake Inc. wanted in too, but when I nixed the title, "JAKES On A Plane", they rescinded their offer.

RAKES On A Plane!

A seemingly uneventful flight from Salt Lake City to Palmyra, New York turns ugly when a gaggle of rogue Three Stooges impersonators start performing their routine on the plane. Hijinks abound when they pull the old upside down rake trick in the aisles and people inadvertently walk into them, thus smacking themselves silly upside the head. The action heats up as a group of Jerry Lewis impersonators on their way to to perform at the MDA telethon, take them on in a midair rumble. Chaos and havoc ensues as more than a few innocent bystanders are poked in the eye, bopped on the head, and told some really corny jokes that only the French could appreciate.

FLAKES On A Plane!

Or is it??!!!???

This screenplay is largely inspired by the "What's grosser than gross?" jokes that I grew up with.

The action takes place as the unsuspecting passengers on an extended flight to the Capital city of Djibouti which is also, head smackingly enough, Djibouti. There's no finer vacation destination than Djibouti in the summertime. Personally, I love any country that sounds like 'yo booty' when pronounced. Eventually, they give in to their ravenous hunger, and thanks to scaled back airline amenities, are only served a cereal breakfast as opposed to a hot meal.

Happily, they crunch away, enjoying every moment of the scenic flight while eating their Bran Flakes. Only, unbeknownst to them, a cargo of biomedical waste has found itself stored on board rather than the cargo hold, and has been unwittingly unleashed in the galley. It's an entire wooden crate full of crusty scabs, and now the box has turned up mysteriously empty. Chaos and havoc ensues, as well as a shortage of airline passenger barf bags.

The next scene finds them making an inexplicable detour to New York City and discovering that grosser than gross is exemplified by a man they witness jumping off the Empire State building and landing on a bicycle with no seat.

The Edited Children's Version Of "Snakes On A Plane"

Featuring everyone's favorite plastic celebrities outside of Hollywood, The Little People!

Here's the script outline:

The ill fated journey of the Little People begins as they board the special Little People "short" plane bound for the World renowned Chicago Zoo for a special seminar on, "Differentiating Feces In The Animal World". While en route, a cargo of dangerous plastic snakes wiggle out of their crates and havoc and chaos ensues.

True to action/horror movie stereotypes, we implausibly find our little friend, Omar, taking the helm of the plane instead of the Captain seated behind him. Why, you may ask? Because everyone knows that regardless the situation, minorities get axed first in these films. People engaging in any sort of amorous tryst are usually next up on the chopping block. We had to delete those steamy "Mile High Club" scenes between the two clowns to qualify as child friendly. We're still cleaning up the walls from smeared white face paint and vacuuming up little curly orange hairs (hopefully from their clown wigs. EEEK!) out of the plane's lavatory.

Every child's movie has to include a moral of the story. The Little People learn that while real, live, cold-blooded reptiles, pose an imminent threat to real, live, warm-blooded people, plastic persons are the preferred prey of plastic snakes. Thus, teaching the kids that everything on Earth likely has a predator looking to destroy them. So, might as well face adversity with a maddening plastered on smile that never fades, just like the characters in our little tale. Life simply isn't all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everything children. Let's just say that there's going to be some vacancies in Little People Town. Immediate occupancy available.

The Five People You Meet On Your Way To.......

Hometown Buffet!

Why is this man smiling? Because he had a brush with Smiling Infidel greatness five years ago, that's why.

That's right, I've actually met Mr. Samuel L. "Snakes On A Plane" Jackson. As customary in our quest to sate our refined culinary palate, the family and I chose to dine at one of the more upper crust establishments that North Houston has to offer, Hometown Buffet. Fine, it's not exactly champagne gourmet fare, but they do serve a mighty delicious prime rib. The silvery buffet steam table ambiance is also superb.

There we sat at our table for 7, gorging ourselves silly on fried shrimp because it happened to be Seafood Night, when suddenly I noticed a distinctly familiar man sitting at a table directly next to us, on the other side of the white beadboard partition. He sat there in his trademark red Kangol cap focusing on his plate while quietly eating. Well, after a few more trips to the buffet bar to soothe my nerves, I worked up the courage to approach him. Shakily, I asked, "Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Samuel L. Jackson"? Startled, he looked up from his plate of chicken fried steak smothered in cream gravy, and with a mysterious grin, accompanied by a deliberate shake of his Kangoled head, said, "No. Nobody has ever told me that before". Well, by the time I scampered around the partition, leaving a treasure trail of breaded shrimp in my wake, to tell Papi that I just talked to a mega star, he abruptly disappeared, leaving nothing behind except a half finished plate of chicken fried steak. I've eaten the chicken fried steak there before. I did him a favor.

Okay, boys and girls, Mormons and Wiccans, leftists and right wingers, taste great and less filling, boxer and brief, paper and plastic, sinner and saints alike. Share with the masses your very best celebrity encounter. Of course, I also actually shook hands with Greg from The Wiggles. Jealous much?

The Death March.....Now With Conga Line Dance Steps Added To It!

The passing of one life into another is never an easy transition for those of us left behind. Here at the home of The Smiling Infidel, we feel and understand this sense of tragic loss, and we'd like to offer our unique services to bring enlightenment and mirth to you in your time of profound need.

My daughter, Sunbum, and I are always completely somber and reverent whenever we pass a cemetery......... with the exception of last Tuesday. As we drove past the lushly green graveyard around 9:00 A.M., a funeral service had already begun. Just so you know, we are complete Broadway Musical freaks. I've lost count how many times we've sat and watched "My Fair Lady", both at home and on stage. So, as we silently grappled with our inner morbid curiosity that usually coincides with such an event, we asked ourselves "I wonder who died?", "I wonder how old they were, and how they passed from this mortal realm?" When, all of a sudden, Sunbum and I simultaneously burst into song. A rendition of the classic My Fair Lady tune, "I'm Getting Married In The Morning", revised to "I'm Getting Buried In The Morning. Ding Dong The Bells Are Gonna Ring"!

Epiphany! I think we have a bright future as funeral entertainers. Forget Oliver Twist and the paid mourners of the past. Parodied show tunes is the newest innovation for a good time to be had by all at your next graveside family gathering. I'm going to start printing up business cards right away, but I think handling advance reservations will be tricky and possibly incriminating.

Stop The Insanity!

"WTH? Mr. Xavier gave you a better name than my Mommy and Daddy gave me. Do you wanna trade birth certificates"?

I don't usually blog on Sunday because I believe in keeping the Sabbath day holy, but I just couldn't resist expounding on my prior rant about atrocious names foisted on living, breathing human beings instead of on a potted Fern or pet tarantula where they belong.

1. There's a local lady who's extremely active in the community. I see her name printed all the time in our regional newspaper, volunteering with a senior citizen center and various Church fundraisers. Turns out she's also a woman of fine Republican distinction. Her name? PERKY SAVAGE! I linked her name because I didn't think anyone would believe me. Perky Savage is my arch nemesis. Between a Smiling Infidel and a Perky Savage, we cancel each other out. In the end, there can be only one.....

2. My deceased stepfather had parents born in rural, 1920's era Mississippi, which likely explains their odd names. ORA LEE (yes, that is pronounced like orally. Sick freak.) and RUFUS CLAUDE. They used both first and middle names at all times too. My stepdad had the honor of being born last into the family during a time of Elvis and Western movie madness, hence his name, DON WAYNE. I kid you not. So, while pregnant with my brother, Rufus Claude, offered to pay my Mom $10,000 cash if she would consent to naming my brother after him. As greedy as my Mother is, she just couldn't do it. I mean, look, I love Rufus Wainwright as much as the next gal, and I still shake my rump to Rufus and Chaka Khan, but there are limits.

3. Charity Coffin. This is the special pine box option for the more destitute of clients down at Budget Mortuary.

4. A customer on my route has an obviously Swedish name, Benny Klingenporn. Every time I see that name though, I think of "Klingon Porn". Nasty. Now, we know what Lieutenant Commander Worf was really doing in his offhours on the Starship Enterprise.

5. An American toddler named Somerset, and a blog that I ran across where the husband wants to name the kid Adenine. Yes, Adenine, like the nucleobase in forming nucleotides. The Mom wants to name the kid, Abilene, which isn't much better. Has she actually been to Abilene, Texas before? It's a dusty, redneck infested pit. Hardly child naming inspiration there.

6. Dear Mr.Ron Howard: Place of conception names are gross for children to be forced to ponder your coital exploits every time they say or write their monikers. Yet, you saddled each and every one of your offspring with a conception name. Oh, and "The Grinch That Stole Christmas" was a really sucky movie.

Thanks a lot, Posh Spice and David Beckham for infecting the World with your tacky pop culture, oddly named children, and death knell anorexia look. Anyone seen a picture of David Beckham's hefty sister, Joanne? Looks like Posh is a skeleton now because Joanne refuses to pass the casserole dish during family dinner.

Guess Who's Coming To Town!

I'll give you a clue, it ain't Santa Claus.

This exciting announcement lied in wait for me to open yesterday in my e-mail inbox, and the entrepreneurial side of me started to ponder the many clownarific possibilities.

Do you have a special coulrophobe in your life? Sure! Don't we all? Exciting news then boys and girls, The Insane Clown Posse concert tour is finally coming to an arena near you.

Buy a ticket for you and your coulrophobic friend. Make it an evening they'll never forget with a gift package of the newly released DVD, "Killer Clowns From Outer Space", 2 Insane Clown Posse backstage passes, and one of these sweet little clown phobia T-shirts, all tucked inside a dual use hyperventilation friendly paper bag that boasts a super smiley BOZO face upon it. If you call and order right now, we'll even throw in a set of these superb "Evil Clown Nesting Dolls", guaranteed to bring hours of enjoyment.

This WOO-WOO moment of the day brought to you by Lianne's Maternal Alchemy wisdom: I've heard tale that retaining a deeply seeded fear of clowns results from repressed memories of alien abduction. It seems that the aliens take on a clown appearance to calm frightened children abductees. This apparently dispels the myth of aliens having superior intellect. The guy who wrote "COMMUNION", Whitley Strieber, documented these things and says that it happened to him while residing in a Northwest suburb of Houston. Ummmm, I passionately HATE clowns and I've lived in a Northwestern suburb of Houston since childhood. Definitely WOO-WOO feelings here!