I hate this girl.

I found her hitting the deadly "Next Blog" button in the upper right hand corner.

Why do I hate her? I don't know. She's typical of a lot of women, I suppose. Nothing stands out to condemn her in my mind, although I suspect she has some ex-boyfriends that have some stories.

It reminds me of a Lee Ann Womack song:

"It may be my family's redneck nature
Rubbin' off, bringin' out unlady-like behavior
It sure ain't Christian to judge a stranger
But I don't like her

She may be a stranger who spends all winter
Bringin' the homeless blankets and dinner
A regular Nobel Peace Prize winner
But I really hate her
I'll think of a reason later"

(I don't like country music. When I worked for Downtown Oak Park, the maintenance man used to give me a ride home in his truck.)

On Sept. 8, President Bush issued an executive order suspending the application of the Davis-Bacon Act in the hurricane-ravaged areas of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida. This alarming action virtually assures workers hired to rebuild the devastated region will be paid sub-poverty wages.

The law requires federal contractors to pay workers the average or "prevailing" regional wage for public construction projects. In New Orleans, that wage is just over $9 an hour. The act's suspension allows contractors to pay as little as $5.15 an hour - the current federal minimum wage - for these projects.

If you disagree with this decision, click here to let Congress know. Rep. George Miller (D-Calif.) has introduced the "Fair Wages for Hurricane Victims Act," a bill that would repeal Bush's suspension of Davis-Bacon. This legislation has already garnered the bipartisan support of 199 cosponsors. Sen. Edward Kennedy (D-Mass.) has introduced a similar measure, the "Fair Wages for Hurricane Katrina Recovery Act." This bill currently has 29 co-sponsors from across the political spectrum.

Addressing the nation from the French Quarter of New Orleans two weeks after Hurricane Katrina hit, the president vowed, "Throughout the area hit by the hurricane, we will do what it takes, we will stay as long as it takes, to help citizens rebuild their communities and their lives." The following day at a prayer service at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., Bush declared, "As we clear away the debris of a hurricane, let us also clear away the legacy of inequality."

Suspending the Davis-Bacon Act does just the opposite; it assures the persistence of the inequality that plagued much of the Gulf Coast long before Katrina. Workers who lost everything in the rising waters cannot be expected to support their families on $5.15 an hour. As these women and men begin to rebuild their lives and their communities, they desperately need a just wage from their government, not a pay cut.

Why on Earth would Bush do such a thing at such a time? To "make it harder for union contractors to win bids," perhaps?

Sorry! I forgot to post a bad song yesterday. Here's a song that I have hated a long time. Enjoy! Oh, and if you hit the link, you can hear the tune! Lucky, lucky you.

Sad Eyes
( Robert John )

Looks like it's over, you knew I couldn't stay
She's comin' home today
We had a good thing, I'll miss your sweet love
Why must you look at me that way?
It's over

Sad eyes, turn the other way
I don't wanna see you cry
Sad eyes, you knew there'd come a day
When we would have to say goodbye

Try to remember the magic that we shared
In time your broken heart will mend
I never used you, you knew I really cared
I hate to see it have to end
But it's over

Sad eyes, turn the other way
I don't wanna see you cry
Sad eyes, you knew there'd come a day
When we would have to say goodbye

Sad eyes, turn the other way
I don't wanna see you cry
Sad eyes, you knew there'd come a day
When we would have to say goodbye

Former Reagan and GHW Bush appointee, "Ethics Czar" and serial gambler William Bennett declared today on his radio show that if "you wanted to reduce crime ... if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down." Bennett conceded that aborting all African-American babies "would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do," then added again, "but the crime rate would go down."

Don't believe it? Click here.

And, from this article:

"When President Bush took office, the nation's abortion rates were at a 24-year low, after a 17.4% decline during the 1990s. This was an average decrease of 1.7% per year, mostly during the latter part of the decade. (This data comes from Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life using the Guttmacher Institute's studies).

Enter George W. Bush in 2001. One would expect the abortion rate to continue its consistent course downward, if not plunge. Instead, the opposite happened.

I found three states that have posted multi-year statistics through 2003, and abortion rates have risen in all three: Kentucky's increased by 3.2% from 2000 to 2003. Michigan's increased by 11.3% from 2000 to 2003. Pennsylvania's increased by 1.9% from 1999 to 2002. I found 13 additional states that reported statistics for 2001 and 2002. Eight states saw an increase in abortion rates (14.6% average increase), and five saw a decrease (4.3% average decrease)."

I thought I wanted one of these:

But then these:

keep trying to get into my house because it's getting cold outside.

Now I want one of these:

However, concerns remain as to the readiness of UberGirls for ANY sort of pet after UberElder slammed UberYounger's fingers in the door last night.

Last week, my daughter came up to me after watching children's programming on TV. I believe it was Nickelodeon. She said, "Mom, I can tell you've been eating too many bad carbs. You need to get a week's worth of meals delivered to you: seven breakfasts, seven snacks, seven lunches, seven dinners, even seven desserts!"

"Oh?" I said, surprised. "What makes you say that?"

She pulled up her shirt to reveal her little bony girl body. "See, mommy? See how my hips go straight down? That's how YOURS should go."

"Really," I said, seething. "Where did you hear that?"

"On TV," she replied, then, looking up into my angry mommy face, she said, "It's okay, mommy. You're still nice."

I was boiling inside, because I became anorexic when I reached puberty. Until sophomore year of high school, I thought my hips were an unhealthy aberration, leading me to both exercise constantly and starve myself. I was at least 20 lbs. underweight trying to eliminate what was healthy and normal in the first place. That this was happening to my daughter made me murderous.

"That's not true," I told her. "Grown up ladies have hips that go out like mommy's. That helps carry the baby inside you when you're older."

"Oh," she said, knitting her brows slightly at the notion that the TV lied to her. "Okay." And off she skipped away to play.

I had no idea exactly which weight loss company had poisoned her mind until yesterday. It was my old nemesis, NutriSystems.

The earlier commercial that raised my ire ("I went from a size 10 to a size 4!") now included silouette diagrams of a "bad carb body" (pear shaped) and a "good carb body" (stick figure, straight up and down.) They improved on a classic!

Growl...

Look, this Hurricane Katrina thing was a huge disaster, both natural and manmade. A lot of different people made a lot of different mistakes, and no one's hands are clean. But while others, including George Bush, have acknowledged they could've and should've done better, one man obstinately clings to his infallibility.

That man is Lord King of the Douchebags, Michael Brown. Yeah, that guy who resigned from FEMA. Which stands for Federal Emergency Management Agency. You know, emergencies like... HURRICANES!!!

According to him, he only made two mistakes. Are you ready to hear them?

Mistake #1 (according to King Douchebag): "Letting the press drive us." That's right, folks. The problem wasn't the death and destruction, it was letting the world KNOW about the death and destruction. This guy is unbelievable. UNBELIEVABLE.

Mistake #2: He was unable to overcome a poor relationship between (Governor) Blanco and (Mayor) Nagin. "I just couldn't pull it off," he said.

Again, I'm not absolving the local and state authorities from all blame. But... but... I'm too disgusted to type.

Then, King Douchebag pulled a "Clinton" and lied under oath. Brown said local officials did not order a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans until Sunday, the day before Katrina struck. He said this was "the tipping point" for the loss of life and chaos that occurred when the levees broke. This, of course, is easily proved false. The evacuation order was issued and carried out two days before the storm, when 1.3 million people left the area.

Look, I've taken my fair share of pot shots at Bush and he's not my favorite guy. But today, King Douchebag has captured my attention. Good Lord, he's a douchebag.

From this article:

"My concern is that they have learnt to shoot at divers in wetsuits who have simulated terrorists in exercises."

But I'm sure we're all perfectly safe. What could go wrong? The military is involved!

Donald Rumsfeld is giving President Bush his daily briefing on the war in Iraq. He concludes by saying: “Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed.”

“OH NO!” the president exclaims. “That’s terrible!”

His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the president sits, head in hands.

Finally, the president looks up and asks, “How many is a brazillion?”

Another new blogger friend, Reverend Jack, accused Dr. Sardonic of stealing monkeys. My monkeys. The monkeys hanging from my busom at THE WEDDING.

I didn't invent the concept of Cleavage Monkeys, by the way. That honor goes to the lovely and talented Sysmistress, who took the plastic monkeys meant to decorate the wine or champagne glasses and hung them provacatively from the cleavage of her dress. Sysmistress went drink for drink with me, incidentally.

I still was fond of my cleavage monkeys, and I think it despicable that a trusted friend like Dr. Sardonic would steal them from me when I was vulnerable and tipsy.

Oh, wait. I think I gave them to Dr. Sardonic so he could throw them at Uberdilf, who was sitting at another table talking to Motown Matt and his wife. Never mind.

I think I had a lot of fun at the wedding. Every day more and more of my memory returns.

So, yes, I would like to welcome Reverend Jack, pictured below, to the blog world:


I would also like to welcome Mr. Importantness to the blog world as well. I think I know this person. Does he have something in common with this?

Dr. Demento. Weird Al. Kinky Freidman. Ray Stevens. All giants from our shared musical past.

In fact, one could choose any decade of recorded music and find someone singing a parody, playing ridiculous tunes, or referring to their sex organs as jelly rolls (women) or ding-a-lings (men).

Where have they gone? Dr. Demento reached such heights of popularity that he was immortalized on a commemorative plate. Is there a higher honor?

Now, we have some tribute bands and Tenacious D. But they are the last of a dying breed of comedy-based musicians. Why? Why are left adrift on this sea of humorlessness? I blame Dick Cheney.

Now, everyone sing with me:

"Fish heads, fish heads..." (sniffle)
"Roly poly fish heads..." (sob!)
"Fish heads, fish heads..." (Wail!)
"Eat them..."(sniff)"up..."(choking sobs)"YUM!"(Waaaaaaah!)

But the only embarrassing photos would have been of me.

I've already told you lovely people just how much I love Halloween. I was born with a candy apple heart and candy corn in my soul. I love the smell of rubber masks, burning leaves and overripe pumpkins. I love the taste of popcorn balls, apple cider and baked pumpkin seeds. I love pumpkin patches, cheesy Jaycee's haunted houses and trick or treating.

I am a fanatic for Halloween, and the closer it gets, the more frenzied I become.

However, I approach the holiday carefully lest it lose its luster by the time October 31 arrives. Some of my less sensible neighbors already have some Halloween decorations up. That is a mistake; I will not glory in the gory until October 1.

Here's what I did last year:

Constructed a witch and put her in the basketball hoop.

Ubergirls, sharing their mother's respect for tradition , were a ghost and a pumpkin

Ubergirls bask in the glory of our pumpkins.

What's not obvious from the picture is the sad state of my skeleton lights, which I fear may need to be replaced this year, or the strobe lights in the pumpkins.

It's only beginning. Hee hee hee. I am rubbing my hands in gleeful anticipation.

Life is full of minor annoyances that, when added up, can cause an individual undue stress and anxiety.

Why would someone add to this steaming pile of shit? Why would someone make matters worse, not better? I can only surmise that this "someone" hates mankind. The devil hates mankind. So I have no choice but to conclude that Polly Pockets is manufactured by demons in hell, under the direction of Satan himself.

Bolstering this conclusion is the fact that molded plastic requires heat to create. Who has heat in abundance? The devil. In hell. See? I'm right.

For those of you unfamiliar with Polly Pockets, it is a brand of tiny plastic dolls, with miniscule rubber clothing that is impossible to get on or off the doll. The shoes are microscopic. I vacuum them up purposely. In fact, when no one's looking, I throw Polly and and her endless array of accessories in the garbage whenever possible.

See? She's even turned ME evil.

I also believe that the dolls and their surrounding pestilence are coated with some sort of kiddie heroin, causing little girls to crave them with a maniacal zeal.

Will no one protect our children, nay, HUMANKIND, from this adversary? We're on the road to chaos and mayhem, people, and that road is paved with teeny, tiny rubber high-heeled pumps.

My head hurts.

I decided to look for Cowboy Nick early this week, what with B.A. and his woman gettin' hitched and all, and boy howdy, am I glad I did! Looks like our pardner done got himself in a heap o' trouble with none other than BIGFOOT himself!

Can any of you clever cowpokes help us find Nick before he gets eaten like a pork chop at Sunday dinner? Here's all we know about where he done gone off to:

"There are also many attractions and things to do in this place. In the summer you can go fishing, attend a special event or festival, visit Blue Lake Provincial Park or attend a church service. Hunters come out in the fall for their annual hunting trip. During the winter you can go snowmobiling, ice fishing or cross-country skiing."

Oh, yes, Dilf is the KING!

The Hot Dog King, that is.

In a tightly contested race, Dilf (center) defeated Al Gato (left) and SYSM (right) in the hot dog eating contest held at today’s Cubs game, retaining the crown he won in the last outing.

The contest (and the less consequential baseball game) were held to kick off the weekend wedding celebration of B.A. and the Queen of the Harpies.






His hard-fought victory earned him a t-shirt, as pictured. Here is what the shirt says:

I am so proud to be Mrs. Hot Dog King. Does that make me the Hot Dog Queen?

Anyway, best wishes to B.A. and the Queen of the Harpies, whose union I will gladly witness on Sunday. Hopefully, I will be able to produce embarrassing photos from the reception.

September 21, 2005 (BRISTOW, Okla.) - Jurors hearing the case against a former judge accused of exposing himself in his Creek County courtroom will be allowed to see the sex toy at the center of the state's allegations, a judge ruled Tuesday in rejecting a defense motion.

They also can hear testimony that a second "penis pump" was seen under former District Judge Donald Thompson's bench, among other evidence Thompson's attorneys sought to have barred from next week's scheduled trial.

"It's so fantastic and so unconnected to factual support, and so prejudicial," attorney Clark Brewster complained in trying to convince Judge C. Allen McCall to suppress some state evidence.

Thompson, 58, who spent more than 20 years on the bench before stepping down more than a year ago, faces three counts of indecent exposure.

Prosecutors allege he masturbated with a penis pump under his robe while presiding over two murder trials and a civil trial in 2003. Thompson denies the allegations and said the penis pump seized in the case was a gag gift from a friend.

Brewster argued that the state should be prevented from submitting the device as evidence, contending that not only did it not function but that it also was sawed in half while in the state's custody.

Prosecutor Pattye High said an Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation chemist followed procedure in sawing the pump in two to swab it for DNA evidence. McCall denied the defense request.

The judge also refused a defense motion to prevent testimony from a courtroom reporter who said she discovered a different penis pump under the judge's bench in 2001.

Brewster said there was no evidence to link the pump to his client, but High countered that the testimony would help show "this defendant committed the same crime over and over and over again."

McCall took other issues raised by Thompson's team under advisement, including testimony from a woman who prosecutors said had a sexual relationship with Thompson and the admission of 180 hours of courtroom tapes they said contained the whooshing sound of the penis pump in use.

Brewster said he hadn't received the tapes until Friday and had no time to have an expert evaluate them or verify certain "enhanced" portions provided by prosecutors.

"If the jury is going to listen to these, they're going to need to listen to 180 hours," he also told the judge.

The trial is scheduled to begin Monday when attorneys begin questioning a 350-member jury pool. The trial is expected to last one to two weeks, High said.

Tuesday's hearing offered a glimpse at the lurid details jurors can expect to consider and even see if the judge decides prosecutors can admit a photo they say will be used by a witness to identify Thompson's penis.

Brewster had sought to have much of Tuesday's motions sealed, arguing that they contained anecdotal remarks from hundreds of people "with literally crazy things to say." He said media coverage of the hearing could taint potential jurors.

McCall refused, citing the public's right to know and the media's right to report. He allowed Brewster and High to agree on some of the contested claims before they were argued in the courtroom.

Brewster said some of the state's evidence would never be raised in a routine indecent exposure case.

"Because we've got a public figure, we want to vilify," he said.

But McCall said Thompson would be treated to the same fair trial guaranteed any other citizen.

He also made it clear that the former judge would not receive special treatment. When Thompson, who is free on bond, briefly stepped from the courtroom, McCall admonished Brewster, telling him the former judge should have asked for permission first.

If convicted, Thompson would face up to 10 years in prison and a $20,000 fine on each charge and would have to register as a sex offender upon his release.

How to make a Naked Redneck cocktail

- 1 1/2 shot(s) Southern Comfort
- 2 splash(es) Grenadine
- 2 oz Ginger Ale



Directions/Comments: Place grenadine on the bottom add shot and a half of Southern Comfort. Fill glass with ginger ale and enjoy. I guarantee you won't stop till your naked!

A human Roomba


A tyrant enforcing rules no one wants to follow


A scolding nursemaid regulating everyone’s diet and dispensing medicine

Ubergirl Elder stayed home with a cough and sore throat yesterday. Dilf came home early from work with a sore throat yesterday. Ubergirl Younger woke up at 5:15 this morning, croaking, “Mommy!” in a froggy voice.

Now, guess who has a sore throat, chills, and aches? Dilf, come home soon!

It’s Thursday, so I am presenting another horrible song for your discomfort. I decided to play fair this week, and submit a song unflattering to women.

In fact, this song is So bad, the artist has gone on record as saying she hated the song. It’s So awful, it was recorded while the singer was standing in a bathroom in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. It’s So atrocious, that, after putting its singer in the spotlight for a brief time, ruined her career singing advertising jingles.*

I give you… “Torn Between Two Lovers”, sung by Mary MacGregor. I can’t comment line by line, since I’m not a man and I’m not sure what would be going through his head, but I will say she is an evil selfish bitch who deserves her vagina to be revoked. Let’s listen in:

There are times when a woman
Has to say what's on her mind
Even though she knows how much its gonna hurt

Before I say another word
Let me tell you, I love you
Let me hold you close and say these words
As gently as I can

There's been another man
That I've met and I love
But that doesn't mean I love you less
And he knows he can't posses me
And he knows he never will
Is just this empty place inside of me
That only he can fill

Torn between two lovers
Feelin like a fool
Loving both of you
Is breaking all the rules
Torn between two lovers
Feelin like a fool

Loving you both is breaking all the rules


You musn't think you failed me
Just because there's someone else
You were the first real love I've ever had
And all the things I ever said
I swear they still are true
For no one else can have the part of me I gave to you

Torn between two lovers
Feelin like a fool
Loving both of you
Is breaking all the rules
Torn between two lovers
Feelin like a fool
Loving you both is breaking all the rules

Couldn't really blame you
If you turn and walk away
But with everything I feel inside
I'm asking you to stay

*You can verify all of these related facts by clicking here.

Todd (aka Your Name Here) has asked for killer brownie recipes for his birthday. Initially, I was excited to comply. I searched for the tattered, butter-smeared, hand-written recipe that I have, and voila! I found it. Plus my grandma's pierogi recipe and cheese filling recipe, and my mom's pie crust recipe. But I digress.

I found it, and I started to send it to him for his birthday on September 24, but I stopped. This is a fantastic recipe. A unique recipe. A secret recipe. So I am hesitant to share. Not dead-set against. Just hesitant.

So I will let you, the reader, decide. Please vote below:

Should I Give Todd My Brownie Recipe? Yes, it's his birthday! No, it's a family heirloom View Results Create your own poll!

I will compile the votes and decide by Friday.

Check out Doctor Sardonic's Blog.

He told me to hold off on announcing his Blogger debut, yet he posts comments on Sysm's site AND creates three posts of his own.

I am hereby announcing Doctor Sardonic's premiere.

Please keep in mind he's a dear friend of mine, highly intelligent, employed in a stable field, fun and adventurous, well-travelled and well-read, enjoys fine dining, and is tall enough that most ladies can comfortably wear heels on a date with him.

I mention all this, ladies, because he's single. Of course, he may kill me for advertising him in such a crass fashion when he sees me this weekend, but he's not the boss of me!

Look, SYSM! It's your celebrity crush, TV vixen, and early female Marine Corps recruit, Bea Arthur! Although I know you probably already frequent her Fan Site, here are some pictures I thought you might enjoy:

Foxy!

Her softer side.

She rocks!

Sassy!

"At first, I thought it was just a broken-off little cookie chunk, but then my tongue brushed a tiny bone on the end, and I spit it out."

Click here for the full story.

B.A. and the Queen of the Harpies are getting married this weekend. Mazel Tov.

20. A bachelor/bachelorette party thrown by a Talaxian several weeks before the wedding.

19. Guests from a minimum of four planets other than Terra, preferably from more than one quadrant.

18. A red-alert scattering field (which also disrupts cell phones and beepers).

17. DNA, chroniton, and quantum-level scans to make sure your intended is exactly who s/he/it claims to be, from the right universe and the right timestream.

16. Fully-paid life insurance premiums, especially if someone in the wedding wears a red shirt to work.

15. Personalized vows which include the lines, "Will you assimilate this life form, in carbon, silicon, or photon; in space and planetside; in gravity and in zero-gee; for starship, freighter, or shuttlecraft; for promotion or demotion; in reruns and in syndication; until low ratings do you part?"

14. A Klingon attendant whose sole function is to march over to anyone who pipes up during the "if anyone objects to this union" part of the ceremony, rip out his/her/its tongue, and wear it as a belt.

13. A money-back guarantee if your intended is an ensign and dies within thirty days of the wedding. Not applicable to the future spouse(s) of Harry Kim, since he's recyclable.

12. A Trill at the reception. (Guaranteed to liven up the party.)

11. A Borg bouncer.

10. Romulan ale, kanar, bloodwine, and Saurian brandy; but a Ferengi bartender. (Open bars are expensive.)

9. Designated shuttlecraft pilots, to make sure everyone gets home from the party.

8. Subcutaneous alcohol inhibitor for certain in-laws.

7. A best-man speech written by a Vulcan (to avoid the stupid "May all your ups and downs be between the sheets" kinds of jokes).

6. A court order forbidding the use of leola root in any consumable substance.

5. Lead-free Lobi crystal flutes for the champagne toast.

4. Guidance and tracking system for the bouquet and garter tosses.

3. A DJ who will play "The Time Warp," but not "The Chicken Dance."

2. A changing room for the newlyweds to shuck the dress uniforms and slip on the cozy and stylish neutrally-colored unitards everyone seems to prefer for off-duty wear.

1. Four pips on the officiant.

"September 15, 2005 (NEW YORK) - A groom spent his wedding night in jail with his father, his brother his father-in-law and seven other members of his wedding party after the group allegedly brawled with another bridal party and police, according to a published report...'We believe the event may have been alcohol-driven,' White Plains police spokesman Martin Gleeson told the Daily News."

Gee, ya think? A detective must've told him that!

(tune: Cheer Up, Charlie)

You get blue like everyone
But me and rum and coke
Can make your troubles go away
Blow away, there they go...

Cheer up, Monkey
Give me a smile
What happened to the smile I used to know
Don't you know your grin has always
Been my sunshine;
Let that sunshine show...

Come on, Monkey
No need to frown
Deep down you know tomorrow is your toy...

When the days get heavy
Never pitter patter
Up and at'em boy

Some day, sweet as a song
Monkey’s lucky day will come along
Till that day
You've got to stay strong Monkey
Up on top is right where you belong

Look up, Monkey
You'll see a star
Just follow it and keep your dreams in view
Pretty soon the sky is going to clear up
Monkey,

Cheer up Monkey, do
Cheer up Monkey
Just be glad you're you.

Hell bent for leather and ugly as a dirt clod, Great Uncle Pete glared down on Jim from his portrait above the fireplace.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded with the oil painting. “This will be good for both of us.”

Jim climbed the step stool from the kitchen until he stood eye to eye with his Great Uncle’s image. “You’ve got to trust me on this one,” he added. “Will it help if I promise to pick the best-looking woman to take you?”

Groaning with effort, Jim slid the painting from its moorings, almost falling backward from the weight of it.

“Jeez, that’s heavy,” panted the desk-softened 42-year-old software engineer, as he rested the portrait gently on the floor. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, I’m soft. But if you were alive at my age today, you wouldn’t be a cowboy, either. So keep your opinions to yourself.”

Jim sat on the stepstool, staring at the family heirloom he had cherished since childhood. His grandfather had proudly displayed the painting of his older brother in his den, and had told Jim story after story about Uncle Pete’s cowboy adventures. While Grandpa always spoke in glowing terms of his brother’s career, it must’ve had its downside, too.

After all, Uncle Pete was bound and determined that his little brother went on to college to become a lawyer instead of facing a hard life in the saddle. He sent every spare nickel and penny he good back home to help put Grandpa through school.

As Jim considered this, he could’ve sworn he saw the expression on the old cowpoke’s face soften. Instead of a hard glint in his eye, he saw a twinkle. Maybe his great uncle hasn’t been staring down in disappointment all these years, but in pride at what his suffering had accomplished.

Maybe Uncle Pete had sacrificed a life of comfort and stability for himself, but he had made sure that his brother, his brother’s children, and his brother’s children’s children would have a better life.

Jim smiled. “Okay, Uncle Pete. Time to go. No, I’m not gonna sell you. But you’re still going on ‘Antiques Roadshow.’ Here comes the bubble wrap; you may be tough, but you’re not that tough.”

Where is he, folks? Here's a clue:

"It is a place to spend money on tropical fruits and gifts while clambering up the Big Pineapple (16 metres high), taking a ride on a cane train through the tropical plantation, hopping aboard the Nutmobile for a journey through the macadamia orchards and rainforest surrounds of 'Nutcountry', enjoying the Harvest Boat Ride or visiting the animal nursery. Information about the state's tropical fruit industry is to be found within the Big Pineapple which offers views of the surrounds from its summit."

Come on, people! I'm sure more than one of you has been aboard the Nutmobile!

My lovely husband Dilf took me to Meson Sabika, a tapas restaurant in Naperville, for my birthday last night.

I love tapas. We held our wedding reception at a Spanish restaurant and served tapas. I love Spanish wine. I love Spanish music. I love flamenco dancing.

Everything about this place was wonderful; beautiful scenery, excellent food, and I was served a flight of four Spanish wines, two white and two red. They had a flamenco guitarist who was joined later by a flamenco dancer in the bar area. I loved it, and we will return.

Only one thing marred the perfection of the evening -- people from Naperville insisted on being in the same place as me.

Now, I've spoken before of my distaste for Naperville; some people may call it "Naperville envy." To those people I say, "I know someone who will hit you in the face with a shovel." Let me describe the denizens of Naperville, and you decide how you feel about them.

They are the stereotypical SUV-driving, soccer-game attending, McMansion-owning, sweater set- or golf shirt-wearing, overpaid for ass-kissing-suck-uppery, George Bush-supporting suburbanites that give the rest of us a bad name.

How did they irritate me last night? Let me tell you. Two of them were seated at a table set for four, so like cockroaches, I knew there'd be more. The second couple arrived later and proceded to annoy me with their loud fake attempts at cleverness (Look who we found! Fancy meeting you here! Ha ha ha! Kiss, kiss. You look great!)

Then they talked loudly about their kids' soccer game. Of course, they are way too invested in the soccer game's outcome; you can tell they are living vicariously through these poor kids' achievements, or lack thereof. This inane and useless banter went on throughout the music, throughout the dancing, and throughout their dinner. I ask you, how could this soccer game POSSIBLY be more interesting than a dancer stomping rhythmically and clacking castanets?

Well, it wasn't. And I was still able to enjoy the guitarist and his lovely partner. But those people irked me because they represent evil self-centeredness and I want them destroyed.

Click Here!

SYSM has his own blog!
Let's all give SYSM a warm blogger welcome, everyone!

I have been prohibited from posting disgusting, vile, nauseating or disturbing images for one week.

So, I shall instead reveal to you one of my unfulfilled desires: I always wanted to be a belly dancer.

Somehow, I've never made the time or effort to research belly dance classes, unfortunately. I hope to change that soon. I began today as all of us with internet access begin -- I Googled "belly dancing."

One interesting tidbit I discovered on Google was a musical genius known as George Abdo and the Flames of Araby, who reportedly "...helped create the genre of belly dance music here in America as we know it today." Sadly, Mr. Abdo passed away in 2002. I will not let that stop me.

In fact, I am now fiercely determined to become the best belly dancer possible. And when I win an award for my awesome belly dancing, I will clutch the statuette (I wonder what is will look like?) and announce, tearfully, "I did it for you, George!"

I know he will be looking down and smiling on me on that day. Until then, I have to find a belly dancing class in the western suburbs of Chicago.