Something's been bugging me and I thought I'd clear it up...just in case I lost any "cred" with my "homies" and "Gs" for publicly "digging" on "Modest Mouse" the other day (just scroll down to, like, last Thursday or Wednesday or whenever the hell it was - you're a smart kid and can figure it all out, plus I can't hold your hand forever, you know), may I submit for your approval that my current ring tone is S-N double O-P, D-O double G (or "Snoop Dogg" for all you white folk) singing the lyric "you ain't no G" from the song "Signs" featuring none other than Justin Timberlake, a much-beloved figure in hip-hop culture. So that should restore my credibility. ("Gs to the bizzack, now ladies here we gizzo"...am I right, Gs, or am I right? West SIIIIIIDE! Of IllinOOOOOOIS!)

The actual lyric shamefully includes the "N-Word" but my 'tone is an exclusive Cingula' Remix, which omits that word as it apparently offends ring tone manufacturers and ilk of a similar nature. Whoda thunk it?

Just thought I'd clear that up right quick before I go smack up both my bitches and my hoes.

And in conclusion, I'd rather be broke than ugly, and I'd rather be ugly than you.

Oh yes. I went there.

And I'm sorry, but I absolutely refuse to apologize.

Damn, dude - thank Hey Zeus that I was too drunk to tell the difference between the "draft" and "publish" buttons last night. I got all talking shit about lots of shit and even now, even though the thoughts came out of my own little mind, I cannot follow the train of thought.

Random Mitch Hedberg: I want to be a rebellious McDonald's owner. Cheeseburgers... NOPE... we got spaghetti!!

I always take it too hard when someone famous (usually comedians, as they're really the only people I know of that talk about random shit like this) likes something I don't - I feel kind of confused and lost, like when I'm at someone's house and notice they don't drink the same kind of milk as I do. I'm like, "Who are you people?"

So, Mitch Hedberg. Now, I don't know if he liked spaghetti a lot or if it was mentioned simply because it sounded funnier than, say, Steak Ums, but I was kind of perturbed thinking that he was all liking spaghetti. Because I don't. He also mentions bananas, which I dislike. And toast! Eddie Izzard is a fan of the toast, as well, which seems odd to me. I'm too lazy for toast. It's not that I dislike it but I don't eat it if I have to make it myself. Too many steps, and too much mess, for the sake of some crunchy bread. Ya know? Like, if I had an open flame in my home and could put bread on a stick like a marshmallow I may eat it, but when you have to get specialized appliances involved it becomes a full-on process. I can't bring myself to do it. If I were rich I'd employ a full-time toast making person and die in my giddiness at not having to make toast. But I doubt that day will ever come, so it's a life of toast-free for me.

For a while I thought that comedians were using toast as an example to show that they're really broke, and they have to make a meal out of bread, but I don't believe that for a second. I was unbelievably poor for a great few years and I rarely bought bread. Do you realize how many slices are in a loaf of bread? It's insane - you buy a loaf, that shows a level of commitment that I am simply not comfortable with making. Even those bright dots on the bag aren't enough to inspire purchase. They don't make them in personal, individual-sized loaves, either. You have to buy a great big fuck-off loaf of bread. I do not eat enough bread to make that kind of purchase worthwhile.

Then you have to have something to put on the bread, like butter or jam or honey or somethin, and those were items I never bought while poor, either.

Conclusion: comedians aren't poor. They just really like toast, and aren't afraid to tell you about it. I believe it's a metaphor for something. The end.

I checked out The ONE Campaign because Brad Pitt told me so. That's not true - it was because of Tom Hanks, the most trusted voice in Hollywood today. Tom Hanks.

I don't know what came over me, I think it was the sight of Dave Matthews (aka My Future Baby Daddy But He Ain't Know It Yet) on a deck chair or learning that Michael Stipe was left-handed (I think I knew that but had forgotten it, and I don't know why I care anyway) but I signed the petition and came really close to ordering the bracelets before I went, "Bitch, what the fuck you do?" Because once you buy one of those bracelets, for any cause, you can never again honestly say that you've never bought one of those bracelets. This is an important thing to me, and here I was, ready to throw it away all willy-nilly. It was terrible, in a very nillying of the willy kind of way.

What else is terrible is how Bono has co-opted the word "One" to reflect his sense of "unifying" "outrage" over whatever the fuck he's outraged about these days. I don't even know anymore.

Used to be a day when a Bono joke was out of my mouth before I realized I'd even formed the words. Not anymore. I'm too lazy to give a shit. I'm more like, "If you crinkle the top of the bag down really tightly and threw it under-hand, I betcha you could pitch me that bag of tasty Doritos and neither of us would even have to stand up, let alone walk anywhere." That's the visual of Bono these days. He's very "throw me that bag of Doritos". You can steal that line if you want - in fact, I insist. "Are you talking about Bono? That guy's a throw me that bag of Doritos. Sho' nuff!"

Do not sign the petition for the One campaign. It's little more than bringing politics in through the back door under the heady auspices of Ending Poverty! and Using Our Voices! to Unify Society Against This Tragedy! No it's not - that's a lie. It's a thumb placed gently at the side of the nose of Hollywood to the current administration and foreign policy - a scared little thumb against a timid little nose, indeed. But they'll never say that, will they? Tom Hanks can't just stand up and go, "Hey, ya know something? Fair trade rules are vital to the global economy and, while I'm thinking on it, perhaps there should be a meaningful cancellation of debt for sub-Saharan Africa as well as other impoverished nations, regardless of America's relationship with their governments. While we're chatting here, how's about we put our heads together and come up with a plan to heal the fractured infrastructure of places like Zimbabwe, Malawi and Liberia? How 'bout it, guys? I'll bring the delicious frosty milkshakes and you can draft a foreign debt relief bill."

Nope. Instead, the likes of Toby fucking Mac say, "Hey, let's make it look like we have nothing meaningful to add to the solution apart from our fame and sign this paper. It'll be great photo op, and the timing couldn't be better because I'm finally happy with how my soul patch has filled out."

Remember back in the day when Eddie Vedder's main cause was keeping concert ticket prices fair by selling outside of the Ticketmaster conglomerate? Stop the Ticketmaster hate machine! It's oppressing the fuck out of concert-goers! Oh, and let's get rid of African orphans...wait, what?...oh, yeah, I guess your way is good, too. As long as we can do something about these questionable statistics that we take at face value and never consider the underlying root cause - that's all I'm really after.

"Efforts" such as this are the very reason no one really gives a shit when someone famous has something to say about politics or foreign policy. They done gone and shot theyself in the foot, maw! They made their bed, now they have to lie in it. And sign petitions with Switchfoot.

I like being unfamous - which is very different than infamous - because when I voice my politics there are, literally, dozens and dozens of people that don't email me their outrage or distress over my opinion. I can't count the number of people who never come up to me on the street to tell me that I should keep my nose out of politics and just talk about anal sex or funny things my kids have said or else they'll boycott my blog. It really gives me that warm, "not doing shit about the problem" kind of feeling, ya know?

A poli-sci professor once said of me, when I missed class, "Her presence is made notable by her absence" and I thought that was one of the most horribly awesome things anyone has ever said of me. Horribly awesome and fantastically terrible, all rolled into one little "ain't she an asshole?" package. I'm a very blessed woman.

You know what the best part of this "One" campaign is? All of the real leg-work involved (and I'm not talking "leg work" as in "Hey, there's Angelina Jolie in a refugee camp, just walking around like a normal person! Why, she's Not Like The Other goodwill ambassadors - she even adopted a Cambodian baby!" kind of leg work) is done by...wait for it...the very same Christian organizations that most benefit from some of the most bizarre faith-based legislation our country has ever seen. Take that, um...someone!

Ah, I love the smell of subversion in the morning! Smells like...Cambodian refugees.

Actually, I'm being rather disingenuous here. The truth is, I don't really want Dave Matthews to make babies with me. I just want to practice with him a lot.

I first read this headline as "Virgin Mary seen in shit stain on underpass" and spent a good ten minutes trying to imagine the acrobatics and sheer intestinal volume required to produce such a visage. I wondered what the crazy homeless man/teenage boy who came up with the idea of taking a shit on the wall first thought when he finally removed himself from his ornate shitting-on-the-wall contraption (I imagined a complex rope and pulley device) and saw that it looked like the Virgin Mary. I submit that the first words uttered from his mouth were "holy shit!"

And he was right. It was, indeed, a holy shit. The holiest of all the holy shits in my or your lifetimes.

My favorite part of the whole story was this line: The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago had not received any requests to authenticate the image as of Monday, spokesman Jim Dwyer said. The funniest part of this line is the inclusion of the phrase, "as of Monday". As though a request for authentication could be forthcoming and, indeed, taken seriously.

I picture a priest being gingerly led to the stain, which was covered by a sheet, by a Chicago police officer who grimly pulls down one corner of the cover. The priest swallows hard and averts his eyes, perhaps in denial of what he's seeing, and says in a trembling voice, "Yes, officer - it's her", all in shock at having seen the body of the Virgin Mary. When he returns to his church and is asked to confirm having seen her, he bitterly chokes out, "They found her under an overpass!" and everyone is in shock because it's all so undignified.

What was she doing under the overpass, anyway? And at night, alone?!? Was she on drugs, do you think? Or maybe...no, it's too horrible to contemplate it...was she with a man? No, couldn't be. Not our Virgin Mary, not my Virgin Mary! She should have never left that tortilla in Mexico City. I told her and told her, but did she listen? Oh, she was just so stubborn!

Then everyone sits around, eating and gossiping, because no one rocks a wake like Catholics rock a wake.

Actually, Jews are much better at doing death than anyone, but we'll never get our moment in the sun because no one has any idea what Moses even looked like.

I'm waiting for Heston's face to show up in a bagel. Then it will be our time to shine, bitches.

And, yes, I know this whole post is based on the faulty premise that it was Mary's body that was found, but that's a whole hell of a lot funnier than a bunch of Catholics praying to little more than a physical testament of Chicago's crappy roadworks department.

But then again, if that's all we're looking at here...well, then it's just fucking hilarious.

So I knew my little membership was about to expire (which I got for free for two years for being an "early adopter" - thanks, Jason!) but I totally didn't want to pay the $20 to renew it. I'm all like, "I'll just hard code the links when the time comes" and forgot about it.

But guess what? Now I totally can't even get into my old 'rolls to copy the links!

I'm stuck, because I sure as hell can't remember everyone I'd blogrolled. Plus, my connection times out after a mere ten minutes, so I can only add in small batches.

I'm going to try to find them all again, but in a week or so if you're still not up there and feel you should be just drop me an email or whatever. And if I do forget you, don't take it personally, as I believe my body has begun to digest big chunks of my brain to make up for the general lack of so-called "food" in my system. I swear, my thought process is so screwy that my brain must resemble swiss che---hey, let's go ride bikes!

(That was a lazy joke I just bastardized right there - it's supposed to go, "How do you know if you have ADD? Hey, let's go ride bikes!" but I changed that bitch right up, I did.)

What was I talking about? Ah, yes - sleep.

zzzzzzzzzzz

It has come to my attention that a number of all y'all out there have been talking "smack" about me and my "bidness". In fact, some of you are even "hatin'" and have the nerve to "be gettin' all up in my grill".

With these facts in mind, I cordially invite you to remove yourself from the immediate vicinity and make love to your own person in a solitary fashion.

In case you need a street translation, that means "go fuck yourself".

Look, I don't want it to be like this so I seriously suggest that you take two giant bunny leaps back, assess the situation and get a grip. You can't possibly know the full story about what's going on because I sure as shit haven't been talking to you...and it stands to reason that the person you're getting your information from just might be painting things with a, shall we say, skewed perspective.

And, by the by, don't even try to paint me out to be some monster by saying shit like you don't want to do anything to bring about my "malice" or whatever the fuck that was all about. Create drama in your own life because honestly? I cannot deal with even an ounce more. You have no clue how I'm living.

I'm giving you a chance to straighten the fuck up and back off before I go all kinds of bat shit. I seriously suggest you think long and hard about your next move.

I don't want to shit where I eat, I really don't, and I have very little energy left to waste on assholes, but I can only let the chatter and lies and misconceptions go on for so long. I've been way more patient than can reasonably be expected of someone in my situation. Or, indeed, any situation.

Grow up and shut up.

(PS - Obviously, if you don't know what I'm talking about, then I'm obviously not talking about you. But you are more than welcome to watch.)

In case anything happens to the old bloggo here please note that demonthighs.blogspot.com will, once again, become my new transitional home. Ya might want to make a note of the url, just in case.

"Fine, have it your way. Just don't come crying to me when you explode the ever-loving-shit out of your stupid face."

-- My father, after I told him to kiss my ass for trying to pull the cigarette from my mouth while I was changing the spark plugs in my truck.

It's my stupid face, and I'll explode it if I want to.

Overheard between a guy and a girl, after the girl complained about having to buy toilet paper at the store today:

guy: I always buy toilet paper when I buy lube, so I've come to associate it with sex. And odd smells that survive hand-washing.

Ah, nothing like a little lube humor to brighten your day.

I have the best friends that money can buy, that spend their money buying me Jager bombs.

Holy crap, dude. Those things are so wicked vicious that you can get hit in the back of the head with a beer bottle and not even really notice. You'd be all like, "Dude, did someone just punch me? What? A beer bottle - are you fucking serious? Shut up."

Not that I'd know anything about any of that.

But what I do know is that I saw a really awesome cover band made up of middle-aged white guys that not only covered Santana but also "Return of the Mack" so well that I thought it was a cd. It was crazy, yo.

Something else I know is that out of the majority of the people I went to high school with (that are still living in the area) (and were at that one bar the other night) I am at least 50% cuter than they are. And boy don't they know it! Cuz I totally told them!

So I'm feeling better now, but people still do suck.

Except for Royksopp. Nothing sucks about Royksopp, and I've got a beer bottle with your name on it right here if you dare disagree with me.

People.

Fucking.

SUCK.

That's about the long and short of it, I think.

But perhaps, just perhaps, I shall not be unemployed for long. A chance has come my way to join a - wait for it - UNION. How badass is that? That ain't no blue collar stuff - this is, like, no collar stuff. Because Lynard Skynard concert t-shirts don't come with collars, that's why. I am so there.

I think it would be totally killer to be working construction or surveying or something like that. I'm at a decided advantage because, as my union hook-up (otherwise known as "A Guy") informs me that since I'm female I have a better shot of getting in, due to EEOC regulations and the stunning (stunning!) lack of women in the construction field. Hooray for vaginas! Rather, hooray for my vagina! Today I am proud to hold my hand up high and say, "Yes, I am a vaginal American. Now give me some sweet-ass benefits. Because of my vagina!"

Are all y'all squicked and skeeved over the copious use of the word "vagina" in the above paragraph, and then again in this sentence? Because I am.

I shouldn't have much of a problem getting into this little collective (what a quaint concept, the collective!) provided that I can piss clean on my drug test. Which is why I've given up smoking black tar heroin for Lent. "Good Friday" my ass - more like "Friday I spend puking my guts out in the ficus tree because the methadone clinic is closed".

Vaginas and fake drug addiction in the same post - mama's on fire today.

Jon Stewart, the decadent bolshevik lesbian Jew, once had a bit where he discussed Lent. I'm paraphrasing here, despite the misleading presence of quotation marks:

"Yom Kippur - the Jewish day of atonement. You don't eat for one day and all of your sins for the year are washed clean. And it's not even a full day - it's from sundown to sundown. Most of us are like 'Fuck it - it's cloudy; I'm having a sandwich'. What is Lent, forty days? Forty days of absolution versus one day? Even in sin you're paying retail!"

Why am I up so early? Because today is Easter Egg Hunt Day! But all adult-style, where the prizes are cars and money and shit, which means there are a lot more stabbings than at the candy hunt for the children. Well, maybe not a lot more stabbings, but at the adult hunt more of the stabbings are fatal. Important distinction. Trouble is, everyone else in the area is going, too, so we have to get there somewhere between the cooling of the earth and the Paleolithic era. Sucks, ja!

I'm not hurting for being up - in fact, I'm in a pretty bitching mood - and my dad gets part of the credit for making the first decent pot of coffee he's ever made in his miserable life. I don't like his coffee. I say, "This coffee sucks, dad!" and he said, "Well, don't put milk and sugar in it and maybe you can taste it" and I say, "But I have to put milk and sugar in it because it sucks, dad!" Around and around.

I think I just might be his favorite daughter. Or son, for that matter.

Little story about my dad - the other morning I picked up the four sheets of newsprint that passes for the local paper and said, "This thing is a piece of trash. Front page news is how a duck on a local farm likes to play with the cows. You know, there's a whole wide world out there and stuff happens every single day, but you'll never hear about it down here." He said, "Whole wide world? What the fuck do I care who got shot in Chicago?" Then he laughed riotiously.

My dad says "fuck" around me, and I, he.

The only bad part of this egg hunt is that I'm going to have to run. I won't even run if someone's chasing me with a knife. If that happened I'd probably run to a wall or something and taunt my would-be killer with, "Neener, neener, I hit home base so you can't kill me now!" And the would-be killer is all like, "No way, that's not home base! You totally made that up - you are not scott-free!" and I'd be all like, "Yeah huh! I totally called this wall as home base when we were picking teams. You just didn't hear me." and would-be killer would get all pissed and be like, "Fine then, brat, be that way - I'm taking my knife and going home!" Then I'd sit down to smoke some more heroin, all the while laughing to myself at the stupidity of the would-be killers in my paranoid fantasy scenarios. What a bunch of chumps!

So hopefully the next time you hear from me I'll be bragging about some car or money or some shit that I've won, instead of the really hollow stuff I brag about now.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a knife to polish. Nothing screams "easter!" like a shiv to the kidney. At least, that's what gran always used to say.

I bet that ticked you off, how I posted then disappeared for days, huh. It's okay, you can tell me. I already know. I'm such a tease!

For the first time in who-knows how long I went out for St. Paddy's day. In the paper today someone who writes a column that I could totally write much better said, "When did St. Pat's become the new New Year's Eve around here?" I agree - all y'all's crazy for St. Pat's in the QC, yo.

I went to a "real" Irish bar - and by "real" I mean that it had an "O'" in the name and served Guinness - and listened to Latin music! Crazy, man. Just crazy. I talked at great length about the Pakistan-India conflict (because that's just how I roll when I'm up in da club) and was hit on by a midget in a leprechaun costume. Where the hell did all these midgets come from?!? Are midgets the new black? Time will tell.

I did not drink a green beer. I didn't even drink several green beers. But I did drink plenty of black beer. Then I got emotional and loved everyone, then I got belligerent and fought with everyone, then I got emotional and cried at everyone. But I didn't puke, so wheee!

This morning my mom told me I need to get a job. I'm all like, "Whatevas. Jobs is for losers." She was unimpressed.

Later on I told her that our family was so neurotic I'm beginning to think our house is built on a haunted Jewish burial ground.

Again, unimpressed.

On Saturday my dad told me I looked fat in those jeans, and this morning my mom told me I look fat in these jeans. I'm starting to think that my ass may be the problem, but I'm still going to blame the jeans manufacturers.

To everyone in the comments from my last post, I apologize for not answering your email. I totally meant to, though, so that should count for something, and I totally mean to reply in the near future. Just know that I got your email, appreciate it, and will be in touch as soon as I get a decent connection speed. Promises, promises! ()

Ah, how I do so cherish this brief respite from picking up the shattered pieces of my broken life! This tiny stolen online moment just melts my little heart, it truly does.

Hi there. How ya been? Have you lost weight? You're looking fierce.

I'm in Illinois now, after having been to hell and back. Then I took a detour to Wisconsin, returned to hell because I'd left my keys there, then back again, quick hit of the drive-thru at Culvers for a succulent butter burger, then back to Illinois. And boy are my arms tired!

I know I've mentioned this before, but it is totally worth repeating: I kick ass.

You should see what I've managed to do all by myself! I have the strength of two small ponies. Why not one large pony? Because large ponies are ridiculous and, surprisingly, not at all that strong.

By my estimation, I have two more treks back to Minnesota and a few days of cleaning before I'm finished. Shit's hard when you're by your lonesome (now you go "awww! I would totally help you if I could!" Yeah, but you can't, so just suck on your fake helpfulness, you phony.) but I'm pushing through. Because, if I may reiterate the above point, I kick ass.

When everything is finished I've decided to really treat myself by fishing out the wayward penny getting the cd player in my truck fixed. Iowa radio is brutal, man. What have I learned from Iowa radio stations? I've learned that all country singers have dead grandparents that taught them valuable lessons before passing. I've learned that every metal band has had way too much experience with psycho ex-girlfriends. I've learned that rapper girlfriends all have big booties and like to take it from behind.

These are lessons better left unlearned.

But that's not the only thing I'm going to do in celebration, oh no it's not. (Oh Natalie, you spoil yourself, you do!) Damn straight I do! Hell and back, shattered life, yadda yadda yadda. Remember? Anyway, I'm going to get another tattoo and a motorcycle. I'm totally going to be rocking the pink chaps and a helmet with flames on the side. Oh yes I am! And my new tattoo is going to be..ah...a...unicorn. A unicorn on my shoulder blade with stars behind it. Ooh, ooh, and a rose wreath around my wrist!

Well, if I'm going to live in the Quads I might as well get days of white trashy, right? (For those of you who don't know the Quads, it's quite white trashy.) (And that's where I'm going to be living.) (Seriously, people here wear baseball caps to weddings. "Mustang Ranch" baseball caps. Think I'm joking?) (I'm totally not joking.)

It was weird driving around this place again. It's amazing how much of the area I've forgotten, despite the size (it's very small and easy to navigate - nary a freeway or a tunnel or, indeed, a stoplight to be seen) and the fact that I lived here for the first seventeen or eighteen years of my life. I was sad to see that the old Mexican grocer is now an Asian grocer, and the head shop now proudly proclaims to sell Chili by the QUART!!! . Where has my youth gone, I ask you?

One kind of weird thing is that my favorite gay bar is now a gentleman's club (but the point could be argued that it was a gentleman's club before...) that features midgets.

You know you're a real live grown-up when the name of a former classmate can be seen on signs around town urging you to vote for him in the upcoming midterm election. That's some freaky shit right there. I'm going to pretend it's actually his dad that's running.

I'm headed back to Minnesota now and will leave you with this one last visual which sums up the whole Quads experience - while returning the U-Haul to the hardware store today, I saw an elderly man with a comb-over giving oral pleasure to a very fat Hispanic man in the parking lot. (I use the phrase "oral pleasure" because I get yelled at a lot for my potty mouth by a bunch of fuckos. Saying "oral pleasure" rather than "blow job" is my concession to said fuckos.)

And now, my comments!

This is where you click if you want to say something totally awesome about me and my potty mouth. Or even my general bad assness. Whatever your heart desires, yo. ()

In a desperate bid to assert some sense of authority at this house, I invaded a small shopping list. Blame it on my inferiority complex.

At the end of the industry standards like milk and dog food, I added with a flourish "epsom salts". But I couldn't just leave it at that, so I then added "crumpets".

Guess what? I was just presented with epsom salts and crumpets! And I didn't even know what a crumpet was! (By the way, crumpets are awesome toasted with a little butter. Very yum. I highly recommend them.)

I asked, "What do I owe you for this?" The reply was, "Don't worry about it. I'll just use your epsom salts."

For what, I wonder?

I have an attitude right now because someone who shall remain nameless (in this post, but was heavily featured in the last post) called me today and apologized. But he did it in a really bad way. (Unlike the public way in which I called him out...) I forgave him and now we're awesome again but I fully reserve the right to affect a wounded stance and pout a little bit.

Harrumph.

Permit me a bit of a whine, if you will. If you would be so kind. If you would just shut the hell up and let me talk. Thanks.

I'm at mommy's abode, soon to be my longer-than-I'd-hoped home, to be sure, drinking too much (many?) Coors freaking Light (yeah, I said I wasn't drinking anymore but you're not my sponsor so you can just shove it) for the second night in a row and connecting with a machine so slow and infected with Christina Aguilara-only-knows-what that the keyboard buffer is literally bip bip bipping at the speed of my typing.

Plus, I'm sick!

Plus, my mom has a cat! (That I'm severely allergic to!)

Plus, my friends are a bunch of assholes! (Except you guys. You're really awesome. I mean those other assholes that don't help you move when they say they're going to help you move (yes, I'm looking right at you, Mr. "Yeah, I'll call you at nine but really won't" rat bastard) and the jerk faces that put caveats on the nice things they'll do for you (scratch your own back, dude - your arms are long enough!) and then won't even answer their phone when I'm drunk and want to share all of my witty Oscar banter...where the hell did I go with this? Oh yeah - John? You see me? Cuz I know you do, boner brain. You suck. There, I said it. You suck.)

Heh. Boner brain. I don't even know where that came from, but it's out there, baby, and I'm letting that pony ride.

Plus, my mom has a gel mouse pad thing that totally exploded because her stupid freaking allergy-inducing cat decided it would make a good mortal enemy so everything is sticky! It's all covered in jam! (That reference was totally for you.)

I've realized that I use the word "totally" and "just" far too often. And "like". Like, I totally just did! Gosh!

Plus, it cost $80 in gas just to get down here! Okay, so John (the aforementioned John, who is my friend but, as we've established, a total and complete boner brain) gave me a hundred smackers (then he paid me for the pleasure...oooeeerrr) to off-set the cost, but still. That's some crazy mad money to pay for a trip that usually costs $30 at the outside.

Gat damn it all to hell, I'm a miserable old coot this fine eve, innit I? How many dialects did I just mash into one sentence? Too many. Far too many.

You ever get in one of those moods where you just wanna go and fuck some shit up? I've been in that mood for, like, a month.

I betcha this bitch will time out before I can even post it.

Meh.

Manual labor is awesome. I'm so totally pumped up right now, you don't even know. I felt inspired to stop and do push ups for no reason. But that wasn't good enough, so I went out, raped a hooker and stabbed her in the throat. To top off the evening I came home and rocked some hot wings with ranch.

Just kidding! I'm totally a blue cheese kinda guy.

Okay, I'm packing and moving and stuff, but I'm taking a break to share this with you because I'm so fucking cool.

I'm driving a Dodge Ram 3500 (325 horses, 5.9L Cummins diesel engine, one seriously bad ass chick behind the wheel) towing a brand spanking new 20 foot trailer. I'm responsible for roughly $100,000 worth of equipment, people. That's a house. Would you let me drive your house? Thought not.

So I'm trying to summon up the courage to back this bad boy up my drive while avoiding hitting the (dead) van, mailbox (again) or basketball hoop. I'm kinda ascared. Because if I messed it up and anyone mentioned that I'd messed it up there would be bloodshed.

When I finally decide to attempt this maneuver, it apparently sends out a signal that everyone in the vicinity had an immediate and pressing need to come down my street. Cars were piled up on either side while I'm navigating this thing, and since it's dark out (and I'm practically night-blind) I'm jumping in and out of the truck to see where I'm heading.

Have I mentioned that this truck is so big that I seriously needed a ladder to scrape the ice from the windshield today? The hood comes up to my chin and I can't even reach the top of the cab with my best jump. It has a step to climb into the cab. So it's a safe bet that the people in the cars, some of whom even stepped out of their cars to watch, were amused by this spectacle.

I finally managed to pull the trailer in so freaking straight and perfect that if I'd have posted a picture you'd all think it was a total Photoshop. Upon my triumphant final exit from the truck I pumped my fists in the air and did a little end-zone dance to many cheers from the spectators.

Coming soon to a theater near you, the feel-good movie of the summer. One girl, faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles in her path, overcomes everything life has thrown at her (a slippery driveway, a poor grasp of spatial relations in the dark, a low tolerance for frustration) to park a trailer perfectly parallel to the sides of the drive. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll marvel at her unique ability to see over the dashboard. This summer, don't miss what's sure to become a runaway blockbuster - "The Parker".

The sequel to this film, which is coming out in about twenty minutes, is, "The Parker II: The Packer". My character will next attempt to load the trailer herself, all while grunting in a rather un-ladylike fashion. Rated NC-17 for gratuitous use of phrases such as "donkey fuck bastard!" and "fucking mother son of a fuck!"

That, and the full-frontal nudity.

But anyway, I'm bad ass. Way more than you.

I don't know if I'm psychic or what, but remember back in August when I posted this?

Last night I had a dream that Deion Sanders was on an infomercial hawking his revolutionary hot dog cooker. It was such a realistic dream that I spent a chunk of the day looking this up (try to google "Deion Sanders" and "hot dog"...useless bloody search engine!) - part of the dream was about how Deion was all giving it, "You can't just boil a dog. You can't just nuke a dog. You can't just grill a dog. This is the way you need to do it if you want that authentic ball park experience."

Trouble is, I have no idea how else you would cook a hot dog. I believe I've had a vision here. If I can figure out an alternate way to cook a hot dog, and construct a machine that will do so, then I will become rich and star on infomercials and have sex with Deion Sanders. (The sex stuff came into the dream later, but I shan't elaborate.)

Aye, 'tis come to pass.

Are you spooked? I'm totally spooked.

I bet the Coca Cola people are sitting around reviewing their weekend sales for their new energy drink, Full Throttle, and wondering why the hell it's so popular just through this one particular route that leads from Minneapolis to Illinois. That would be because of me.

It's a bit early in the relationship to be absolutely certain but I think that I may, just may, love this stuff more than Diet Coke. But don't mention it to Diet Coke yet - I'm still working out all of the emotional implications.

But damn if that ain't a tasty drink.

I would mention how I'm still not moved yet but I'm afraid that you're going to think that the whole "moving" thing was a total ruse that I'd constructed to have a good excuse to not blog. But you'd be wrong, mister, dead wrong. It's thinking like that that damn near cost us the space race. Where's your faith, commie? Huh? Where the hell is your faith?!?

From my daughter's blog: At the dance I danced with someone, and made the mistake of telling my mom about it. We reveiw the whole "No dating till you are married" speech.

Seriously, though. Dancing at a dance? You know what that leads to, dontcha. That's right - thumb wrestling. And I've barely trained her! I can't send her out into this cold, cruel world without even the rudimentary skills required to put the opposable-digit smack-down on some boy who's trying to get fresh.

I'd like to see the word "fresh" make a comeback, but with the old-time connotation. "You, sir, are fresh!" Then slap them in the face with a glove, even if you have one of those big, fuck-off metal medieval England jousting gloves. (Did I just make that up or did I see that in a movie once? I can never remember if I'm really clever or just a forgetful hack.)

So, yeah, anyway, this is where I tell you that my computer is getting packed up today and that I won't be online for...awhile. An as-yet undetermined amount of time. At some point in the future is when I shall return. I ain't gonna be comin' round hyeah no mo'. Until I get my crap sorted at my mater's abode. Adobe abode. Huh, I never noticed that before.

Away from the computer I shall be, alas alack! but shall return by and by, hither and yon. Sliver and yawn. Zither and Don. Wither and pawn.

Peace out.

Word.

There comes a time while packing where organization flies out the window, never to be seen again, and you just kind of go, "Fuck it - I'll label all of these boxes 'misc' and be done with it."

'Tis a very liberating feeling, indeed.

It's come to my attention just today (I've been a bit behind what with the whole "picking up the pieces of my shattered life" thing) that my beloved blog-father, John Conners, (who looks totally bitching with his new scruffy 'do, incidentally) has shuffled off this virtual coil, perhaps never to return to blogging again. (He thinks he's all high and mighty because he has one of those "real life" things that you hear so much about.)

A moment of silence, if you will, to honor his passing. He taught me that blogs aren't just for 12-year-old girls who really, really love Britney Spears and puppies and their boyfriends (hi, Adam!), but rather that blogs can be vehicles for discussing important, hot-button issues like blow jobs and shaved vaginas. (Admittedly, I cannot recall that John ever posted about either topic, but let's just say that the student parted ways with the master a long time ago.)

So anyone who comes here and enjoys any thing about this place, you can be sure that you owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Conners.

A toast to you, John, and to the fabulous life you're living. You're the rootinest, cutenest patootinest little Scotsman to ever wear a kilt - and share the pictures.

Cheers.

OKAY!

Settle in, because this is a long read. The working title is "Ghengis Khan Reincarnated: Mass Killing in a Previous Life Can Sure Come Back to Bite Ya in the Ass, Huh?"

Yesterday I set off from my dad's house with kids and dogs in tow to return to Minnesota. Things were going okay until somewhere in Iowa where this asshole kept passing me, slowing down so I'd pass him, then passing me again. This happened about six times before I pulled up next to him and honked. He looked at me so I pointed at him, flipped him off, then pointed to the road and mouthed, "GO!" About two seconds later, my windshield wipers flaked on me a little.

No big deal, just a touch of rain, so it's okay if the windshield wipers go.

They were okay until it got dark. Once I hit Minnesota the rain turned to freezing rain/slush and the wipers just went, "Oh for fucks sake - we didn't know you were bringing us back north!" and decided to quietly go to sleep.

I pull onto the shoulder, flick on the hazards, and proceed to travel down the interstate at about ten miles per hour until I see an exit, roughly ten miles into the trek. There's a sign that says "lodging" so I figure we'll just bunk for the night.

I was on that road for twenty freaking miles before I saw a motel. You shouldn't be allowed to say "lodging, thataway!" if it's not visible immediately after exiting. There ought to be a law or a religion or something to prevent this from happening.

I pull into a Super 8 and drag the kids to the check-in counter when I suddenly realize I have no way to pay for the room except for my out-of-town checks. Motels are notoriously bad about taking out-of-town checks, which is fucking stupid, because most of their guests would be from out-of-town. If you were in-town why the hell would you need a motel? Anyway, she doesn't want to take my check and I blink really hard like I do when I hate someone, and calmly explain to her that if she doesn't take my check she's assuring certain death for my children on the icy roads of Minnesota. She relents and I ask the total - she tells me it's $69. $69 for a room at the Super 8, where the amenities include a continental breakfast and an infection from the bugs in the sheets. Nice.

I nearly made a comment about how, for that price, I'd expect them to include a little oral but I was afraid that she'd reply, "But at that price we're already screwing you in the poop chute - what more do you need?" I hate to set people up for jokes that are funnier than mine, so I kept my mouth shut.

I considered trying to haggle the price of the room but I had it on good authority that I only had $7 in my checking account so I didn't bother. A $69 check bounces just as high as a $40 check.

I hand her my payment and she goes, "Oh, I meant it was $65, not $69" so I, exasperated, void that check and go to write a new one - and am met with the blinding white of nothing but deposit slips. That was my last fucking check.

I started crying the way that crazy people cry, where the tears are falling but they don't notice them. I told the woman what the deal was and said, very calmly, "I am going to initial around this void and you're going to take it. If you need me to reissue you a check just call me. If you don't find me a pen that works, and soon, I'm going to freak right out."

I think she was impressed.

We settled in for a night of Blue Collar Comedy and an Oreo dinner and I slept like a drunk. Seven a.m. and we were on the road and now I'm home.

For as terrible as the night was for me, I did have a couple of sweet moments. Nico dive-bombed me for the most aggressive Eskimo kiss ever and at one point I was trying to give him a time-out and warned him that if he wasn't in bed by the count of three that there'd be big trouble. I said, "One" and he replied with a very enthusiastic "two!". We counted to five and he gave me a high-five and a kiss, so that was pretty awesome. Zoe asked me to sing Maroon 5's "Sunday Morning" to her until she fell asleep and said I was "the prettiest, bestest mom ever". And I realized that, all in all, I'm a pretty lucky guy.

And isn't that what the true meaning of President's Day is all about?

No. No it's not.

But it's still a sweet end to a bad story and if you don't think so I'm going to have to bust you right in the dick.

My mate Greg (who doesn't have a blog and likes to disappear from my life for months at a time) emailed me and said that he'd come around looking for funny things I've posted on Valentine's Day, but I really never have before. The closest I've gotten is the picture I posted for steak and a blow job day but that's about it. (By the way, Greg, the way you blurted out, "Wow, does your life suck right now!" just warmed my little cockles, it really did.) The absence of posting about Valentine's Day is because it doesn't really mean anything to me. I can't even summon up enough sarcasm to really construct an anti-VD post, and I certainly don't have any romantic stories to share because romance is for girls. But I will share this story - take of it what you will.

At a party once, a guy friend of mine was talking about how drunk he was from drinking only five beers. The girl who liked him joked, "Only five beers? That's my kind of man - a cheap date and an easy lay." He laughed, then got all serious with her (in the way that only the truly drunk can) and said, "You know, you wouldn't have to get me drunk. I mean it. I wouldn't even have to be drunk." like it was a really big, sincere compliment. She laughed and said something like, "Well, that takes all the fun out of it!" He laughed and said, in this really sing-song, taunting voice, "You're a potential rapist, but I just gave you permission to molest me, so THERE - it's not a crime!"

I don't know she ever took him up on his offer, but that cracks me up. I imagine them sitting around when they're old and one of their grandkids asking, "Grandma, how did you know that grandpa was 'the one'?" "Well, Suzy, it was probably when he made it clear that he wouldn't have to be drunk to have sex with me. Yeah, your old granddad is a bit of a romantic."

So happy Valentine's Day, y'all! May all of your pornography remain undiscovered and all of your intercourse be of the non-felonious persuasion.

Via Susskins, I present you with one of the funniest things I'd read in a long time: Steve, Don't Eat It! where a guy named Steve eats nasty food. And comments.

I must admit that my aversion to drinking breast milk is something of a double-standard. Let me try to put this as delicately as I can out of respect to my female readers... but some women have been known to willingly "ingest" a certain dubious "body fluid" made by men, during moments of "intimacy." (These moments are known as "blow jobs." These women are known as "awesome.")

I don't know what was most revolting about Steve's site - the picture of the Natto (scroll down) or the link to J. Lo's shaved vagina.

Need to go on a diet? Post either, or both, of those pictures on your fridge.

I probably won't find this nearly as funny after I've gotten some sleep but at the moment I'm calling it high comedy, folks.

It's really really weird to be packing up the left-over clothes of a man that's no longer here.

The upshot is that I get to steal all of his shirts that he'd never let me wear because I would, and I quote, "stretch boobs into them". Hey, it's not my fault that all of the shirts he owns seem to be designed for a flat-chested woman. Or men.

Plus? All of his comfy pants are now my jammies.

I'm feeling a little bit better now because I'm listening to too much Snow Patrol. I seem to be developing a "thing" for songs about gay heartache.

It's just infinitely more interesting than my stupid crap. I highly recommend it.