I'm Really Too Old For This Kind Of Nonsense

Hey, guess what fun madcap adventure I had last night?
Absolutely exhausted, I collapsed onto my bed with a big gnarly wad of minty fresh Eclipse gum still wedged into my mouth.
Hey, guess what fun madcap adventures I had this morning?
I got to dutifully scrape gum off my pillowcase. And my nightstand. And in between my fingers where the gum fused together in a webbed pattern rendering me into the likeness of a severely malformed platypus. There was also remnants of chewed and fragmented gum strewn across the fleshy wasteland of my lower neck area.
Apparently, minty fresh Eclipse gum is a nomadic wanderer with a nocturnal streak. It just wasn't content to take up permanent habitation in my cavernous Infidel mouth.
So, if I followed that wise old proverb and let the gum go but it still chose to stay fairly close to me does that mean the gum truly loves me?
I wonder if the Double Mint twins ever had these problems?

Do You Have A Special Chocolate-Addicted Alcoholic In Your Life?

Well, here's some exciting news......now there's a beverage that conveniently combines two vices into one wine bottle for maximum gift-giving ease!
I have to admit that ChocoVine has intrigued me since I saw it stocked at our local HEB grocery store last fall.

"Nobody else could understand the secretive forbidden love shared between the coquettish cocoa bean and its sultry wine grape paramour........a torrid romance like theirs hadn't been seen in the commercial world since that slutty peanut butter hussy started sneaking around late at night with a wayward chocolate bar thus resulting in an offspring they named Reese's."

Far be it for me to get all judgmental about the shocking copulation of commodities but:
I predict a sharp increase in workplace consumption of "chocolate milk."
I prognosticate a future where police officers will have a head-scratching mystery before them. Are the days of giving out tickets for underage drinking over? Why have teenagers suddenly become so addicted to "chocolate milk?"
I foresee a spike in revenue for street corner beggars as potential donors sigh and comment about how sweet it is that the hobo has changed his drunken ways to embrace the dairy wholesomeness of "chocolate milk."
Should you spend your last dollar on chocolate or alcohol? Thanks to ChocoVine you'll never have to make this tough choice again.
Thanks ChocoVine! You're clearly ushering in an age of enlightenment never before seen in human history.

Is It Possible To Be An Anti-Woman Woman?

I used to thoroughly enjoy listening to Dr. Laura's call-in radio show but now I've opted to sever all ties to her and her increasingly unhelpful advice.

See, I'm an unabashedly conservative chick who believes in small government, a flat tax, and personal responsibility. As such, Dr. Laura and her espousal of traditional values initially appealed to me.

However, Ive grown weary of women automatically being the culprit for their man going astray. She's adamant that all wives must somehow be abdicating their spousal duties by not putting out enough which in turn leads a husband to go looking for outside action. Or maybe the wife is too fat which is also, in her not-so-humble opinion, an egregious violation of the marital contract.

That's always been her mantra so I just tune out her woman-bashing diatribe when she's on an especially shrill holier-than-thou streak.

Lately though, Dr. Laura is on a roll consistently dispensing eyebrow-furrowing, nose-wrinkling, Whatchoo Talkin' Bout' Willis? counsel to some of her callers.

Case in point was the lady who's been a stay-at-home mom of four kids for the past 20 years. Her oldest is a college student who lives at home while the youngest is 8. Like a lot of familes across the nation, her husband doesn't earn the kind of money he used to and they find themselves struggling even after making big lifestyle cutbacks. She has the opportunity to work part-time while her kids are in school. This seems like a win-win solution to me.

Dr. Laura practically shrieked at this woman telling her "You're going to divert time and energy away from a family that needs you" and "You're undermining your husband. Working will make him feel like less of a man, like he can't provide for his family." She wasn't finished as she concluded her advice with a "You'll come home bitchy and stressed from work and take it out on your family."

Wow. Dr. Laura worked establishing her career the entire time her kid was in school. Hypocrite much? This lady wants to alleviate some of the burden on her husband's shoulders in a way that still allows her to care for her kids. Furthermore, she doesn't have babies or toddlers. I speak from personal experience that this recession is a good time to rally the family and let them know that cooperation is vital and everyone needs to help one another.

I work a couple days a week. Unlike a lot of their peers, my kids know how to do laundry, help their siblings with schoolwork, and get dinner ready. It's not a tragedy that somehow diminishes the quality of their childhood. It's working as a cohesive unit to preserve the family. Duh, Dr. Laura.

Another caller really resonated with me. She's a 30-something mom of 6 kids. I know, right, who's flippin' crazy enough to crank out 6 kids?!!? Anyway, her baby is starting Kindergarten and she wants to go back to school to finish her degree but she stipulated that it would only be during the hours her kids are at school. The lady tearfully said that everyone in her family has advanced degrees and the pursuit of education is important to her. She blurted out that she felt as though something was missing in her life.

Dr. Laura went into hysterical mode as though this woman said she wanted to trade in all her mom jeans for an Abercrombie & Fitch wardrobe and a wild campus co-ed lifestyle.

Dr. Laura's argument was the same as the previous caller I mentioned. She vociferously browbeat this poor lady telling her that her family would fall apart if she took a couple college courses because it would require way too much time and effort. Dr. Laura also said that she should take comfort in her kids and not go looking for outside accomplishments and validation. She then recommended that the caller "get some hobbies" and "read books" to occupy her time while her kids are at school.

Discouraging knowledge? Seriously? This is a major WTF? moment. This lady may need a degree in the future should the unthinkable happen. Aside from that, she wants something edifying outside of being a mommy and wife. As a career woman you'd think that Dr. Laura would understand.

Irritated and murmuring out loud, I hoped that these ladies would stand up and champion themselves against this counterproductive advice. But they didn't. Both women just meekly agreed with every word Dr. Laura bestowed upon them as though it was their personal gospel.

Why would a successful female like Dr. Laura openly discourage fellow females from achieving their own personal successes?

Naturally, she cites "Family First" at every opportunity but the slogan is as hollow as a waxy chocolate bunny from the dollar store when applied to the aforementioned situations where the family would surely benefit from the matriarch enriching her own life and in turn the lives of her family.

It's an easy formula. Trickle Down Mothering, dammit!

Trickle Down Mothering. I'm a genius. Just give me the talk radio contract to sign already.

Are You In Search Of Some Scorching Hot Buns? It's Gonna Cost You!

Hot Cross Buns......Hot Cross Buns.....One-A-Penny.......Two-A-Penny.......One-Hundred-Twenty-Nine-Pennies. Hope you own a roomy and spacious coin purse built for Abraham Lincoln and 128 of his little coppery clones.


Although, the unexpected inflationary surge in the bun market is but a small price to pay for an avowed addict to revel in some sweet, sweet hot cross buntopia.

After all, this plastic package of pleasure boasts a whopping XXXXXX rating. Yeah, it scoffs at all those paltry triple-XXX hot buns. A threesome of hot buns? No way! This is a party just waiting to be opened by an adventurous sixsome!

Me and my six-pack. Hey, you see me sweet-rollin', you hatin'.

We're A Family Suffering From The Ill Effects Of IRA

You don't have to probe too far back into Infidel family history to find early IRA victims. Do you know IRA? You should. It's quite likely that you or somebody you know struggles with the heartbreak of IRA or as its better known Inappropriate Reaction Affliction.
See, I'm like my father. We both lack the necessary sentimental gene required to make it through ballad night on American Idol. It's an absolute physical impossibility.
I laughed uproariously during the entirety of the schlocky New Moon movie while my sisters-in-law were furiously hushing me in between dabbing away their endlessly flowing tears.
My mom, however, is a living embodiment of a Mrs. Butterworth's Syrup bottle nestled snugly inside a bag of extra cheesy Cheetos.
She's subsisted on a steady diet of treacly sweet nonsense and shameless cheese for so long she has to have built up an impressive dual cheeseball/syrup storage system somewhere around her spleen.
So anyway, my parents divorced when I was 2.
A few years before passing away my father confided in me that after the divorce he was inconsolable and listened to Elton John's despondent song, Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word non-stop for several months.
I was deeply moved by his uncharacteristically emotional outpouring so I naturally assumed my mom would be equally touched by the soul-crushing pain he endured but kept so well hidden from her and everyone else for the past 30-something years.
My mom's response? She collapsed onto the sofa and shook with laughter for a good five minutes.
IRA strikes whenever you least expect it.......Curse you IRA!

Mama's Got A Brand New Bag......Well, Almost

Look, I've got my pride and all but I simply can't resist the allure of awesome stuff forlornly sitting curbside on trash day; awesome stuff just waiting to be whisked away to the garbage dump of no return.
I once found a $600.00 dollar sofa from Pier One in perfect shape and an equally nice entertainment center callously flung out next to trash cans brimming with the stacks of money these folks presumably use to wipe their rich heinys with.
Where did I learn this trashy behavior from? My mother.
The situation is exactly like that Public Service Announcement where the father finds his son's pot stash and incredulously asks him where he learned to do such filthy things and the kid angrily retorts "From you Dad, alright? I got it from watching YOU!!!"
Yeah, so my mom may be out of her prime refuse-hunting days but she's still a cunning addition to any Garbage Day Safari going on in H-Town.
So, about a year ago she spied with her beady eye a trashy treasure trove just ripe for the picking.
Lying haphazardly next to the street was a large piece of designer luggage in mint condition.
What could my mom do? This saucy little black bag was beckoning her forth so she stopped her truck and hopped out to have a look.
As she lifted up the suitcase she noted that it felt unnaturally heavy.
Excitedly she started fumbling with the zipper thinking that it was the luggage version of Russian Nesting Dolls.
What she found instead more closely resembled a nightmarish mystery meat Turducken Surprise.
Stuffed inside the bag was a gargantuan gray cat. It was dead. It was stiff with rigormortis. It was also staring blankly at the human who dared intrude on his perpetual cat nap while violating his final resting place.
My mom screamed and let the actual, literal, proverbial "cat out of the bag."
Hello Kitty!
This experience along with a touch of imaginary Cat Scratch Fever has pretty much cured my mom of her innate dumpster diving tendencies and her desire to travel to the Catskills.......or Kathmandu.........or the Kit Kat factory.
As a family we always try to make the best of a furry situation but alas, the Dr. Seuss company refuses to publish our cleverly titled The Cat In The Bag book--a sequel to The Cat In The Hat. Anybody know where I can purchase a little red and white striped hat for a dead cat?
Perhaps there's some money to be made in the unexplored area of kitty body bags.
Maybe the Cat In A Bag concept will interest certain local restaurants. I should trademark it immediately!
So, What's New Pussycat? It's the end of the post. Nobody reads to the end. Can I make an inappropriate joke now about the funniness of my mom out on a street corner picking up pu......No? Okay.
Just Throw It In The Bag!

Crank Dat Infidel Girl!

I thought I'd post this schmaltz-tastic video to share with the world seeing as how I'm a bonafide honorary Jew and all.
Well, I am a Kosher Queen which is kind of like ABBA's "Dancing Queen" minus the ham.
Like I said, I am the Kosher Queen, well, for the most part and with the definite exception of my insatiable Pig-Out Porkfest days.......not to mention the fact that I occasionally flaunt some dangly bacon strip earrings that would make any decent Jewish American Princess shudder with revulsion. (Hey, at least I didn't buy the bacon strip pasties because I saw those in the same online shop)
And the fact that I've told some very, very, very naughty Matzoh Ball jokes in my time.
And then there's the snigger-worthy photoshop pic I created of "Jewbacca."
And my oldest son once thought that Michael Jackson's big 80's hit was actually an enthusiastic ode to Judaism. "I Wanna ROCK With Jews.....All Night."
And maybe I'd be disqualified from honorary Jew status if they knew it was me who yakked up half-digested halvah candy and gefilte fish at the synagogue right before Rhona Goldstein's bat mitzvah and then hoofed it out of there as fast as my fat little gentile legs could run, only returning when it was time to shake my Christian tookus to the sweet sounds of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack at the after party.
But anyways, I do know every single solitary word to Hannukah's Da Bomb, Aight, and I can spin a dreidel at warp speed, so really, all should be forgiven.


Here's CRANK DAT KOSHER BOY for your viewing pleasure! I hope it gets a place of honor on a Jewkbox somewhere.

"And Then They Told Us That We Had To Leave The Church Because Our Kids Were Too Loud........"

That is the precise snippet of conversation I overheard last week while cruising the clearance section in Target's toy department.
This 30-ish mom was animatedly telling another 30-ish mom with 3 well-behaved toddler girls in tow why nobody should ever go to this particular non-denominational church because they were so rude to "kick them out" just because the "kids were too loud."
Guess where the precious, saintly, old-enough-to-know-better boys of Senorita Clueless were at that exact moment in time? Go on, guess!
They were several aisles away where the two had helped themselves to an array of sporting goods equipment such as a baseball bat, baseball, glove, and helmets.
The misguided spawn of this oblivious mombie alternated between hitting the ball into other customers and smacking the boxed merchandise on the shelves with the not-paid-for bat leaving big dents and damage everywhere they went.
Meanwhile, Mom of the Millennium continued loudly prattling on about the injustice her family endured while never once stopping to catch her breath and find out that her boys were terrorizing everything and everyone around them.
Sadly, this scenario is becoming far too common as the dreaded Entitlement Epidemic has hit critical mass where I live--unduly affecting parents and their undisciplined children in droves.
I'm no psychic but given all I know about the worst entitlement offenders I can pretty much guarantee that the poor beleaguered minister and/or his staff politely asked this lady to get her monsters under control because they were in a church and not ringside at a WWF Smackdown event.
Naturally, she thinks that nobody should ever dare criticize her or her "little gifts from God" even if they are laying waste to Target or a house of the Lord as though it were a demolition derby.
People need to get a grip.......and then they need to get a grip on their kids.
There's waaaayyy too many parents that have lost the words "NO, NO, OH HELL NO!" from their vocabulary.

I Don't Really Know How I Feel About Black & White Marriages

We recently got invited to the wedding reception of a cute young couple whose parents are both in our ward at church.
Their wedding colors are black and white but I think they may have taken their color scheme a bit too far because the bridal registry listed a request for not one but TWO toasters........one black and the other white.
Twas' A Tale Of Two Toasters!
What I can't decide is if this startling appliance move represents a spirit of integration or the atrocity of segregation.
Will the toasters sit side-by-side symbolizing a harmonious yin and yang or will they be forced to perform toasting tasks based solely on color?
All right, all you boxes of toaster treats, let's line it up........Dark Chocolate Pop-Tarts on the left, Vanilla Milkshake Pop-tarts on the right, please.
Perhaps they're wisely anticipating that the newlywed novelty will wear off fairly quickly and they're looking for some cheap thrills and entertainment in the form of toaster races.
Who's toast will get done first? *cue soaring adventure soundtrack music* Find out and see on the all new heart-stopping reality action series "A Watched Toaster Never Pops.....Or Does It?" *swelling ominous music*
There's a real possibility that these two may end up succumbing to the illicit seedy world of illegal toaster gambling.
"I'm putting everything I got on white. Let it ride, baby!!!"
Maybe owning two toasters is just the new status symbol of choice among the whippersnapper set.
Maybe they're saving all the brown, crumbly toaster leavins' in the little trays in hopes of constructing them into a magnificent artistic rendering of their wedding day to hang above the mantel.
Maybe they got stock in the Eggo waffle company as a wedding gift.
Oh, there's so very many possibilities and questions here.
On the plus side though, the happy couple can always "get toasted" together anytime they want.
After all, isn't the sharing of quality time the secret to marital success?
I think it's only apropos that we propose a "toast" to the bride and groom and offer them much toasting happiness for all time and eternity............or however long their toaster warranties last.
Whichever comes first. 

Imma Be, Imma Be, Imma Imma Imma Be

Imma Be finishing up the first leg of my back-to-school odyssey very soon.
I just completed my Business Law final exam and I'm moving on to summer semester #3.
All of this means that I only have 4 classes left before I can finally leave community college as one of their most ancient sophomores and start my junior year this January at either Sam Houston University or University of Houston.
I haven't decided which one yet to target for admittance into their esteemed institution with my beg, boogaloo, beguile, and bribe with Infidel cupcakes campaign.
Yeah, I did say BOOGALOO. I may or may not be considering a bright future in the breakdancing profession, okay?
Add to that, my incredibly sharp and hard-working 15-year-old daughter Sunbum will henceforth be embarking on her third semester at college this Fall.
Papi and I are in the preliminary phases of our master plan entitled EMPTY NEST EXTRAVAGANZA and Sunbum is operating according to our grand scheme.
Now, we've called in 14-year-old Monkey for duty. She's headed to the college tomorrow to take the entrance exam and start Phase Two of the plan.
Excellent!
It may be a bit cocky but I believe that I can count my chickens before they hatch.........and then chicken dance with them in reckless celebratory abandon after they hatch.

I Guess I Prefer Getting Hawaiian Breeze In My Face Over A Hawaiian Punch

Hawaiian Breeze makes me feel fiiiiiine blowing through the jasmine in my miiiiiiind.........and then I appear on camera wearing my irresistible pink hibiscus muumuu while my recently cut she-mullet hair flaps seductively in the fan-created wind.

Well, that would be the idealistic scenario and a lot more commercial worthy than where the Infidel household has actually stationed their coveted can of Hawaiian Breeze air freshener: The bathroom--where all the miracles of Infidel digestion and elimination takes place.

I'd like to say that one push of the spray button elicits an intoxicating scent that transports you to a relaxing hammock smack in the middle of a fragrant pineapple plantation.

Quite truthfully though, the smell is more akin to taking a big dump at a luau...........much to the horror of everyone around you trying in vain to enjoy the last succulent remnants of their aptly named Pu Pu Platter.

Forget the matchbook trick, what we really need is a flaming troupe of Hawaiian fire dancers in our bathroom to dissolve the odious odors because it's just too big a task to assign a paltry can of .97 cent air freshener.

Sorry Glade, Inc. The Infidel Family heartily defeated you this round. Rematch?

Just Lettin' It All Hang Out

Something has been bothering me for the past couple years but I didn't have a place to share my startling discovery until now.
And here's the part where I just blurt it out: PUBE DREADS! Medusa-Like Coochie Hair! Big Pubes Keep on Turnin' While My Eyes Just Keep On Burnin'!
Ahem, anyway, I'm all for natural beauty and yes, every single solitary part of the feminine body is a gift from God. Whatever.
However, one should probably consider making a date with Mr. Bic prior to cavorting about in the water in front of your homeschool group, fellow church members, and multitudes of children whose eye level unfortunately rests point blank on your impossibly furry thighs that resemble a stuffed Snuffleupagus.
This sister wasn't just working a sort of poofy explosion-down-at-the-Tammy-Wynette-wig-factory pubic hair look, oh no. It was instead like a miraculous reincarnation of Bob Marley himself complete with delicate yet coarse tendrils of dark hair cascading down far, far, far and away beyond the inadequate perimeters afforded by the unflattering cut of her bathing suit.
Oh Sister Sassy, that Hoo-Hoo Voodoo that you do!
I get it, I'm sometimes guilty of woeful maintenance neglect myself but I can guarantee you this......ain't nobody gonna look at me in my swim suit and assume that my nether region is nicknamed "Jason Castro" or that it's costuming itself as a Brillo pad gone horribly awry.
I own a brilliantly colored pair of rainbow board shorts that serves a dual function as a FUPA disguise system and a possible Gay Pride Parade Grand Marshall outfit should I ever be asked.
I like to be prepared for any and all eventualities.


Now, go watch this hysterical clip from my favorite defunct British comedy sketch show. It'll make your pubic inferiority complex disappear like magic! CHING!

Weird Dream Wednesday

Bad puns are a predatory and invasive species.

I never wanted to tell you of my many afflictions but it's time you all knew the soul-crushing truth......I suffer from TERMINAL SEVERE ACUTE INCURABLE BPS.

Oh, the torturous heartbreak that is BPS: Bad Pun Syndrome.

My BPS symptoms started flaring up again last night, cleverly waiting until I was floating in a dream state with my BPS defense system down.

Blame it on too many doses of Muskrat Love but I endured an entire dream sequence that revolved around not the cheesy 70's superstar duo, Captain and Tennille, but instead their pillowy soft bedspread material counterpart.......The Captain and CHENILLE.

It was horrifyingly real and very upsetting especially since I'm ardently anti-chenille.

I think the chenille manufacturers strategically place conspiratorial musings against the rest of us on their bedspreads using the little puckered dots that's synonymous with chenille.

It reads like Braille so that only blind people can run their hands along the dots and decipher the true secret of the chenille bedspread.

The True Secret of the Chenille Bedspread....sounds like a Nancy Drew novel, doesn't it?

However, because of my sheer determination not to succumb to the ill effects of my BPS disease, I survived the night of BPS mind games.

I must be strong and the next time The Captain and Chenille rears its ugly head I can tell it (Don't) Do That To Me One More Time because not even Love Will Keep Us Together!

Accept No Imitations!

Look at the prize I picked up while browsing the "Authentic Mexican" aisle at Target.
He's in a red shirt....I think that means this little manly slice of Authentic Mexican burrito is on sale at a bottom-of-the-jalapeno-barrel clearance price.
I haven't seen Authentic Mexican products marked this low since their brand closeout of Farting Queen Refried Beans.
SCORE!
Much better than the disappointing spectacle I found over on the "Fake Mexican" aisle.
It was just some guy slathered in self-tanning lotion while wearing a black pipe cleaner mustache and sitting atop a stick donkey that he called Pedro.
He kept leering at me and asking if I'd like to see some "Mexican Impersonator Churro."
Quasi-Mexi Sicko!
People, you must take heed and beware the Authentic Mexican impostors invading your local retail outlets.

*THIS POST HAS BEEN FLAGGED BY THE COMMITTEE AGAINST OFFENSIVE CHURRO REFERENCES*

Now I Know How The "Hard Core" Peoples In H-Town Roll!

While traversing the neighborhood last week, I spotted a young, pimped-out, pierced, tattooed, fried-and-dyed Mohawk-wearing punk standing in his driveway.....I know, big freakin deal, right? Wrong.
So, was this poster child for "Extreme Body Makeover" outside listening to some thrashin' death metal music? Or perhaps perfecting his vandalism techniques while training his beloved Pit Bull, "Lucifer's Beast" how to kill on command?
The correct answer is: None of the Above.
I witnessed this proud member of Hell's Army meticulously cleaning his midnight black T-shirt, that featured a big white pentagram on the front, with a lint brush. 
Yeah, I actually circled back around just to catch another amusing glimpse of this obsessively fastidious devil worshipper in the middle of some serious grooming action. 
T-shirt fuzz......the leading strategy in taking down OCD-afflicted minions of darkness.  
It's common knowledge that cleanliness is next to godliness but who knew that cleanliness is also next to satanliness?
Got an avowed devil worshipper on your gift-giving list? Buy a super-duper lint roller for them! Keeping the forces of darkness clean and aesthetically pleasing.......that's how they roll!

Unintentional Jokes Are Always The Best Jokes

So, I'm sitting there in English class on Sunday feeling bored, tired, and using all my mental focus to try to push the hands of time into fast-forward mode when the unexpected happened........I almost had to use that spare "break into glove compartment in case of emergency" panties because I was laughing so hard I nearly peed myself.

I LOVED my English 1302 Professor this semester. She's helpful, and uber smart, plus she introduced us to a lot of interesting literature not found in the ho-hum assigned books.

As our Professor was reviewing possible title selections to write about for our Final Exam she mentioned a poem we read last month. Below is a verbatim account of the dialogue that followed:

"You guys are welcome to write on The Pope's Penis if you want, but remember, it's VERY short so you'll have some difficulty with it."

It's so completely sacrilegious and yet so holy robe-shaking, papal hat-quaking FUNNY!
Come on, don't be shy, admit that you're at least semi interested in checking out The Pope's Penis.
And now you can tell everyone that you saw The Pope's Penis right here on The Smiling Infidel.
Viva la highbrow poetry!

THE POPE'S PENIS BY SHARON OLDS
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

Who's Afraid Of The Big Bad KISS?

Well, for starters, I AM!

Yeah, I'll admit it....as a child I was freakin terrified of KISS, KISSes, KISSing and all things KISS-related.
You might say that these mutated monsters of metal music scared me KISS-less.
My degenerate second cousin used to have his room wallpapered with freaky KISS posters.
Consequently, I was too scared as a 6-year old to even tiptoe past his room if the door was open enough for me and KISS to make any sort of eye contact.
My cousin thought this was absolutely hilarious and he made it his life mission to terrorize me as much as possible.
I'll never forget the day he stood outside his closed door and told me that he replaced all his KISS posters with pictures of Kenny Rogers. Then he asked me if I'd like to go in and see for myself.
Let me add that this was Kenny Rogers in his pre-chop shop cosmetic surgery days. Fear the reaper, man but don't fear the Kenny Rogers!
I got one foot in the door before my cousin shoved me in the rest of the way. Then he simultaneously slammed and barricaded the door thus trapping me inside his hellish KISS torture chamber.
He stood outside laughing while I screamed hysterically and banged on the door to get out.
This probably goes a long way towards explaining why him and his KISS obsession are currently sitting on Death Row in the Indiana State Penitentiary.
Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be KISS fanatics.
Which brings me to the main point of my post.....I was serving duty as a reader for my Melody's first grade class a couple weeks ago.
Since it was close to Halloween, I asked the kids what they were going to dress up as.
There was the usual assortment of princesses, fairies, Batman, vampires, etc. but then one dimpled and gap-toothed little boy excitedly blurted out, "I'm going as Gene Simmons from KISS for Halloween!!! Do you know who he is?!?!?"
Uh yeah kid, as a matter-of-fact I DO know who he is.
Me and Gene Simmons kind of have an awkward history between us.
So, a six-year old dressing up as Gene Simmons. That's fantastic! I only hope that he went trick-or-treating with a mini Alice Cooper tossing bloody Barbie heads about.
Oooh, and maybe a pint-sized version of Ozzy Osborne with his trademark headless bat dangling out of his mouth too just to make a complete set of inappropriate children's costumes!
No word on if the Gene Simmons get-up came with a pointy prosthetic tongue and a patch of glue-on chest hair. I'm fairly positive that the Plastic Playboy Playmate companion is sold separately.

Me And My Daughter Went Out Clubbing This Weekend!!!

It wasn't the first time I've taken Sunbum out clubbing, either.

Yeah, I know she's only 14 but we've been going to the club since she was a baby.

It's like an Infidel family tradition now.

There's always an abundance of fresh meat at this club and it's yours for the taking!

Sure there's also a bunch of real turkeys and the occasional ham but at least they separated out the fruits into their own section.

I've picked up and taken home many a cheeseball from the club. They seem harmless enough but let me tell you, as you step on the scale after your brief encounter, you realize that they definitely DO NOT respect you in the morning!

They never ask any questions at the door. Nope, with one flash of my I.D. the bouncers allow us both to sashay right in to Sam's Club.

We don't usually drink while at the club but I was feeling spendy on Saturday. I ponied up the money for a large mixed drink on the rocks.

(Country Time Lemonade infused with a dash of Fanta Orange pretty much rules the soda world)

We don't go to Sam's to see or be seen but we've definitely established a mini fan base.

Whenever we walk by the food demonstrators they greet us with a hearty and sincere HELLO.......and then they make a ritualistic food offering to us as though we're some sort of Sam's Club goddesses. Maybe we are.

It's a symbiotic relationship at its finest.

Admittedly, we only go clubbin' to check out the ladies.

I like all kinds of ladies. Fat ones, skinny ones, ones serving Cream of Lox.....Tough ones, sissy ones, even ones with Chicken Fried Crocs!

Sadly, our recent visit was bereft of any decent ladies-in-hairnets action.

I furtively searched through the harried throng of focused club-goers hoping to find a glimmer of hope or some kind of sparkle that one only sees when the fluorescent lighting hits the chrome-plated lid of the electric skillet just the right way.

Alas, there was no sample lady lovin' going on anywhere in the entire club.

This woeful development led me to sing a mournful version of Beyonce's Single Ladies.

"WHERE'S MY SAMPLE LADIES....ALL THE SAMPLE LADIES? WHERE'S MY SAMPLE LADIES.....ALL THE SAMPLE LADIES?"

Sunbum took the cue and we made it a duet event to remember.

The final tally didn't look so good for us club-going Infidels.

Nobody asked us to dance. We had to buy our own drinks and there was nary a scrap of dried-out pot pie crust on a sample platter to be found anywhere.

I did score some giant breasts. On sale.

A small consolation for our otherwise fruitless night out at the club.

Maybe there's a Sample Lady Strike that nobody told me about.

They're probably all holed up somewhere covert feasting on frozen mini pizzas and Fiber One bars together.

I bet they're throwing back their heads and laughing (with their mouths full) at the pain and suffering they're causing Sam's Club patrons.

I hope I get an invite soon to their private sample-eating party club.

I invented the BEST secrety handshake ever. My gang sign is three fingers. I call it "The Sign Of The Fork."

I'll be more than happy to share it with this rogue bunch of Sample Ladies if they'll only let me in.

How Many Men Does It Take To Cover An Oft Nude Prince??!?

Apparently, it takes FIVE.
Just don't ask me how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop. As a professional Tootsie Roll Pop licker I just can't divulge that kind of information for free without damaging my career.
I know that we're only 8 months into the year but I'm going to go ahead and declare the alt-rock geniuses of Incubus the winner of my 2009 Raspberry Beret award for their magnificent Prince-covering work in the guitar-drenched ditty, Let's Go Crazy.
Good job, guys! So tonight we gonna party like it's 2009!
Let me pause a moment as I shower them with a deluge of Purple Rain.....
I don't want to be presumptuous, but barring the release of a seductive version of Prince's classic Erotic City as performed by squeaky clean teen David Archuleta, Incubus will easily remain this year's grand champion with little to no competition.
Admittedly though, the thought of the Mormon Tabernacle choir covering Little Red Corvette amuses me greatly. I can envision them clad in their pristine white robes singing the chorus while dancing The Steering Wheel.
Maybe Metallica will take on I Would Die 4 U?
And Ozzy Osbourne can mumble his way through an updated working of When Doves Cry......of course, he is the guy that bit the head off a dove live in concert. I bet prior to his Marie Antoinette maneuver, he yelled at the whimpering dove, "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!"
Susan Boyle and her new found fame would be a perfect fit for Prince's The Most Beautiful Girl In The World, don't you think?
Anyways, congratulations go out to Incubus for their Princely accomplishments! Each band member will be awarded their very own honorary Raspberry Beret.....why yes, it is the kind you find in a second-hand store.!

INCUBUS- LET'S GO CRAZY!!!

There's Only You And Me....And We Just Disagree

Ordinarily, Church doesn't qualify as a contentious experience for me. Ordinarily.
However, one of the speakers last Sunday touched on a viewpoint so incredibly outrageous and just plain wrong that I couldn't help but loudly vocalize my concern.
So there I was, perfectly in control of my attention span-challenged self and doing what I do most every Church meeting......dreaming about possible post-Church dinner recipes to try.
That's when the Sister assigned to speak interrupted my food fantasies with the most troubling of questions.
Sister Skinny actually articulated the following sentence: "Wouldn't it be great if you only had to cook and eat ONE time a week and that would be enough to sustain you?"
Flinging my precious few tidbits of self-control to the ravenous self-control eating wolves encircling my Church chair, I loudly bellowed a feisty "HECK, NOOOOOOOO" in response.
(Folks, I do, in fact, have Self Control. It's track 212 in my iPod library. I love me some Laura Branigan.)
Papi quickly shot me the Mexi-eye which is 100 times spicier and meaner than your average, ordinary stink eye. Think a laser beam made out of Tabasco.
The congregants seated behind us tittered with semi-reverent hushed laughter while my oldest son nodded his head in silent agreement with me.
The truth is, that for the Infidel family, we discuss what to eat for our next meal while we're eating a meal. I can't tell you the square root of 1,04,000 or tell you who put the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong but I can probably recite every momentous food occasion I've ever participated in during the course of my 35 years.
I'd like to bear my testimony that eating can indeed be a very spiritual experience.
Not coincidentally, Sister Skinny is but a mere white waif of a woman.
She was immediately stricken from my mental list of potential Buffet Buddies. I'm guessing Sister Skinny's a one-plater kind of gal and not a Leaning Tower Of Melamine Dishes chick like me.
Hey, I may not wear a size negative zero but at least I always have a cheery rosy red glow to my cheeks--unlike Sister Skinny's saltine cracker pallor. Of course, the energy exerted from bending over to pick up a hymn book causes my skin to flush and turn scarlet with the mere strain of it all.
Sure, my outburst qualifies me as a contender in the Rude Olympics, but hey, that's what Sister Skinny gets for treating Sacrament meeting like it's some sort of audience participation event.
You shouldn't weave questions into your talk unless you want people to actually answer you.
She's fortunate we're not Evangelicals because if she'd followed up her most horrifying query with a peppy "Can I Get An AMEN All Up In Here, People??!?!?" I'm thinking she would've most likely been met with awkward silence.
My favorite first counselor to the Bishop--and Secret Agent Man with the F.B.I--once made the following remark a few years ago: "We're not a charismatic Church."
As I panned around the Chapel and noted a good 50-60% of the members (mostly male) nodding off or already zonked out, I had to murmur an emphatic "Right On Brother Obvious, you got that one nailed...."
He knew how to make an impactful statement dripping with truth.
I'm thinking that Food Network is not Must See T.V. for Sister Skinny. She likely doesn't worship at the altar of Alton Brown, either and she'd never, ever run away to become a Gordon Ramsay groupie. Ever.
It's an eat-or-be-eaten world out there. I fear for Sister Skinny. Maybe us larger folks are here on earth to protect the dainty among us from harmful things like sudden gusts of wind or evil food.
In which case, I take my duties very seriously.
I shall sacrifice myself and rid all the world of Hostess cupcakes.......one delicious morsel at a time.