The Blog of Bex

Anatomy of a Snow Day in the South

2011-01-12T16:17:00.006-05:00

Day 0: I heard it might snow!! I feverishly tell my kids, who whoop for joy. I immediately go to Costco, Publix and the wine shop. Not even in that order. That night, I'm so excited I have trouble sleeping.

Day 1:

Morning: Wake up to a winter wonderland. School is canceled. Yay!! Throw on two pairs of pants, a sweater and my rain boots. Freeze my ass off but don't care because we are having so much fun!

Afternoon: First fight breaks out among the kids over mitten ownership. Have to google medical information on how best to treat chapped cheeks. Can barely feel my feet, due to mild frostbite from running around in plastic shoes that have zero insulation.

Night: Knock back my evening cocktail like my life depended upon it. Rinse and repeat.

Day 2: Unbelievably, the girls who normally have to be pried out of bed with a crowbar in order to make it to school in time have woken up at 5:30 in the morning and are downstairs fighting over who gets the last of the Special K. The fact that there is another full box in the cupboard is, somehow, irrelevant. Curious.

The 5 year old is exhausted from playing in the snow yesterday and has peed about 10 gallons in his bed. The laundry room was already brimming with super absorbent clothes that are inappropriate for snow (but were worn anyway because it’s all we have). Perfect. Massive amounts of time are spent not making a dent in the laundry.

Day 3:

Morning: Playing outside has lost its panache because all of the snow has grown a crust of inch-thick ice that hurts to fall on and will literally cut you if you touch it wrong. This is bad news for the parents who might actually need to accomplish something beyond resolving the never ending disputes over which kid left her sopping wet scarf on the floor.

"It wasn't ME, Mom. It was HER. I know this because I left MINE upstairs behind my bed where we won't find it for months so you and my doctor can worry and wonder if there is a mold infestation in our house because my allergies don't seem to go away."

Afternoon: I see the following quote on Facebook, "five asses in the house, you're stranded for three days with two rolls of toilet paper, you do the math." I think this is hilariously funny until it occurs to me that I, too, have five asses in the house yet have absolutely NO idea how much toilet paper we have. Panic ensues.

Evening: The countdown to happy hour began before lunch was digested. The school just announced that there will be no school tomorrow, either.

Oh my holy hell.

PS I have absolutely why this post switches up the font. I've spent tons of time* trying to fix it and blogger won't let me. It keeps accepting my change but keeping the funky font. So I've officially decided to say FUCK IT and let the weird font stay.

*By "tons of time" I mean almost a few minutes.

First impressions are important, yo.

2010-08-12T12:00:00.007-04:00

My two oldest kids are in elementary school, which - in the fine state of Georgia - started last week. My middle kid, Thing Two, was a bit dismayed early on when she was given homework by her teacher. It consisted of a bag and a note stapled to it that said:

What's Your Bag??
Attached to this letter is a lunch bag. Please fill the bag with three to five items or pictures that tell about you. Bring the bag back to share during the first week of school. Here are some ideas:
something in your favorite color
the wrapper from your favorite snack
the best book you have ever read
something you collect
something that tells about your hobbies
a picture of your family

I asked her if she wanted any help and she said, "Nope! I've got it covered, Mommy...I know exactly what to do!!"

And then I thought nothing else about it. After all, sticking 3-5 things that say something about you in a brown paper bag is a piece of cake, right? Today I noticed that she had brought it home with a teachers "check" mark on it. Curious to know how she would introduce herself to her teacher and classmates, I opened it up to find this:

Let's review the contents, shall we?

A spool of green thread clearly stolen from somewhere as I do not sew.
A ballerina with club feet from her jewelry chest.
A broken pencil.
A fake gold coin.
Mommy's St. Patricks Day garter.

Can I get a what the fuck?! I'm thinking that the first parent-teacher conference is going to be awkward. And obviously, I will be wearing the garter.

From the mouths of babes....

2010-01-04T16:06:00.003-05:00

I was in the car today with my three kids, ages 3, 8 and 10. The three year old announced that his "penis hurts...and it's getting bigger!" He wanted me to help it. "No-can-do, Buddy...that's illegal, even in Georgia. Just give it time, leave it alone and it will go down on its own."

About 10 minutes later one of my daughters exclaimed, "Oh NOOO!!!" Naturally interested, I asked what was wrong.

She said, "I lost a fart!" When I asked her what the hell she meant by that, she said that she "...pooted, but it turned into a bubble and went up the front and didn't come back out."

So if any of y'all want to know why I have a cocktail every night at five SHARP, now you know.

The Roof! The Roof! The Roof is on FIRE....

2009-09-09T07:45:00.003-04:00

Today is 9/9/9. And all I can think about are flame-retardant pajamas. What the hell is up with this?!

I realize that some poor little kids must have been in a house fire where their pj's went up in flames. That's horrible (and totally not funny so I'm gonna quit talking about it right...NOW.). But do children really have to, until the end of time, sleep in weird, sweaty fabrics that boast "Flame Retardant!" on their labels??!

And what, exactly, does "flame retardant" mean? I realize that it probably won't go off like a roman candle if exposed to a spark, but what happens if fire gets on it? Does it melt?? That probably wouldn't feel good, either, Folks.

My 8 year old has begun sleeping in her daddy's t-shirts because they are just regular old cotton. That's all kids want - some normal cotton jammy's that don't make them sweat so much that they have recurring dreams that they're stuck under a waterfall that feels like damp burlap.

I wonder if any studies have been done to find out how this has helped humanity. I would think that it has not. PLUS, they don't make adult flame-retardant pajamas, and I'm guessing that adults are the ones who fell asleep with a Marlboro dangling out of the side of their mouth, causing the fire in the first place.

Do other countries do this? I'd bet...not. The kiddie pajama people probably got sued by some Marlboro-smoking-while-in-bed jackass and now the rest of us have to deal with our sweaty, bullet-proof sleepers.

I'd like to see a label that says:

"This is non-treated fabric. It is neither flame retardant nor particularly flammable, but it feels nice. Just keep your kid away from matches, read her a story and quit smoking before you fucking hurt somebody."

Dare to dream....

Wacko Yacko esta MUY loco.....

2009-07-07T13:42:00.003-04:00

I have a strange affinity for Reggaeton music, which has me, at times, listening to Hispanic radio stations. This morning was no exception. I don't speak Spanish so I have no idea what the hell the announcers are saying...but I imagine that the DJ's are dressed up like clowns like on the Spanish TV. The guys are almost always fat and love to make wild and sometimes suggestive facial gestures. The women either are beautiful and curvy or look like a prison warden with makeup.

Anyhoo, this morning they were playing a cool song and then when it ended, the crazy (Muy LOCO!!!) announcers took over. It sounded something like this:

Labbadda labbadda....LabbaaaaaDAAA!!! [cue the canned laughter] Blah blah
blah....Michael Jackson .... blah blah blah...labbadda....... ....esta...Wacko
Yacko....

I finally figure out that I was listening to the "zany" morning crew discuss the Michael Jackson funeral coverage. So much for my self-imposed moratorium on the subject today. Does anybody REALLY give a flying fuck this "guy" is dead?? Don't get me wrong...I think that he was an innovative pop star back in the day. I saw him in concert a LONG time ago and thought it was great.

That was THEN. Before he mutilated himself with countless surgeries and chemical treatments. And that was also before he practiced what I consider to be WILDLY inappropriate activities with children whose parents had lost their minds and granted permission for unsupervised sleepovers at Creepy Uncle Mikeys house.

I can't wait for tomorrow...that's for damn sure. Bury this crazy fucker and let's all move on.

Until then, I'll console myself with a Reggaeton remix from youtube, during which I will try not to lament the unkind gods who didn't make me from the Dominican Republic so I too could have a glorious ass. No, out of all of the "mixed blood" in my family I had to get the Irish ass. Meh....

OH Baby!!!!

2009-05-04T21:43:00.001-04:00

I became aware of a documentary today called 'Orgasmic Birth'. It documents, essentially, women who have "natural" deliveries and then are blessed with some kind of orgasm at the end of the delivery. Wha...really????!

I've had three kids, but they've all been born via c-section. In the beginning I really wanted a vaginal birth...it just never happened for me (stupid cervix). But I planned for it, gave it a lot of thought and when I was crafting my Personal Birthing Plan my doctor asked me to put whether or not I'd like drugs and I wrote (after careful seconds of consideration), "Hell yes, I want the drugs! And if y'all are running low just let me know and I'll bring my own!"

That having been said, I have plenty of girlfriends who have done it without anything and they are just fine. Although, one would think that the same women who told me that I've just got to get a Rabbit vibrator would have the 4-1-1 on the orgasm at delivery if you don't do drugs thing. I'm guessing it doesn't happen for just anyone. (Maybe there is more to that bat-shit-crazy octomom than I had previously thought????)

After reading further through their literature it appears that some use "manual stimulation" to reach orgasm as they are delivering their child. I can tell you guys this much; my husband already thinks I'm a freak. I'm pretty sure masturbating during the delivery of our child would push him over the edge (not in a good way).

There are some good points in the article, however. When you are sexually stimulated, you don't receive pain the same way. And, to some, pain actually feels kinda good (you know who you are) when you're having sex.

I know some granola girls who will be all over this shit. I'm not judging you, Sisters! Squeeze that pickle through your straw anyway you can! I, personally, will take this movement seriously as soon as I hear that the same advice is being given to other people in pain.

For example, someone getting a tooth filled. Or, keeping it "apples to apples", how about a guy getting a vasectomy? That hurts (if my husband is to be believed). Perhaps he should have just allowed himself to reach down, and...oh man. I can't even finish the thought. Anyway, it is an interesting idea. And you never know, right?? Maybe the next time I stub my toe I'll give it a try.

Perez Hilton...he's quite the schlub

2009-04-29T16:45:00.002-04:00

This is why I love Southern Women. And Drag Queens.

Sing it, Sista!!!

Party Chit Chat

2009-04-15T18:37:00.003-04:00

I met a very interesting woman today. We were at a luncheon and were seated across from one another at a long table. She introduced herself to me and we began chatting. Suddenly, things got weird:

Her: This egg salad sandwich is YUMMY.

Me: Mine, too! There must be relish in here....

Her: Speaking of eggs, I have endometriosis.

Me: Oh man, that sucks. I have a couple of girlfriends who have it, too. (the men at the table are now slowly scooting their chairs away from us while I bat my eyes at them, silently imploring "PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME HERE BY MYSELF!")

Her: It's VERY painful. I had cysts on my uterus AND cervix. I also have boils taken out from time-to-time. It really sucks.

Me: Ummm...yah, I'd imagine. Oh! Not to change the subject or anything, but did you SEE the cake over there!!! Wow!!

Her: I like cake. It reminds me of my ovaries.

Me: ......eh.... So...I hate to change the subject again, but I'm dying to know: what do you do for a living??

Her: I'm a Matron.

Me: Is that like a Patron, but a chick?

Her: No, that's like a Matron. As in a Prison Matron.

Me: [some unintelligible noise leaves the bottom of my throat as I look at her with curious horror, knowing that I'll never be able to stop her from telling further horrible truths about her life.]

Her: Yep, I do full body cavity searches on female prisoners for a living.

Me: Cavity searches...that means that... [and then silence as I automatically begin imagining the women I've seen on the TV show 'Cops' naked with their cavities exposed. Suddenly the egg sandwich was slowly rising in my throat, inexplicably trying to return to my mouth.]

Parties are kind of overrated.

Jabba can suck it.

2009-04-01T09:09:00.003-04:00

On my way to drop my kids off at the local elementary school this morning there was a police officer who was directing traffic. I was behind 5 other cars that he had stopped so that another line of traffic could go. We had been sitting there for about 30 seconds when the truck behind me beeped his horn. I glanced in the rear view mirror thinking, "Hey, Einstein. I'm not stopped here because I love the way the beater Chevy in front of me feeds poisonous gases into my car. Open your fucking eyes and see that we either have to stop or run a cop over while our kids are in the car."

But I kept my acerbic and witty comments to myself as I had wee ones in the car. Because I have self control.

Anyway, as we entered the drop off zone I stopped the car (because that's what I typically do when SMALL CHILDREN need to get out of the fucking car) and my two daughters picked up their bags and hopped out. As my second grader was closing the door she said, "I love you, Mommy." At this very moment the jackass behind me laid on his horn again, causing my sweet little second grader to nearly jump out of her skin.

My self control slid into my penny loafers as I felt a murderous rage boiling up inside me. WHY are some people such complete and utter tools?! I stopped the car and stared my poisonous gas-fueled hairy eye at him. He was fat. He was bald. He was sweaty. You could just tell that he had offensive body odor. It looked as though Jabba the Hut had somehow managed to grow two little patches of hair above his ears and squeeze himself into a large Ford pickup truck.

What a miserable, disgusting man. He probably didn't even mean to beep. It was probably an errant roll on his flab-a-lanche of a stomach that unexpectedly reared up and hit the horn. Fat fucking asshole. I hope that he chokes on the raw rodent that he will undoubtedly scarf down for lunch.

Florida: The Good. The Bad. The Holy SHIT!!!

2009-03-27T08:54:00.001-04:00

So you know...I live in Florida now. The good news is that my southern accent is stronger than ever - I think it was some sort of defense mechanism...of or for what, I have no idea. I definitely miss Atlanta and my friends, though, especially now. Spring in Atlanta is SO beautiful.

But Florida is pretty nice, too. We go to the beach at least once a week and we all love having a pool in the backyard. Also, my husband makes me a Planter's Punch every night and I don't even feel guilty by knocking it back - we're on vacation, right??

A couple of weeks ago I was reading the news and saw this weird picture:

In case your eyes can't make sense of it, I'll give you a hint. It's not a puppy. I'm guessing it's not an air freshener, either. It is, in fact, a Burmese Python that ruptured and now has a really big dead Alligator sticking out of it's stomach. Oh, and something ate the snakes head off. That's why there is no head there.

National Geographic has been studying this and has even done an "event recreation" that they aren't sharing with me (bitches). But according to their website, here is how the above train wreck happened: a 13 foot python ate a 6 foot alligator. While the snake was busy ingesting his meal (I'm guessing getting a 6 foot INTACT gator through your digestive tract would be very distracting) another alligator sneaked up and bit the snakes head off. In that struggle the python surprised everybody by rupturing in the middle, leaving half of the eaten gator hanging out. And this, boys and girls, is why we don't wrestle after Thanksgiving dinner.

At any rate, I'm pretty sure that my mouth doesn't open wide enough to let out the scream that would surely accompany anything even resembling the above scene.

So it's not all Key Lime Pie and Hibiscus flowers. But it's sunny. And besides...I've got my rum punch and I'm not afraid to use it.

Pardon me, Brother, but could you spare a dime?

2009-03-24T19:57:00.003-04:00

In Florida our homeless people seem to have some sort of union or something. They have matching uniforms and are up - at the crack of dawn - asking for donations on my street corner as I'm unsuccessfully trying to hustle my kids to school on time. And it's always the same guy which leaves me to wonder, "If you can get your shit together enough to show up here everyday asking for money, why don't you just...oh, I don't know...get a job or something??"

My guy, I call him Hud (stands for homeless unkempt dude), is not tall enough. This is basically a nicer way of saying that he's fat. But Hud is totally FAT!! I keep wondering just exactly how needy IS this guy when he can afford to eat an extra thousand calories a day?!

Every morning he greets me in the same fashion - he puts a sad little frown on his crinkly face and holds his hand up with his thumb and index finger almost touching as if to say, "Sadly, my shrinky dink is only this big...that's what fucked up my life and got me all begging on your corner and stuff."

But in reality I would imagine that he's just suggesting that I give him a little bit. (Just the tip. Just for a minute. Just to see what it feels like.) I always smile and then shake my head to imply, "Not in this fucking lifetime, Fatty. Try the car behind me. They look like the type who would love to sponsor an aging drugged out homeless union beggar dude."

Yet I see people giving him money all of the time. I suppose that's why he does it. He probably makes more than the President.

There is another corner nearby where I saw two uniformed homeless people on an apparent Smoking and Cell Phone Break. They were literally hiding in the bushes so I guess those two activities are either bad for business or verboten when you're in the homeless dude union. Unions can be a bitch, you know? Unlike me. I'm never a bitch. Well...almost never.

Switching up the team....

2009-03-19T22:56:00.000-04:00

About 15 years ago I got a call from my sister-in-law. She was graduating from college and needed a chaperone to drive from California to the East coast with her. The reason for this, I would find out later, is that she was a notoriously bad driver. And I don't mean this figuratively. I'm being pretty fucking literal. As in, she literally flipped a car 3 or 4 times on a highway one time. That kind of stuff.

Anyway, I was just as willing way back then (as I am now) to shirk my responsibilities and do something stupid so I said "sure!" and caught a flight across the country to hook up with her.

She is a sweet girl and we had a lot of fun meeting in San Francisco, going to L.A., Vegas, Carhenge...you name it. At one point, somewhere in or around Colorado, I became exhausted and wanted to stop for the night. I was pretty tired of the Motel 6's we'd been frequenting and asked if we could use a phone book to look up a Bed and Breakfast. She'd never heard of this. I assured her that it is not that much more expensive but infinitely more comfortable.

We pulled over and I called the first one with a nice looking ad in the yellow pages. As it was late (almost 10) I got right to the point: "Do you, or do you not, have any rooms available with TWO beds?"

The innkeeper responded, "We do have a beautiful room with two beds. They are separated by a thin wall. We also have a much smaller room that goes for the same price...it has one BIG bed. Which would you like?"

I thought, 'Bless her heart. She must be mentally handicapped as I very clearly stated my wish for two beds.'

So I told her very slowly and carefully, "No...I need TWO beds. T-W-O. That would be terrific. That means 'really good'. Thanks so much...."

When we arrived she showed us around the inn and told us about breakfast. She showed us to the room with two beds and then said, "Remember, there is a room with just one big bed...if you want it."

I reiterated that we wanted the two beds all the while thinking WTF is wrong with this chick?!

The next morning I got up before my sis and headed for coffee. As I walked down the hall I looked through an open door and saw two women sitting up in a big bed, drinking coffee and reading the paper. I thought to myself, "Ha ha! They must have gotten here after us and had to take the one big bed room!"

Still snickering, I joined a few ladies sitting around the dining room table to enjoy a gourmet country breakfast. Behind one of them I noticed a painting of two women caressing each others breasts...kind of funny in a dining room...then I noticed that there were no men here...what are the odds of that...????

It slowly dawned on my that I had brought my shielded (and very Catholic) sister-in-law to a lesbian bed and breakfast. Everyone assumed that we were a closeted couple, hence the repeated offerings of the one big bed. By the time my sis headed downstairs I had already made fast friends and was thinking about leaving my husband for the kind yet funny woman with the Harley. She was into welding and long walks on the beach. I think I could totally get into that....

Check out the schweaty balls on THAT one....

2009-03-13T08:41:00.002-04:00

Mr. Bex entered a weight loss contest at work and is driving me bat shit crazy. Thankfully today is the final day of it and, he claims, he'll take me out for lunch anywhere I want to go to thank me for my participation.

While I might have been construed of as "less than supportive" early on by mocking his giving up the nightly cocktail while I enjoyed my steak, I've more than made up for it this morning. Yes, this morning I have given counsel on the ins and outs (mostly outs) of laxatives. I have also wrapped said husband from head-to-toe in saran wrap - and we're not even going to have sex!

Then, when the aforementioned laxative kicked in I was required to rewrap and then help dress him in his already sweat (and god knows what else) covered clothes. I may never be really clean ever again. All of this and it's not even 9am yet.

This is why I will have a bloody mary bigger than my head with my lunch today and I won't even feel bad about. I've fucking earned it. He, on the other hand, may have earned about a thousand bucks and bragging rights, so he's pretty happy. I can hear him, as I type, in the other room doing situps in his saran wrap ensemble. Jesus....

Bex is going GREEN!

2009-03-12T17:19:00.003-04:00

As in, recycling. As in I didn't write, fund or act in the following. I know. I said I KNOW!! Plus it's old, hell, you've probably seen it a dozen times. But it cracks me up every time I see it so I'm throwing it up here ANYWAY. Take that.

And the dialogue! Instant classic....

Obama says (under his breath), "baDUNKadunk". McCain adds, "I would tap that, my friend."

It is sad that I have no original material to share. But fear not, young grasshoppers. I just bought a pair of rollerblades and I'm not as young as I think I am. I'm sure I'll come up with something soon.

The Elusive Badunkadunk

2009-03-06T16:44:00.000-05:00

The town I've recently moved to is made up of mostly Hispanic people. It's very strange...I'm in the same country, one state down, yet I feel like I should have my passport with me at all times.

There are a lot of things I love about it, with the great food at the top of the list. Cuban, Dominican Republic, Mexican, Colombian...it's all wonderful. When I pick my kids up at school it is more likely that the parents and teachers will be speaking in Spanish, which has given me the very cool sensation that I'm on a sort of permanent vacation.

Probably the worst thing about it is I'm surrounded by people with majorly impressive asses. I've never before felt so boring from behind as I do now. I find myself staring at thick women in stores and restaurants, wondering how I, too, could have a badunkadunk*. I've been eating rice and beans like it's going out of style but it isn't working. I blame my stupid Irish ancestors and their stupid flat Irish asses. Thanks a lot, Mick. Red hair, hyper sun sensitivity AND no booty.

But at least I can wear my "Everyone Loves An Irish Girl" t-shirt, knowing that nobody will accuse me of being a poser....

*The posterior of a female humans anatomy when the diameter of her posterior is not to exceed 50 inches but not to be less than 40 inches. Equally important is that the waistline must be no more than 2/3 of the diameter of the badunkadunk.
Synonyms: Bangin' Booty; Onion.
Antonyms: See "Bex, the flat-assed wonder".

The Evolution of Hair (no, the other kind)

2009-03-05T09:35:00.000-05:00

I recently asked a girlfriend if her daughters ever saw her naked and, if so, how did she handle it. Her answer was "Well, I used to all the time, but...I'm kind of, um, creative with my hair...so now I put a hand down there to cover it and skedaddle into a pair of panties ASAFP."

Creative...what does that mean? Is there a New! and Improved! Crotch Coif of which I'm unaware??? I asked her if maybe she shaved her husbands first initial down there or something and we had a nice laugh.

The whole reason I asked her in the first place was because I have another girlfriend who was recently in her garden tub, having a soak when her 8 year old son walked into the bathroom and said he wanted to jump in. He did so in his underwear. Well, her husband came in and got pissed off! I guess he thought it was inappropriate for the boy to see his mother naked. I have no idea about her coiffing tendencies...but maybe she has a similar issue.

Well, all of this talk about bush coiffing has me thinking about its' evolution. College girls today have no idea about the horrors we used to carry around in our Jordache jeans. In fact, just the other day I was in the woman's steam room at the YMCA when I saw a woman who had clearly missed the memo. She looked as if she were in the process of giving birth to an unkempt black poodle.

There was a bulbous POUF of hair that I couldn't turn away from. And trust me - I really wanted to. In fact my first thought was why a woman was walking around with a chimney sweeps broom in front of her hoo hah. She was walking around the bathroom naked as a jay bird, apparently unaware that people buzz that stuff down nowadays.

I remember the first time going beyond the bikini line was suggested to me. I was in college and my roommate was, among other things, a topless dancer. She told me I should trim it and I thought she meant that the bikini line should go further in. It had never occurred to me that I could actually get scissors and go to work.

Fast forward 20 years and now I'm totally with the program. In fact I practice yoga not for the health benefits but so that I can do all of the moves I need to in the shower to shave to my satisfaction. I don't hide it from my kids, though (the eldest is 9). I figure they don't have anything to compare it to. But I wonder if, when they hit maturity, this will make them feel insecure. You know, "Why am I such a hairy beast when my mom is nice and smooth?? What's wrong with ME???!!"

I am growing out the hair on my head and carry a picture in my wallet so I can remind my hairstylist what I'd love to look like. I like to keep the focus on the direction we're going with it. Sometimes I wonder what direction I'm taking with my down under hair style. It's gone from the Wild Wild West, to a tamed fro, to a landing strip. Then you have the sideways Hitler and then, finally, the pencil mustache. Then, I guess, the blip just gets smaller and smaller until it disappears. Kind of like this guy.

If you want to see what I'm talking about, do your own dirty work. Pick up a Playboy pictorial from 1980. Then 85, 90, and so on, all the way to current times, checking out the five year transformation.

I know some people are into the natural hair gone wild thing and, hey - that's cool. Whatever blows your skirt up, right? But it strikes me at this point almost like a fetish. I wonder if the hirsute look will ever be back in vogue? I really hope not.

By the way, I haven't been blogging nearly as much as I used to and my humor-blogs score SUCKS. If you get a chance to go there and give me a smiley, I'd appreciate it. I guess I'm not quite ready to hang up the towel. Yet. Also, I'm going to give a shoutout to my girl Leigh who has also been lying low. What's up, Girlfriend?? Any coiffing tips you'd care to share???

Rhymes with Holinoscopy

2009-03-03T22:09:00.002-05:00

Some time ago I went to my twentieth high school reunion. I had a good time, although I hadn't seen most of these people since the day I accepted my diploma. One exception was a guy named...well, let's call him "Joe" in case he doesn't want to be discussed on a public blog. Anyway, I bumped into "Joe" several years ago on Bourbon Street in New Orleans around 11:45PM on New Years Eve. I don't know about him but we had been drinking since that morning so I didn't remember much about the encounter.

So when I saw him at the reunion I brought up the New Orleans thing and we laughed about it. We started making small talk and he said that he was, in fact, a medical doctor. I thought that was pretty cool. After all, this is someone with whom I'd sit at parties and bang heads with while listening to heavy metal bands. And look how nicely he turned out! I asked him what kind of medicine he practiced and he said, "uh, internal." Well, I'm no doctor (nor did I sleep in a Holiday Inn Express last night) but that seemed...a bit vague. A bit like bullshit. So I asked him to pinpoint it and it turns out that he's a proctologist. For those of you who've never had medical issues requiring this particular expertise, this is someone who checks out your lower intestines. He will, for a fee, drug you and then put a 6 foot long tube with a camera on the end of it into your arse.

I've started thinking about this and I have to say, I'm curious. I wonder at what point he had thought, "Screw cardiology! I think I'd like to give colonoscopies for a living."

What's that you say? You've never had a colonoscopy? Really??? Well let me enlighten you: The first thing that happens is a doctor examines you Down There. And then he delivers The News - "I'd like to get a better look at this." Leaving you to think, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!" He pats you reassuringly on the shoulder, gives you a prescription to fill and sets an appointment.

So you go to the drugstore to get your prescription. The store clerks give each other Knowing Looks as they try to find a shopping bag big enough to fit the gallon jug into. You can feel beads of sweat appearing on your brow. But hey, you're tough, right? You can do this.

So you take your gallon jug home and read the instructions. In the instructions it informs you that this stuff tastes significantly better if it is cold and advises you to put it in the fridge for a couple hours. That's nice, isn't it? Really thoughtful. So you chill it, take a bath and try not to think about tomorrow morning.

It's time to drink the gallon of fluid. You get it out of the fridge and read the label again. "Lemonade Favored". I always did enjoy a nice glass of lemonade...

You take a tentative sip and immediately suspect that those bitches at the drugstore have poisoned you. This shit tastes like battery acid. And you have to drink a shot of it every 10 minutes for HOURS. It makes you wonder what it would have tasted like had it not been chilled. About 45 minutes into this process you hear something boiling. You look around, alarmed by the sounds intensity. Suddenly your alarm grows as you realize that the sound you hear is emanating from your STOMACH. About this time you double over in pain from the stomach cramps. You sprint to the toilet (hopefully) just in time to enjoy the explosive diarrhea.

There will be no sex tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I don't care WHO you are.

The next morning you wake up and look around for diaper cream to put on your ass as it is chafed from expelling water all night. You aren't allowed to eat anything but this really isn't a problem...you are so grossed out from your experiences you think that you may never eat again.

By now you just want to get this thing over with. So you submit to the ridiculous gown they make you wear. You lie on the hospital bed, all prim and proper and wait DESPERATELY for the narcotics to kick in. The door to your room opens and a few professionals walk in. They are at work and happy, discussing the reality TV show they enjoyed the night before as you were shooting foam out of your butt. They smile at you, ask how "it" is going. Some one puts his hand on your shoulder and invites you to roll on your side and grab your knees.

They tell you this won't hurt and start the procedure. The only problem is nobody told you that this procedure blows gas up "there". They do this to inflate the intestines so they can look around. And nobody told you that this feels EXACTLY like you are 2 seconds away from MAJOR - I'm gonna knock the back of the toilet off - styled diarrhea.

Now don't forget, there is a crowd behind you. And they are all looking in the general direction of your ass. So you start out with a polite warning, "Ummm...you guys...yeah....you might want to...umm...yeah, I think I need to go to the restroom...uh-huh...I'll just be a sec...ummmm....please, you guys....I'll be quick...uhmm, you guys????....Doctor! No, it doesn't hurt, but I...really...ummm....I would like to go to the bathroom...nope...this can't wait... could I just, uh...mmm... Uh Oh. Look out! She's gonna blow! Clear out of there! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....SAVE YOURSELVES!! SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!!!"

And right here, in the middle of your personal lifetime low point, you do the unthinkable. You fall asleep. When you wake up you are all tucked in the hospital bed like nothing ever happened. There is no medical personnel carnage on the floor. You haven't sprayed shit all over the wall. Hmmmm. Was it all a dream? The doctor comes in and smiles at you. I'm thinking that keeping a straight face at this point MUST be the most difficult part of his job. He tells you that it was a false alarm and that there is nothing wrong with your intestinal track. You may get dressed and go home. Woohoo! You are a little woozy from the drugs so you don't even realize that you are walking funny, kind of like a drunk cowboy. But at least you don't have that tube up your ass anymore.

Back to my friend Joe, I wonder at what point he decided that this is how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Perhaps he somehow discovered that he was really good at keeping a straight face after someone makes a total idiot out of herself. I guess I'll have to wait for my 25th reunion to find out.

By the way, as you might have guessed by this blog, a colonoscopy is not one of my favorite pastimes. BUT guess what, people. It's a hell of a lot better then colon cancer. So if you need one GET one. There. I've met my unsolicited advice quota for the day.

And The Designated Asshole Du Jour IS...I'll give you a hint - she just had 8 babies all at once....

2009-02-12T17:43:00.000-05:00

I realize that this is well-covered territory. But the welfare cow from the state of California is SERIOUSLY pissing me off. What the fuck could she be thinking?!

I'm not sure how the news story officially developed. But here is how I processed it:

A lady in California had octuplets?! Jesus...what is that, eight?! EIGHT babies?! Fuck me...I hope that shit's not contagious!

The octuplets mom isn't married? Huh. Must be some trust fund baby with more money then sense.

SHE LIVES WITH HER MOTHER?! IN A SMALL HOUSE???!!! AND they have no money AND her mom said she did not and would not support her in this pursuit. Holy shit....

What the...the doctor submitted the hospital bill to the state for payment?! She receives food stamps (and other state benefits) for the SIX kids she already has. But she doesn't believe that she's on welfare. Right.

She set up a website to receive donations. Unbelievable. I'll get right on that. Right after I send in a generous contribution to the Save The Mosquito's Foundation. Now she's wondering why the media has "turned on her" and she's receiving death threats.

Let me take a stab at that, Nadya. I'm guessing that you've been too self-absorbed in the most grotesque way to have noticed that our country is in financial difficulty. People are losing their jobs and their homes. Marriages are ending because the financial strain makes it impossible to even carry on a civil conversation in the house, never mind nurture a close relationship. People who have been saving their money for a lifetime cannot any longer afford to send their kids to college. Some with medical issues are waiting for treatment because they just don't have the money right now. Too bad they don't know about the Nadya Suleman Method - just fucking do it and someone else will magically pick up the tab! (Why didn't I think of that when I saw those Jimmy Choo's that I really WANTED??!)

And here you are, with your head so far up your ass I'm surprised that your jackass doctor was able to get a hold of your uterus. You were quoted as saying that you "wanted a big family". Well guess what, asshole - your WANTS should not supersede the NEEDS of the people who live with or near you. Particularly since THEY are the ones who have EARNED their own fucking money that is being taxed to pay for your ridiculous existence!!!

Ugh. What a crock of shit.

Jessie, Jessie, Two-by-four, how will she ever get through the door?

2009-02-02T15:10:00.001-05:00

A newspaper headline caught my eye today.

"Nick Lachey Defends His Ex-Wife Jessica Simpson!"

Against what or whom, I couldn't help but wonder. Did that football player she's dating smack her around? Or maybe it's that wacko dad of hers. He always kind of creeped me out....

No, it turns out that people in the press are busting on Jessica for gaining weight. She has had the audacity to go from a size zero to a size two, the ginormous whore. And well-meaning supporters are coming out of the woodwork to give her back-handed compliments.

Her ex-husband Nick must have been really pleased with this zinger:

"I hope she's happy, whatever size she comes in. I wish her nothing but the best."

I have no problem with the beginning or ending of this statement. It's the gooey insides that I take issue with, as in "...whatever size she comes in."

He may as well said (while reviewing the latest paparazzi shot), "Damn, she is a porker, eh?? I always figured that she'd balloon up one of these days. Well, she's a sweet girl, bless her heart."

I cannot imagine someone giving an unflattering picture to one of my exes and then asking him to comment on it. I would be mortified. And then, after a few introspective moments, I would go on a brownie fueled rampage, killing every photographer within my sights.

Lego Flooring Sucks: An Open Letter to Target and Costco

2009-01-30T15:44:00.000-05:00

Dear Target and Costco:

I have spent fortunes in your stores. In fact, I visit so often that my 3 year old son calls you "Popcorn" and "Hot Dog", respectively, because those are the rewards he gets if he's a good little monkey while we shop in your store.

So listen, I have a question for you guys. Whose bright idea was it to put those fucking red bumps outside of your doors? You know the ones I mean, right? The crippling ones on the floor that regularly break my eggs and cause my son, who is still sitting in your cart on our way into the parking lot, to grimace in pain as his testicles are pounded back into his stomach and beyond. Yes, those red bumps.

I would really love to meet the brain trust who thought that these might be a good idea. Seriously - what the fuck?! They practically shake me to my knees, knock my shit around in the cart and hurt my feet through my shoes. What possible good purpose could they have???

As if all of that weren't enough, I am a woman of a certain age. And in case you missed the memo, we don't like to be uncontrollably shaken when standing upright. I'll not go into any further detail, other than to say that it has to do with the back of our arms and our necks. Of course, the only thing worse than personally going over the bumps is being behind an obese person trying to make their way through it. I'm surprised that my eyes aren't bleeding.

So please, be good little stewards of commerce and give Lego their red flooring back before someone gets hurt by the back bacon of a fat chick.

Sincerely,

Bex

Neti Pot Nuttiness

2009-01-29T11:15:00.002-05:00

Last summer I took my kids to the neighborhood pool even though I had a horrible sinus infection. And yes, I'm expecting my major award any day now. Anyhoo, I was sitting and suffering, watching my kids frolic, when a friend showed up. Now, she wasn't a good friend. We didn't have a whole lot in common other than being mothers. She was really into all of that natural, vegetarian, holistic crap. She was even wearing her Free Tibet! t-shirt over her itsy bitsy bikini (that she looked alarmingly fantastic in).

She looked at me carefully and said, "You look like you don't feel well" which is, let's face it, a polite way of saying "Damn, Girl - you look like shit!" I told her about my sinus infection, expecting pity and the offer of an organic pulp bar or something. But no, she hit me with the, "Do you have a Neti Pot?" Of course I had no idea what the hell she was talking about so she explained it. "You're kidding! I don't know WHAT we'd do without ours! It looks like a little tea pot..."

I interjected that I hate tea. A lot. That's why I don't have one....

She laughed at me and said, "No, Silly! You don't drink it! heh heh heh - you stick the spout up your nose and run salted water through your sinus cavity!"

I'm pretty sure the shock and horror on my face demonstrated my position on the whole neti pot thing. Then she started telling me how her 7 year old kid does it, too, and loves it, blah, blah, blah.

I left that conversation thinking that she is - officially - a super freak. Of all of the orifices I'd stick a tea pot spout, well, my nose is the bottom of the list.

About six months later my eldest (who was 8) got a sinus infection. She had just finished up a round of antibiotics for something else and I was dreading taking her to the pediatrician. Remembering the above conversation I went to the drugstore, in a fit of desperation, and discreetly asked for the neti pot section. When I got there I saw that there was an entire industry related to sinus rinsing. Who knew?!

I purchased a sinus rinser that looks like a plastic shampoo bottle with a whole in the lid. It came with 50 packs of sinus rinse. I kept looking for a box that had just a couple of packs as there was no way we were going to need FIFTY opportunities to squirt water up our noses.

When I got home I hopped in the shower with my kid and told her the dealio. She leaned her head forward and I squirted water into one nostril. Green oysters of death paraded out of the other nostril as if on a Slip-N-Slide. It was INSANE how much crap came out of there. After that my kid took a deep breath - and smiled at me. Even more shocking was that the next morning she came to me and asked me to do it to her again because she could breath so much better afterwards. I was shocked, but complied. Again, funky nastiness of a consistency so vile I was concerned that our plumbing would get corked up ran out of her nose.

She got better in no time. Now, I think she prefers this sinus rinse to blowing her nose. We went through those 50 packs much sooner than I would have thought and I went right out and bought the pack of 100.

The next time I got sick I spent about 30 minutes sitting in front of my bathroom mirror. I kept blowing my nose but nothing would come out, even though I felt so stuffed up. I held the sinus rinser in my trembling hand. Finally, I worked up the courage to stick it up to my right nostril and squeeze. It's a weird feeling. It feels kind of like you're in the pool and about to get water up your nose. But then you quit worrying about that because you're in shock and awe at the crapola you've been hiding in your sinuses. After I was done, I blew my nose, took a deep breath - and smiled. I felt fantastic!

Recently I read an entry on one of my favorite blogs when suddenly a new term leaped out at me - Neti Pot Nut Job.

What the...what the fuck is Dan talking about?! Nut Job...I'm not a Nut Job!

Then I began mentally running through the evidence. When I packed for the move to Florida I put my sinus rinser in my purse to make sure that it wouldn't get lost. Every time someone in the family sniffles I jump up, anxious to go get the rinser ready. Now whenever I have a friend with a stuffed up nose I recommend that they go get one. When they reject the idea I push back, insisting that I'm right - they'll love it if only they'd try it. I've considered buying a second "back up" sinus rinser. Because you never know.

And I almost forgot the Grand Daddy Litmus Test of all "Do I Have A Problem" questions: Have you ever concealed your usage from a loved one? Ummm...hell yes. (Nothing lets your husband know "I'm feeling super sexy tonight" like hunching over your sink in a nightgown, shooting salt-water boogers out of your nose with a syringe.)

Fuck. I'm totally a Neti Pot Nut Job.

Paris in 1995

2009-01-28T10:23:00.001-05:00

On July 25, 1995 I took the metro from my dormitory in Paris to the station Saint Michel, which was a stones throw from Notre Dame Cathedral. I was with a group of fellow students and we were to meet our professor for Le Bateau Mouche, which is a tour of Paris on a little boat.

Saint Michel is a busy station as it has two main trains that intersect there. RER B is the bottom line and above that crosses the RER C line. And then above RER C is the street.

We arrived at the station via RER B and looked for the exit our teacher had told us to use. A couple of the students saw a big map and began to study it, convinced that it would show them the way. I thought this was stupid and said so - after all, how hard could this be? Get out of the station, look for a river. Follow the river until you see the boats.

Our group split into two and we left our friends who were fruitlessly staring at the map. We ascended some stairs and were standing next to the RER C train when we felt an explosion. There was a total moment of silence as we all pondered, "What the hell was that?!" The impact didn't move my body, but it had caused my organs to vibrate in the creepiest way.

I decided to leave, with or without my peers. I headed towards an exit where there was a line of people who had the same idea. In my peripheral vision I saw someone running in a strange way. His arms were down at his side and he was swaying as he ran. I looked at him and saw that he was badly injured - his shirt was torn and burned and there appeared to be blood all over him.

I jumped the small fence keeping me in the station and ran out to the street.

It was a beautiful day. There were many people elegantly snacking in the cafes, ladies were walking their babies...it was almost as if I had dreamed it.

A stampede of people erupted from the station. Transfixed, I stood there. I have no idea why. I just couldn't leave. People with minor injuries were coming out and everyone looked as though they'd been in a fire.

After the initial thrust of people I saw a woman lying on the stairs. Thinking she had fallen, I ran down to help her. She had a bad cut diagonally across her throat and blood was coming out in squirts, just like the movies. I tried to talk to her but her eyes were like marbles, rolling around in her head. She began smacking herself in the ears...in hindsight I think that she was near the bomb and it might have deafened her, at least temporarily. I took her skirt and held it against her neck but she kept swatting at me.

I heard the sirens above so I ran to get her help. The medics shoved me out of the way and got to work. I still hadn't realized what had happened.

The explosion sounded exactly like a bomb had gone off. But that was too incredible to assume. But it was indeed a bomb, planted by Algerian terrorists. It had been on the train line we had been on. They had put it under a seat and many people sitting or standing there lost their legs. 8 people died.

The medics began pulling people out of the station. I think there were around 75 seriously injured. The beautiful cafes were turned into operating rooms as limbs were removed to save lives.

Our friend slowly walked up the stairs in a daze. Her face was completely white except for two bright red spots on her cheeks, as though she were blushing. There was soot all over her. Apparently she was still standing next to that map when the bomb went off. It sent her flying backwards into a wall where she hit her head. But her much more serious injury was mental; she saw people dying, people on fire, people who had lost their arms or legs in the explosion.

Helicopters filled the air. There must have been hundreds of them. The whole thing was so surreal...we just stood there with our mouths hanging open.

Then I heard one of the policemen say that there was another bomb that had not yet detonated and we needed to clear the area. I began blindly running down the street, having no idea where I could or should go.

We found out later that the terrorists had planted bombs on both RER B and C. But the one on C - the one that I was standing next to - was a dud. They had been designed to go off at the same time and I heard that they had hoped to rupture the wall of the station so that the river would flood it.

Thankfully they failed in the more catastrophic plan.

For a long time I felt like I'd never be the same again. I had nightmares and trouble eating; my doctor said it was post traumatic stress disorder. Now I rarely think about it. But for whatever reason I was thinking about it today and thought that I'd write about it.

As if I needed ONE more reason not to like Sushi

2009-01-27T14:33:00.000-05:00

Apparently a group of seven Japanese men were sickened recently, three of them critically, for eating Blowfish testicles. This has caused me to wonder...what the hell is the matter with people, anyway???!

Now, before I get too judgmental I should note that they ordered the grilled fish nuts. Perhaps they thought that, through the grilling process, the tender regions might be somehow pasteurized or something. And speaking of cooking them, how big could these things be anyway? What kind of grill do they have to accomodate what couldn't be much larger than an M & M??

It is well known in Japan that eating any part of a blowfish could be deadly yet people treat it as a delicacy and clamor for it in restaurants. But let it be known - if anyone I know ever gets sick from eating Blowfish - whether you ate the balls or not - prepare to get about the same amount of sympathy you'd get for "accidentally" lodging a gerbil up your ass.

Douche Du Jour

2009-01-27T10:43:00.001-05:00

You know, it's not every day when you find someone so socially and morally repugnant that even evangelical Christians don't want anything to do with him. But this is exactly what has happened when the New Life Church pushed out pastor Ted Haggard with the following statement: "Dude. Live in the now. You're GAY. Don't go away mad, just please, please go away."

Simultaneously gay activists are actively trying to push him back into the church as they don't want him, either.

Even the infamous NAMBLA (North American Man/Boy Love Association) rejected him with the following press release: "Ehhhh....yeah...regarding the rumors that Ted Haggard wants to join our ranks...umm...we are going to have to pass. He makes our skin crawl."

In closing, I would like to suggest that Gayle Taggard go have random, crazy cougar sex with as many hot guys as possible. She probably has a lot of tension to release.

Stewardese, translated for YOU

2009-01-22T10:30:00.002-05:00

I used to want to be a Airline Stewardess. But then I thought that maybe that wasn't such a great idea because, at the end of the day, you're just walking around a pressurized tube that sails through the air at 300 miles an hour while hustling cocktails and preparing for a catastrophic crash. All while wearing heels and panty hose. Fuck that.

Plus, I'm pretty sure that I'd find a way to screw up the little speech they give before take off. At the very least I'd struggle with keeping a straight face through some of it. As it is I can't help but translate their Stewardese into Bex Speak:

What the Stews say: "If the airplane cabin were to suddenly lose pressure..."

What I hear: It is possible that, at any given time and with NO real warning, there won't be enough oxygen on this fucker to sustain human life. But don't panic....

Them: "...in which case the oxygen masks will pop out of the overhead compartment. Please put on your mask before assisting anyone else."

Me: Plan on taking up some of the precious remaining air with a loud scream as something with tentacles just dropped on your head. Of course your ensuing panic is amplified as you were already feeling a little lightheaded (probably an effect of the lack of oxygen). You will be a lot more comfortable on this doomed flight if you allow the kid next to you to pass out from lack of air before you put his mask on.

Them: "...do not be alarmed when the oxygen mask doesn't inflate with air..."

Me: Let me get this straight...for some reason this plane doesn't have air in it. So I'm supposed to believe that this little plastic mask is somehow designed to allow me to breathe but just "looks" like it's failing. RIGHT. See you on the other side, bitches....

Them: "Everybody! Look at this bright and shiny object! It's called a SEAT BELT and here is how you use it. See this end? You stick it in that end. And then you pull it to make it tighter. So, just to recap, you put this part into this part...."

Me: I have a mental image of the individual for whom this is stated. He approaches the belt with cautious curiosity, initially hitting it with a stick to see if it bites. Of course he'll be making his chimp noises while investigating. Then, when his courage is worked up, he'll begin smacking the two belt ends together over his head while yelling, "Oklahoma! Oklahoma!" There will be drool on his shirt and a big pee stain on his pants because he forgot to shake it...again.

But I think the airlines need to add something to their seat belt spiel. Something like, "If your seat belt doesn't fit around your jelly belly please let one of us know immediately. Because this is an excellent indicator that you do not actually fit and probably are not really contained within the airspace of your seat. This could be construed as offensive to some, as we read about in this scathing post on the Blog of Bex. Apparently she was forced to wear someone else's fat like a parka. At any rate, big boned beauties need to procure two seats or be prepared to be featured in a blog entry."

MOM...she started it....

2009-01-16T10:13:00.001-05:00

Our house is typically a peaceful place. But every now and again, my girls fight. And then every once in a blue moon they BATTLE. We're talking punches, smacks and name calling. Apparently being called "poopie head" is the pinnacle of bad names right now, which is quite fortunate considering the bad words they've surely heard me mutter over the years.

These battles will often times will go for a day or two, peppered with periods of peace. Then, suddenly, there will be an attack, which will be a retribution for some previous offense.

For example:

Girl 1 is sitting on the sofa, reading a book when Girl 2 stealthily descends upon Girl 1 and snatches the book away.

Girl 1: Chases her sister until she's cornered and slaps her arm.

Girl 2: (in an incredulous voice) "What was THAT for?!"

Girl 1: "You took my book!"

And the bickering escalates which brings a visit from the pissed off maternal figure in the house. By the time I get there, they are both breathing heavily with their little red cheeks puffed out in indignation while beads of perspiration roll down their brows.

They both begin yelling at me at once with familiar phrases falling to the ground like shrapnel:

She started it!
Did not!
Did too!

So I take each of them by the ear (which immediately quiets them) and we begin to attempt to dissect the root of the issue. Here is a snapshot:

Last night Girl 1 entered Girl 2's room without permission, which is against house rules.

But, Girl 2 asserts that the only reason she broke that rule was to recover ownership of her favorite Barbie that Girl 1 had taken, again without permission, which is also against house rules.

And it goes on and on. Each attack is actually a retaliation for a previous offense. I try to explain to them that there are more mature ways of dealing with conflict. You don't always have to get someone back. But, acknowledge that you should not allow yourself to become a doormat, either, who is constantly pushed around by the other.

This morning I read a news story that stated Israel continued its air strikes in the Gaza strip. For years I have tried to understand this conflict with little success. I have friends on both sides of this argument and have listened to hours of impassioned descriptions of what "THEY" have unfairly and cruelly done while "WE" only want peace. I see a correlation between my daughters behavior and that of those in the Middle East.

There seems to be a lot of yelling about who did what last. I wish that the emphasis would switch to where and how the conflict will end.

After the last big fight between my girls I sat them down and said, "You are sisters. Love and protect each other. You guys are always looking for ways to make me proud and happy. Well, this is how you can honor me. Be good to each other, be thoughtful, patient and tolerant."

I would like to take both Israel and Palestine by the ear and drag them to a quiet corner of my house and tell them the same thing. After all, they are brothers. If they found a way to get along they would all be stronger. It would be a way to honor their planet, not to mention a way to ensure their future generations would have a better chance of success.

But I fear that I will have to continue to sit here in my little corner of the world and watch these two groups of human beings beat the shit out of each other. Innocent people will die every day, further incensing the other group, resulting in more attacks, more innocents dying, and so on. If they were my children I would spank them both for outrageously dangerous and bad behavior and then send them to their rooms - indefinitely.

This all leads me to wonder how Israelis and Palestinians resolve conflicts between their children. I wonder if they hate hearing "...she STARTED it..." as much as I do. I hope that they will find a way to peace. But I fear they will kill each other off. Hopefully they won't take out the rest of us on their way to this horrific but seemingly inevitable end.

Maxi-Mahem

2009-01-07T23:15:00.001-05:00

I think I was 11 when I got my first menstrual cycle. What a strange time in a girls life. My daughters are getting older and that's weird, too, to see their bodies changing and their personalities more developed and complex.

When I was around 12 or so something really horrible happened to me. And every now and again the terrible memory will wash over me, leaving my stomach tied in knots. I feel that I should warn my girls, but I just don't have the words, you know? How can you explain to a young girl just how quickly things can go downhill??

It's very complicated. Yet also simple. Here is what happened. I was invited to go the mall by a girlfriend whose dad was willing to drop us off. My cycle had started that morning so I put on the only protection we had way back then - a maxi-pad that you could land an airplane on. If you wore pants that were too tight with one of these things on you looked as though you had some kind of tail that made squishy diaper noises as you waddled around. As if I didn't feel conspicuous enough. That's probably where those baggy MC Hammer pants came from. Women created them because they didn't want to advertise that they were OTR.

Anyway, my friend and I were walking around at a brisk pace when, without ANY warning at all, my pad somehow flipped upside down. Now...without being TOO crude, this was around 1980. Think back to all of the Playboy pictures from back then. Lots of hair. Lots of it. Nobody was really into coiffing their junk back then. Especially not naive 12 year olds.

And these pads didn't have just any old adhesive tape. No, this was magical tape that seemed to be forever slipping off of my cotton underwear but then could (apparently) hermetically seal itself to pubic hair in no time at all.

As I said, the pad flipped upside down. All I really knew was that I was suddenly, without any warning, in the most excruciating pain of my young life while cruising the epicenter of Junior High (the mall). I began wildly gyrating around, trying to ease the pain yet every move I made created an even bigger tangled mess. Finally, I doubled over (likely giving the appearance of eminent diarrhea) and ran towards the restroom where I could free myself from the wiley tangle.

I stayed in the bathroom for about an hour, convinced that "everyone" saw me. I didn't realize then that I was such a spaz, nobody probably gave it much thought at all.

So now that you know my secret, you can probably also see my dilemma. Had my mother told me that such a travesty was possible, I'd probably never have left my room. I suppose this will be just one more thing that my girls will have to discuss with their shrinks in the years to come. Sigh....

Crazy chicks are dangerous, yo.

2009-01-06T11:24:00.000-05:00

Just when I was getting ready to have Lorena Bobbitt's name permanently laminated on the "Craziest Wife EVER" trophy, I read the little ditty about an Australian lassie who saw her husband hug another woman.

Did she ginsu his junk off, a la Bobbitt? No...she went a little pyro on us and doused his genitals with alcohol and then SET THEM ON FIRE.

(Get your hot nuts...get your hot nuts here....)

Apparently the fire in his crotch woke him up with a start and he leaped off the bed. This action knocked the bottle of alcohol over which ignited the whole place and he eventually died from his injuries. They've charged her with murder.

I wonder what defense claim her attorney might be considering.

"I thought I saw a tick and was going to burn it off but didn't want to wake him...."

"I was cold and thought he might be, too."

"Well, he loves The Doors, and I was going to surprise him with an interpretive dance to Light My Fire...."

My point is, if your woman is kinda crazy...maybe you should just not sleep.

You GO, Grandma!

2008-12-31T09:45:00.001-05:00

I have taken several self-defense courses in my day. I'd say it's a good thing to be as prepared as possible when violently attacked. Hopefully, if it ever happens, I won't stand there with my thumb up my ass wondering, "Do I smack him in the nose first and THEN stomp on his foot...or is it the other way around?? Or, maybe I should contemplate my 'Fight or Flight' options again...."

So when I read the story about an 88 year old woman in Oregon who was attacked in her own home by a NAKED intruder who chased her through the house and then shoved her face down into a chair, I briefly wondered what I would do (beyond defecating in my pants) if something like this were to happen to me. I cannot imagine how terrified she must have felt.

But I do know something that she felt - and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, would be his "package".

After having her face shoved down into her own chair, she must have thought, "You know what? I don't FUCKING THINK SO." So she reached her arm behind her back, grabbed his junk and squeezed - HARD. According to the news reports he "tore himself free" and fled. [Any man reading this just squeezed his knees together and leaned forward with a grimace on his face.]

I hereby award this 88 year old firecracker the "You GO, girl!" award.

All day long I'm going to be singing to myself, "Go, go go - Go Grandma. It's your birthday! We're gonna party like it's your birthday! Sip Bacardi like it's your birthday! Go Grandma!"

He's lucky she didn't rip it off and smack him with it.

Yoo hoo...I'm feeling MUCH better now...I think I'll go for a walk....

2008-12-30T22:26:00.003-05:00

Well...hey there, hi there, ho there! Yes, I took a powder for a while....

I'm writing because I began to fear that you would assume that I allowed my husband to talk me into joining him in a 7 night, 8 day cruise in the Caribbean where I might have "thrown myself" off of our balcony into the churning sea. Rest assured, if that happens, that I am good and pissed off while waiting for a shark to eat me. GOOD and pissed off. And I'm probably still holding his recently ripped off nipple in my right hand, too.

So here is the deal - I moved to Florida last week with my family. I'd like to get all whiny about the trauma of it all but I must admit we've been enjoying some crazy sweet weather - it's seriously almost 80 every day around here. We've taken our three kids to the beach a few times, too, and it's packed. Everybody lines up for a chance at blistering nose, I guess. As long as it doesn't involve me and a shark, I'm there.

Anyway, I'm back. I just thought you'd want to know that. One of these days, ANY one of these days, I'm going to wake up with a HILARIOUS thought in my little head and bang it out here on the Blog of Bex - just like the good old days.

Hope to hear from y'all soon! (And yes, now that I've left Atlanta I try to fit the word "y'all" into every possible conversation.)

Bex, OUT

Jackass Du Jour

2008-12-10T19:34:00.003-05:00

Why must we have people like Governor Blagojevich of Illinois??? What a complete and utter tool. He put a Senate seat up for the highest bidder. I'm surprised he didn't use eBay. Spitzer must be relieved to be replaced by such an OBVIOUS dickhead in the media.

Spitzer is like, "Hey...all I did was put the stones to a hooker...it's not like I was selling Senate Seats on the sly...."

Let me guess...some day REALLY soon we're going to see a press conference where Blago-whatever's wife blindly follows him out on a stage where he admits to being a total piece of shit while the crowd collectively gasps. OR...he'll commit himself to rehab somewhere....

And THEN he'll have a press conference (with a xanaxed out of her mind wife by his side) where he says,

"I was in the grips of a DISEASE when I said that! Now that I'm clean and sober...well, I'm no longer a lying, conniving jackass! Nope! I no longer lust after money and glory...I've basically become Jesus after being in rehab for 28 days. Plus? Now Amy Winehouse and I are super awesome Facebook friends! Also? You know how she looks like she smells bad?? Well, she does."

The Devil in a Blue (Bankers) Dress

2008-12-04T20:40:00.000-05:00

You know...the economy is freaking me out. I suppose it's freaking out a lot of us. There are so many things to worry about - the poor are having a tough time. And the ill-informed AND poor, well, those poor bastards are really taking it up the corn hole.

My regular readers will know that the house of Bex was not spared bumpy times...the hubs was laid off in September and was lucky enough to get an AWESOME offer from a new and improved company - but we have to move to Florida. So we are, as I speak, preparing to move from a place and home we love. But like I said - we're really lucky.

I have actually pitied the banks throughout all of this. They are really getting raked over the coals. The very people who went into the banks on their hands and knees, begging for money are now throwing rocks through bankers front windows, denouncing their having "taken advantage" of those either unwilling or unable to read the fine print of mortgage documents.

Give me a break. Take responsibility for yourself, people.

And the banks are working double time, trying to make a better name for themselves. Or, so I would have thought until I opened up my mail today. I received a compelling offer from Chase Bank. Although I don't work (and haven't for 10 years), I have somehow managed to receive a $25,000 unsecured loan.

The offer letter states, "Pay tuition, take a vacation...you're one phone call away from the financial freedom you deserve."

Oh really. Taking a fancy vacation on your $25k loan is going to somehow enable me to gain financial FREEDOM. Interesting. Seems to me that even that choice of language is a big "FUCK YOU" to the people who are losing their asses right now.

So I threw out my offer and picked up the next piece of mail. It was addressed to my TWO YEAR OLD BOY. Thing Three, being a toddler, doesn't get a lot of mail so I was fairly curious about the contents.

It stated, "Dear Mr. Three: Congratulations are in order. You've been selected to apply for a Card that reflects your achievements...."

Let's stop right there. As far as I'm aware, the only thing this kid has "achieved" in his lifetime is a series of corn filled dumps that have run out of the side of his "Leak PROOF!" (don't even get me started...) Pampers. Don't get me wrong - I love this kid more than I love breathing. But achievements?? Give me a break!

The letter further offers, "A card designed to reward you and bring you the extra service and privileges you require."

He hasn't even earned the privilege of drinking out of a Big Boy Cup, so I'm pretty sure that this American Express Rewards Plus Gold Card will be out of his league. And he has not yet made me aware of any privilege he requires. But don't worry, Amex, if he suddenly comes up with a requirement to access frequent flier lounges, I'll be sure to let you know.

My point is, Bankers, I was on your side. But it is clear to me now that there is something inherently fucked up about the way you do business. It's like you're part angel and part devil. The Angel Banker says, "Please...read ALL documents carefully as they ARE legally binding. Serious consequences can and will occur should you end up stiffing us..." while harp music plays innocently in the background.

Then the Devil Banker pulls up behind you and whispers, "Hey, You...with the big ass...yeah, YOU! You don't think those silly little rules apply to YOU do you?? Nah...those are for the other people. You are special and obviously somehow entitled to wealth you didn't earn. Whoop it up, Buddy! Welcome to the Good Life!"

What a racket.

A Cautionary Tale About Drinking Margarita's During the Holidays

2008-12-04T12:04:00.004-05:00

Many moons ago, when the hubs and I were newlyweds we had a job with a local catering company for weekend work. We enjoyed the extra income and it barely felt like we were working as we were spending time together. (All together now - aawwwhhhh....)

One night we were employed to work at a very elegant company Christmas party at the Convention Center. The event was beautiful - everyone was in either a tux or a gown. There was a band, lots of beautifully displayed food and - everyone's favorite - an open bar. Don and I were bartending and got to share a bar which was fun. Our bar had been decorated for us and was extremely festive with many votive candles, holly leaves and confetti. Just working there was putting me in the holiday mood.

There was a table of ten sitting close to our bar and they were rocking the margarita's this evening. Everyone was pretty shit faced. What can I say? I make a mean 'rita. Towards the end of the evening one of my margarita ladies stood up at her table and looked longingly towards me. Or past me. There could have been a clock behind my head. Anyway, she was stunning in an emerald colored gown, carefully applied makeup and hair that I would kill for. It was the color of golden honey and went halfway down her back. She had it teased all around her in a way that reminded me of Diana Ross. She was truly a vision. Until she tried walking. She stumbled in my general direction and mumbled, "AhWannaNudda Marghhareeeettttaaaa".

I looked around us to see if she had, perhaps, brought a translator. And then I said, "Um...I'm sorry?" She sighed in a way to let me know that she was annoyed as she mumbled in a loud and hissy way, "AhhhSaidAh WannaNuddaaaa MARGAREEEEEEETTTTTAAA."

I still didn't get it. And now I was embarrassed as she was looking at me like I was an idiot. "GIVE. ME. A. MARRRGHHHAAARRRREEEETTTTTAAAAA!" As she was screaming the last part of that she leaned towards me for effect. When she did this she hovered over my festive holiday display like an angry, drunken cloud. Neither she nor I were thinking about the votive candle she was over. Until, suddenly, her hair IGNITED. A fire ball shot up and off the top of her head like a roman candle and she stood there, totally oblivious, screaming at me about her drink.

Well, I was simply stunned. What had she sprayed in her hair that made it so completely combustible? I stood there, unable to speak with my mouth and eyes gaping, and pointed a finger tentatively at the top of her head. I turned my head slightly towards my husband who took in the expression on my face with interest. I saw his eyes follow my arm which was pointing at a woman who's head was on fire. Boy Scout that he is, he sprang into action by shoving me out of the way, leaning in towards the woman and CRACKA! - he smacked her really hard in the side of the head. Her neck snapped sideways and slowly righted itself. She looked at him with something resembling curiosity and slurred, "Heyyyyy...."

The right side of her head was untouched and was still teased out and fuzzy. The left side, not so much. It was matted to the side of her head and still steaming from the now extinguished fire. She glanced over her shoulder a few times as she stumbled back to her table, filling the hall with the unmistakable stench of burning hair. The band finished the song they were playing and began looking around. Finally, the lead singer asked, "All right...who the hell is burning cats in here??!"

To this day I cannot drive past the Convention Center without thinking about that woman. I keep trying to imagine her waking up - with a horrible hangover - wondering why the left side of her head is stuck to her pillow. I wonder what she told her friends about why she switched hairdo's from a beautiful, flowing style to something short and choppy. I suppose I'll never know. But I will tell you, that when I am at a bar I pay close attention to the candles.

Light a match!

2008-11-25T10:33:00.002-05:00

You know, people are getting so touchy these days. I just read this news story about a THIRTEEN year old kid who got arrested.

When I saw the headline I thought, "Man, this country is going to hell in a hand basket. What did this criminal mastermind DO, anyway?? Did he steal a car? Get his moms attention by throwing a cleaver at her head? Sexually assault his little sibling??"

Noooo....

No, this kid farted in school. And then got arrested. Apparently I went to school with a bunch of felons and didn't even know it.

Besides, have you seen what they feed these kids in school lunchrooms?? And "The Man" is going to blame intestinal distress on HIM??!

Let's file this under "Give Me A Fucking Break, Please."

The teacher said that he was purposefully farting and therefore disrupting the class. Plus? This little fucker turned off a few computers that his friends were working on.

I think it would be far more incredible if you could find me a 13 year old who doesn't fart on command and then fall to his knees in laughter. In fact, invert the age and find me a 31 year old who isn't the same way. I double dog DARE you.

Every woman's dream - a homemade MacGyver vibrator (with the optional mullet attachment)

2008-11-20T16:17:00.001-05:00

This picture will make sense in a minute. But before we get started, can you get a load of that mullet?! Sweet niblets! Anyway....

My white carpet needs to be cleaned. So I bought some oxy stain remover, rented a carpet steamer and went to work. It worked pretty well but there was a suspected mold stain that didn't come out so I googled "how to get mold out of carpet".

One of Googles suggestions was a link to a website called FunAdvice.com so I checked it out. And that's when I saw it; one of the categories at the bottom of the page invited me to learn how to make a homemade vibrator. A...wha...???

Being the amateur scientist that I am, I felt obligated to check it out. You know, for sciences sake (and maybe a little bit because my husband is out of town).

Apparently MacGyvers lesser educated sister uses this website because I saw the following post:

did you ever get to make this home made vibrator? We are considering this. I love my mans shape of his pen*s. He wants to make one to his own mould with an attachment that goes all the way over my clit. Sucks onto the area around the clit (but only slightly the way I like it) and then have either licking or vibrating actions on the clit area as I wish. The pen*s to vibrate either by pulsing or by constant buzz and with the head moving up and down slightly agains the g spot. Off of thiss interior (the bateries and motor inside the pen*s area) and the exterior thin and sucking onto my whole vulva area thus not moving around as I go about my day. All of this will work with a remote control. If it works.

"If it works." Ha! No need to be modest here! No...this sounds like a fool proof plan. But I wonder if MacGina (prounced mac JI na) has considered the possibility that she is a bit too demanding in bed and that it has, in fact, gotten SO out of control that her man is going to hack into NASA's database to gain the technology to make the thing that might get her off.

Also? Why will she say "clit" but then write "pen*s" when I'm pretty sure she meant penis? That's like saying, "Fuck you, Butthead." If you're going to put the "fuck" out there, you'd better bring the "asshole" with it. That's all I'm really saying.

Where the hell have YOU been?!

2008-11-14T10:15:00.001-05:00

One of my three remaining readers pointed out to me that my blog posting has become irregular. Blogging is such a strange way to spend ones time. There is a whole inner colony of blogging pals who basically make alliances with each other. These groups read each others posts, leave comments and then try to help elevate each others work. This can be done at a place like humor-blogs.com, where I have asked (with lukewarm response, I might add) people to go and click a smiley emoticon.

I have also seen blogs asking for you to "Stumble" this! or "Digg" this! I have no fucking clue what that stuff is. (Really, I don't. What does it mean? Do I need it? Does it feel good? Should I do it? What the fuck does it DO???)

My point is, the alliance only works if you participate in it. Once you stop reading others you'll find that you've been dropped like a bad habit (and let's face it...I probably am a bad habit).

Anyway, here is a brief synopsis of why I have flaked off:

September - Husband was laid off. Then Hurricane Ike hit Texas and we couldn't buy gas. Turns out that it's hard to find a job when you can't get gas in the car. At the end of the month we threw a party and tried to be happy that I had turned 40.

October - Hubs got a job offer - in Florida. He accepted it and moved down there about a week later, leaving me in Atlanta with three kids and the fucking dog. And I have to get our house ready to sell in a market where houses aren't doing too well.

But at least I get to have borderline stalking type relationships with several real estate agents! That's super awesome! Call me again, Ladies! Because you know I LOVE having older ladies with their suspiciously monochromatic hair sprayed into a helmet, creeping through my yard, stealthily leaving "Getting Rid of Your Home: How I'm Gonna Do It" marketing plans in my mailbox.

So there you have it, folks. The reason why I've been MIA isn't apathy at all - it's self-absorption due to the stress of single parenthood and an upcoming move that's supposed to happen in 5 weeks. I can tell you - I really miss blogging. In fact, I keep find myself hoping for a bad bout with diarrhea so that I can justify sitting in the bathroom for hours on end, satisfying my inner writer. I even ate raw oysters the other day. See?! - I'm begging for it!

You can roll a roto to your friend....

2008-11-10T11:17:00.001-05:00

One day, when my first kid was about six months old, she puked. I totally freaked out because I was a first time parent and, well, that's just what we do. I took her immediately to the doctors where she and I sat in the full waiting room and took stock of the all of the germ filled, snotty nosed kids with horror. This place was like a giant petri dish, just waiting to dole out the plague.

Suddenly I felt like I had been hit in the face with a shovel - someone had taken a crap that made frat boy beer shits seem tame. My nose was like, "Fuck it, Dude - I'm outta here." and quit working for the rest of the day, forcing me to sound like Darth Vader with my heavy mouth breathing.

It was unbelievable. Even though I could tell that it wasn't our brand, I checked my kids diaper to prove (to myself and every other mom in the room) that we had not produced it.

To my amazement nobody took their kid for a diaper change. There was a heavy green fog just hanging in the air. Finally, we were called back to the examining room. On my way out I shot an angry look at the remaining parents. Somebody out there was a total asshole for letting their kid funk up an entire room with such a nasty diaper.

The doctor examined her and asked a few questions about her illness. After a while he said, "I wonder if it isn't Rotovirus. Has she had any diarrhea?" I said no, but what the hell is a Rotovirus?!

He told me that it is a fairly common childhood illness. Typically the kid will vomit once but it's hallmark is that it produces the most heinous diarrhea ever. The smell is unmistakable. At that very moment - as if on cue - it sounded like someone shot a cannon of foam into my kids diaper. About three seconds later the smell oozed across us. My doctor had an involuntary gag reflex and fled the room making a weird hairball noise on his way out.

Her Pampers was no match for the rotovirus and her entire outfit was put into the garbage before we left. Sometimes you just know that no matter what you do, this will never again be clean enough to wear. As I changed the Diaper of Death, I kept gagging, too. It was by far the worst thing I've ever smelled. I slowly realized that this was a very similar funk to the one in the waiting room. My kid must have fired off a warning shot fart to let me know of the impending doom. She has always been a very thoughtful kid....

As I was packing up my stuff three nurses showed up in Haz Mat suits and began spraying down our room. On our way out I noticed that they literally shut down the wing of the building we had been in for fumigation.

And this, Boys and Girls, is just one of the many, many horrific and/or embarrassing stories I have that I use to justify why I make such grandiose Mother's Day requests.

Whose yo Momma???

2008-11-07T16:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Madonna:

When you are playing a guitar and singing in a black bikini, army boots and a white top hat while standing next to a fully clothed Britney Spears, you look ridiculous. Just thought you'd want to know.

I'm glad we had this little talk. I actually feel much better now.

I saw Madonna in concert when I was 14 or so. I am now FORTY. When is it going to stop? She's going to end up dry humping the stage in her 60's making her look like this poor lady.

Bless her heart. Also? My eyes are bleeding.

WTF News. (Ribbed for her pleasure...)

2008-11-04T12:28:00.000-05:00

This past Saturday a man in Michigan was walking in the woods with his three year old son. Sounds innocent enough, right?

But then the toddler tripped and fell. During his fall he "somehow" managed to bust a cap in his dads chest.

The good news: the Dad, although he suffered a punctured lung, is out of surgery and is going to be ok. The bad news: he's always going to have to keep an eye on this little guy.

Is it me or does it sound like there might just be a little bit more to this story? Because if there isn't then it means that some jackass let a three year old carry a loaded and unlocked gun through the forest.

Well, on second thought, if you were stupid enough to do that you probably have rightfully earned your way onto the Darwin Awards. But I guess you'll have to settle for an Honorable Mention. Enjoy it, Big Guy!

Vote or die?? Hmm. You're going to have to give me a minute to think about it....

2008-11-03T08:45:00.001-05:00

I would like to know WHO, exactly, is the ass clown who decided that kids shouldn't go to school on election days. Don't get me wrong -- I relish the opportunity to stand in line for hours while my three little kids run around the place, banging pots and pans over their heads while screaming, "OKLAHOMA! OKLAHOMA!" as much as the next girl. Yep, this is going to be super awesome.

The only thing that could make it worse is if they found a way to make me bring the dog.

I just hope that I don't have to wait between any rabid voters. These people drive me bat shit crazy. You know who I'm talking about. They believe SO deeply in their guy that he becomes a Messiah to them which, of course, makes the other guy the Antichrist. These are the people who are incapable of debating any real issue. They just begin foaming at the mouth and talking louder and louder until spittle comes springing out of their mouths. You know that they are approaching something that resembles a conclusion when you see the veins bulging in their neck.

The silver lining, however, is that at least the political mail and phone calls will stop soon. And I get to spend some quality time with my kids in a really, really long line, trying to explain to them why I am voting for someone when, in the end, the only thing that really matters is how our delegates vote.

Why I don't like Old People.

2008-10-28T21:27:00.001-04:00

I used to live in a condo across the street from the beach in south Florida. Our condo (filled to the fucking brim with old, crotchety people) had entered into a contract with the condo across the street (which was also conveniently filled to the brim with assholes). The contract gave our residents legal access to the path to the beach.

At least once a week some crabby jackass would stick his liver spotted head out of the window and scream, "GET OFF MY BEACH!!!"

The weird thing is that we weren't even ON the beach yet. We were always screamed at just when we were opening the gate. The other weird thing is that the Crotchety Window Yellers never, EVER used their own beach. They sat inside of their dark condo with their asses sweating on the plastic cover on their sofas, just indescribably pissed off that someone was having a nice beachy day.

One of the reasons we left Florida was because I started developing a prejudice against old people. I'd see some old fucker scowling across the aisle at Publix and my hair would bristle. I would expect the worst from every old fart headed my way; unfortunately I was almost never disappointed.

It got to the point where I really wanted to drive around with a big shovel so I could smack people in the face with it. That was my Ah-Ha moment - I needed to get the fuck out of there. Back to a place where people were civil to each other. To where dinner parties don't start at 4:30 in the afternoon. Back to where the only people who have blue hair are gothic strippers. And back to where 85 pound men don't drive cars bigger than my first apartment.

I've learned to love and enjoy old people again, although I must admit, I avoid my local grocery store on Senior Citizens get a 5% discount day like I would avoid a flaming case of herpes.

POSTED

2008-10-28T17:30:00.000-04:00

I wonder who the first guy was to put the word "POSTED" on a trespassing sign. The original signs had probably been bothering him for years.

"It's just not enough!" he'd exclaim to his wife. "It needs something...MORE. Something that says 'Hey you nare-do-well! Get the hell outta here before someone busts a cap in your ass!"

Hence, the birth of the "POSTED No Trespassing" sign. Whenever I see one of these signs nailed on a tree or fence I think, "No shit you're posted. There is a nail through the top of you thereby literally posting you onto your tree." It is like putting a "HUNG UP" sign at the top of paintings in a museum.

And what's with adding "KEEP OUT"?! You've already said no trespassing and needlessly announced that your sign is posted. The message can only be delivered so many times, people.

Just a little off the top, please.

2008-10-23T15:09:00.001-04:00

My husband wanted two kids. I wanted three. We had two girls and he thought that was perfect. I wanted just one more little one.... We discussed it. We debated it. He scoffed. I pleaded - all to no avail.

Until we went to Mexico. A few gallons of Margarita's later and the next thing you know - Hello, Sailor! - now we have Thing Three. Everyone agrees that he perfectly complements our family. But if my husband could have had a vasectomy as they were finishing up my C-section I'm sure he would have happily done so.

Sagely he waited until I was capable of walking across the room before scheduling his appointment. When I told him that I would drive him he seemed surprised but didn't argue. The girls were in school and I brought the baby with me who I knew would sleep throughout. (Besides, everybody knows that men who are going to have their penis operated on LOVE to have their kids around them.)

The hubs was determined but anxious. He signed in and we made nervous chit-chat, trying to pass the time. Suddenly they called his name and off he went.

I quickly became bored with the sleeping baby and the Field and Stream magazines that were very abundant so I began people watching. The first thing I noticed was that this place reminded me of an adult bookstore. The people who worked behind the desk were women; the customers were all men. Also? None of the men were making eye contact. Their eyes were darting back and forth with desperation that screamed, "Please don't take off any more than you absolutely HAVE to!"

Some poor bastard walked in with a small brown paper lunch bag. He accidentally made eye contact with me and I smiled at him. He turned around and left. Five minutes later he skulked in with his back to the waiting room and mumbled something unintelligible to the nurse. She asked him to repeat himself and then looked at the bag in disgust and said, "Oh, NO, Honey! We don't handle THAT stuff up here! No, Baby...you need to take your SAMPLE to the back and give it to the laboratory!"

I really wanted to walk up to this guy and say, "Hey! I'm looking for a guy who was sitting in the parking deck, jerking off into a cup. Have you seen him??" But I didn't. I looked around at the pained faces around me and realized that I was the only person who thought that this was pretty damned funny. Then I wondered about what was going on with my own poor bastard on the other side of the door.

Here is what happened to him:

He was led into a medical procedure room that was precisely 38 degree's where he was invited to take off all his clothes and sit on the operating table that was made out of stainless steel. Seconds became minutes. Minutes became eternities. After 15 of sitting bare-assed on a steel table an enormous dark skinned nurse burst into the room. She didn't say a word but managed to capture his interest because she grabbed the end of his penis and yanked it - hard. (Like I said, it was really cold in there.) Anyway, she yanked "it" out of his abdominal cavity and TAPED it with medical tape to his leg. All without saying a word.

And then she left the room. It was over 20 minutes before the doctor came into the room.

When he told me about what happened I said, "Let me get this straight. You had to sit naked on a cold steel table for over 30 minutes before they even started the vasectomy?? And then a fat lady grabbed your dick and duct taped it to your LEG without even saying 'good morning' or 'please cough'?! And then she left you just sitting there - junk all taped up for 20 minutes??!"

It was at that precise moment I decided to quit bitching about pap smears. And I'll never look at frozen green peas the same again, either.

And The Strep Goes Marching Two By Two, Hoorah, Hoorah....

2008-10-22T12:37:00.000-04:00

Why is it that at least once a year, strep throat marches through my house and knocks every last one of us on our ass? The only symptom we get is fatigue and maybe a headache or sore throat.

So here I am, trying bravely to go out and do my business while ignoring my lazy tendencies when it turns out I'm not lazy after all. I've just been out spreading the Strep Love. Well...maybe I'm a little lazy. But I'm a lot streppy.

I've been on the antibiotic for about 18 hours now and hope that any minute now I'll spring off of the sofa, anxious to get a jump on the laundry "situation" that has my kids scouring the dirty hamper for "not too gross" socks in the mornings. (Dare to dream.)

Oh, Moderates...come out, come out, where ever you are!

2008-10-21T11:46:00.001-04:00

Where the FUCK are all of the moderate politicians?! Is THIS really the best and brightest our country has to offer???

I have Robin Hood to the left of me. And I have the Christian Coalition to the right of me. This is ridiculous.

Obama discussed "redistribution of wealth" at the last Presidential debate. I was talking to a good friend last night and I said that this gave me concern. She responded, "Bex! It won't affect you because you don't make more than $250,000! So you don't have to worry about that!"

She's right. We don't earn anywhere near that amount. But does that make it ok? I know people who have started companies, risked everything they own, and worked for free for years trying to make it what it is today. And now, they should be taxed further than they already are? How, exactly, is this not punishing the hardworking and successful?

My brother sent me an email today that I think brings this point home. Nobody knows who wrote it. But I wish I had as it's brilliant.

Bar stool economics

Suppose that every day, ten men go out for beer and the bill for all ten comes to $100. If they paid their bill the way we pay our taxes, it would go something like this:

The first four men (the poorest) would pay nothing.
The fifth would pay $1.
The sixth would pay $3.
The seventh would pay $7.
The eighth would pay $12.
The ninth would pay $18.
The tenth man (the richest) would pay $59.

So, that's what they decided to do.

The ten men drank in the bar every day and seemed quite happy with the arrangement, until one day, the owner threw them a curve. 'Since you are all such good customers,' he said, 'I'm going to reduce the cost of your daily beer by $20.'

Drinks for the ten now cost just $80.

The group still wanted to pay their bill the way we pay our taxes so the first four men were unaffected. They would still drink for free.

But what about the other six men - the paying customers? How could they divide the $20 windfall so that everyone would get his 'fair share?' They realized that $20 divided by six is $3.33. But if they subtracted that from everybody's share, then the fifth man and the sixth man would each end up being paid to drink his beer.

So, the bar owner suggested that it would be fair to reduce each man's bill by roughly the same amount and he proceeded to work out the amounts each should pay.

And so:

The fifth man, like the first four, now paid nothing (100% savings).
The sixth now paid $2 instead of $3 (33%savings).
The seventh now pay $5 instead of $7 (28%savings).
The eighth now paid $9 instead of $12 (25% savings).
The ninth now paid $14 instead of $18 (22% savings).
The tenth now paid $49 instead of $59 (16% savings).

Each of the six was better off than before. And the first four continued to drink for free. But once outside the restaurant, the men began to compare their savings.

'I only got a dollar out of the $20,'declared the sixth man. He pointed to the tenth man,' but he got $10!'

'Yeah, that's right,' exclaimed the fifth man. 'I only saved a dollar, too. It's unfair that he got ten times more than I!'

'That's true!!' shouted the seventh man. 'Why should he get $10 back when I got only two? The wealthy get all the breaks!'

'Wait a minute,' yelled the first four men in unison. 'We didn't get anything at all. The system exploits the poor!'

The nine men surrounded the tenth and beat him up.

The next night the tenth man didn't show up for drinks, so the nine sat down and had beers without him. But when it came time to pay the bill, they discovered something important. They didn't have enough money between all of them for even half of the bill!

And that, boys and girls, journalists and college professors, is how our tax system works. The people who pay the highest taxes get the most benefit from a tax reduction. Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just may not show up anymore.

In fact, they might start drinking overseas where the atmosphere is somewhat friendlier.

For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who do not understand, no explanation is possible.

PS And all of my Republican homies, don't be getting all jazzed up - there are some things with McCain and Palin that I find DEEPLY troubling. Why can't we have a moderate, middle of the road president? Why does it either have to be a Super Conservative Christian or a Socialist? I just don't get it. I don't think that either are good for our country.

Hey there Joe - Whadya know??

2008-10-16T08:30:00.001-04:00

I tried to watch the whole debate last night. Really. But a girl can only take so much bullshit. It was the same old rhetoric from both sides with the additional worry that Senator John McCain, an American hero, was going to lift off of the stage and fly away because his eyelids were blinking so fast. Poor guy.

And then somebody said it, "...blah, blah, blah...Joe the Plumber...blah, blah, blah..."

My ears perked up - Joe the Plumber?! Who the hell is that?! And is he any relation to the elusive Joe Six Pack, I wonder??

My curiosity was piqued. So I googled it and have for your a picture of him. Ladies and Gentlemen! I give you...JOE the Plumber!

Whoops! I think he prefers it if you catch him from the other side:

There he is. This guy has become the face (and butt crack) of the redistribution of the wealth argument. All because Obama was walking through the neighborhood, spreading the Good News about his candidacy and Joe walked up to him and said something like, "Hey...quit trying to take my money - I worked hard for it."

Obama tried to explain to him that he needs the extra taxes on the "wealthy" to bolster the people underneath, so we can all have a chance to prosper. The plumber called bullshit, stating that nobody had bolstered him up. He did it himself and now that he finally has something going The Man should increase his taxes?!

The exchange between them took a few minutes. Then, Joe went back to throwing a football around with his kid. Next thing you know, his name is mentioned a couple dozen times during the final Presidential debate and he has instantly become an International Celebrity/Plumber.

Apparently there were many big news trucks parked outside of his house last night. How bizarre that must seem. Now this morning he has to get up and go fix toilets and solder pipes together and stuff. The people behind will be whispering, "Pssst...you know that is not just any plumbers crack...it's JOE the Plumber's crack! It's a celebrit-butt!"

Oh, and I found a picture of a Joe Six Pack Wanna Be. He's dead sexy.

If you enjoyed this post, please click the smiley face below and vote for it. Registration is fast and easy and they don't send you spam or emails.

Battle of the Blowhards!

2008-10-15T20:30:00.000-04:00

Oh crap. It's another fucking debate. WHY?! Is it possible that they have changed their retarded rhetoric from the last time? No. It is, in fact, not possible.

Tonight will be more of the same. You have the Bex guaranty on that, my friends.

In fact, you have my campaign promise* that I will shoot a monkey out of my ass if any of the following things are stated tonight:

1. One time, at the zoo, I met a jackass. And you, Sir, are a total jackass.
2. I have no fucking clue what to do! It's such a cluster fuck already that I can't even imagine where to start. (and then his shoulders start shaking with the sobs)
3. Candidate one says, "You make me feel funny." Candidate two says, "I wish I knew how to quit you."

Meh. The hubs and I, comme d'habitude, are having a drinking game to force ourselves to watch the ensuing train wreck.

A sip of wine for:

1. Maverick
2. Billion
3. Geriatric

A gulp of wine for:

1. Acorn
2. Ayers
3. Keating

And, if at any time you feel a wave of despair pass over your fragile shoulders, drink the whole bottle and stumble to bed knowing that we were fucked anyway. And that your Bex loves you. **

* term used loosely. In fact, I didn't really mean it all. That's the "campaign" part of the promise!

** actually, I probably just like you. Maybe. I'm feeling kind of fickle today. Check here if you want something different: www.humor-blogs.com

Watch Out For the Pipe Wrench...

2008-10-09T17:15:00.000-04:00

Calling all kids from the 80's! Have you seen this video? Some guy (with TONS of time on his hands) took the A-ha video 'Take On Me' and changed the lyrics to what is literally happening. It's pretty funny....

I am now going into the attic to dig up my boy toy belt, lace gloves, multiple neon socks to wear with black heels. I am going down...not in a Blaze of Glory but rather a Blaze of Nostalgia. Ah, the 80's.

Back then if you had told me that America would befriend Russia, my brother would go to Moscow where he would study and meet his future wife, well, I probably would have laughed. And now we're not friends with Russia again. Go figure.

The totally tubular feed to the humor-blogs site is, like, so totally here!

Bad Stove, Bad Stove - Whatcha Gonna Do? Watcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?

2008-10-09T11:39:00.001-04:00

Sit down, pour yourself a drink and catch THIS shit.

A woman in Washington State was cooking dinner when she was suddenly shot in the leg. When I read this I was immediately reminded of the 80's show, Dallas. Who the hell would shoot a cooking woman??!

Was it...
An ungrateful but hungry child?
A pissed off husband, determined to never eat that goddamned meatloaf again?
The envious neighbor who is jealous of her award winning road kill pie?

It sure as hell wasn't JR. No, it turns out that the stove itself shot her. Yes, I know this doesn't sound possible. If a stove could have feelings of murderous rage, my GE would have doubtlessly busted a cap in my ass years ago. But I think we can safely say that stoves don't have feelings. Plus? They don't have opposable thumbs, making pulling the trigger extremely difficult (so they say).

There are, apparently, three quick steps to getting a cap busted in your leg by your stove:

1. Purchase a case of bullets.
2. Spill said bullets in the kitchen, letting at least one fall into newspaper you use to ignite your wood burning stove.
3. Light your stove.

Once your stove is packing heat there is something that you need to know. You must be able to perform your own surgery and remove the bullet that has pierced your skin. That's what our heroine, Cory Davis, did. She removed the fragment and then drove herself to some sort of medical facility. This may not be fair but I'm imagining live stock wandering around a small community hospital. The doctor has chicken feathers stuck to his pants. The nurses wear lots of lipstick but don't have all of their teeth. You know what I'm talking about....

At any rate, here is the morale of the story:

Guns don't kill people. Bullets errantly dropped into your stove and left to simmer kill people. Let's all try to remember that, please.

Tinky, Stinky, Who Wants a Drinky???

2008-10-07T21:01:00.003-04:00

Your girl's getting loose on Grey Goose...

Yep - you guessed it! It's the next installment of the Master-Debater Drinking Game!

I'm late today, so I'm just gonna get fast and dirty and go to the rules. Take a stiff sip of your cocktail if anybody says any of the following:

"Billion"
"Change"
"Maverick"
"Bailout"

If anybody says any of the following comments, drain the whole damn thing down:

"Lipstick on a Pig"
"Horse of a Different Color"
"You Sir, Are a Jackass."

It's really a game for the whole family if you think about it. I'm already slurring. Let's get it ON.

And when you get tipsy, go drunk surfing at humor-blogs.com and get your giggles ON.

Bite this, Baby Charlie!

2008-10-05T14:21:00.004-04:00

I have a friend who is new to computers and the internet. She has begun the habit of forwarding "really hilarious" emails to me. These are the same emails that I thought were "really hilarious" ten years ago when I first received and then forwarded them.

At first I feigned interest because I was happy to see her explore the wild world web with her youthful excitement and enthusiasm. But that only lasted until she sent me an email with the following concluding statement: "Forward this onto your 10 closest friends or someone at MicroSoft will eat a baby!" (Or something like that.)

Anyway, I fear that the following video is something along the same vein. It came out a year ago, so maybe you guys have already seen it and I'm recycling old news. But right now, right here, I don't really give a shit. Because it's FUNNY.

The feed to humor-blogs is right here, yo.

How to f*ck up a kid in five short minutes.

2008-10-02T15:49:00.003-04:00

My kids get their hair cut at a little boutique that specializes in children. Pretty much anybody who goes there is uber preppy and, if they are a girl, has a ginormous pink (or white) bow in her hair. The moms are very preppy, also. Everyone but me, of course. [Cuz I'm too gangsta to be preppy, yo. Well...I might be a little preppy. Let's say that my preppy:gangsta ratio is roughly 6:4. Something like that, depending on the moment, the beverage and whether or not there is a disco ball in the room.]

In the middle of the little store there is a table with a train on it. My son LOVES the train and always makes a beeline for it and grumbles loudly when it's his turn to have his hair cut. Today was no exception. While his hair was being cut J. Crew must have temporarily closed their doors because a huge group of alpha moms and their Soon-To-Be-World-Leaders offspring showed up.

There must have been 10 kids ranging between 3 and 4 milling about with the girls standing out because of the big bows. The moms were networking, sharing tips about housekeepers, tutors and the price of a flight to Bermuda. Suddenly one of them shrieks, "Thurmond Alexander!"

Thurmond, who is about 4, looks at his mother and smiles. I almost immediately understand that this future Senator has taken a leak on the floor and sections of the train.

She digs into her purse and produces a single kleenex and begins daintily blotting at 3 quarts of pee that is beginning to spread like cancer on the floor and through the toys. She says loudly, "Well, it's a good thing that urine is sterile!"

It was obvious this statement wasn't meant for her kid - she was talking to the rest of us: the moms trying to discreetly steer our kids out of the tidal wave. I looked around, waiting for someone to say, "Oh, yes! Thank God your sweet son came along and sterilized all of these toys for us! We feel super awesome about the fact that MY kid has YOUR kids pee on his socks! Yep...let's do this every Thursday, shall we??? Except, maybe next time don't give him asparagus* for lunch."

But everyone pretended like all was not stinky and gross, choosing instead to continue with their power-chats. She stood there with him for a few minutes and then, finally, seemed to give up on the idea that the Petit Prince would have his hair cut at this moment in his saturated pants.

Eventually she said in a very rough voice, "Well, come on Mr. Pee Pee Pants!" Thurmond "Pee Pee" Alexander had a different idea - he wanted to continue standing with his legs at an awkward distance apart, kind of squatting down - while playing with the damp trains. The alpha moms continued to ignore her as she eventually snatched his arm and dragged him out of the store.

As soon as they were outside he went into a full-blown meltdown, complete with horror movie screams and flailing. In fact, it was probably a good thing his bladder was empty.

She continued dragging him to the car where she yanked down his pants and threw him into the car seat of the biggest SUV I've ever seen.

I watched them drive away wondering about the wisdom of mocking your son who just had an accident in front of a dozen strangers. The same strangers that you just tried to convince that it was actually a good thing that your well-hydrated son just took a leak on them and the toys they were enjoying. But what do I know? Yesterday I laughed at one of my kids because, while she was having a tantrum and crying, she banged out the biggest fart I've ever heard. Seriously. My ears are still ringing.

* Have you ever eaten asparagus? If you have a spear of asparagus and then urinate even 10 seconds later your pee REEKS. One time we had some friends come over for dinner and asparagus was on the menu. A couple of days later the wife called to thank me and we got to chatting. She said that she loved our asparagus dish and inquired as to how I made it. So I told her and, in an effort to be self-depreciating, said, "Well, I'm glad you liked them. But they probably made your pee smell bad, so sorry about that."

There was deafening silence on the other end of the phone. A slow gasp escaped from her and then she eventually began laughing. Apparently she had never heard about the stinky asparagus pee situation and when she got home that night she went to the bathroom it was such a bad odor she worried that she was dying or something. The next morning she woke up early and bought a douche to clean herself up.

Link to humor-blogs.

Mr. Clean. Inject your foot with Botulism. Farting Outside. Ass meds. All in one post. THAT, Folks, is why they pay me the BIG bucks.

2008-10-02T11:33:00.001-04:00

Man. I had a hard time figuring out what to write about today. It's kind of scattered....

Mr. Clean died. I thought about writing how I couldn't possibly clean my house out of respect for his passing. But then I thought, "Nah, they'll know that's bullshit. I can't possibly clean my house because I can't vacuum while blogging on my laptop."

Then I saw that Sharon Stone is in a custody battle for her kid. Her ex-husband said that she's unfit because, when they noticed that their kid had a foot odor problem, Sharon's solution was to get him Botox injections in the feet. Poor kid. She'd probably schedule it after his colonic but before his Scientology "briefing" (aka brain washing). The ex further demonstrated his parental strengths by stating his solution was to get the kid to wear socks and put powder in his shoes.

How weird. We actually have a kid with stinky feet. And just this morning I insisted - over great resistance - that said child wear socks and utilize foot powder. After reading the thing about the Stone family, I tried imagining a debate with my husband where I would say, "No, no, no! Foot powder...pffft! That's SO, like, five minutes ago! What we need to do is inject her foot with botulism!"

I could, however, tell my kid that if she doesn't do the sock/powder thing without carping about it that I'll take her to the doctor where she'll be given a shot in the bottom of her foot. Hmmm. Something tells me there will be no more morning arguments on the matter...thanks, Sharon!

Yesterday I was teaching one of my kids to ride a bike. Another one of my kids (they're everywhere, you know) had a little meltdown and was sent to the house. I felt kind of bad for her because she was crying and her little hands were balled up in frustration. But she was being bad and needed to go chill out in her room. She was almost home when she farted so loudly that it echoed in the cul-de-sac I was sitting in. I thought someone had discharged a firearm or something.

As I sat there laughing, I contemplated that if someone were deaf and watching us, I would appear to be a very callous mother because I sent my upset daughter away, and then threw my head back in laughter. And, of course, anyone else watching would just have reaffirmation that I am indeed very immature for a 40 year old.

I once saw someone I know in the pharmacy buying industrial sized tubes of every ass medication available. Hemorrhoid suppositories and cream, anti-diarrhea pills, anti-flatulence pellets, and Tang flavored fiber drinks. He's not a very pleasant guy so I avoided him in the store. But now I know his little stinky secret. And every time he's acting like a prick I want to say, "Hey, by any chance do you have an inflamed hemorrhoid right now? I think you might...."

Itchy butts is to hemorrhoid cream like bex is to humor-blogs. (Did I just liken myself to an itchy butt???)

Lordy, Lordy, I'm friggin' FORTY!

2008-09-30T14:00:00.001-04:00

Oh, snap. Today is my fortieth birthday. FORTY! As in, I'm not in my 30's anymore! It's kind of a shock. Isn't that weird? It's like having a clown car sneak up on you - you can see and hear it coming - yet somehow you're still surprised when the clowns start piling out. It's the same thing with my age. I knew I was progressing nicely through the thirties. Yet somehow, I went to bed when I was 39 years and 364 days old and woke as a forty year old. My first thought was, "What the fuck...I'm how old?!"

I've heard that many women have some "work" done in their 40's, believing that little "tweaks" here and there are more natural looking then if you have a major overhaul when you turn 60. When a forty year old gets something done her friends say, "Wow! You look well rested - that vacation did you wonders!" But when a woman of "a certain age" gets it done her friends give each other knowing looks and say, "...ahem...".

Either way, I'm not opposed to a little freshening up, as long as it doesn't look like this:

I think that maybe Donatella means "Cougar" in Italian. She looks like she eats choir boys for breakfast in-between deep drags on her tiperello cigarettes.

Onto the boobs! I've had three children and nursed them all, so it's possible that my rack might need some tuning. I've heard that sometimes women get implants to fill out a sagging chest which I'm guessing is not really what happened here:

On the plus side, I suppose they'd be helpful in a motorcycle wreck. Of course, a motorcycle wreck would most likely be caused by all of the wobbling going on in your shirt. Sadly, I am quite fond of sleeping on my stomach so I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass these puppies up (does anybody else hear my husband sobbing in the next room??).

I've also heard that there are all sorts of neato things they can do to your face to even out your complexion, pull the sagging skin around your eyes up and give your face that sexy, waxy appearance everyone seems to rave about. So I thought I'd look into it.

Sweet fucking niblets. Mickey Rourke - WHY?! You were so hot in 9 1/2 weeks and NOW look at you! You look like you'd melt underneath a 25 watt light bulb. DUDE. Seriously....

Of course, a post on plastic surgery wouldn't be complete without his royal highness, The King Of Oh-My-God-What-The-Fuck-Have-You-Gone-And-Done-To-Yourself-You-Crazy-Nutjob?!

He looks like a Mr. Potato Head that Tim Burton would create. At least he's making himself scarier so that, hopefully, it will become more difficult to entice a child into his boudoir. *shudder* Oh! And nice pubes on your chin. I normally don't like that look, but you can really pull it off....

Last, but not least, is the Poster Child for all that is bad in the plastic surgery arena:

Bless her fugly heart. I really don't even know what to say except that if I lived to be 110 years old - died - and then was buried for three years and then dug up and photographed I would STILL look better than this chick. So at least I've got that going for me.

Feel free to check out humor-blogs for some funny stuff. You could sign up and vote for me, too, while you're there. It wouldn't kill you, you know. They don't even spam! I can't even stake that claim....

Lucky numbers

2008-09-29T17:49:00.001-04:00

The Dow Industrials fell today by 777 points. Holy shit. The partisan bickering makes me want to smack a politician or two (or a thousand) in the head with a fucking shovel.

I have no idea whether or not this Bail Out plan is good for us or not. Neither do you. Nobody does.

Is it better than doing nothing?? Maybe. Or, maybe we need to crash in order to wake up. Maybe we need unemployment to skyrocket into double digits to regain a work ethic. Maybe we need to run out of gasoline in order to become truly motivated to find another source of fuel.

Maybe we need to learn this lesson the hard way so that we will remember it and pass it along to future generations. Although, my Grandparents told me lots of stories about the Great Depression. Horrible, sad and desperate stories. I'll bet lots of Grandparents have talked about it. We all learned about it in school. Yet look how arrogant we are. I've laughed at my Grandma for collecting (and then using) fast food packets of salt, pepper and ketchup. It's not going to be quite as funny if one day soon I need some and can't get it.

Maybe this scare is enough to make us change our ways. And maybe the bail out will save our economy and our way of life.

All I know is the news is scaring me. Our markets are crashing. Which causes the whole worlds markets to crash. It's the Democrats fault! No, it's the Republicans! I'm sorry to say, Friends, that it is our own fault. We over extend our credit. We buy more than we can afford. We eat more than we need. We treat our homes like ATM machines, pulling out cash every time there is any value.

As an aside I'd like to add that Nancy Pelosi looks like her head is imploding.

See?

Bless her heart.

Do I like her? No. I actually loathe her. But is this her fault? Nope.

So we are personally causing national and probably international financial disasters. And then there is more bad news. Somehow I heard - on the same day - that the worlds largest magnet was created PLUS a machine was cranked up that is supposed to simulate the Big Bang Theory but opponents were concerned because it might accidentally cause a black hole that would suck up the whole universe. Well! Fan-fucking-tastic!

I'm sure, if we put our heads together, that we could come up with a few more ways to fuck up this country and planet. But just in case we can't, there are, apparently, PIRATES off of the coast of Africa with balls big enough to attack and over-take a freighter carrying dozens of tanks, weapons and ammunition. And they will sell them to the highest bidder, even if he is an extremist nut-job terrorist.

The hits just keep on coming, ladies and gentlemen.

After September 11th our politicians briefly got their shit together enough to take care of some business. It's a real shame that it takes 3,000 people dying to make that happen. Perhaps 3,000 is the number that motivates them. Perhaps, when the Dow falls by 3,000 they'll be ready to get a plan and work together to make it effective. Or maybe our economy will fail and we will be poor and unable to defend ourselves against the next terrorist attack.

Maybe our lucky number is 777 and tomorrow will be a much better day. Incidentally, tomorrow is also my 40th birthday. I can't think of a present I'd love more than for our politicians to pull their heads out of their asses and make a positive difference in the cluster fuck that is, I'm so sorry to say, America.

If anybody needs me, I'll be lying in the fetal position in the corner, sucking my thumb, humming Happy Birthday To You....

Never, EVER eat the bean dip if you plan on drunk driving. Really.

2008-09-25T08:18:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time there was a man called Jose A. Cruz who hailed from Clarksburg, West Virginia. He was 34 and, I would guess, funny looking. One evening he went out with the boys and "had a few". Just all in good fun. Boys will be boys, you know....

On the ride home he figured that if he didn't turn his headlights on he wouldn't have to deal with any awkward questions from The Law. It must have been quite a surprise when he was pulled over because of the lack of headlights. The responding officer noticed that he reeked of cheap booze and had slurred speech so they gave him a field sobriety test which he failed not once, not twice, but THRICE. Somewhat predictably, they arrested him.

He was transported to the police station for a breathalyzer test. Not to be outdone, our hero - after what I'm sure was some serious and lucid self-reflection - tilted over to his side, farted loudly and fanned the nastiness into the face of his arresting officer. Did you hear that??? He audibly farted and then hand-grenaded it onto a cop.

The officer, once he had regained consciousness, put him under arrest and charged him with battery. Battery, in case you were wondering, is defined as "a crime consisting of physical contact that is intended to harm someone." That must have been one heinous fart, my friends. We're talking sulfurous death cloud.

The complaint stated, "The gas was very odorous and created contact of an insulting or provoking nature with Patrolman Parsons." Nothing like a ripe been-drinking-cheap-whiskey fart to clear the room, I always say.

Not to be outdone, Cruz responded with the classic line of defense, "I couldn't hold it no more!" He admits farting but has denied sending said fart to the officer in the hand-grenade fashion so many middle school boys are fond of.

This sounds like one classy, sexy man. I wonder if he has all of his teeth. My guess - absolutely not.

Now before you West Virginians start feeling defensive that people are laughing at your state and its general population, I'll admit we have our crazy and unkempt neighbors, too. In fact, for your viewing pleasure, I have the following video of an Atlanta woman who is, shall we say, Coo Coo. This has subtitles, which I think you'll agree makes things a bit easier to understand. Enjoy!

And if you thought that was funny, go to humor-blogs.com. And if you voted for me by clicking on my LOL head, well, that'd be aces.

Just don't bite my ass and we'll be cool.

2008-09-22T13:49:00.004-04:00

I hate bugs. A lot. Big, small, doesn't matter. I'm highly suspicious of them all, up to and including the illustrious lady bug. So you would think that the fact that there is a spider in my bathroom would be cause for distress.

Surprisingly I haven't killed it or called in the heavy artillery (aka Mike, the bug guy, with his Can Of Death). I just sit there and watch this little guy build his teeny tiny web. And then I wait with him, joining in the pondering of where the hell the other bugs are. He doesn't know that I've employed a man to spray toxic fumes into every nook and cranny of this house. So he picked a little corner close to the ground, maybe thinking he'd rack up some ants or something. But he got bupkis.

He walks around, inspecting his web with care. And every now and again he'll sprint up to the corner and stay really still. Maybe he's crazy and keeps thinking that he hears bug footsteps or something. It has me wondering how long he can go without any customers. Will he sit there until he starves to death, resulting in a spider skeleton right in time for Halloween or will he finally clue in that he picked a ridiculous spot for a web and move on to greener pastures? Or perhaps he'll just wait until I am no longer entertained by him at which point a trip down the toilet bowl would become imminent. It is a pretty tough call.

When I was a little kid in South Florida I saw a fat, scary looking spider crawling around on the floor. I ran to get my flip flops on and then enthusiastically jumped on it with my full body weight. Suddenly, and without any warning whatsoever, I might add, hundreds of tiny spiders came sprinting out from under my shoe and ran up my leg. If I could have found a knife in all the panic that ensued I'm certain that I would have cut my own leg off.

But I think that I'm going to let this little guy stay for a while, even after taking into account his close proximity to the toilet seat. There is something very unimposing about him. Like he's tipped his hat and stated in a sharp, British accent, "Pardon me, Miss. But if it wouldn't be too much of a bother I'll just skulk around here for a bit...I'll be no bother - none at all. Unless you might have a spot o tea to spare. That would be lovely."

My husband is going to think that I have some kind of intestinal malady, as much time as I've spent in there spying on my spider. I'm not sure which he would consider the less desirable activity. So let's keep it on the DL, ok??

Click here for some other funny blogs. And if you happened to click on my smiley face, well, that wouldn't be a bad thing.

Don't Step In The...OH, SH*T!!!

2008-09-17T08:08:00.000-04:00

Kate and Leopold was a movie about some English dude who invented a time machine and then accidentally fell through it to current day New York City. One of the funniest parts of the movie happened when he was walking a dog which then took a dump on the street. A cop came over and instructed him to pick it up and throw it away.

He looked at her incredulously and said, "Are you suggesting that there exists a law compelling gentlemen to lay hold of canine bowel movements?"

This line cracks me up for a variety of reasons. First of all, it is talking about poop, a topic I routinely find hilarious. Second of all, it is a strange obligation and certainly doesn't feel very dignified when you have to turn a baggie inside-out and pick up something warm, wormy and odoriferous that your dog expelled from his ass.

The alternative is just as gross - I don't know anybody who likes to step in dog crap. And I know some total freaks. But the problem is that not everyone picks up their doggie doodies. And step in it we must. Unless...unless someone could come up with a PLAN. A plan so ingenious, so obvious that it just might work.

This guy sure looks worried:

I'm happy to announce, Ladies and Gentlemen (and freaks), that it's already happened. Yep, those crafty Israelis have beaten us to the punch again. They are taking DNA swabs from the mouths of dogs and then when they find an errant shit they will look up the database, hoping for a match. The owner will then receive a fine. BRILLIANT.

They haven't mentioned what, if anything, would happen if it comes back with a human DNA. I suppose they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. (Surely they have wino's too??)

After celebrating this achievement I started to wonder if they didn't create this program simply to have a police job that is less desirable than that of Meter Maid.

Hot Girl - Hey, you're kinda cute...what do you do?

Dude - Well, thanks! I'm a doctor.

Her - A DOCTOR! Wow...are you a plastic surgeon?

Him - Umm, no. I'm actually more of a scientist then an MD.

Her - Oh. Too bad. What kind of scientist?

Him - Uhhh, I, uh, specialize in DNA...and canines....

A look of horror passes on her face because she is very familiar with the program as she has a poodle with irritable bowel syndrome and she has been keeping little Fluffy in the doggie underground to avoid the DNA swab for her dog. She looks at the "doctor" and lets it sink in that he really tests fecal matter for a living. They are totally not going to hook up.

But I've gotta say it - it'd be ok with me if I never stepped in dog shit again. Because then you always get into your car and say, "Jesus. What's that smell?? ...it smells like...oh, shit..." But then it's too late. Bring on the DNA, Big Brother!

Hey...psssstttt...while you're down here...do me a favor and click my HB smiley, will ya??

Just a few piercing questions...

2008-09-15T07:53:00.005-04:00

Over the weekend I was introduced to a lovely young woman. Beautiful hair, beautiful, eyes, a nice figure...she really was something. And then she spoke. She said, "Ithss veewwwy nice to meet you, Bexth."

And I thought, "Oh, bless her heart! This pretty little thing has a horrible speech impediment! She sounds like Elmer Fudd, poor thing...." And then I noticed the flash of silver in her mouth. No, not a filling - her tongue was pierced with a metal rod with a ball on the end.

Now I had a friend who did this years ago. She invited me out for margaritas and a discussion of her piercing:

Me: What the fuck did you do that for?!

Her: Oh, Bexth, you don't understand! It's fowrw sex....

Me: ?!

Her: Owal sex - you see, it makes it feel bettewww!

Me: Owal sex? What is that....OH. You mean ORAL! Listen, did it ever occur to you that you were just doing it wrong? Maybe you should have asked somebody for a little help before you went and did something drastic, like shove a metal rod through your tongue.

Her: You just don't get it.

Me: Say Elmer Fudd.

Her: fuck you

Me: Come on!! Say it! Say it...say 'There is a terrific trolley!' Come on....

So she'll put a metal rod in her tongue to make oral sex feel better for her partner but she won't indulge me in trying to pronounce a few words that might sound funny. Whatever. These piercing types are so sensitive. And speaking of sensitive, does this mean that if you put a metal rod through the center of your palm that hand jobs would feel better??? And is that adequate incentive to do it?? Just curious...

What is this chicks excuse? Perhaps she wants to be strummed like a guitar? Or maybe it really turns her on when people look at her with their teeth gritted and their eyebrows squished together in the "holy shit that looks like it hurts" kind of way.

And then there is this guy. I wonder if there is any kind of "master plan" or if he just shoots from the hip when he goes to the Piercing Pagoda.

I think the forehead implants are especially special. Something tells me that he was simply looking for a way to de-emphasize his facial features and this made sense to him at the time. Sorry, Sweetie. You should really go and get your money back because we can still see your zombie eyes and mad scientist eyebrows. In fact, they are remarkably prominent, considering... you know... everything else.

Hey, Everybody! It's Tool Time with Geraldo!

2008-09-12T13:44:00.006-04:00

It is my sincerest wish that almost everyone survives Hurricane Ike. Almost. Because, truth-be-told, in the battle between Geraldo Rivera and Ike...well, I'm pretty much pulling for the hurricane.

What's not to like about Geraldo, you ask? Hmmm...is it the fact that he's an attorney? Nah. Is it a case of Former Talk Show Host Rage? Nope.

No, it is because I've begun to strongly suspect that Geraldo Rivera is a fucking tool. My hypothesis began during Hurricane Gustav. I was flipping through the channels on TV when I came across an image of Geraldo running up and down Bourbon Street in a soaked rain coat holding some sort of meteorologist tool that gauges wind speed like this:

The anchor kept trying to ask him questions about flooding, people who were in harms way, etc. But Geraldo couldn't hear and he was zig zagging around with his little wind catcher going, "FIFTY miles an hour! That gust was 50! ....Oh, wait a minute, here comes another....WOW! We've got fifty-TWO!"

I was watching and just hoping that a New Orleans local would come out of their shelter and give him a good, firm slap while screaming into the wind gust, "No shit it's windy. You are in a fucking hurricane, Jackass." And then our New Orleans hero would look into the camera and say, "Back to you, Jane."

But that didn't happen. Because - thankfully - New Orleans was successfully evacuated and there weren't any locals available for slapping overzealous reporters.

Then this afternoon I was curious about how Hurricane Ike was doing and turned on the TV to find Geraldo standing on the coast in Galveston, Texas. This is the place that is supposed to get a 20 foot wall of water. In fact, it's already flooding there, at least 12 hours before the eye of the storm has even arrived. Geraldo was milling about in the flooded water as though he were at a cocktail party, flirting with firemen and probably wishing that he hadn't left his little wind tool back at the Hilton. And then, predictably, he fell down as you can see in the video below:

After his prat dive he became very jumpy and every time a piece of debris hit him in the foot he jumped as though a shark had bitten him. All I could think of was where is a water spout when you really, truly need one.

It's ZUMBA, Baby!

2008-09-12T07:40:00.000-04:00

Do you know what I just love? It's embarrassing, but I'll admit it. Ready?? I love, love, LOVE a class taught at my local YMCA. It's called Zumba and it is, essentially a dance class with an emphasis on latin and hip-hop music.

The interesting thing is that this is at the YMCA, so it's not like this is where all the hot girls work out. (Except for me. Obviously.) Real people go here. Some are young and cute. Some are old and wrinkly. But the local Y is like Elis Island. Bring out your fat and ugly. Your skinny and uncoordinated. All are welcome. It's the People's Gym.

There is one instructor, Terri Starnes, who stands out above the rest. She has these amazing dance routines that I just love following. And I'm not the only one. It's a fucking epidemic. You take her class once and you're hooked. The funny thing is that many of her moves seem inspired by belly dancing and, well, stripper moves.

One of my favorite routines that she does is to a song called "Go Girl" by PitBull. Here are some of the lyrics:

I party like a rockstar.
Look like a movie star.
Play like an all-star.
F*ck like a porn star. *

* Because this is the YMCA they blur out the middle of the word so all you hear is "FFF___CCKKK". If you've ever been to the Blog of Bex before you know that if I wanted to say fuck then I'd say it. I'll say it again - fuck. (I just wanted to clear up any confusion for the new kids.) But if I were the YMCA I think I'd probably blur out the "F" and the "CK" of fuck and maybe just leave the "UH" sound. "I uh like a porn star" sounds better then "I f_ck like a porn star".

And by the way, I am pretty sure that f*cking like a porn store requires that you are wearing clear acrylic 8" heels. Your boobs must look like you sliced a cantaloupe in half and glued it to your chest. And every time anybody looks at you your head throws back in ecstasy and scream, "Oh YEAH Baby. RIGHT there!" Anyhoo...

There are people in her class who must be in their 70's but they are getting down to this song. We're talking gyrating. We're talking shimmying. There are even body rolls and maybe a pelvic thrust or two. And it's just so fun I can't stop going. Everybody has a great time - college girls, old farts, soccer moms...doesn't matter.

The bad news - the amazing instructor, Terri - has just left the Y and has started her own studio. I don't blame her. She is beyond talented. The studio is called Fusion Dance Fitness and I'm afraid that I'm going to be sneaking off there (it's in BFE) as often as I can to take her class. Her website is super cool AND they have the most awesome t-shirt ever. It says, "I'm almost SKINNY". I love that.

BUT you can't wear that and f*ck like a porn star. I think. I actually don't have any empirical data to support that claim.

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I Remember.

2008-09-11T08:01:00.001-04:00

Seven years ago today I was in my suburban Atlanta home. I had two daughters - the eldest was almost two years old and her sister was a six month old baby. We were playing a game when the phone rang.

It was my baby brother calling from his cell phone. He had been in his Manhattan apartment and said that it sounded like a huge jet had swooped past the building. Everything had rattled loudly and really startled him. He was on his short walk to work and said that he heard sirens and saw smoke but that the buildings were all so high he couldn't see what had happened.

I turned on the tv and saw the building on fire. I told him what they had said, "A small commuter jet hit the world trade center." He wondered out loud if his girlfriend had seen it as she worked two buildings away from the trade center. He arrived at the bank where he worked and said that he had to go on the elevator and would lose our connection so we said goodbye and hung up.

I was watching the Today Show live when the second plane hit. My mind began to race, "Why was the building on fire BEFORE the plane hit it????" I just couldn't understand. Then I heard Katie Couric say that this couldn't have been an accident and that we were obviously under attack.

I frantically tried to reach my brother - his cell phone, his office line - nothing could get through. I called my husband next and asked him to come home as I was terrified. He said that he was going to wait it out, maybe this isn't as bad as it seems. He changed his mind when the Pentagon was hit.

When the first building fell I felt as though I was losing my mind. It was so sudden. So fast. And so complete. I continued trying my brothers cell every minute until my phone went dead. I went upstairs and got another phone so I could continue my fruitless effort. It looked like the entire island was on fire and smoldering. My baby brother and his sweet girlfriend were in it. I felt so helpless. And hopeless.

The phone finally rang and it was my brother. He told me he was safe, for the moment, in his office. I screamed at him to get out of there. He worked in a bank and it was obvious that the financial district was under attack. He said in a very calm and quiet voice, "Bex. Where can I go? I live here."

He asked me to try calling his girlfriend and best friend who were both unaccounted for.

I found out later that as he watched the towers fall he decided that if his girlfriend survived that he would marry her. He loved her.

She is Russian and met my brother met while he worked and studied in Moscow. She was smart, beautiful and kind - he had obviously outshot his coverage. But she loved him anyway.

She was already in her high rise office building when the first plane hit. She and her colleagues were standing in a room with huge windows watching the building burn when the second plane crashed. She said that the heat of the explosion passed through her enormous office building and that it felt like putting your head in a very hot oven. At that point her building was evacuated. She and her co-workers went to the elevators and rode their way down. I still cannot believe that.

She stood at the base of her building waiting for the all-clear to return to work. Then bodies began falling from the sky. How inconceivably bad must have things been in that building for people to choose to plunge 100 stories to their death rather than face it? She stood there, helpless and horrified.

And then the building fell. Jolted into action, she began running in her high heels and short skirt. She ran until she hit the waters edge of the island where she stood - trapped. Suddenly, through the smoke, a boat appeared. She jumped onto it and was amazed when other people refused to get on it because it wasn't going to the part of New Jersey where they lived. The boat was going anywhere but here. That was perfect for her.

When she arrived in New Jersey she began just walking around. Her cell phone was useless - we now know that the cell towers were on top of the World Trade Center. She was ultimately taken in by a family of strangers where she used their computer to send an email to my brother that she was ok and off of the island. He called me repeatedly, relieved but desperately trying to find a way to meet her there.

He did find a way. They weren't allowed back into their apartment for a long time so they stayed outside of the city, waiting.

Almost two years later they were married in a palace in Moscow, Russia. It was the most beautiful wedding I've ever seen.

You know, it's funny. Time does heal wounds. There was a time where I thought I'd never laugh again. I thought life would never, ever be the same. But it is. I also thought that these events would solidify our country as one and it did - for a while. Now we're back to the bi-partisan bullshit that makes we want to scream.

But I haven't forgotten. Every time I get on a plane I think about what those terrifying last moments must have been like. I think about the widows. And the kids who lost parents. The parents who lost kids. It breaks my heart.

Everytime I see a firetruck I am grateful. They make me feel protected. Every September 11th I bake something for my local fire house because I remember. We should all remember. I do not believe in much. This is especially true of religion and politics. But I believe in this country and the people who live here.

Are we screwing stuff up in the Middle East by our war in Iraq? I don't know. Maybe. But I am so grateful for the armed forces. Every time I see a someone in his or her uniform I feel overcome with gratitude. Thank you for volunteering. Thank you for serving. Thank you for all the things you do that we'll never know about it or understand.

As for the people who made this happen - fuck you. We are just fine. You might have knocked us down but you sure as hell didn't knock us out. We are living, prospering and preparing to meet you - on our terms.

PS This blog is usually a humor blog. I know that this post is not funny. But I'm submitting it to humor-blogs anyway because that's the place where most of traffic comes from and I want people to read this and remember. I want us all to remember.

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...MY face, pressed up against a glass wall!

2008-09-10T08:13:00.004-04:00

I used to work for a banking operations center. Due to the nature of our business the building was very secure and every port of entry to every department was filmed 24/7 and required, at minimum, a security clearance card and possibly an interaction with an underpaid (yet somehow always overweight) security guard.

One autumn morning I was supposed to give a presentation on my departments' budget and I was nervous. It was my first time being involved in the budgeting process and my presentation would be heard by several senior level folks I didn't know. So I got up early, went through the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and arrived at work an hour or so before anyone else to prepare.

The conference room was down the hall from my office but was separated by a thick glass wall with a revolving glass door in the middle of it. I headed that way about 15 minutes before my presentation with my left arm full of my papers and notes. In my right hand, dangling by my thigh, was the enormous cup of coffee that I had bought but barely touched. As I walked I was re-reading my notes until I reached the security pad at the revolving glass door. My badge was in my back pocket so I turned around (while still reading) and blindly rubbed my backside against the pad. The door beeped in acceptance and began turning and, as I read, I entered it. The door turns automatically so I small stepped (yep, while still reading) until I thought it had stopped and lunged to get out when... Bam! My neck snapped back from the impact. My head swiveled around wildly in the universal "what the fuck was that?!" movement. All I could see were stars and my eyes were filled with the tears that come along with a direct hit to the nose.

My beloved Dunkin Donuts coffee cup squished between my leg and the door, crushing it and spilling it's mellow and sweet goodness all over my leg, the door and the floor.

The automatic door knew that I was still inside of it so it continued it's slow, torturous spin. Finally it stopped revolving right in front of a larger than life face print in the middle of the glass. You could very clearly see the outline of my right eye, my nose (including a well outlined nostril) and my full, squished up mouth - all framed by an outline of hair. My makeup had obviously helped to define some of my features as there was a flesh toned quality to the print and my lips had left a pinkish, kissy smear.

I finally left the confines of the elevator and stood there for a moment. When my sight was restored I slowly looked up and saw a security camera blinking its' little red light at me. Somewhere, somehow, there was a security guy who had just peed in his pants.

My face was there for at least a month before our cracker jack janitorial staff windexed it into oblivion. It served as a constant reminder that I really needed to get my shit together.

A Housewife's Dirty Confession...

2008-09-08T15:51:00.004-04:00

I have Vaseline underneath my right index finger nail. No amount of soap and water seems to vanquish it. Sshhhhh. Don't tell anyone, K? Because that could lead to awkward questions. But I'll tell you what - today, just for shits and giggles, let's skip the questions completely and just go to the answers. And, GO.

Projectile vomiting.

One massive pile in the doctor's waiting room. Once in the car. Twice at home.

Yes, that IS a lot of puke for a two year old.

Anal suppositories. TWICE.

No I am not honoring my pledge to lay off of the cosmo's for a while and fuck you for bringing that up after the day I've had.

Did this make you smile?

Or were you just envious that you didn't get to spend the morning pinning down a pissed off and puking two year old long enough to further enrage him by shoving a suppository up his ass? (thought so)

Either way, feel free to click my HB smiley below. And, as always, if you're shopping around for funny blogs this is the place.

My BlackBerry's Big Day Out At The Mall

2008-09-04T11:19:00.004-04:00

A couple of weeks ago I got a new phone. It's a BlackBerry and is so shiny and new - I love it. There is no Cheerio crumb/paste mixture stuck in the edges. There has not been any juice, coffee or cosmo spilled on it. It is pristine. For now.

Later that same day I had to pick up a shirt for one of my numerous kids at the mall so I strapped my snazzy phone on the waistband of my pants, grabbed my bag and away I went. I was browsing around when suddenly I felt the unpleasant stomach bubbles that typically preceed horrific diarrhea. I stopped - dead in my tracks - and waited to see what would happen. It went away and I took inventory, "Am I going to crap in my pants?" I felt ok, so I continued shopping.

Suddenly the bubbles were back, coming in waves about every 10 seconds. I ran with my shirt to the register. There was not a store employee in sight. The retail warriors who jumped my ass with offers of "Could I help you find something in particular? Are you sure???" were now nowhere to be seen. Bitches. More stomach bubbles which caused me to say, "UMMM....HELLLLLOOOOO????!"

The sales person came out, rang me up and then asked me if I'd like to buy some socks. That felt totally random. I'm buying a shirt. Who the hell said anything about SOCKS???! Not me, that's for damn sure. I told her I didn't want any and she said, "OK, but they are $6 for 3 and $10 for 6!" I looked at her as my stomach continued to bubble and said through clenched teeth, "Just. The. Shirt. Oh. And where are the toilets? You know, just in case I need to go later...." I don't know why but I never want to admit to anyone when I have to go. I'm sneaky that way, I guess.

Anyway, the loo was ALL the way across the mall so I ignored her offer to save 15% if I opened up a credit card, snatched my bag and ran to the bathroom, frantic with worry that I wouldn't make it. I kicked the door open, dropped my pants and sat down (after wiping the seat, of course!). And ... nothing happened! After a minute or so I heard a vibrating noise and looked down at my pants. My spanking new cell phone was on vibrate. I slowly realized that the vibration was over the same part of my stomach that was "bubbling".

As I sat there, taking in the aroma of a mall toilet, I tried to embrace the idea that I had mistaken a ringing cell phone for impending diarrhea.

What a fucking genius I am. I want to go to graduate school but I can't tell the difference between an internal bodily function and an external business tool. Perhaps I should be lucky that they let me operate heavy machinery and call it a day.

The Idiot's Guide To Colonoscopies

2008-09-03T10:01:00.005-04:00

My cyber friend, LeighOnline, is going through an ORDEAL this week. She's cutting back on the margarita's, which I think we can all agree is cause for angst in and of itself. Also? Her husband is going in for a colonoscopy this week.

Some of you may know that I am something of an expert on what I like to call "Ass Trouble". And no, I don't want to talk about it. But I do want to share this post to give her (and you) an idea of what her hubs is in store for this week:

A couple of months ago I went to my twentieth high school reunion. I hadn't seen most of these people since the day I accepted my diploma. One exception was a guy named...well, let's call him "Joe" in case he doesn't want to be discussed on a public blog. Anyway, I bumped into "Joe" several years ago on Bourbon Street in New Orleans around 11:45PM on New Years Eve. I don't know about him but we had been drinking since that morning so I didn't remember much about the encounter.

When I saw him at the reunion I brought up the New Orleans thing and we laughed about it. We started making small talk and he said that he was, in fact, a medical doctor. I thought that was pretty cool. After all, this is someone with whom I'd sit at parties and bang heads with while listening to heavy metal bands. And look how nicely he turned out! I asked him what kind of medicine he practiced and he said, "uh, internal." Well, I'm no doctor (nor did I sleep in a Holiday Inn Express last night) but that seemed...a bit vague. A bit like bullshit. So I asked him to pinpoint it and it turns out that he's a proctologist. For those of you who've never had medical issues requiring this particular expertise, this is someone who checks out your lower intestines. He will, for a fee, drug you and then put a 6 foot long tube with a camera on the end of it into your arse.

I've started thinking about this and I have to say, I'm curious. I wonder at what point he had thought, "Screw cardiology! I think I'd like to give colonoscopies for a living."

What's that you say? You've never had a colonoscopy? Really??? Well let me enlighten you: The first thing that happens is a doctor examines you Down There. And then he delivers The News - "I'd like to get a better look at this." Leaving you to think, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!" He pats you reassuringly on the shoulder, gives you a prescription to fill and sets an appointment.

So you go to the drugstore to get your prescription. The store clerks give each other Knowing Looks as they try to find a shopping bag big enough to fit the gallon jug into. You can feel beads of sweat appearing on your brow. But hey, you're tough, right? You can do this.

You take your gallon jug home and read the instructions. In the instructions it informs you that this stuff tastes significantly better if it is cold and advises you to put it in the fridge for a couple hours. That's nice, isn't it? Really thoughtful. So you chill it, take a bath and try not to think about tomorrow morning.

It's time to drink the gallon of fluid. You get it out of the fridge and read the label again. "Lemonade Favored". I always did enjoy a nice glass of lemonade...

You take a tentative sip and immediately suspect that those bitches at the drugstore have poisoned you. This shit tastes like battery acid. And you have to drink a shot of it every 10 minutes for HOURS. It makes you wonder what it would have tasted like had it not been chilled. About 45 minutes into this process you hear something boiling. You look around, alarmed by the sounds intensity. Suddenly your alarm grows as you realize that the sound you hear is emanating from your STOMACH. About this time you double over in pain from the stomach cramps. You sprint to the toilet (hopefully) just in time to enjoy the explosive diarrhea.

There will be no sex tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I don't care WHO you are.

The next morning you wake up and look around for diaper cream to put on your ass as it is chafed from expelling water all night. You aren't allowed to eat anything but this really isn't a problem...you are so grossed out from your experiences you think that you may never eat again.

By now you just want to get this thing over with. So you submit to the ridiculous gown they make you wear. You lie on the hospital bed, all prim and proper and wait DESPERATELY for the narcotics to kick in. The door to your room opens and a few professionals walk in. They are at work and happy, discussing the reality TV show they enjoyed the night before as you were shooting foam out of your butt. They smile at you, ask how "it" is going. Some one puts his hand on your shoulder and invites you to roll on your side and grab your knees.

They tell you this won't hurt and start the procedure. The only problem is nobody told you that this procedure blows gas up "there". They do this to inflate the intestines so they can look around. And nobody told you that this feels EXACTLY like you are 2 seconds away from MAJOR - I'm gonna knock the back of the toilet off - styled diarrhea.

Now don't forget, there is a crowd behind you. And they are all looking in the general direction of your ass. So you start out with a polite warning, "Ummm...you guys...yeah....you might want to...umm...yeah, I think I need to go to the restroom...uh-huh...I'll just be a sec...ummmm....please, you guys....I'll be quick...uhmm, you guys????....Doctor! No, it doesn't hurt, but I...really...ummm....I would like to go to the bathroom...nope...this can't wait... could I just, uh...mmm... Uh Oh. Look out! She's gonna blow! Clear out of there! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....SAVE YOURSELVES!! SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!!!"

And right here, in the middle of your personal lifetime low point, you do the unthinkable. You fall asleep. When you wake up you are all tucked in the hospital bed like nothing ever happened. There is no medical personnel carnage on the floor. You haven't sprayed shit all over the wall. Hmmmm. Was it all a dream? The doctor comes in and smiles at you. I'm thinking that keeping a straight face at this point MUST be the most difficult part of his job. He tells you that it was a false alarm and that there is nothing wrong with your intestinal track. You may get dressed and go home. Woohoo! You are a little woozy from the drugs so you don't even realize that you are walking funny, kind of like a drunk cowboy. But at least you don't have that tube up your ass anymore.

Back to my friend Joe, I wonder at what point he decided that this is how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Perhaps he somehow discovered that he was really good at keeping a straight face after someone makes a total idiot out of herself. I guess I'll have to wait for my 25th reunion to find out.

So good luck, husband of Leigh. Here is hoping that you are a perfect asshole.

PS As you might have guessed by this blog, a colonoscopy is not one of my favorite pastimes. BUT guess what, people. It's a hell of a lot better then colon cancer. So if you need one GET one. There. I've met my unsolicited advice quota for the day. Wait. No I haven't. I also strongly recommend that you go visit humor-blogs. There are several perfect assholes over there....

The birth of the IPIQ

2008-09-01T13:01:00.005-04:00

I was just watching the hurricane coverage and, somehow, I began to wonder about why some people do the stupid things that they do. And then, after the stupid act, they find themselves in need of rescue personnel so they call 911.

I think that there should be an exit-interview with these "victims". Or at least some kind of post incident questionnaire. We'll call it the IPIQ - the Idiot's Post-Incident Questionnaire! Here are a couple of examples:

Questionnaire for the U-Boat driver:

There was a sign posted back there that screamed "WARNING! THIS STREET IS FLOODED AND IF YOU DRIVE INTO IT YOU AND YOUR CAR WILL FLOAT AWAY IN A RAGING TORRENT!!" Why did you drive onto the shoulder of the road (to pass the sign - without scratching your car), tentatively stick the nose of your car into the water before you gunned it, thereby springing your car, yourself and your children into a dangerous raging river where you were swept along until crashing into a bridge? (please check all that apply)

_ I thought that my car was "different" and that the "regular" rules for "regular" cars do not apply.
_ I did not read the sign because I no speaka da english.
_ I wanted to be seen on CNN with my fat ass trying to climb out of the front window so that I could sit on the hood of my car with a dazed expression to figure out my next brilliant move. I didn't know that my pants would get so soggy that they would then slip around my knees thereby showing the whole world what they are NOT missing out on.
_ My car is an "all wheel drive" so I totally thought I could make it. How was I supposed to know that, at a certain depth of water, my air-filled tires would float the whole fucking car up?!
_ I am incredibly stupid. In fact, the very idea that I've even been able to procreate is an insult to the memory of Charles Darwin.

Questionnaire for the Sexual Adventurer:

Why did you shove gerbil food up your butt to entice a gerbil to climb in there where it became lodged, then died a horrific death, and when you couldn't get it out you had to be taken to the hospital where a surgeon was called in off of the golf course to remove it? (please check all that apply)

_ OH, I didn't put it there, because that would be totally disgusting! No, I must have just sat an on a gerbil with food on the tip of its tongue...yaaahhh, that's the ticket!
_ Well, I got to the point where regular sex became kind of...predictable so I thought that we'd do this to spice things up a bit. How was I supposed to know that my wife wouldn't be that "into" it?
_ It was either the gerbil or the family dog. I just thought this would be more humane. I'm a humanitarian, goddamnit!
_ I was looking for an easy way to meet a surgeon.

So there you have it, folks. I'll expect to see an IPIQ passed out the next time I see firemen rescuing some guy who put his tongue on a frozen flag pole in a failed effort to debunk the Christmas Story movie "myth".

If this was funny (I can never tell), please click my HB smiley guy!

Darwin vs. Gustav: It's a Real Nail-Biter

2008-08-30T16:17:00.006-04:00

Three years ago, before Katrina hit the Gulf states, the local government called for a mandatory evacuation. They begged people to flee. And many did go. Yet there were also many who stayed. There was a horrible storm. The levees failed and the region flooded. And then, when the local, regional and national government proved to have their collective heads up their collective asses, the folks who had chosen to stay in their homes seemed mystified that they hadn't yet been saved.

I grew up in South Florida so I know how this shit works. You cannot be on or near the coast when big hurricanes comes. Well, you can, but you risk drowning or getting hit on the head with something big. Like the roof of your house. Maybe I'm just a genius, but this seems very obvious to me. If you live in New Orleans then you live BELOW sea level. A large storm (that has already killed more than eighty human beings) is approaching and it could be pushing along a wall of water that is 15-20 feet ABOVE sea level. It has the added benefit of bringing a shit load of rain with it. And there you sit, below the level of the sea. Do you see where I am going with this?? The water - it will be above where your head is. That could make it difficult to breathe. And there is definitely going to be a big mess.

I was curious about how the news of Hurricane Gustav was being received in New Orleans so I went to a local news site there called NOLA.com. I read an editorial piece written by someone who had stayed in her home for Katrina and intended to do the same for this storm. She was giving advice to others, should they choose to stay also. The piece was lucid and well-written so I've assumed that the author is intelligent. She seems to have a genuine (and understandable) dislike for looters so maybe that's her purpose in staying - to protect her home and things.

But at what cost? It's not only your own life that you risk, you know. It's also the lives of emergency personnel. If something bad happens while it's still storming (which, by the way, happens every single time there is a major hurricane striking land), you're likely to call for 911 help. This puts rescuers in a quandary. Must they risk their own life to save you? It's not an easily answered question, particularly when they realize (as I'm sure they will) that you could have simply saved yourself had you left town when asked.

It also risks the lives of the post-storm rescuers (National Guardsmen, Marines and other volunteers) who must endure the local conditions while performing herculean efforts to get you off of your roofs, out of your cars or wherever you might have marooned yourselves. Oh, and by the way, all of these services are only free to YOU. The cost of them gets put on the tax payers tab. You see, all of the money that makes these services available actually comes from somewhere. And if our government is spending billions of dollars dicking around in dingies in the Big Easy, looking to help people who have, in essence, stranded themselves through their reluctance to leave their homes, well, then that means they are not spending those billions of dollars on education. Or health care reform. Or fixing that big pot hole that can crack an egg in your bag of groceries in the trunk.

So if you guys want to stay, go for it. It is, after all, a free country. I'll just try not to feel sorry for you when CNN shows images of you sick, wet and exhausted, waiting on your flooded roof tops for the National Guard to pluck you up to safety. And I'll also try to not think unfavorably of you when I get my tax bill next April.

Good luck and, truly, best wishes on successfully surviving the storm.

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Bend Over and Grab Your Ankles, Kids. Your School Board Is "Affecting Change" Again

2008-08-28T12:28:00.005-04:00

You know, it's almost funny. But sometimes the state of affairs in the Georgia education system is INSANE. We are ranked 49th out of the 50 states. My kids attend public schools here and I only have glowing compliments to the schools and teachers. But the SYSTEM. It's nuts. And, frankly, I blame the school boards of Metropolitan Atlanta.

Not long ago the Cobb County School Board was sued because they had (without seeking approval) placed stickers in biology books stating that the process of Evolution is not a fact. The Christian Right was, of course, at the heart of this issue, arguing that their views should be introduced somehow into our curriculum. WHATEVER, Jackasses. All I know is that this whole experience has made me consider that there might be an almighty power who is indeed called The Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Once the news of Cobb County hit the AP wires all hell broke loose. My relatives across the frigging GLOBE shot me emails asking, "WTF?!" What the fuck indeed.

And then, just today, something miraculous happened. Cobb County is no longer the designated asshole of the state. Woo hoo! Yep, that distinct honor goes to Clayton County as their school board lost the accreditation for their entire county. Nicely done! Wow...that hasn't happened to a county in our entire country since the late 1960's when there was civil unrest and shit. Now there are 50,000 kids with uncertain futures. Kids in their senior year are going to have to try to get into colleges without having graduated from an accredited high school. Good luck, you guys. You might want to look into the Barbizon School of Beauty. Or just skip it altogether, accept your fate (that you got FUCKED by your incompetent school board) and take a bullshit job that offers you what I'm sure will be a pathetic hourly wage.

In sum, I hope that The Flying Spaghetti Monster decides he's had enough of this, too, and eats the Clayton County School Board with a nice Pinot Noir. Or that he at least pelts them with old, rank meatballs. They've got something coming, that's for DAMN sure.

Well. I've just re-read today's post and will admit, it's officially a rant. Sorry about that. But I just cannot believe how incompetent these school boards are. Shame on us all for electing these asshats to such important positions. I hate politics like I hate bad shellfish but it's almost enough to make me want to run for office. But they'd probably want me to stop dropping the "F" bomb. And that is SO not happening.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. There! I feel better already....

If you've read this far, then I'm amazed. And I'd feel awkward about asking you to click on my HB smiley because this just wasn't that funny. But I won't get mad if you do. ;)

Bad Boy, Charlie. No, NO!

2008-08-27T07:37:00.005-04:00

Why does this man continue to marry and breed?? He has a 25 year old daughter from his ex Paula Profit, 2 girls from his ex Denise Richards and now, apparently, another on the way from future-ex Brooke Mueller (btw, she's not, by any chance THE Pasta Princess of Mueller fame, is she???)

How does he even talk these women into walking down the aisle?? Don't they have girlfriends?! You know, real friends who will say, "Oh, Brooke, Brooke, Brooke! What the fuck are you doing? He likes you, there is no doubt about that. But he LOVES coke and hookers. Ask anyone! Even my Great Aunt Suzie knows that."

This is the kind of guy you party with. Go to Vegas with him. Have a nasty three-way with him and a 17 year old model at a coke fueled rave. But marry him? No thanks.

And how did she even get pregnant? Normally when you get married you don't have to worry about condoms for protection against STD's. But this rule doesn't apply to someone like Charlie Sheen. Nope, he's what we in the business refer to as "a triple bagger".

Remember, his ex-wife Denise left him when she was like 8 months pregnant. I think this might be a meaningful clue into the type of guy he is. Perhaps he gave her a baby plus a raging case of herpes? Something catastrophic must have happened. But I'm sure that in the end Brooke will be fine. She'll have a cute baby to make excuses to about his fathers behavior, and then she has a lucrative realty show just waiting in the wings for her...maybe she knows what she's doing after all???

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Dancing Donkeys

2008-08-26T07:55:00.001-04:00

Looks like Grandma might have had a little drinky before the convention got started....

I think that pretty much every politician is stupid, a piece of shit or, worse, a stupid piece of shit. Every single time I cast a vote it is with a heavy heart, trying to figure out who is least likely to really fuck up the country.

So needless to say I don't really follow the Democrat and Republican National Conventions. And when I do watch it it's only to see which old white guy is trying to boogie it up to a song that he secretly loathes but feels like he needs to dance to it anyway to appear relevant to younger generations.

Last night, as I was switching channels, trying to find something good on, I caught a glimpse of Senator Joe Biden at the DNC getting funky in his seat (bless his heart). His little pink head was flushed and sweaty with the excitement it all. And Lenny Kravitz, if he was watching, will probably never play that song again.

I was hooked, watching all of the politico-wackos with their 15 pieces of flair on their shirts, huge bedazzled hats and improbable facial hair. I continued watching until the interview with President Jimmy Carter. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO HIS LEFT EYE???! That poor interviewer. He must have been staring at it. But then he'd feel himself staring at it so he'd try to only stare at the right one. And then Jimmy would be like, "Hey, Pal. Why the hell are trying to bore a hole through my right eye? That's how this happened..."

I feel like I might have gone blind myself, seeing it. Bless his heart but holy SHIT. I can't find a good picture right now, but when I do I'll post it and then your eye will bleed in sympathy. Why the hell didn't someone put a patch on him or something? They could have bedazzled the hell out of it with a donkey or peanut or something.

Speaking of bedazzling, it is with a very heavy heart that I introduce you to this lady, who, based on the phallic peanut on her head, I would guess she is from my home state of Georgia. Sweet niblets. She looks like she's waiting for the mother ship to come back and pick her up. If only it were that simple.

"Excuse me, Madam, but you seem to have a flamingo on your head...perhaps your enormous shades prevented you from noticing...."

Now I find myself looking forward to the RNC. You just know that they are going to have killer hats!

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The TSA: Not Just Another Ineffective Government Run Agency

2008-08-25T10:45:00.001-04:00

Well, well, well. What do we have HERE???

So I'm back home. Last night we flew from Portland to Atlanta and BOY are my arms tired.... (I can't believe I just typed that.)

Anyway, I noticed something along the way, at the airport specifically, and feel the need to comment. There is something inherently fucked up about airline security. (Oh yah, I'm going there.) Here is the thing - I want to believe in the TSA. I really do. Further, I definitely do not want to be in a plane that is blown up or crashed. And for these desires I am willing to put up with all sorts of absurdities, such as:

- waiting in the long and serpentine security line with my squirmy 2 year old.

- worrying so much about whether or not they were going to take my kids sippy cup of milk away that I began to have an upset stomach.

- frantically digging through my Mary Poppins bag in search of my lip gloss to make sure it is less than three ounces so "they" won't make me throw it away. (It's MAC lip gloss and I LOVE it. It be POPPIN!!!)

- checking my suitcase instead of carrying it on because I need more than three ounces of shampoo and conditioner to get my moppy hair washed. I actually used to pride myself on being a "carry-on" kind of girl. No more, I'm afraid.

Then I saw this man standing in line by himself - Mr. Lonely. He was corralled in some kind of stall, holding his bags and looking just kind of bored and somehow accepting of his state. Finally, a little old lady wearing an imposing TSA uniform came over, opened his rope and led him to some kind of Xray machine he was to stand in. He knew where to stand because on the bottom of it were the outline of two feet. So he stood there and suddenly, without warning, the machine blew on him. HARD. So hard that his shirt untucked and blew up towards his neck. He stood there another minute and then had apparently passed whatever test they had given him and was permitted to pass through to his plane.

I said out loud, "What the...? What is that? Do we all have to do that???" Nobody answered me. I stood there, trying to remember which bra I had donned that morning. Was it my cute Victoria's Secret bra that cuts the circulation off to my rib cage or the unsexy yet practical Playtex cross my heart and bet my ass that my tits won't be going anywhere in this sucker... Nope. It's the one that screams, "Yoo HOO...Hey, fellas, check ME out...I have given birth to and breastfed THREE babies!!!"

I rounded the corner and the checkpoint came into view. I looked up at the TSA screener who would screen my bag. My mouth dropped open in shock. He was, I kid you not, an Osama Bin Laden look-a-like. I swear he was!! I almost yelled, "Holy SHIT! I found him!" Turban, long flowing beard...the whole works! I actually rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't seeing things. The only difference was that he was in a snappy TSA uniform (verses the long white robe) but still.

I immediately felt bad for my thoughts. This guy looked like he was working hard. Every bag that went through the machine got his undivided attention and scrutiny. He kind of reminded me of this guy:

But I could no longer reflect on the bin Laden-ness that was checking bags for bombs and shit. Because I found myself in a sudden flurry of activity where I performed the following tasks at break-neck speed:

1. Took four rectangularly shaped boxes.
2. Pulled laptop out of protective bag, put in a box by itself.
3. Put purse, computer bag and boys backpack in separate box.
4. Threw two plastic baggies filled with my lip gloss and my sons sippy cup in yet another box.
5. Frantically took of my sons shoes (yes, they really make you take baby shoes off, too) and put them with my own sandals in a - yep, you guessed it - another box.
6. Made the boy get out of his stroller - barefooted - so I could clumsily fold it up and put it through the machine.

My son refused to walk through the xray thing by himself. The TSA guy tried to lure him with a sticker (what's next..."want some candy, little boy???"). My kid wasn't having it. He slowly shook his head, looked up at me and then wrapped himself around my leg. I was proud that he wasn't going to be bought with a stupid TSA Junior Officer Sticker Badge. Take that, Copper!

But we made it through, Osama didn't sweat a sista; I got to keep my lip gloss. And it's good to be home.

Porno Lips By Day, Farm Girl By Night

2008-08-20T23:37:00.002-04:00

Can you guys keep a secret? I'm not actually at home. SSSHHHHHH!!!!

My dad lives in the Pacific Northwest (aka B.F.E.) and had one of his knees replaced this week. So I sent my daughters to school, stocked the fridge for them and the hubs and then my 2 year old boy and I hopped on a plane from Atlanta. A FIVE hour flight. We sat next to some poor girl who will probably keep taking birth control pills until she's 90 after her experiences with us.

But, we made it, the operation went great and Pops is coming home in the morning. As for me, I have been caring for actual livestock. As in a boy PLUS hens and roosters, thank you very much. I've been checking the crops (blueberries, yes; tomatoes, not quite yet) and making sure that the cat gets her food in the morning.

There are a couple dozen baby chickens running around and I have to make sure that they get enough to eat because the lardo hens bulldoze them over to get what looks like cat litter that I throw in their general direction. Every time I see it I think, "Jeez. Where's the fucking LOVE??? I'm guessing that some of you old bags gave birth to these chicks...show some compassion!" But it's obvious that they don't give a shit.

I don't have any dungarees or other farming accouterments so I wear my city clothes and my dads black boots that come up to my knees when checking the crops and animals. It's very sexy.

Today I picked blueberries as the sun was rising in my jeans skirt, blue sweater and dads' black boots. My freshly cleaned hair was blowing in the breeze. I started to get an identity crisis. Who AM I? Why am I humming old slave songs while I pick berries off of a frigging vine instead of listening to Nine Inch Nails while I blog for hours on end??? So I quickly applied my MAC lip gloss and all felt a little better with the world again.

I'm supposed to come home on Friday but I know that when I leave I'll pass a longing glance at the boots that have a clod of chicken shit with feathers in it stuck on the heel. Plus I'll never dispassionately glance at a pint of blueberries again. Do you guys have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to pick them?!

OK, It's 9:30PM here and time for a farm girl to go to bed. 'Night, John-Boy....

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Dry and Hacking, Shoulders Slacking

2008-08-18T19:05:00.009-04:00

Sometimes, when I get sick, I get a dry, hacking cough. It is - how do you say in your language - tres sexy. On more than one occasion this has happened and someone I don't know well has offered me a cough drop. When you have a dry, hacking cough you are at the mercy of others. Your eyes water mercilessly so you can't see anything. And you obviously can't talk, what with all the dry hacking. So you blindly nod your head.

Inevitably your "savior" will hand you something from the dark and wet recesses of their handbag. It will be partially unwrapped with a chunk missing. And let's not forget all of the hair and bits of crap stuck to it. Suddenly it looks like a lint brush that is four inches wide. Your head pulls back in fear as it is being passed towards your face.

What to do? WHAT TO DO??? Wipe it on your sleeve? Blow on it?? Throw it and run away?!

The irony is that everyone in the room is horribly annoyed by you and your dry hacking. They stare at you expectantly, waiting for you to take the stupid lozenge so you'll no longer be spreading the bubonic plague. So, you man up, stick it in your mouth and hope that nothing resembling a pubic hair get stuck between your teeth. You are then expected to nod your head and smile thoughtfully at the lozenge giver, not unlike you've had a sip of exceptional wine.

In other coughing news, you may already know this, but one of the most horrible sights in the world is a naked woman who is in mid-hacking cough. I happened to notice this phenomen the last time I got sick. I had undressed for bed and was sitting in front of the bathroom mirror with the closet mirror behind me.

Suddenly I had a coughing fit and happened to glance in the mirror behind me midway through the fit. Sweet niblets. It was horrifying. Slack shoulders, heaving up and down. Skin pulled taut, just trying to keep up with the shoulders. And this is why, folks, that whenever I'm sick I always wear a parka. Now you know.

Bex, OUT.

Who's yo Momma???

2008-08-18T13:54:00.005-04:00

I took down my story because it looks like the poor little guy isn't going to make it. :(((

Crisis in Georgia

2008-08-15T17:54:00.005-04:00

So I live in Georgia. Did you even know that? What's more is I had Russians living in my house until this very morning. Naturally when CNN announced that Russia had invaded Georgia I thought, "No shit. They've been here since May. What's the big whoop??"

Then I realized that Georgia, in addition to being the poster child for childhood obesity, has a country underneath Russia named after it. So I relaxed a bit.

And that's when I heard the REAL news. Two men said that they found a deceased Big Foot in the mountains of Georgia. So they did what any reasonable person would do - stuffed it in a freezer and then drove it across the country, all the way to California.

Okaaayyyyy...you find a 500 pound dead animal who strongly resembles a human being. And then you get back in your truck, go home and get a deep freezer. First, of course, you'd have to remove all of your frozen redneck food. Then you and a buddy (who is undoubtedly called "Shane") load the empty freezer into your truck which is missing its' muffler. You also load a case of beer because, after all, you are very clearly manly men who will need some beer to get them through the next few hours.

You go back to where you found your Sasquatch (which, incidentally, you have no idea how to spell) and start chewing tabacco, which is integral to your discussion of how to "stuff 'er in there to git'er done, by the grace a god". After you've consumed the case of beer you decide that brute force and rolling is the only way you're going to get this sucker in your freezer.

You finally load it in and then look at each other with blank stares - now what?? Call the police? Nooo. That'd be ridiculous. You could take it to your Uncle Bocephus. That sumbitch could stuff anything on the wrong end of your shotgun ("Hey, Bubba, remember what he did with our pet Opossum??"). But Shane, the better educated of the two (graduated from the 8th grade, yessir, thankee very much!) states that this wouldn't work as they would no longer have "that there goddamn DNA" to prove that what they have is indeed Big Foot.

So the decision is made to drive to Palo Alto, California. Naturally. Because anybody who knows anything knows that's where you take 500 pound primates you "find" dead in the same hills where they filmed Deliverence. (I can hear the banjo's strumming...damn, boy - you got a purrrtttty mouth....)

But the thing I'm MOST excited about is how this will impact the public perception others have of the fine state of Georgia. We're not ONLY 49th in education. No! We have so much more to offer then that silly, insignificant statistic! We find giant dead primates and stick them in a freezer for a cross country road trip! Woo hoo!!!

It's The Tori Horror Show!!!

2008-08-14T11:12:00.000-04:00

I try not to be too mean here on the Blog of Bex; I would never want to write something that would be hurtful to another. But sometimes...that gets a bit hard. Particularly when I go to the doctor's office and pick up a People magazine to catch up on my celebrity stuff. I would NEVER actually purchase this magazine because that would make a statement about me that I'm not yet ready to embrace. But when I go to the doctors office I will knock over a geriatric to sift through piles of National Geographics in order to dig up any copy of People I can get my little hands on. In fact, it's a safe bet that if ever say anything about a celebrity I've been to the doctor within the past few days. Just a little Bex Factoid.

ANYWAY...I think that maybe someone slipped me some crazy pills or something. Because I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why Tori Spelling is still around and somewhat famous.

I used to know who she was because she was on that show, 90210. I actually felt kind of bad for her as she doesn't...well, she didn't really seem to have the natural beauty of some of her co-stars. But, frankly, my real beef with her is that her boobs were kind of scary in a "oops, we're deflating", lopsided kind of way.

They just seem kind of, oh, I don't know...lumpy and hard. And I think it's pretty widely accepted that the only reason she had a gig on that show was because her crypt-keeper father was in charge of it.

But then he died and stiffed her in the estate. So I would have thought that she'd have blown away into the wind (albeit in a lopsided twirl due to the fake boobs throwing her off center).

I'd heard that she had some kind of reality TV show but that isn't terribly surprising. In fact I think most B-listers do that on their way out of "the game". So why I had to find this while flipping through a People magazine is beyond me.

At first I thought it was just a breasty drag queen and her gimp, but no, it's Tori and her goofy husband doing a Sonny and Cher impression. Oh. The hilarity. Stop it. My stomach.... Seriously. Please stop. STOP! I don't feel so good....

And then there is this:

I filed this under "Oh, NO you didn't!" Are they really gonna bring Johnny and June CASH into this madness???!

This is the only one that I kind of liked:

But then I immediately felt dirty and bad. I didn't want to like it. It just sort of - happened. The only thing I know for sure is that Tori is going to get her ass kicked if Courtney ever sees it.

Yet all of these pictures are just a warm up to the grand daddy of them all. Its image is so disturbing I find myself averting my eyes from fear that it would steal my soul. Here is what is going to keep me up at night, shivering in the fetal position:

That expression on her face is SO creepy...it looks like Joan Crawford in a wig. Any minute now she's gonna start whipping me with wire hangers while her husband dances a gay gig across the stage. I may never stop screaming....

Tori and What's Your Name - please stop the madness.

Ok. I'm all done being mean. Until my husband gets home, that is. (Obviously.)

Pregnancy Pacts (and other GREAT Ideas)

2008-08-13T09:59:00.001-04:00

The scene: Gloucester High School Algebra class in Massachusetts about one year ago. Two girls are supposed to be learning math but are instead frantically texting each other.

Girl 1 - My mom is such a stupid bitch.

Girl 2 - Mine, too. She has no idea how hard it is to be a kid.

Girl 1 - None of them do. OMG!! I got a great idea!!

Girl 2 - omg...what??

Girl 1 - We should totally play a joke on our parents and school!

Girl 2 - omg...omg...LOLOLOL...i'm IN. What should we do?

Girl 1 - Let's all get pregnant, like, at the same time!

Girl 2 - ...........O.M.G. .....That would be, like, too funny!

Girl 1 - Sweet. Tell everyone, K?

Girl 2 - K!!!

Flash forward about 6 months. Two boys are sitting in Algebra class, supposedly learning math. Instead they are frantically texting each other.

Boy 1 - WTF is up with the girls at this school?

Boy 2 - Huh? You mean cuz they are all so easy?

Boy 1 - No! I mean cuz they are all fat and stuff.

Boy 2 - But they're easy. As in will totally do IT.

Boy 1 - Maybe they used to, but now they're all like super sensitive and crying all the time and shit.

Boy 2 - Word. You know bitches get crazy. Maybe they're on that rag or somethin.

Two months later, at the community baby shower, the girls are laughing hysterically about their super awesome prank. Girl 1 says, "Bwah ha ha ha ha....OMG...we sooooo got everyone on this one..." Suddenly her expression sharply changes from happiness to puzzlement to pain.

The other girls look down and start laughing, "OMG...you totally peed your pants. I'm gonna put this on youtube ... BWAH HA HA HA..."

The first labor pain hits Girl 1 and she doubles over and starts crying about wanting a "Do-Over" and her mommy. Confusion and then eventually fear covers the face of each girl in the room as they realize that they are watching a preview of what will soon happen to them as well.

The stork is working over time, dropping off snotty nosed kids with lightening speed. A month later a bleary eyed Girl 2 sends a text.

Girl 2 - There is something wrong with this baby.

Girl 1 - omg. what??

Girl 2 - she won't fucking sleep. and she won't stop crying! And she shits like, all the time.

Girl 1 - OMG. Mine too! Do you think that means they're retarded???

Girl 2 - dunno. but i never sleep. and my BF (boyfriend) broke up with me, said I'm not fun anymore.

Girl 1 - STFU (shut the fuck up)! My BF told me that i'm totally fat and gross. Guys are such fucktards. Well, at least we showed our moms, right??

Girl 2 - ...um...i guess, yah.

There is a period of silence as both girls realize that perhaps they hadn't completely thought through the prank as they didn't know that they would have a baby living with them afterwards. Babies who would want to - GASP - eat from their breasts. Plus they'll shit in their diapers at least once a day for at least 2 or 3 years (if our young heroines had actually paid attention in math class they'd know that's at least 700 poopie diapers). And then the girls will be living with toddlers who might actually want to play and learn with someone. But at least they'll all have the same taste in music.

The babies will get older and enroll in the public school system where they will spend lots of time avoiding learning with impressive diligence and texting each other about how stupid and bitchy their mothers are.

Well played, Girls. You showed us all.

Forgive Me Father, Cuz I Totally Just Sinned

2008-08-11T20:35:00.001-04:00

Let's file this under "Give Me A Fucking Break" shall we?

The Catholic Archdiocese in Cincinnati just produced a list of things that their priests are no longer allowed to do with children. They are NOT allowed to kiss, wrestle or tickle kids. Also on the "no-no" list are bear hugs and piggy-back rides. Are these not a bit...self-evident? Seriously, are there really piggy-back giving priests out there who aren't out to get in your pants?? My hubs grew up Catholic...maybe I'll ask him. He was, in fact, an alter boy AND a boy scout and managed to get out with his corn hole intact. So I guess there is hope.

But I think they might have forgotten to add a little something called "MOLESTATION" to their list. Because, if memory serves, tickling kids is still legal in most states. As is a friendly peck on the cheek. But putting your hand down a kids pants...NOPE. Not ok, not even a little bit.

I also noticed that this list only defines appropriate behavior with kids. Does this mean that it's ok to tickle adult parishioners? I'll admit that getting tickled by a priest is on my List of Things To Do Before I Die (it's listed right after I have a drunken threesome with an HIV+ Haitian whore and Donald Rumsfeld - meow).

I know that there must be millions of Catholic priests who have managed to keep it in their pants over the years. Nicely done, Gents. But this list sucks, is stupid and it's ineffective. Because although I'm not a Catholic, I'm going to guess that the "no hanky-panky" rule with the children in your parish was already well established before the Naughty Priests started getting it on with the youngsters entrusted to them.

If they really want to put a comprehensive list of inappropriate things (that does not include the inappropriate things that have already been happening) I think that they should add that priests aren't allowed to watch kids eat ice cream or have pillow fights in their underwear. And let's make lustful glances inappropriate while we're at it.

Oh, and pro-Catholic people?? I totally do not want to get a bunch of emails chewing on my ass for this post (leave that task to my Haitian hooker, thank you very much). I went to one of your schools. I've married one of you. So please. Let's think of me as a 'Catholic-In-Law' and not a 'Crazy-Bitch-Dissing-The-Church'. Because I'm not dissing your church. I'm dissing your pervy priests.

PS I tried to get some images to put on this post (because some of my readers...well, let's just say that they only read books with big pictures). But everything Google showed me looked like it could be construed as offensive. So we're illustration free today, folks.

Humor Blogs talks slowly and has lot's of pretty pictures, by the way (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more, say no more).

First Day of School Recap

2008-08-11T08:39:00.004-04:00

6:15 My alarm went off.

6:16 Told myself that I'd just close my eyes, for only a second, then I'd go wake up the girls (who are 7 and 8).

6:26 Wake up with a start, realize that I almost enabled the whole family to oversleep the first day of school.

6:27 Called self a jackassing moron on way into girls room.

6:28 Attempted to wake girls up with hugs and kisses.

6:31 Resorted to angry threats and kicking the bed.

6:35 Went downstairs, poured cereal into bowl, got two spoons, realized we're out of milk.

6:36 Called self a jackassing moron again as I realized I had to actually cook something.

6:40 Girls casually mention that they failed to do the homework they were given at the schools open house.

6:42 Girls scramble, as they try to fulfill their assignments in 5 minutes or less.

6:45 Eggs are ready, girls began eating. Very S L O W L Y, almost as if they can feel my blood pressure rising and are taunting me.

6:55 Food is gone, girls go to brush their teeth so they don't have kitten breath on the first day.

7:00 No sign of the girls and I happen to know that they just aren't that "in" to their own dental health so I open the bathroom door to find them engaged in a toothpaste fight.

7:01 Girls cower under my hissed voice and pick up toothbrushes.

7:02 Girls leave bathroom announcing their teeth are clean, I call bullshit and send them back in for another go.

7:04 Girls leave bathroom again and may have actually allowed a toothbrush to touch their teeth this time.

7:05 Girls are outside, waiting for the bus with their bags, snack and half-assed homework.

7:07 Bus comes, takes the girls away for 8 hours - Woo hoo! Maybe I'll sit down and have a cup of joe.

7:08 Two year old son wakes up crying. He comes downstairs and says he's "hunry" and wants some cereal. He spends the next hour walking around saying, "Where'd the milk go?? Where'd the milk go? Milks all gone? Milk went bye-bye???"

I'm just glad that he doesn't (yet) know how to say, "What kind of jackassing moron doesn't have milk in the house on the first day of school?!"

Check out humor-blogs!

Coming Soon to a Jerry Springer Show Near You...

2008-08-08T12:28:00.005-04:00

So. About my two year old boy. He loves to wrestle. But he calls it "fight". As in, "Momma! Wanna fight???" He's my first and only boy so I'm not sure but I keep telling myself that this is normal behavior, given species and gender.

The issue is that he cannot pronounce the "_ight" in "fight". And as many kids do, he has substituted a noise that he can pronounce easily.

His favorite words, thus far are: Truck, Duck, Muck, Stuck and Yuck. He has the "uck" phonics down and speaks them with impressive clarity.

So I guess it should come as a surprise to nobody that he has used that sound to replace the ones he cannot pronounce. Yes, gentle readers, this means that he says "fuck" instead of "fight".

And this is why, to all of you giant, judging assholes giving me weird looks in the mall this morning, that I had a two year old chasing me around screaming, "Momma!! Momma!! Wanna FUCK?? Let's FUCK! Please, Momma, can we fuck now???"

The saddest part of this entire story is that, as it was happening I thought to myself, "Jesus this is mortifying. But, it'll make for a good blog entry." And then I smiled a little self-satisfied smile, probably amplifying the impression to others that I am a certifiable freak. (::sigh::)

My Zoo Report

2008-08-07T09:30:00.004-04:00

Yesterday morning I had a wild hair and decided to go to the zoo with my three kids and one of their friends, which would make my 'me to child' ratio 1:4. One of my biggest fears is to be in this kind of situation and lose a kid or two so on the drive there I gave them my "if you can't see me, I can't see you, which means the next time I do see you I'm gonna smack your ass. So don't get lost!" speech.

After that there was a deafening silence in the backseat and so I decided to break the ice with a lecture on the majestic animals that we would be seeing shortly. The King of the Jungle. The Noble Gorilla. We're gonna do it all, Baby!

The first thing you see at Zoo Atlanta are the fascinating flamingos. Interestingly enough, the first thing you smell is flamingo fecal matter. There was a lot of dramatic plugging of noses and gagging noises from my brood. I have to admit that I showed uncharacteristic restraint by not chiming in with a request that someone light a fucking match.

Next we walked to this huge area that is supposed to resemble an African plain and of course it had all of the appropriate animals. One of them was a rhinoceros who was eating bugs or something off of the ground. The kids were mesmerized. After 10 minutes it finished its snack, turned and then waddled its mud encrusted butt away. We were all stunned to silence at the sight.

There was ... something between its legs (please cue the Jaws music). My kids friend said, "Oh...there is the vagina..." and we received some glances from other parents. But I looked straight back at them as if to say, "Yes??? So???? This kid calls it like she sees it! And if you can't deal with that, then you are clearly not ready to bring your kid to the fucking zoo!"

Fortunately I said nothing because the "vagina" began to unravel in the most curious, telescoping way. It looked like a lightning bolt slowly unfolding and extending until it finally looked like this:

Yes, there was another moment of silence while we realized that this animal had magically grown a fifth leg. The family standing next to us had a four year old kid who said, "Daddy! What is that?!" I glanced sideways at the father and could tell that he felt inadequate to answer. So my 7 year old summed it up, "Uhhh...Oh! That's a boy rhino. Right Mommy?"

Right indeed, Honey. Right indeed. Then I spent a good part of the day wondering why female rhinoceroses don't seem happier.

Next we went to the Gorilla area and I watched my two year old taking in these animals who seem alarmingly similar to us. Only lazier (if that's possible). There was a smallish gorilla who was having a staring contest with my boy. They both seemed mesmerized, almost as if staring into a strange mirror.

Then the gorilla, as if in slow motion, poked a finger into his nose, slowly pulled out the contents and then dragged it into his mouth. My son looked up at me and then began sagely nodding his head as if thinking, "Now this is someone I could relate to."

And then, when I got home, I had a margarita as big as my head and suddenly life seemed like living again.

I've heard unsubstantiated rumors that Diesel (at humor-blogs) is built like a rhino. Which end, I'm not sure.

I have something warm for the hairy fairy...

2008-08-04T23:03:00.007-04:00

You know what I did tonight??

Let me break it on down for you:

The 3 lovely Russians who live (temporarily) in my basement went to bed about 2 hours ago. My husband went to bed an hour and half ago. And then half an hour later I stuffed a dollar bill into my own cleavage and then began surfing blogs. And that's where I still am at this moment. Surfing, dollar bill peeking out.

As for the blogs, I went on a sort of a stalking tour. I checked out the website of Just A Girl which is funny in and of itself. But that wasn't enough to satisfy me. NO! I needed more! So I went trolling around on her blogroll for shits and giggles. And that's exactly what I found! Nice job, JAG! You have some winners on the old roll! Thanks for sharing!!!

As for the dollar bill, my eight year old lost yet another tooth. I've already forgotten the tooth fairy thing twice this year and I'm afraid that she wouldn't fall again for the "Well, maybe the Tooth Fairy couldn't find your pillow cuz it's such a friggin dump in here. I'll bet if you clean your room up she'll bring you something tonight..." So, I figured if I put the dollar in my bra I'd remember the tooth fairy when the money falls out of my shirt when I get ready for bed.

As long as this guy doesn't come anywhere near my house tonight I think we'll be ok. It's not so much that I'm afraid of him. It's because my two year old boy has a toothbrush fetish and I don't think he'll be able to understand that "We don't know where that has been."

It's a brand new ME!!!

2008-08-04T09:33:00.001-04:00

My daughters are fighting (school starts one week from today - bring that shit ON!). My 2 year old boy got into the pistachios last night and has been churning out rancid chunky peanut butter into his diaper all morning long (please stop bringing that shit on). It's that time of the month and my stomach is cramping. Today is Monday or, as I like to call it under my breath, "Mother Fucking Monday Fucking Laundry Day".

But through it all I feel really good today. In fact, I feel down right sexy. Know why?? Because a Blogging Goddess has made me my very own BANNER. It's that sassy thing up top with the neon and lips I'd love to have. Last week, I was a plain Jane with my beige and brown understated blogging template. This week - I am pink and shiny, standing proudly with my low-cut sweater on. Every time a man walks by I wink, make a little click noise with my tongue and say, "How you doin'??".

Just who is this Blogging Goddess, you might be wondering? It is none other than Leigh of LeighOnline.com. I'm not sure why she graced me with her generosity but I'm eternally grateful. Please help me repay her by visiting her blog, showering her with heavily lipsticked kisses and plenty of smiley votes at Humor-Blogs.

I'll be busy practicing batting my eye lashes in the mirror while saying "omigod!!" with a squeal. Yep. It's a big day.

Spam Gate, 2008

2008-08-02T16:03:00.002-04:00

Oooohhh...I love it when my title rhymes! So my blog was shut down by Blogger.com for a while. Every time I told a friend or family member this they said some version of the same thing, "Oh yeah? Is it because you're so dirty / profane / vulgar / much of a filthy whore??"

At first I thought it was funny. Then I was like, "Hey...I'm not that bad... just the occasional "F" bomb, nothing too major...." And yes, for a while there I did have an unintended fecal theme. But nothing that the FBI is going to kick my front door in for. Why is it nobody thought it was such a reach that some authority figure would shut down the little ole Blog of Bex???!
Anyhoo, some guy named Brett at Blogger sent me a notice letting me know that they had had a global system problem and that many innocent (more or less) blogs such as mine got taken down. So there you go.

But on to the BIG News! My home girl Leigh, at the world famous LeighOnline, has made me a banner thingy!!! I'm going to make some changes to my fuddy-duddy blogger template and them BAM! New banner, new look...I might even put a dress on! You just never know....

Here is my link to humor-blogs. It's pretty much the happiest place on earth.

My Sensational Shiticle Story!

2008-07-31T13:20:00.001-04:00

OK, so it's not sensational. I just happen to be a huge fan of alliteration. Anyway, I'd like to thank Meg over at Prefers Her Fantasy Life for helping me learn something new!

Yesterday she made a comment on my post about MILF's and Cougars. She said she doesn't mind the term "MILF" but prefers the term "SILT".

I, of course, had no idea what the hell she was talking about. Not to be out done I went to the online Urban Dictionary, which can be a lifesaver during these kinds of scenarios. I typed "SILT" into their search engine and they returned with "Shiticles".

Now I was really curious! What the hell is a shiticle? Do I have one? Or am I one?? Is it related to the elusive SILT? Can I catch it on a public toilet?

Clearly I had more questions than answers. So I read the definition:

1- Left over particles of feces lingering at the bottom of the toilet, nearly unflushable and as fine as silt.

2- Small particles of shit and or toilet paper or other very small pieces of anything lodged in your ass crack after wiping, usually discovered when washing your ass-crack during a shower.

"I tried to flush away the remaining shiticles before my girlfriend came over, but they just wouldn't dissipate."

"I had shiticles lodged in my ass."

"The shiticles in my underwear ended up staining them."

Huh. Sounds like a synonym for dingleberry. Now that I know the definition it all seems so obvious. And I love it when dictionary's use the word in a sentence so you can really get a sense of how to utilize it. I've always thought that an extended vocabulary is the sign of an intelligent mind. And here we all are, one step closer to intelligence, thanks to Meg!

BUT, I still don't know what a SILT is. So, Meg. Why don't you help us all get our learn on and enlighten us!!!

Link to humor-blogs.

The MILF vs. The Cougar

2008-07-30T09:13:00.005-04:00

A few of months ago I went out with a girlfriend to a bar. Some guy walked up to us and said, "So, just a couple of cougars, out for the night, eh?" I almost punched him in his fat head. A cougar?! What the fuck does that mean? All I know is it doesn't sound entirely complimentary. And I've been wondering about it ever since.

And then there is the MILF. It stands for "Mom I'd Like to Fuck" but it does not mean that if you happen to be a mom, and get some guy to poke you that you're a MILF. No, I think it's generally accepted that if you are a MILF then you are also a Hot Mom. But they can be sweet and committed to their baby daddy's. Which is different from a cougar. Cougars are rarely sweet. They are direct and forthcoming about what they want. And that is directly behind your zipper.

While on vacation a few years ago we met a couple of Canadian guys who were hilarious. One morning at breakfast they were discussing a scandal that had occurred the night before. Apparently there had been some kind of missed sexual opportunity and Jerome was pissed off at Verne for being a shitty wingman.

Verne's take was that Jerome wanted him to hook up with a scary looking cougar who was a 6 foot tall Swedish chick who smoked each unfiltered cigarette in one inhalation and looked at him like he had a pork chop tied to his pants. And if sealing that deal was what he needed to do for Jerome to qualify him as a good wingman, then Verne was willing to accept his Shitty Wingman status. Fair enough, I say. Besides, I saw her. She would have snapped him in half.

This is probably a common problem among single men. One girl is cute, the other - a beast. Who takes the hit for the team?? Not Verne, that much I can tell you.

The other day I heard a song on the radio that must be the Cougar Anthem - Give It 2 Me, by Madonna. Here are some of the lyrics:

Got no boundaries and no limits
If there's excitement, put me in it
If it's against the law, arrest me
If you can handle it, undress me

Don't stop me now, don't need to catch my breath
I can go on and on and on
When the lights go down and there's no one left
I can go on and on and on

Give it 2 me, Yeah
No one's gonna show me how
Give it 2 me, Yeah
No one's gonna stop me now

I've also seen the video and now I'm wondering; How much longer is Madonna going to dance around in her underwear? I think she's around 50 now and she really looks great. But this cannot last forever. Put some fucking pants on, lady! It seems like she's trying just a bit too hard to be sexy. I guess she's always done that, but I think it's becoming inappropriate. The good news is for her daughter, Lourdes. There won't be much that she'll do that her mom can bust her chops for. So at least we have that.

Here is the cover for her latest album, Hard Candy. Nice money shot, Madonna.

My guess is that her next album, when she turns 60, will feature a picture of her with her feet behind her ears. But, all things being equal, I suppose that Madonna is a MILF and a Cougar. Which is probably not bad work (if you can get it).

Link to humor-blogs.

My Super Duper Widget Poem

2008-07-29T11:40:00.001-04:00

I'm not a girl from Nantuckett.
Regardless, today I'll say 'Fuck It'.

'Cuz I can't figure how
To load my widget now

I'm pretty sure I'm an idget.

I have never written a poem before in my life but was inspired because I cannot for the life of me figure out how the hell to add my "widgets" that will help people vote for me to increase my ranking on Humor-Blogs.

Here is what I want to add to my website:

Isn't it cute?? It is called a widget and is supposed to show up on the bottom of a post to let folks know how many smileys (votes) I've been given. Then, if the reader is so inspired, he or she can click on it to easily cast their vote for or against me.

I've seen other blogs with this and decided I should do it, too. So I went to my handy dandy FAQ page of the HB site and found these directions:

Step one is read the directions. Step two is comprehend the directions. Ahhhh...fucked on step number two. I spent one hour today trying to figure this shit out. AN HOUR. I've cut and pasted goddamn widget code on every nook and cranny of my stupid blog and - NOTHING has changed. Now I've started feeling like that little laughing head that I coveted and loved so dearly is actually laughing its ass off. At me.

Not to be outdone, I next went to Blogger.com for help and guidance. Like it's not enough that they gave me a free spot to park this literary masterpiece I call The Blog of Bex and spew my "thoughts" each day. Let's see what they had to say:

"Now with that out of the way..." WHAT?! What is out of the way? Closing a tag? WTF are you people talking about?!

Compounding my frustration is the fact that I've been trying to figure out the Blog Catalog website so that I can mix and mingle with my funny, blogerific friends but I don't know what the fuck is going on there, either.

I keep getting emails inviting me to be friends with a cool blogger and I think, "Yes! I'd love to be your friend!! But...I...do I click something?? Subscribe somewhere? Wave my magic fucking wand???!" You guys are super busy, rating each other and joining fancy-shmancy neighborhoods. I'm still looking for the front door. So if you see a little pink nose, pressed up against the Blog Catalog window, don't worry. It's just Bex....

PLUS everybody else has some cute little logo that personifies who they are. Everybody but me, apparently. How do you get one of those? Or, more importantly, how do I get one of those? Since I haven't loaded one they put a silhouette of the Unibomber up next to my name. Thanks, guys.

I think I look super awesome. For a unibomber stamp. Stupid blog. Stupid widgets. (Stupid Bex.) And that's the thing! I'm not stupid! I am, contrary to compounding evidence, quite computer savvy. I wish that I could buy one of you Blog Brains a margarita for you to just hook it up for me. But no, it'll just be little old me trying to upload a picture that doesn't give to much away (like my address or, God forbid, my weight).

And let's not forget the widget. If I had my magic wand I'd put it RIGHT HERE.

The Russian Revulsion

2008-07-28T11:15:00.003-04:00

Several years ago my husband and I were very lucky to be invited on a 16 day cruise through Russia. It began in St. Petersburg, ended in Moscow and was very much the trip on a lifetime. The funny thing about this trip is that we were basically the only couple on board who weren't of retirement age. I guess not every working stiff can just up and leave their day job for three weeks. (SUCKAS...!)

On our second day we were invited on an excursion to Peter House, which was Peter the Great's Summer Palace. It was insanely beautiful and we had an amazing time. Here is a picture of part of the gardens:

Lovely, eh? Yep. It was. We were transported there with 50 of our favorite senior citizens via autobus which worked out pretty well. The seats were comfortable and everyone was happy and excited to be visiting such an interesting place. The tour was wonderful and we all had a great time walking the magical gardens.

On the way home I did what I often do when in any vehicle I'm not driving - I sacked out. After 45 minutes I woke up sweaty and drooly, wondering where in the hell I was. I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth in case I had let anything loose during the siesta. I looked over at my husband in the aisle seat and mumbled, "Hey. Are we almost there?"

That's when I noticed that all was not well. He was rocking back and forth. Maniacally. Hmmmm. Curious behavior. Then I saw an endless line of old people who appeared to be jostling for position in a line by the "toilet" in the middle of the bus. This is the same toilet we all carefully avoided on the trip to the palace as it was impossible to do anything in there without the entire bus knowing all about it. So those whose morning coffee kicked in on the trip there had sucked it up and waited until we arrived at our destination to take care of their business.

But these niceties were no longer being observed. In fact, the next time the bathroom door opened a shoving match broke out between two geriatrics. Old, affluent people were fighting over the use of a seriously sub-par toilet. What the hell...? Was I dreaming?? Next was Barney going to float down from the ceiling in a g-string next while singing Copacabana???

THAT is when I smelled it and knew that this horror show was not a dream. A heavy green fog escaped from the potty and infested the air causing gagging noises all around me. It also caused my neck to involuntarily snap back in shock and awe. I realized that somebody must have fucking died on this goddamn bus because the stench in the air made my mouth feel like I had been eating something metallic and my tongue was starting to sweat in a "Oh, yeah, something is very, very wrong here" kind of way.

My husband continued his crazy rocking while looking straight ahead. He wouldn't answer me and his face was green and shiny looking. He had beads of sweat slowly rolling down his forehead and cheeks that looked like something out of the Matrix.

Suddenly the bus lurched to a stop. 50 frantic people started celebrating our apparent arrival by clutching their stomachs and moaning, "Open the fucking doors...open the fucking doors..." I stood up and noticed that we weren't back at the boat. We were ensnared in St. Peterburgs infamous rush hour traffic. Collective groans could be heard as people realized where we were and then some desperate old guy forced the doors of the bus open and ran into the streets, literally clutching his corn hole.

I used to work for a bank in a retirement community. I made the mistake only once of following an old lady into our bathroom. I thought that I was going to die. And I was pretty sure that there was some kind of diagnosis that could be made on her based on the evidence she left. I felt like telling her that she could safely quit saving money as it was obvious to me that her end was near.

My point is that I happened to already know that old people can lay it down when it comes to defiling a toilet. But I have never smelled before or since anything that rivaled the stench of 48 old people with explosive diarrhea stuck in traffic on a bus.

For the next week almost every person on the boat had some horrific experience involving their digestive tract. And the rest of us learned how to breathe out of our mouth's in case we accidentally happened upon some poor bastard with a case of the Russian Revulsion.

Every so often the evening news talks about a major cruise liner that is stuck somewhere fabulous with a similar stomach bug on board. Helicopters swarm the skies and take video of passengers puking off of the balconies on the boat. And then the cruise ship docks in Miami and smarmy reporters ask penetrating questions like, "So...did you puke, too?" If the person answers "no" you can see the disappointment wave across the reporters face, "Oh. No puking, huh? Well, did you at least get a little diarrhea?? Oh, really?? With or without an oily discharge? Any bloody stools? Wow! That's great!" And then he calls over the guy with the video camera over to film an interview about a passenger who foamed in her pants while walking through the Caymen Islands. Journalism at its finest.

So at least we didn't have to deal with the media.

Link to humor-blogs.com

Oooohhh...I just LOVE when you wrap it around me... do it again, please?

2008-07-24T13:35:00.007-04:00

I had heard that "crack" kills. I just never really believed it until I saw it with my own eyes.

(Bless his heart.)

About 3 years ago I was 6 months pregnant and had two daughters (aged 4 and 5). We were all traveling from Bellingham, WA to Atlanta, GA with a VERY brief layover in Dallas. We were booked on a major airline that should remain anonymous as they are a bunch of asshats (but they rhyme with "Mamerican Mairlines") and we had to leave for the airport at 3:30 AM in order to catch our 7AM flight. It was Suck City.

By the time our car arrived in Seattle my husband and I were barely speaking to each other and the girls had marks on their faces and arms from the backseat smack-down they had while out of our reach. When I went to the counter to speak with the representative she informed me that even though our seats had been purchased many months ago and seat assignments had been given all of that had changed and we were no longer sitting together as a family.

I took a moment to absorb this information and was on the verge of freaking out about how our two little girls absolutely couldn't sit alone, etc. That's when her last sentence sunk in, "Your husband is seated next to your kids, but, unfortunately, you'll have to sit in another row..."

REALLY?! I don't have to sit next to two little girls who are hell bent on scratching each others eyes out?? I don't have to sit next to my husband who was a total prick all morning??! Well smack me and call me Alice I think I just won the fucking lottery!!

I'm afraid I might have been smirking by the time I got back to the hubs and the girls. I gently broke the news to Mr. Bex by saying, "BWAH hahahahah HAAAAAAAA!! I don't have to sit with you guys!!! Teee, heee, heeee.... Yep! I'm ALL by myself in another aisle! Sucks to be you, huh? Doesn't it suck?? I'll bet it REALLY sucks...!"

So he sluffed and I skipped all the way to the plane. I kissed my pretty girls and watched my husband schlep them and all of our shit through the cabin door - the one I was not yet allowed to enter due to my not having any kids with me. Woo hoo!

They finally called my row number and I happily boarded the flight and sashayed (as much as I am capable of sashaying when prego) my way down the plane. My eyes were traveling faster than my pregnant body could go in anticipation of seeing what darling creature I'd have the pleasure of sharing the next 3 hours with. Maybe somebody famous? Maybe a cute young man I could make blush uncomfortably with my risque comments?? The possibilities were unlimited.

That's when I saw it. A row of three seats with only the one in the middle available. On either side were two MORBIDLY obese teenagers. They had literally taken up all three seats with their enormous asses. I'm sure that the horror splashed across my face and then sent jolts through my body. So I just walked on past like it wasn't my seat and went to my family (in the back row) and said my husband, "Hey, you know what? I just realized that I was being a total bitch this morning. Hormones, you know?? Why don't you take my seat, and I'll take yours. You can relax, get a break from the kids, that kind of thing..."

He laughed at me. That fucker laughed at me! He said, "No way, Bex. You were so happy to be on your own. You just go enjoy yourself while squeezed between the two fattest people I've ever seen. Mwah! Say bye-bye to Mommy, girls!!!"

A flight attendant came up to me and instructed me to sit down and I whispered the problem. She whispered back that the flight was full and I was fucked. "Take your seat, please."

So I walked up to my row and told the kid on the aisle that I was sitting between them. He stood up by turning side ways and unwinding himself from the seat, not unlike removing a cork from a wine opener. Oh holy hell this was going to suck.

They both had the armrests up to allow the free flowing fat situation into the middle chair so when I sat down I brought both armrests down with me in an effort to stake my claim to my seat and airspace. He looked at me as if I'd taken a crap in the chair but wisely said nothing.

He wound himself back into the chair where his flabby ass oozed under the armrest and wrapped itself around my hip. Yikes! Not to be outdone, his arm and back fat slowly wrapped around my arm in a serpentine fashion, covering more than 50 percent of my arms circumference. I was literally wearing his fat like a fucking parka. His sister was also obese but not to the point where her fat involuntarily tried to mount my skin. But to say I was sandwiched in fat would be a gross understatement.

I don't do yoga. I don't meditate. But I sure as hell tried that day to close my eyes and to go to my "happy place". No luck. No, I learned that morning that there is no happy place if you are involuntarily wearing someone else's fat. If he had been a man I would have said, "Excuse me, kind sir. But you seem to have enveloped a part of my person. Please get the fuck off of me." But these two were in their middle teens and I just didn't feel right by pointing out what they must already really know - that they were officially ready to join the circus.

I soon realized that the two people in front of us were none other than their parents. As soon as the plane took off the Dad (sitting right in front of me) leaned his seat back, practically lying it on top of my pregnant stomach. All of a sudden I felt like I was going to puke, freak out and pull a Dunkin' Donuts all at once. I totally panicked. So I jumped up on top of my seat and leaped over Jabba the Hut to safety. Then, like any reasonable person, I burst into tears and locked myself in the crappy, tiny bathroom.

My husband started knocking on the door asking if I was ok but I didn't answer it because I was too busy trying to figure out how I could cut him up and feed him to the family I was supposed to sit with. Then a flight attendant banged on the door and I thought, "Fuck it all. I'm going to sit here on this disgusting toilet for the next 3 hours. I don't care how much of that blue shit splashes on me, either."

She kept banging, though, so I opened up so I could tell her to go piss up a rope but she said, "Oh, Honey. I'm so sorry. I know, I know. It's completely unacceptable. The flight is completely full, but you can have my jump seat."

I gratefully followed her to freedom which was enclosed in the little kitchen area - directly next to and facing the Fat Kids mother. Who had the balls to give me a dirty look! My entire left side smelled completely of her disgusting son and somehow I'm the designated asshole. Right. So I tried to ignore her hateful stare while I balanced on a 6 inch plank of metal that drops out of the wall designed to support the bony ass of a flight attendant for five minutes while the plane takes off and lands. But I'm the asshole. Whatever.

Here is the thing: I frankly don't care if you're fat. Be obese. Be a shut in who has to be removed from the house via helicopter while Richard Simmons cheers from the curb. I don't give a shit. But I should not have to wear you on an airplane if I don't want to. If you don't fit in a plane seat, you need to buy two. Period.

Instead of the Mile High Club I should start a Mile Fat Club. If you've ever sat next to somebody a mile wide, let me know and I'll send you a membership card.

You think you know, but you have no idea. We've earned our stripes, one twinkie at a time.

I'm going to feed a fat kid to Humor-Blogs.com to see what happens. My guess? - a big belch.

xoxo

Bex Shares - "Why I Sometimes Pee In My Pants"

2008-07-23T14:48:00.011-04:00

There are so many blogs that have made me laugh and yet I've done very little to share this love around the blogosphere. Without further ado, here are the best posts from my favorite blogs and a few videos. The best of the best, if you will. Are these all of my favorites?? Nope. Just the tip. Of the iceberg (...perverts...).

The Sneeze!

Right outside of the barn door and I'm going for The Sneeze. This particular series is called "Steve, Don't Eat It" and it made me laugh out loud which, as far as I'm concerned, is the name of the game, Baby.

Redacted!

Here is my favorite post from Dan Murphy. His blog is called redacted and this post describes the day that he and his girlfriend moved from NYC to Miami. Now, for my homies with ADHD, his posts are long but I promise - they're worth it.

The Stinker!

The Stinker is another winner, full of insightful and well-written posts. This post cracks me up EVEN THOUGH I normally avoid anything of a political nature.

15 Minute Lunch!

Those of you who are familiar with Humor-blogs already know this guy - Johnny Virgil of the 15 minute lunch. He's basically the Adonis of the HB world. Here is my favorite post of his. It's about an old JC Penny's catalog he found in someones attic. He actually got sorta famous with this as it went viral (which means that loads of people emailed it to each other and it spread like wildfire). Another good one of his is right here where he analyzes some "art" that he made as a kid.

My favorite youtube videos:

Bumpin' In The Burbs!

This one came out about a year ago and is a rap parody about life in Suburban Atlanta. I saw it for the first time and was like, "DAMMNNNN, yo! That is the shizzittt!!!" I'm not in it although I could have been.

Dane Cook

And here is my favorite comedian, Dane Cook. My favorite part is when he talks about public restrooms. I think you'll agree that he brings up some good points. Why is the bathroom always wet? And was Jean Claude Van Damne here??

Dirty Shanks!

Last, but not least, is a new site that I've recently noticed. They make greeting cards that probably piss off Hallmark. They are hilarious. Follow the Dirty Shanks link to make a purchase. Here is my favorite card:

In case you can't read it, the small caption says, "Mama said there'd be days like this..."

There are too many funny links to mention at Humor-Blogs. I beseech you to check them out for yourself. You'll be doing all of the current acronyms (ROTF, LMAO, LOL, and so on).

My Marvelous Mammaries

2008-07-23T09:35:00.005-04:00

At the risk of increasing my "Weird-O" and "Pervy" visitors ( - love you guys), I was thinking about writing about breastfeeding today. Because nobody ever tells you the Real Deal about this stuff. And that's just wrong.

So. When I was pregnant with my first kid I thought to myself, "Yeah, I'll probably breastfeed her. I mean, I have the hooters and everything, so why not??" Truth be told, I thought that it would be a very natural and beautiful thing that she and I would both embrace with maternal-bondish delight. So imagine my surprise when it HURT like a MOTHER FUCKER.

Every time she would latch on my toes would curl in pain. The lactation consultants were very encouraging in a cheerleader kind of way, "Yes!! That's WONDERFUL! Look at that latch - you're a genius!!!" But I didn't feel like a genius. I felt like a moron who just couldn't get the idea without going to some intensive courses on the matter. And my kid seemed kind of pissed off, too. I kept wondering what the hell animals in the wild do. They don't have lactation consultants. And yet their babies just curl up sweetly and have their tugs and then get on with the sleeping and shitting part.

It got to the point where every day I would tell myself, "OK, You. This totally sucks. And everybody is miserable. So here is our plan. Just nurse through the end of today and tomorrow you can quit - I promise."

And then tomorrow would come and I would tell myself the same lie. Finally it got to the point where I didn't hate it and where I didn't feel like my nipples were going to rip themselves off of my body and run away to someplace safe and warm and where they weren't subjected to daily tortures.

Right about this time I woke up one morning to the sensation of my husband sitting on my chest. I responded with my standard, "What the fuck, dude! Get off of me...." That's when I realized he wasn't even in the room. It was just me and my GINORMOUS cans. The skin was pulled so tight that I could see through it. And guess what - that is SOOOOO not sexy. I know, I know, you men out there might think that it would be. But trust me - it's scary in a "I think they're gonna BLOW...!" kind of way.

So my milk finally came in and everything worked itself out. But those first two weeks were hard. And this was true of all three of my kids. The upswing was that my husband was kind of freaked out about my milk and if I wanted to get him to leave a room all I had to do was shoot a stream at him. It was kind of like being a super hero. Super Bex and Her Mammary Cannons will save the day!!!

I think that this must cover Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know About Bex's Boobs But Were Afraid To Ask. At least I certainly hope so.

Click here for some funny blogs....and if you happened to vote for me (or my hooters), well, that'd be ok, too.

A Look at Lurkers

2008-07-21T19:33:00.009-04:00

The definition of a "lurker" is someone who regularly reads discussions but rarely (if ever) participates in them. I know that I have my share and, frankly, I'm grateful. I look at my little sitemeter in wonder every time anybody shows up. So welcome, lurkers.

But here is the thing: One of you guys comes here on a regular basis by googling "bex naked". Seriously. What the fuck?! You've already been here. You know that I'm not naked. And if you've read enough of my posts you know that I've had three kids. THREE. As in, not one, not two, but three. And if my kids weren't enough to scare you off I have this ill-regarded tattoo on my arse. [For my blogging homey Alice, I'll admit that it is a tribal sun. (Because I'm so tribal and everything.) Of course I've shared about mine and she hasn't mentioned hers...but that is another story....] So what gives, Lurker??

When My Lurker (yes, that's what I call you) pops in he's directed right here. It's a post I wrote some time ago about naked German tourists. Perhaps you just...you, know...like that and know that if you google "bex naked" it'll take you there??

Now, I love it when I get comments as much as the next blogger. But if you want to lurk, knock yourself out. Whatever blows your skirt (or kilt) up. But for chrissakes. How about just googling Blog of Bex. Or at least give me a reason for your visits. I'm so curious!!!

Besides, it could be worse. It's not like you've googled "Circus Freak Ugly and Not Even a Little Bit Funny Writer" and then my picture shows up. Right??

Oh, and speaking of circus freaks, you guys have no idea what I went through to get that stupid picture above. It could be fairly stated that google images offers a plethora of blindfold picture options. That's all I'm saying. I now have images burned into my retinas that are less than wholesome. They may also be less than legal. I'm just not sure.

Want more funny blogs? Check out humor-blogs.com for many a hard-i-har-har.

Work That Pole, Baby!!

2008-07-21T10:00:00.008-04:00

So you know, I had a poll last week to tip my hat to the devastating breakup up of Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel. SNIFF. OK, I'm totally over it. Anyhoo, for those of you who weren't here for the hilarity, the contest was to find out who had the best synonyms for Sweater Meat and Trouser Snake. And then I got busy kicking my own ass on the GMAT exam, had a few pity parties, then had a few cosmos and now I'm over that. So I can get back to the business of wiping noses and asses, writing blogs and inventing excuses for why the laundry STILL isn't done.

Synonym for Sweater Meat

(although the picture pretty much sums it up)

Not bad, eh? The winner of this poll entered under the name Anonymoose and you guys don't know him. But I do. Biblically, you might say. Yes it is my very own Mr. Bex who entered and won -with a whopping 54.8 majority - with the excellently crude title of "Chesticles". Well played, Sir. You may pick up your prize after you get home from work.

Synonym for Trouser Snake

(You had me at 'Oh yeah, well does he have one of these?!'!)

I looked long and hard for my picture demonstrating trouser snake. After all - this is the Blog of Bex for chrissakes. People have expectations, you know. After careful scrutiny of many fine specimens I finally settled on the quintessential Trouser Snake - the actor who gave us Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights.

The clear winner - with a 36.1% of the vote is none other than Sinister Dan of the Reasonable Ego fame. I highly recommend checking out his blog as he is really funny. PLUS he correctly answered that the best synonym for Trouser Snake is (drum roll, please...) Mr. Vice President!!!

Thank you, Dan, for being so Crude. Your prize is a little different from that of anonymoose. You get to know that you won. How awesome is that?! You are officially Dan the Man!!

Thanks to all who entered and voted!

Funny blogs run rampant right here.

Hey, Everybody...It's Kick My Own Ass Friday!

2008-07-18T15:12:00.003-04:00

Well, well, well. Let's take inventory of the day, shall we?? I earned a low score on the GMAT exam for starters. I needed at least 600 and received the lackluster 540. Granted, it's not the end of the world and it's not like my only option at this point is the Barbizon School of Beauty or anything, but I REALLY thought I'd do better.

In fact, I took a simulation of the exam a week ago and was hungover with only 4 hours of sleep and scored a 580 for crying out loud. So I guess next time I take it I should pull a boozy all-nighter. Why didn't I think of that?!

And then, yesterday I yelled at my 8 year old as I couldn't find the sports cup I'd bought her the day before and was sure that she'd lost it somewhere. This morning I found it, clean and put away, in the kitchen cabinet as I was frantically looking for a coffee mug so that I could hurry up and get to my exam where I would completely tank. How did I know someone actually put it where it belongs???! That almost never happens around here.

So, I'm an asshole who yells at my kid for no reason and who stunk up the joint at the GMAT exam. FINE.

I'm going to go get a pedicure. I want my toes to be nice and sparkly when I finally get around to kicking my own ass.

As for my super awesome poll, I don't want to cloud up the special day of the winner so I'll announce that in a separate post.

In the mean time, if you guys know anyone in admissions at the Georgia State University Robinson School of Business hook a sistah up! I have much, much more to offer than just a shitty GMAT score. Don't forget about my lower back (ass) tattoo! That's pretty snappy, I'm told. Plus I have that snarky attitude that causes occasional, unpredictable and likely unwarranted yelling at children I might have had.

It just is not possible that humor-blogs won't have a funnier blog than this. If I were you I would run, not walk.

Bex, OUT

Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who's the Crudest of us all?

2008-07-17T07:56:00.005-04:00

It's a big day here at the Blog of Bex. A BIG day. Today we have not one but TWO polls. How do I do it, you may be wondering to yourselves?? It's easy! I simply ignore my GMAT studying, laundry and kids and dork around on the computer all day! It really is JUST that easy, folks.

Down to business. In honor of the breakup of the lovely Sarah Silverman and the less-so Jimmy Kimmel we are having a crude contest to rename the phrases "Sweater Meat" and "Trouser Snake". Vote for your favorites and I'll post the winners when I get good and ready.

Opinion Polls & Market Research

More funny blogs can be found at humor-blogs. Laissez l'hilaritie roulez!

That's snot funny....

2008-07-16T09:23:00.004-04:00

First of all, don't forget to enter my super duper contest. The winner gets the Crude-alicious Award, which can be very prestigious in some countries. All you have to do is give your most original name for a females chest and a males member. That shouldn't be hard (ba dum CHA)!

OK. Topic du jour: Why are some people so fucking clueless that it stops other people in their tracks?

My husband used to work with a woman who was a receptionist. Her main purpose was to answer the phone and greet visitors who walked through the door. Her telephone etiquette was adequate. But whenever anyone would walk through the door they would see her, stop dead in their tracks and STARE with their jaws hanging open and a look of complete revulsion on their faces.

Did she have two heads? Major face acne? An unbandaged, open wound that was badly infected? No, none of these. Indeed, she was ALWAYS in some part of the process of eating a boiled egg with an equal portion of mayonnaise slathered on it. With her MOUTH open. Always. I've never seen her either without one in her mouth oozing out of her teeth or it sitting on the desk (without a plate, naturally), awaiting the horrors that her mouth and digestive tract surely offered.

I don't know if anyone ever tried counseling her on this or not. After all, what does one say to someone who apparently doesn't realize that there is not a cloaking device in front of her mouth to shield onlookers from the sight? If she is unaware that eating anything in front of current and prospective clients is inappropriate, how would one even begin to catalog the issues surrounding the egg/mayo/wide-open-mouth while masticating thing??

She ended up getting fired because the staff collectively lost 300 pounds and could no longer eat their lunch in the office and clients began to request meetings in the parking lot. I think that they told her that they were "moving in a different direction" rather then saying "You are the MOST disgusting woman we've EVER seen. And we know Bridgette Nielson PERSONALLY!" I still imagine that she thinks that she got fired only because her boss was a "crazy bitch who obviously had it out for me the second she saw my big tits and pretty eyes". She'll never know that it was because just knowing that she was in the office made everyone feel car sick.

The only thing I ever encountered that was similar in nature (although admittedly not as bad) was a peer of mine who always had a runny nose. We'd be sitting there, in a meeting, and I'd look over at her and there would be a bead of clear snot at the tip of her nose. It seemed to be waiting patiently for something to drop itself onto. I would sit there and wonder if she had had some kind of accident as a child that ceased all sensations on and in her nose and nasal cavity because it seemed SO unlikely that she didn't feel it rolling out of her sinuses into her nose, out of her nose and then onto her upper lip. Maybe she had Sinus Paralysis and I'm just an asshole making fun of a handi-capable person. Whatever.

I saw her recently and she's become a chef. I was like WHAT did you do about your viscous snot situation??! Then I realized the health department probably doesn't regard chef snot viscosity when they give their ratings. I think that they should start. Immediately.

More funny blogs can be found RIGHT HERE.

The Hot Girl and the Schlub End Game

2008-07-15T14:12:00.004-04:00

You've probably heard the news by now. Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman broke up. What is the world coming to???!

R.I.P.

The morons on the radio were discussing the breakup ad-nauseum this morning and I heard one douche say that Sarah is really hilarious and then douche #2 said that she's not so much funny as she is crude.

I've been thinking about that ever since. She is crude. I can be crude. She made a video talking about how she f*cked (that asterisk is for you, Leigh!) Matt Damon. I would have made that video with him, had he only asked. Sarah and I are practically twins!!!

Anyway, I thought that maybe - in honor of Jimmy and Sarah - I would do a little thing to help us over the rough patch that is sure to happen when our (imaginary) friends breakup. With that I give you...The Crude Quiz!!!

I can feel the buzz in the air...OK, that might be one of my kids crying while I obsess over this. AT ANY RATE:

What is the best, most original synonym for one or both of the following phrases:

1. Sweater Meat
2. Trouser Snake

Leave your answers in my comments section and then I'll have a super-awesome internet poll to determine the winner.

Funny blogs run amok when you click right here! PLUS you can vote for me so that I can stay on the map with the Big Boys. I like Big Boys.

Put your hands up in the air...wave em round like you just don't care...

2008-07-15T11:40:00.004-04:00

Many years ago, when Thing One was around two years old, we had a very scary incident. I had put her down for a nap and was trying to get some stuff done around the house. The hallway where our bedrooms are has a few creaky spots and the loudest spot is right outside of the kids bedroom. Through the years I've learned where they are and can, when necessary, avoid them by carefully stepping around them.

I needed to go to the other side of the house so I limbered up and began my Twister-esque maneuver to prevent squeaking the spot. I was getting ready to tip toe by her closed door and was VERY focused on not waking her up. As I was creeping by something caught my eye on the floor, so I looked down. There was an arm laying there. And we're not talking about a Barbie part, either. It was just like a real arm that should have been attached to a real body. I stopped in my tracks, startled by it. Suddenly - the fingers jumped and began wiggling! I screamed and somehow threw myself backwards - in slow motion a la The Matrix - into the wall where I slowly slid down.

Then I became aware of someone else screaming...the hand withdrew itself back into my daughters room and I could hear the scream, although continuous, had become muffled.

I Kojacked her door open and ran into the room. My daughter was in the bed, face down and in the fetal position, screaming at the top of her lungs.

From her perspective here is how I think things "went down" that morning:

My mom put me to bed and I'm not even tired! She's such a silly old woman! Well, rather than talk, cry or otherwise make noises that the baby monitor will pickup and bring her in here in a fit of rage I think I'll play silently. Fa la la. Hmmm. I'm bored...I wonder if I could silently shove my entire arm under the door. Yeah...that's a great idea! Maybe I can reach a cool toy and pull it back into my room so I can continue my stealthy playing! It's a plan. Wow! My entire arm fit under the door SO easily! Now, I will begin wiggling my fingers rapidly to see if they find any toys .... wiggle, wiggle ... AAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!

And my friends wonder why I always have bags under my eyes.

"Say bye-bye...!"

Was this funniest blog ever??? NO?! I didn't think so, either. For a funnier blog checkout humor-blogs.