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!
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!
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*
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!
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.
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.
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.
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 performedby 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.!
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.
Kroger's grocery traditionally only plays the lamest of the lame on their in-store radio. They're single-handedly resurrecting the soothing soft rock favorites that time (mercifully) forgot. After a particularly mind-numbing shopping experience where the overhead speakers blared both the Titanic theme song and "The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald" back-to-back, I came to the conclusion that their programmer harbors an unhealthy ship wreck fixation. Keep that man away from a career in the cruise ship D.J. field! Sometimes the music is so bleak that I automatically go into announcer mode with my snarky-malarkey radio voice. My announcements usually go something like this: "Sad Sack Radio: All the saddest songs, all the time! Kindly vacate the rat poison and kitchen knife aisles before the next suicidal tune in this very special Depress-A-Thon music mix!" If you happen to survive the sentimental sounds wreaking havoc on your emotions then you'll be well prepared to take on over the narcolepsy-inducing aspect of so many sllllooooowwwwww songs played right in a row. It's not just on major thoroughfares that you have to worry about people falling asleep at the wheel. It's a good thing Kroger's sells No Doz tablets, otherwise the shopping basket fatalities resulting from customers nodding off while pondering which Hamburger Helper to buy this week would be much greater. How many eggs and pasta sauce jars must be sacrificed before Kroger's deigns to plays some peppier stuff? I get the slow music strategy, though. It's all a sinister marketing ploy. See, the more plodding the music, the greater the likelihood a customer will linger longer. The shoppers essentially become unwitting victims, aimlessly wandering down the aisles in a lite rock-infused daze. Muskrat Love always has that effect on me anyways. So, basically, all of this leads to impulse buying and increased spending. It's freakin diabolical but incredibly genius at the same time. So imagine my surprise while shopping last Friday night, with my entire entourage of mini-Infidels in tow, when the K-Roger Discotheque actually played a kickin' J. Lo song. Not just that, but it was a funky dance remix of J. Lo's club hit "Get Right." I was powerless to resist the rump-shaking urges that "Get Right" always induces. I swear that the milk section had been completely vacant prior to my dancing jiggling exhibition with giant string cheese tumbleweeds rolling down the desolate aisle. But then, much to my horror, I turned around slowly just in time to witness at least 5 other Kroger shoppers frozen in shock, staring at me with wide eyes and mouths agape. Apparently my milk shake doesn't bring all the boys to the yard.....but it does bring all the customers to the dairy aisle. Embarrassed at my uncharacteristic display of craziness, I took my mini-Infidels and hid in the secluded safety of the clearance corner until I was sure that all the involuntary spectators had moved on. Sunbum, the oldest, kept reassuring me that it was fine. She remarked that the people looked on disapproving because they wondered what the heck someone could be so happy about that they'd dance a jig right in the middle of the grocery store. Sunbum said they were probably jealous of my uninhibited spontaneity. I'm sure that's it. The moral of the story is that one should always avoid the advice set forth by hand-painted plaques and cheesy gift shop merchandise. I did indeed dance like no one was watching. Regrettably though, people were watching. In fact, it felt as though ALL the eyes of Texas were upon me eyeballing my lack of rhythm, grace, and coordination. I could almost hear that mysterious voice from Field Of Dreams echoing, "IF YOU SHAKE IT, THEY WILL COME!" Well then, I guess in the future I'll be a little more discerning about where and when I choose to bust a move since it's like a beacon for all to gather round and stare in wide wonder. Here's a few helpful lifestyle tips I've composed just for you:
Sing Like Nobody Is Listening You Just Had Your Vocal Chords Removed.
Work Like You Don't Need The Money Vindictive Vinnie And His Sidekick Liver Lips Louie Are Waiting At Your House, Crowbar In Hand, For This Month's Protection Payment.
Dance Like Nobody Is Watching You're At A Southern Baptist Convention.
Love Like You've Never Been Hurt Everyone Is Made Out Of Peanut Butter And You'll Go Into Anaphylactic Shock If You Get Too Close.
Blog Like Nobody Is Reading You Ain't Making No Money Out Of It. (Oh wait, I think I already got this one down.)
P.S. This is my new theme song to life. The first few lines address the unfortunate occurrence of getting laughed at while dancing--to which Aussie Ben Lee chirpily croons "I Feel SAD For You, You Never Take A Chance!" Awesome. BEN LEE--WHAT'S SO BAD ABOUT FEELING GOOD?
Once upon a time there was a white bread, piano-driven adult contemporary band called The Fray. Oh sure, their music was pleasing and agreeable enough to find airplay in grocery stores and offices across America......why, they even provided the emotionally manipulative backdrop music for a cheesy TV drama or two. However, few could argue that The Fray's sound was tediously formulaic--with each song becoming virtually indistinguishable from the next. That was until they decided to cover Shakira's iconic track "Hips Don't Lie." The Fray succeeded in making the funniest, most deadpan cracker version of a spicy dance song ever in recorded history thus proving that musical diversity is truly a beautiful thing to behold. The End. Congratulations go out to The Fray. You indeed "make a woman go mad!" (with laughter)
Well, I don't like to boast but me and my troupe of mini-Infidels have ascended to the highest levels on the competitive picking circuit.
We're currently poised to win Mexico's biggest game show WHO WANTS TO BE A MIGRANT WORKER!
Last week we found our thrill on Blueberry Hill as we deftly filled bucket after bucket with a grand total of 12 1/2 pounds of blueberries within 2 hours time.
It's especially amazing considering that drought conditions severely limited the amount of blueberries available. It forced us into getting all up in the blueberry bushes business. We even engaged in some unscrupulous shakedown tactics. Primitive but effective.
My favorite trick involves dressing up in blue from head to toe. It makes it easier to become one with the blueberry. Once I infiltrate their ranks I convince the blueberries that I'm protecting them from the savage pickers on the hunt all around them. Then I coax them into the bucket with a promise of entrance into my special Blueberry Relocation Program. They don't know that's actually secrety code for "Operation Bucket To Belly" until it's too late.
[Insert Maniacal Laughter Here]
It was a sweltering 101 degrees as we picked and sweated and saw mirages of The Great Blueberry smiling down upon us from afar. We entertained ourselves by singing everything from "Hollaback Girl" to Bread's Greatest Hits.
And then an older lady with a voice that perfectly parroted Edith Bunker burst our blueberry pickin bubble of happiness by continuously screeching for "Bob." It went on for at least 20 agonizing minutes.
"Bob......Boooooooooobbbbb......BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBB......where are you BOOOOBBBBBBB??!??"
After enduring such a lengthy onslaught of this woman's shrill whine I certainly couldn't blame Bob for running off to play a game of solitary hide and seek.
I don't know what possessed our normally subdued selves, but with the exception of my oldest son Buster, the rest of us started imitating the lady by simultaneously calling out for our very own imaginary friend named Bob. It got way out of hand. We used the bushy landscape as camouflage when saying things like:
"Hey everybody, Bob is a palindrome.....from front to back he's exactly the same!!!"
"Bob plus O equals BOOB!"
"B-O-B stands for Blueberries on Bob!"
And then Buster clamped his hand over my mouth and frantically whispered, "Mom, you HAVE to stop RIGHT NOW or Bob is going to come over here and he's NOT going to be happy."
That made me uncontrollably spray out a bunch of blue-tinged saliva in laughter.
I ain't fraid' of no BOB!
BOB was probably off Bobbin' For Blueberries somewhere. No, not really. Boo, the youngest male heir in the Infidel household, accomplished that stupefying hands-free feat all on his own when he spotted a lusciously plump blueberry dangling off a low-hanging branch. Boo crouched down and in one fearsome moment he lunged, his pointed teeth bared as he aimed for the blueberry target. In one tremendous gobble he devoured it whole. He's more Jaws on a blueberry diet than he is a mere mortal boy.
So then fearless mini-Infidel leader Sunbum commenced to brazenly yelling out a roll call with oddball names not usually seen outside of psychedelic nightmares incited by consuming a fermented blueberry or two......or three(dozen). She wanted to see if any of our fellow field workers would answer her.
I guess it's just too much to hope for that persons going by Boogaloo Shrimp, Jermaine, Pocahontas, Tyrone, Mathias, and Huffy would all be assembled in one place at the same time.
It's possible that we all turned a bit delusional and loopy courtesy of the complimentary heatstroke that came FREE! with every blueberry bucket picked.
Or maybe we're just the most obnoxious and orneriest gang of purple-fingered blueberry pickers this side of the fruit bowl.
If you see us heading your way, clear a path.....your blueberries are belong to us!
Michael Jackson.......He's either moonwalking in Heaven right now or experiencing an episode of flaming hair deja vous somewhere in Hell. I really can't say for sure. All I know is that I'll be plugged into my iPod until the overly dramatized and hysterical fervor surrounding the passing of the supposed King of Pop dies down. He was the King of Pop. I'm the Queen of Poop. I certainly hope that my passing will be trumpeted by an equal amount of tear-soaked hubbub. Really, enduring the endless parade of stone-faced and somber commentators remark one after another about the "tragic" passing of Michael and how music's brightest light has just been extinguished is just a little more than I can bear. These are the same people who thought nothing about capitalizing on the salacious stories surrounding Michael for the past decade. These are the same talking heads who laughed uproariously at all the Michael Jackson jokes. It's only been a few hours since the man breathed in his last breath and I'm already irritated at the less than sincere weeping and wailing rollicking over the airwaves coupled with endless MJ music marathons. So completely gag-worthy. Even the alternative stations are getting in on the all-Michael-all-the-frickin-time bandwagon by playing the worst Michael Jackson covers ever heard outside of the Tone Deaf Karaoke Club. There is no escape. Chris Cornell's sllllooooww mooooo version of "Billie Jean" blows. Ditto for Fall Out Boy's pathetic attempt to revive the mercifully long dead ditty, "Beat It." Vampire Weekend performed an electronica version of "I Want You Back." Sadly it's every bit as bad as it sounds. Alien Ant Farm remains the sole exception in this category because their "Smooth Criminal" remake rocks. Child molesters shouldn't be so slobberingly revered regardless of how wonderful their musical talent is. Sorry. There's a valid reason that Michael sang "Pretty Young Thing (PYT)" and not PMT ( Pretty Middle-Aged Thing). The greatest memory of Michael Jackson--the one that'll stick with me forever and for always? That would have to be the day my oldest son Buster thought that Michael was some sort of advocate for the Jewish way of life. He was absolutely crushed that the news reports kept discussing comments made by Jackson that would seem to indicate that he was, in fact, rather anti-Semitic. Confused, Buster turned to me and said "What do they mean that Michael Jackson doesn't like Jewish people?!?!? He's got that song dedicated to them: I Wanna Rock With JEWS! Sing it with me gentle readers with your solitary single sequined glove raised high in the air. Do it to pay your respects for the passing of dear old Michael Jackson.....sing it loud, sing it proud. "I WANNA ROCK WITH JEWS.......ALL NIGHT!"
You should always exercise extreme caution when rifling through a crate of old records......you just never know what sort of sensory horrors may be lurking within! Sure, I completely anticipated running my grubby little Infidel fingers over a hairy Bee Gee chest or two or three, and maybe exposing one of Herman's Hermits to the light of day......."Something Tells Me I'm Into Something Good......." but, I most certainly was not expecting to have my hand land in a big pile of old POOPELOO. Fresh and new POOPELOO is fine. Crusty vintage POOPELOO reeks. Notice the record cover? It's POOPELOO to the third power!!!!! You can just imagine some of the very unfortunate conversations that took place upon POOPELOO's release:
I put POOPELOO on the record player. It sounded like crap.
Don't you know who I am? I made POOOPELOO! (Yeah, you and every other human, freak.)
I found POOPELOO on vinyl at the record store today! Ewww, that's nasty. Did you complain?
Hey, did you release a 7-inch POOPELOO? (Perhaps you should consult a doctor about that.)
Have you listened to POOPELOO lately? (Oh, is that what you call it? I call it 'The Plop Plop')
Hey, wanna do the POOPELOO with me? (Uh, no thanks. My anti-diarrheal medicine has just kicked in.)
Every time I put POOPELOO on the record player it scratches and skids. I freakin hate POOPELOO skid marks.
Thank your lucky stars that records weren't produced in a scratch-n-sniff format. It might have worked out okay for "Strawberry Fields Forever" but POOPELOO, not so much. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the more discriminate Antique Mall shoppers I found a box that held quite a remarkable assortment of International cheese.
Most notable is our fine feathered friend, Paul Severs. Flanking Paul on either side of his forehead are golden blond wings that could potentially start flapping in the wind at any given moment, thus elevating him above the Non-Oh La La Zo Sexy riff raff.
After all, you little people should know that you're not truly Oh La La Zo Sexy material like Paul if you're not wearing a powder blue mesh undershirt that doubles as a fish net/laundry bag/chest hair trap along with a twee Mickey Mouse pin on your lapel. You also have to make sure to narrow your eyes for the camera while positioning your mouth in an awkward and uncomfortable grimace like you just ate a bad crepe over at the Oh La La Zo Sexy Cafe. Sure, it may appear as though Paul is squinting at the sun but he's actually working his potently seductive allure.
Please, allow me to remind you just who is the master and commander of all things Oh La La Zo Sexy. It's most certainly not you and me, my friend.
Although, in Paul's defense, he does have some amazingly rock hard abs. I should know. Just look at the picture, I got my hands all over them!
Everyone regards Carrie Underwood as some sort of battered and dipped, chicken-fried Southern goody two shoes--however, the maniacal lyrics embedded within the hit song "Before He Cheats" reveals her true deviant nature.
I couldn't care less that she "dug her key into the side of his pretty little souped-up 4-wheel drive." No, what I'm talking about is infinitely more maleficent.
People, the truth is Carrie Underwood advocates the senseless murder of innocent bite-sized snack food.
It's unconscionable.
I cringe in horror whenever she flippantly growls out the line "He's teaching her how to shoot a Combo."
Using delectable little morsels of processed cheese as target practice is just wrong. They don't deserve this kind of persecution for simply seeking refuge within the crispy confines of a cracker shell.
Shooting helpless Combo snacks.....is this the new redneck sport of choice? Will there be an officially declared Combos hunting season or will rampant shooting sprees force entire Combo families to cower in fear all year long?
I hope these barbarians at least eat the Combo bounty they so ruthlessly slaughter. The trigger-happy thugs should also make their clothing out of the cellophane Combos bags, you know, in the interest of upholding the highest in hunting ethics
Hanging a Combos trophy above the mantel as a braggy centerpiece will be a difficult proposition for even the most experienced taxidermist to handle since Combos come pre-stuffed and doused in artificial colors and preservatives.
I fear a future where unregulated Combo shooting--spurred on and encouraged by Miss Underwood--leads to the Combos population teetering on the brink of extinction.......I'm going to open up an official Combos sanctuary/wildlife preserve.
In my mouth.
I'm so undeniably altruistic.
Let's join together and stop all this Combo hating, shall we? We tend to oppress that which we don't understand.
I know that the coupling of Oompaloompa orange cheese that resembles a load of ear wax on the end of your Q-tip along with tubular crackers that flunked out of the Flat Cracker Academy may seem a little unorthodox but we should allow the Combos union to flourish in eternal snacky happiness.
Coombos: They ain't Funnyuns or fried possum tail, but dangit, they're somebody's junk food baby.
Carrie Underwood and her extreme anti-Combos hate must be halted post haste. I'd rather that the bleach blonde tramp in her song be taught to shoot pork rinds--the bastard child of the snack food world.
If I was a DJ I'd funk up some old Men Without Hats tracks with new stuff from Men Without Pants and call it a "We Don't Need No Stinkin' Dress Code Remix."
*WARNING: This post may offend your puritanical sensibilities. May I redirect you to something more sanitized and boringly wholesome? Perhaps you'd like to visit The Pioneer Woman and gaze upon yet another cow snapshot? It's all part of her Billion Bovine pictorial movement. What about cow labor laws? Are those cattle getting reimbursed for their exploitation at the hands of that scurrilous Pioneer Woman???!? Anyway, I cannot be held responsible for any facial marks you may incur from furiously slapping your hand to your gaping mouth while reading the shocking contents of this post.* In its three plus years of existence The Smiling Infidel has never once featured Hung Dong pictures. So when the opportunity arose to capture this magnificent Hung Dong, I seized upon it. I consider my friend Carrot Jello to be one of the most spiritual and morally upstanding people I've ever met; and yet even she giggled like a little girl at the sight of an eerily glowing Hung Dong that beckoned to us from beyond the darkened roadway.......well, actually, she giggled after recovering from the whiplash she suffered from my abrupt full speed U-Turn action.
I think we're all in agreement here that HUNG DONG is an unfortunate name for a food market. Can you imagine putting Hung Dong on your resume? "Uh yes, I worked briefly as a janitor at Hung Dong. It was a filthy thankless job trying to keep that Hung Dong clean. I got tired of mopping up constant spills."
The Infidel family usually shops at Kroger's grocery store. I used to own a T-shirt that I got during a customer appreciation promotion. It screamed "I LOVE KROGER'S!" in big white letters. Now let's just picture a similar giveaway from Hung Dong, shall we? I'm thinking it might give off the wrong impression to walk around wearing a garment that declares: "I LOVE HUNG DONG!" across the front.
As a general rule Hung Dong refuses to sell cocktail smokies. You'll never find a store circular advertising "The Hung Dong Now Has Little Weenies!" No, clearly the Hung Dong prefers to engage only in mondo sausage sale celebrations. They must maintain and protect their image and street cred, people.
I wonder if Hung Dong is a chain, a franchise, or a one location only kind of store? Does the owner walk around bragging to everyone he meets about his amazing Hung Dong? The proprietor obviously takes good care of his Hung Dong. Notice the impenetrable shield designed to keep Hung Dong safe?
I'll bet certain words are forbidden within the confines of the Hung Dong boardroom. In regards to discouraging sales figures the manager avoids his first instinct to sigh excessively and say things like "Oh crap, the old Hung Dong is really sagging these days." Other banished terms include "droopy" and "limp." Approved Hung Dong business words: stiff, steady growth, spread sheets, endurance, and greater volume.
So is Houston the only place where you can find a decent Hung Dong? Do other cities have a Hung Dong or will we Houstonians gain yet another title to add to our growing collection that includes The Fattest City, The Space City, and Bayou City? Hung Dong Houston. I like it. I can envision the tourism board pamphlet now: Come Visit Houston.....You'll Love Our Hung Dong!
The inferno like heat relentlessly baked, broiled, and roasted a visiting Carrot until her exterior reached a feverish shade of red. We may have overcooked Carrot a teensy bit in the scorchingly hot Texas sun. She can never again package herself as a raw Carrot although thanks to the aftermath of her intense sunburn she can now be marketed as a pre-peeled Carrot or a southern-fried Carrot. I bet that's a delicacy somewhere. What did we do and where did we go during the 5 glorious days that Carrot stayed here in Houston? Here's a brief rundown:
I treated Carrot to her very first Happy Hour where we indulged in Everything's Bigger In Texas-sized mixed drinks. (Half-Priced Cherry Limeades at Sonic Drive-Thru are fantastique!)
We finally got to experience the thrill of being on a slow boat to China.....quite literally. Yes, when we shelled out the exorbitant fees to embark on the guided Riverwalk tour we had no idea that our voyage would be on the Love Boat's sister ship, The Dull Boat. We weren't sailing on a ship of fools. It was more like a ship of drools as people nodded off from sheer boredom. You know it's a bad tour when the host excitedly points out Christmas lights strung around a tree off on the left and people dining on overpriced pasta on the right. Well, that's when we actually could understand what Captain Moses was saying. Most of the time his accent was a cross between Mr. Bean, the teacher on Charlie Brown, and that Mush Mouth from Fat Albert. Captain Moses proved incapable of such lofty goals as parting the Red Sea. In fact, Captain Moses couldn't even part his own hair. He slammed into the pier upon docking leading Carrot to exclaim "HOLY MOSES!!!!" The elderly lady in the back of the boat was our favorite. She churlishly yelled out such charming sentiments as: "Back in my day the boats moved a lot faster than this....." and "Hey, is that Captain even speaking English??!?"
Carrot moved me and I moved Carrot. Together, side-by-side in the claustrophobic stalls of the Antique Mall, our bowels moved in perfect harmonic unison. That's true friendship.
Everyone knows that avowed church slackers plop themselves in the very back of the chapel so they can be as ornery as they wanna be without detection from the more pious of the congregation. The Infidel Family always parks their rears in the rear. Always. Carrot's soaring angelic voice rose above all of our section's off-key hymnal mumblings that we try to pass off as singing. Carrot was the pride and joy of the back aisles last Sunday.
I nearly collapsed in laughter when our Relief Society leader perkily announced that we'd be "waxing cheese" at this week's Enrichment meeting. Carrot and I were the only ones who thought it was funny. I suspect that none of the sweet sisters in that room made inappropriate jokes about hairy cheese triangles that needs a good Brazilian waxing. Some churchy people wax poetic.....we wax cheese.
Carrot confided in me that the crushed ice from our refrigerator leaves the best aftertaste. I told her to write up her testimonial for inclusion in our upcoming Smiling Infidel Travel Lodge brochure. "Infidel ice is the best!!! It makes you forget that everything else there tastes like overcooked butt."
While feasting at Dumass Tacos, Carrot cheekily approached a group of redneck construction guys and asked them to repeat the song she'd heard them crooning while waiting in line. It involved titties and beer and rhymed with phrases like "Thank God I'm not queer." They happily complied and then allowed her to snap pictures of them with their redneck cruiser: A jacked-up, souped-up, painted-up Dodge truck. Then they revved their engine and squealed the tires on their way out of the parking lot leaving me and Carrot to sing "Just a good ole' boys not a meanin' no harm......" for the rest of the day.
While here, Carrot lovingly slaved over a hot stove to make us coffee cake. It didn't have any coffee in it. She also made us Monkey Bread. It didn't have any monkeys in it.
We successfully completed the Houston Buffet Invitational competition. Carrot now understands why Houston is known for cheap eats. She also now understands why Houston has won the title of "Fattest City" by Men's Health magazine four years in a row.
My mom gave me tickets to see Happy Days: The Musical. Carrot and I stealthily upgraded ourselves to box seats during the intermission so we could get a closer look at The Fonz in his super tight jeans. We were so close we could see one of the actors spit when he started to sing. Fresh Bonafide Theatrical Spittle On Tap. Awesome.
We both got emotional while singing along with Dan Fogelberg. ( I know!)
I confided in Carrot that nobody else in this world can make me laugh until I wet my pants like she can. I'll be packing extra undies in my purse in preparation of the next Carrot rendezvous.
Things We Didn't Do While Carrot Was Here:
We did not visit NASA or Space Center Houston. I was secretly fearful that we'd get accidentally launched into space like in that cheesy 80's movie "Space Camp."
We didn't get around to solving world peace or global warming. However, Carrot did buy us some nifty bedside tables which we outfitted with some super green energy saver lightbulbs. This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine......
We never stopped singing Glen Campbell's monster hit, "Galveston." The slightest provocation would launch Carrot into crooning the main chorus and then I'd join in. Turns out the main chorus is the only lyrics we know. "Galveston, oh, Galveston......"
Carrot met both my mom and dad and yet she still didn't work up the courage to ask for my hand in marriage. What's that all about?
Papi treated me like a lady of leisure during Carrot's visit; even going to work in my place. Consequently Carrot didn't get to fulfill her "Day In The Life Of Elastic" dreams. We did eat chili dogs twice in one day, though. I think that more than makes up for it.
Despite sharing close bathing/bathroom/clothes changing/sleeping quarters we never accidentally saw each other naked. That honor is reserved solely for MILLIE who saw me in all my naked Infidel glory last year in Oregon. Poor, poor Millie.
Convince Carrot to move here. Oh well, there's always next time she visits.
Ah, the great state of Texas.......... It's home to a many and varied wondrous things. Things such as those cute little critters known as armadillos. Things such as armies of ready and willing taxidermists that can transform the tragedy of a squished roadkill armadillo into the triumph of a kitschy beer bottle holder provided you don't mind armadillo particles in your alcoholic beverages. Yes, it's great to be a Texan....most of the time. Sadly though, despite searching near and far, there' s simply not a satisfying and delightful Carrot Jello to be found anywhere. Oh believe me, I've been in pursuit of a replicate Carrot Jello companion for years, all to no avail. How hard is it to find some decent Carrot Jello around these parts? A good Carrot Jello is bouncy and beaming with shininess on the outside while also showing there's substance on the inside....well, substance aside from all the shredded vegetables. Regrettably, I've only found pale imitations of Carrot Jello greatness that either had a surprisingly fruity center or worse yet, absolutely nothing inside. Carrot Jello doesn't come in a pre-molded design for there's nothing quite like a good Carrot Jello. It's a recipe that stands on its own, totally unique from the other moldy Carrot Jello wannabes. I found the best Carrot Jello two summers ago in another state. It wasn't the kind that you can pack up and take home with you though I may or may not have tried to slyly stuff Carrot Jello into my suitcase to smuggle back home. Anyway, I've been going through severe Carrot Jello withdrawal symptoms ever since. So really, what choice did I have but to get on the phone and beg for a fresh shipment of Carrot Jello to be sent to me straight from the wilds of Seattle? My bundle of Carrot Jello arrives today. I plan on experiencing a complete and total Carrot Jello overdose for the next 5 days. I secretly want to keep Carrot Jello all to myself but if some of you are just dying to know where you too can get a heaping helping of delicious Carrot Jello you can go to her amazingly funny blog here: CARROT JELLO She's also 100 percent cuter than that inferior Carrot Jello picture I posted at the top. We have a whirlwind itinerary all lined up that includes: A stop to meet with the royal proprietor of Dumass Tacos, a date with the karaoke machine at Incredible Pizza (we're definitely going to rock a "Brandy" duet), dual chin plucking marathons, and maybe, as time permits, we'll even engage in some adventures in roach killing. Here in Texas the roaches are not only as long as your middle finger but they also fly. We'll need cucaracha nets and safari hats equipped with a built-in RAID sprayer. Act now and maybe some of you can book this first-class Carrot Jello to show up in your city for a special appearance. Perhaps this can turn into the Carrot Jello World Tour 2009. The first stop on the tour? H-Town: Home of The Smiling Infidel!
So me and my sexy-Mexi husband Papi were lounging about in bed on Sunday night, ready to drift off into the land of Infidel dreams, when I suddenly turned to him and eagerly whispered "Hey, I really want to EFF you right here, right now" into his ear.
Startled and perhaps a bit frightened, Papi looked at me askance with his lovely manicured eyebrows arched over huge, rounded eyes.
Undeterred, I persisted. "Yeah, come on, Papi, you know that you need a good effing and it just so happens that I'm available to give it to you hard and fast."
And without further commentary I rolled over and stealthily effed Papi's mocha-toned belly with the loudest mouth farts mankind has ever heard outside of the Association for Professional Raspberry Blowers. I exerted so much effort I nearly asphyxiated myself.
Papi informed me that I was "freaking crazy" as he grabbed the bed sheet and daintily dabbed at the remaining spittle encircling his belly button.
See, there's two 4-letter F words used in the Infidel household: Fart and Foof. If I ever tell you that I'm going to "EFF you up real bad" you should tremble in fear because that usually means that either your olfactory senses are about to be assaulted or you're slated to receive a charitable donation of Smiling Infidel saliva somewhere on your person. My personal foofing technique involves a preference for flabby arms as it usually provides superb foofy-fart acoustics.
When people shrilly scream "EFF OFF!" at me, I regard that as a spirited but friendly call to some sort of impromptu FOOF smackdown challenge. Ooooh, an EFF OFF competition. Good thing I packed some Chapstick. This is going to be a long day.
I don't mean to turn this into a braggy blog but the truth is that I have, in fact, effed a lot of people in my 34 years on this planet. That number includes my own self. Yeah, that's right, I eff myself sometimes. When I think about you, I FOOF myself......... Yep, I'm a regular F***(FOOF) Extraordinaire! I also have a lot of kids. I guess that makes me the very embodiment of a Mother F***er (Foofer.) Sweet!
*Gratuituous FOOFING Action In This Video. Watch At Your Own Risk!*
