A Very David Soul-ful Christmas Story
I was pleasantly surprised to find David Soul's website. It prompted me to wonder what happened after the turkey incident. I discovered* he found a new job! What a trooper!

It seems David became a department store Santa. What a perfect fit; it's almost like acting -- just like he's almost been doing for almost his whole life! Anyway, he graduated from Santa Class (after he graduated from anger management class, that is). It was a close call, though, because he kept growling at the Santa trainer, "You call that getting into character? I Goddamn know how to get into character! I was Hutch, dammit!" He nearly scared the poor woman to death! Obviously, she doesn't know what a sweetheart he is deep down. Deep, deep down.

But he graduated nonetheless, mostly because he was slightly less drunk than the other candidates, or at least didn't pass out face-first out of his chair like some of them did. Here's a picture of him with his classmates. Always the entertainer, our David!

It looked as if things were going David's way for a change, at least until last weekend. I guess the line of children waiting to see Santa was really, really long, making David late getting his scotch-and-cigarette break. He started to shake a little, and when a little boy asked him, "Are you okay, Santa?" David snapped, "Would you just get on with it, you little puke?" The weak little sissy-boy started to cry!

Then, another little boy asked for Star Wars figures. David asked, "How about some Starsky and Hutch dolls?" Confused, the tyke asked, "Are those for girls? 'Cause I only like action figures." Irate, but controlling his rage (you can do it, David!), our star responded through gritted teeth, "No, it was a very, VERY popular show in the 1970's. Just like Star Wars was from the 70's."

"Oh, yeah!" the youngster perked right up, "Star Wars is a classic! But I've never heard of Stumpy and Butch. Was it a sci-fi movie, too?"

"Just get off my lap!" David bellowed. By then, David's patience had worn thin. "Next," he scowled. The next child cowered behind her mother's skirt. "NEXT!" he snarled, insistently.

The children, trembling with fear, stood still. As David glared at them, he noticed someone... familiar... walking past the fine jewelry case. Was that... his ex wife? It was! Walking arm and arm with some stockbroker-looking motherfucker! Laughing! Touching! She had given up on them baby: completely!

He lept from Santa's throne, scattering screaming children in every direction. The elves tried to maintain order, but pandemonium had broken loose! David had lost sight of the couple in the ensuing chaos, until he spotted them at the main entrance into the mall.

David began to wail uncontrollably as deftly sprinted after them, grabbing whatever weapons he could find on his way. The chase was on, with David waving an oversized golf umbrella in one hand, and a power massager in the other. "Feel the wrath of David Soul, you heartless bitch!" he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. But his triumphant exit into the mall was blocked by store security, the bane of his existence.

Oblivious to their narrow escape, the happy couple continued on their way as David was unceremoniously wrestled to the floor. "Let me go! Let me GO! I'm a cop!" he insisted. "Yeah, buddy, we know all about it," said the firm yet sympathetic guard. "Let's go."

Once again, David found himself in the hospital, restrained. But on a lighter note, I hear they serve turkey and stuffing on Christmas Day! With a spoon, of course. We love you, David! Get well soon!

*Again, "discovered" means "fabricated."
A Story Tailor-Made for Calzone


An early Christmas gift for Calzone
Dilf Wants to Send Me on Vacation

Incensed at the suggestion that I consider the dryer a Christmas present, Dilf blurted out what he intended to give me for Christmas. He wants to give me a break from the daily grind.

I need to decide where I'm going, with whom I'm going, when I'm going... a slew of decisions.

Does anyone have any suggestions? I love adventures!
Is This Fair?

Dilf's Christmas present.


My Christmas present.

Take THIS, Scrawny Bitches!

Oh, when will the skinny reign end? When?
Perfection Sucks.
To the surprise of no one, I own this book.

It's another lovefest for all things retro. And it got me thinking, the attraction to retro has more to it than mere nostalgia, in my opinion.

I think a good number of us want to return to a day before Christmas dinnerware, before we felt pressure to choose the "perfect holiday wine" and create culinary masterpieces and update our damn decorating every year.

I remember when holidays were comfortingly similar every year. Every family had its specialties, and they brought it to Christmas. My aunt, for example, was the Italian queen and brought some sort of pasta bake with sausage or meatballs every year. My grandma brought pierogies and rosettes. My great-aunt brought potato pancakes and roast beef in gravy. My mom brought salad, salmon ball, and this horrid yogurt-Cool Whip-fruit thing that everyone under 18 loved and everyone over 18 hated.

Who decided that a Santa sheet cake and non-gourmet coffee wasn't good enough anymore? What's wrong with potato chips and onion dip? Where did all the styrofoam cups go?

Christmas has become just like bachelor parties, weddings, children's birthdays and everything else that have become less a celebration than a never-ending quest to out-do the previous year's extravaganza.

And why? To pretend we're rich and cultured? Listen, I don't know about any of the rest of you, but I have a roof over my head and I've never gone to bed cold or hungry. I turn a knob and I get clean water. I can take a bath every day. I'm already rich. The rest of that stuff is crap and bullshit.

I realize that I make fun of "white trash" people a lot, but in reality, I admire their lack of pretense; they know what they like, and they eat it, drink it, wear it. Likewise, some people truly do enjoy haute cuisine and know their wines. Good for them. I am comfortably in the middle, and I will stay here despite the best efforts of the marketing machine to make me feel bad about it.
What if You're Bad?
Santa used to have a traveling companion named Black Peter.

According to some cultures, Black Peter was Satan, kept in chains by St. Nicholas who forced him into servitude.

Other people said he was a an evil little troll who worked in the coal mines.

Everyone, however, agreed that Santa gave gifts to the good kids and Black Peter doled out the punishments. The punishments varied, including a particularly barbaric one involving pirates and sex slavery, but it was always something.

A friend of my mom's who grew up in Czechoslovakia reports that Santa and Black Peter did not limit their visits to the children -- they went from house to house telling everybody their good points (from Santa Claus) and bad points (from Black Peter.) That included the adults, whose indiscretions and predilections were made uncomfortably public.

The good old days. I would LOVE the Black Peter job. Alas.
Christmas Specials Time Forgot
While reading the Ten Least Successful Holiday Specials, one in particular caught my eye:

Ayn Rand's A Selfish Christmas (1951)

In this hour-long radio drama, Santa struggles with the increasing demands of providing gifts for millions of spoiled, ungrateful brats across the world, until a single elf, in the engineering department of his workshop, convinces Santa to go on strike. The special ends with the entropic collapse of the civilization of takers and the spectacle of children trudging across the bitterly cold, dark tundra to offer Santa cash for his services, acknowledging at last that his genius makes the gifts — and therefore Christmas — possible.

Prior to broadcast, Mutual Broadcast System executives raised objections to the radio play, noting that 56 minutes of the hour-long broadcast went to a philosophical manifesto by the elf and of the four remaining minutes, three went to a love scene between Santa and the cold, practical Mrs. Claus that was rendered into radio through the use of grunts and the shattering of several dozen whiskey tumblers. In later letters, Rand sneeringly described these executives as "anti-life."
To: A Man Who Will Never See This; From: Ubermilf

Do you see this boy? This sweet, wonderful, imaginative little boy? You failed him.

You used him as a weapon to hurt his mother. You treated him as somehow "less than" because he didn't meet some artificial standards set by some artificial people.

You stole him away as if he were territory in a military conflict, then threw him away when he was no longer convenient. You hurt him and confused him in ways that will haunt him for a long time, and it could possibly take years to undo the damage you've done to him.

No matter what else you do in your life, until you change and make amends for what you have done to him, you will always be a miserable failure.

I don't know you; I've never met you. I don't know why you are the way you are.

But this little boy deserves better from you, and you're the only one who can give it to him. No one else can be his father.

It's never to late to become a better person. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for him.
I Am SO Booking This Band for My Next Party

The Popavich Family Singers!

Dancing their way to a pancake breakfast near you!
Christmas Is a Celebration. If You're Not Happy, You're Not Celebrating.
Nobody should be forced into anything. Yet, for the next month, we all will be pressured into something.

The non-religious or those who practice a non-JudeoChristian religion will feel pressured into celebrating a holiday that holds no real meaning for them. Jews will, once again, feel pressured into making Hannukah a much bigger deal than it was ever meant to be. African-Americans will feel pressured into celebrating Kwaanza, whether or not it holds any cultural significance for them. Christians will be pulled in all different directions. Office parties will be forced upon workers. Outrageous expectations will be everywhere.

Shameful. I hearby swear to you, my readers, that I will CELEBRATE Christmas. I will defy the marketers and thwart their evil plans.

I bow to no one.
My Mom and the Turkey Carcass
Note: This post originally ran May 12 of this year. Happy Thanksgiving!

I was going to save this story for later, but I've received a couple of requests for it, so here goes.

My mom came of age in the 50's, so she doesn't talk about sex much. She never portrayed it as bad or dirty or anything, she just never portrayed it in any terms at all. My "birds and the bees" talk consisted of this, when I was about 12 or so: "Did they teach you about sex in health class?" Uncomfortable nodding from me. "Good," she said.

So, when I returned home for a brief period after leaving TEO [note: my exhusband] for the reasons we've already covered, we didn't revisit the topic very often. This was fine with me, since I was focused on looking forward, not back.

I was living at home in November, when Thanksgiving hits. It was the day before Thanksgiving when some of TEO's friends called me, saying they wanted to see me and they didn't want to lose me as a friend. They promised TEO would not be present. Initially, I agreed. But then the thought of that brought back too many bad memories, and I started to cry.

Meanwhile, my mom was in the kitchen cleaning the turkey for the next day. She had her entire forearm inserted into the turkey's cavity when I walked into the kitchen. She glanced up, and noticed I was crying. "What's wrong?" she asked with maternal concern. "What happened..." Then, willing to do ANYTHING to comfort and cheer her wounded offspring, went straight for the dirty joke. "Does THIS remind you of TEO?" she said, arm still thrust into the turkey's gaping midsection.

I hope I can do as much to soothe my girls when they are down. She was also quite funny in the Department of Health office where I had to get my aids test, due to TEO's activities. Posted prominantly throughout the office was an anti-smoking poster entitled "Butts are Gross" and featuring photos of several animals' posteriors. "Maybe someone should've shown THAT to TEO," she quipped. My mom can be pretty funny sometimes.

[Note, again: the post previous to this indicated my ex was a sadistic, abusive, no-good cheating bastard; he was also gay. If you're interested, you can read that one, too.]
Thanksgiving Photo Montage

Neutering wasn't enough, they had to humiliate the poor animals, too.

I bet a lightsaber cuts right through a turkey.

They don't look thankful to me; do they look thankful to you?

Thanksgiving Germ-Feast! Brooke, LoLo, explain it to the people.

I'm not sure what that is, but those people are thankful for it.
May you be whipped with a thousand scorpions, thou exceedingly foolish virgin!

I love this thing.

I stole it from B.A. a while ago.
I Can't Believe He's Dead!

Rest in Peace, Sam

I just blogged about him last month; I'm still in shock.

Sam, the world's ugliest dog, is dead at age 14.

You'll be missed.

I wonder who was the runner-up?

Addendum: To the surprise of none, you can also find Sam's picture by typing "Tales from the Crypt" into Google Images.

Dilf: Disposer of Carcasses and Hillbilly Underwear
If I ever complain about my princely husband, will somebody please utter the phrase "Hillbilly Underwear" to bring me back to reality?

In addition to various half-cat jobs, Dilf today faced an unimaginable horror: our house's previous owner's underwear behind the dryer.

Now, that discovery and subsequent removal would be unpleasant under normal circumstances. Given the alcoholic, Marlboro chain-smoking, garbage-collecting, white trash person from whom we purchased this house, and whom had been wearing the tighty whities in question, this is nothing short of heroism.

Dilf, I salute you! Did you wash your hands? Good.
I'm Sorry It's Taking Me So Long To Fight These Germs.
I haven't been online. I haven't been visiting blogs. I haven't been responding to comments I've received. I've been uninspired.

For all of these sins I apologize. But I have high hopes that tomorrow will be a better day. I've already set two high-reaching goals for tomorrow:

Wear a bra.

Wear pants with a waistband and zipper.

If that goes well, I'll see what else I can accomplish.
Food, Glorious Food!
I have found two wonderful recipe sources. One is the Gallery of Regrettable Food, and the other is Chef Andy.

You may say to yourselves, "Why, Ubermilf! We thought you were feeling ill! Where do you find the strength and stamina to find such wonderful blog items for us?"

The answer, simply, is love. I love you guys so much, I can't stop hunting for the perfect food items for you. Especially since the holidays are upon us!

Enjoy Chef Andy's Ring Around the Tuna. "Chef Andy's Household Hint: Jell-O prepared with tonic water glows under black light, but tastes really awful. For a better way to make your Jell-O mold glow, try serving it on a glass plate with an activated cyanamid lightstick underneath. Works especially well with green food such as Ring-Around-the-Tuna."

1 package (3 oz.) Jell-O Lime or Lemon-Lime Gelatin
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup boiling water
3/4 cup cold water
2 tablespoons vinegar
2 teaspoons grated onion
1/2 cup diced cucumber
1/2 cup diced celery *
2 tablespoons chopped pimiento *
2 tablespoons sliced stuffed olives
1 can (7 oz) tuna, drained and flaked

(*) or reduce celery to 1/4 cup and substitute 1/2 chopped tomato
for the pimiento.

Dissolve Jell-O Gelatin and salt in boiling water. Add cold water, vinegar,
and onion. Chill until very thick. Stir in remaining ingredients. Pour
into individual ring molds or a 1-quart ring mold. Chill until firm.
Unmold on crisp salad greens. If desired, serve with additional tuna and
top salads with mayonnaise. Makes 3 2/3 cups, or about 4 entree servings.
The "Holiday Season" Is Already Out of Control -- Part I

I give you The Nutcraker On Horseback.

It's dinner theater ballet.

With horses.

Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus!
Where's Cowboy ... David Soul??!!

Oh no! Our intrepid hero's horse has been stolen by a deranged David Soul!

It seems after his last outburst at the grocery store*, he was sent to our nation's first private psychiatric hospital, which was founded by Quakers in 1813.

Good-hearted Cowboy Nick decided to pay him a friendly visit, but instead of chatting about Gran Torinos and playing Pinochle, that impetuous has-been knocked our boy Nick clean out of the saddle and stole his faithful mare Sugar Pie!

Does anyone know where we can find that no-talent bum? We better find him before he stirs up a whole heap of trouble. That varmint's plum loco!

*This is a continuation of my previous David Soul Fan Fiction.
My New Image
I'm Sorry I Suck

I haven't been feeling well.
My Diet's Not Going Well.
And by "Diet," I mean my anger diet.

First, SBC continues to be a bunch of incompetent boobs. SBC phone technicians kept knocking out the DSL. SBC DSL technicians kept knocking out the phone. Despite we (theoretically) receive both services through SBC, we thought they figure out what was going on. My anger diet prevents me from elaborating on this subject, so suffice it to say that SBC DSL and Phone are two separate entities who are prevented by law from speaking to one another. Also, as Senor Ding Dong said in the first place, the problem wound up being the outside lines. We're told they've been fixed. We shall see.

I made another mistake on my anger diet. I went shopping. It seems that the retail industry thinks I am a big fat cow. Nothing fits correctly, except the Gap's "Curvy Jeans." It seems that my hips and fanny are an anamoly, that can only be rectified with a "specialty" line. I feel so special. I have a grand total of one store that carries pants that fit me. Nay, not pants. I can find JEANS that fit me. Pants? Ha! I can dream.

I also need "Curvy Tops." If a blouse buttons across my busom without popping open under the pressure, it billows out around my midsection like a maternity top. Once upon a time in America, when women were encouraged to have hourglass figures, blouses were made with darts and shapes to fit women. Now, it seems women should either be sticks, Tootsie Rolls or the Michelin Man -- we don't care if you're fat or skinny, but no waists allowed!

What amazes me most is the fact size Mediums I bought ten years ago still fit me. So, what's going on? I just bought an extra-large blouse. An extra large should be, I think, size 16 to 18. I held up the arms, shoulders and midsection against a size 10, and they were identical. Identical! And the 10 fits me still. Are we being manipulated into feeling fat? Are they being cheap with fabric and sewing patters? What the hell?

Also, I tried to buy some new, over-the-calf dress boots. It seems I have two oversized hams hanging where my calves should be. I never thought my legs were that pudgy, but they must be. The fashion industry wouldn't lie, would it?
I'm Going on a Diet

Hopefully, when I'm done with it, you'll hardly recognize me.
My Modem Is Out of Service Again

SBC screwed up again.

I guess they have other business to attend to.

Thus, I am on a borrowed computer letting you know.

Later, taters.
Bad Music Thursday: Rick Springfield. Not Ugly. But Annoying. Doesn't Realize He's a Has-been.
Rick Springfield had a spate of hits in the 1980's. His appeal for the last two decades has mainly been as a novelty act. That doesn't stop him from thinking he's still hot.

His website, rickspringfield.com opens with a warning: "Some material may be inappropriate for people who don't want to rock."

Consider yourself warned.

So, what song does one feature when highlighting the bad music of Springfield? The mega-hit "Jesse's Girl?" The regrettable space-themed classic "Human Touch?" The hit sensibly geared toward his primarily pre-pubescent female audience, "Don't Talk to Strangers?"

I could've picked one of those. But I decided to go for a two-fer. I give you Rick Springfield singing the Mister Mister hit "Broken Wings" on his most recent album, 2005's "The Day After Yesterday."

Baby don't understand
Why we can't just hold on
To each other's hands

This time might be the last
I fear unless I make it all too clear
I need you so

Take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
And learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up
And let us in
Take these broken wings

Baby I think tonight
We can take what was wrong
To make it right

Baby it's all I know
That you're half of the flesh
And blood makes me whole
Need you so

Take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
And learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up
And let us in
Take these broken wings
You got to learn to fly
And learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing

Let us in
Let us in

Baby it's all I know
That you're half of the flesh
And blood makes me whole
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah so

Take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
And learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up
And let us in
Take these broken wings
You got to learn to fly
And learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up
And let us in
I Borrowed This From Monkey
This reminds me of Anthony and Nick fighting.
I Better Give the Public What it Wants
Apparently you people don't like thoughtful, reasonable Ubie. So, Snarky Boobs Ubie it is.

Every year I get a "holiday family newsletter" from my cousin and his family from Elko, Nevada. Every year I dislike them more and more.

I don't hate holiday newsletters per se. I hate boastful, pretentious holiday newsletters. With grammatical errors to boot.

Without fail, my cousin's wife (a fucking schoolteacher who should have a proper grasp of the English language, but doesn't) writes a poorly-rhymed 3-page poem about how wonderful their lives are.

"Ring Bender*(see below for explanation) got another raise! We went to Hawaii for free! Again! Ring Bender runs in triathalons! And wins! Every time!

"We didn't think it possible, but our youngest gets EVEN BETTER grades than his brothers! The eldest got straight A's, the middle boy got straight A+'s, and the youngest gets straight A++'s!

"And they all have twelve girlfriends each, despite the fact the eldest looks like Howdy Doody, the middle one looks like Chris from 'Family Guy' and the youngest is so unremarkable I can't remember what he looks like at the moment!

"And I, too, keep getting miraculously promoted! I will soon be Superintendent of Schools for the entire state of Nevada! Isn't that super duper! I'm also enclosed pictures of the 3,567 craft projects I've completed this year! Aren't I talented!"

To top it off, my family and I tend to receive this enema bag in the mail the same day an overdue bill arrives or with some other piece of bad news, making the impact yet more severe.

Lucky for me, I received Sysm's Christmas card on the same day last year. It contained a lovably imperfect picture of the Sysmidgets posing with Spiderman, the two eldest correctly aping the web-spinning posture of Spiderman, one of the twins staring at his wrist trying to position his fingers accurately, and the other inexplicably playing air guitar. That made me very happy. Because life is fun and wonderful even if it's not always perfect; why pretend?

*We call my cousin Ring Bender, because upon meeting my husband for the first time at my great aunt's wake, he shook Dilf's hand so hard he bent his ring. Oh, and the reason I'm writing this today? I received another piece of mail from them today regarding their upcoming Christmas visit.
What's Wrong? What's Right?
I like analyzing local politics better than national politics because there are no political parties -- no Republicans, no Democrats, just candidates or elected officials and their accomplishments and foibles.

Recently, my elected officials have demonstrated exactly what's wrong with our government at all levels. It's not conservatism, it's not liberalism, it's the attitude of people in office.

Let me explain. My mayor and board of trustees got in a pissing match over a political hire. The mayor had a temper tantrum and fired the volunteers that serve on the citizen advisory boards, with the exception of the ones headed by his one ally on the board. After their little squabble, the mayor tried to hire them all back -- having convinced the trustees how powerful he is.

But they didn't all come back. Three of them said, "We're tired of your bullshit. Screw you." Well, that's not exactly what they said. They said "they were not going to be pawns in a political chess match between Mayor Brian Krajewski and the Village Council." But you get the idea.

To me, this demonstrates what we need to fix in a nutshell. When people get elected, they somehow think they rule the public, rather than serve the public. We need to remind these people that we fought a revolution to rid ourselves of that form of government, and that they should be working to implement our will, not impose their will. Only one group of people can do that, and it's us. We need to take a more active role in our government and our country. While we weren't looking, it got stolen out from under us.

In happier news, the Chicago Tribune had a front page story on "church volunteers and hippies find(ing) common ground in Katrina's wake, collaborating to feed, clothe and comfort a storm-ravaged town" in Mississippi. Oddly, I couldn't find the story in the online edition, but whatever.

According to the story, a "scruffy assortment of dreadlocked, tatooed and pierced crew members" from the Rainbow family and a "neatly-groomed staff of Evangelical Christians in bright green T-shirts" have joined forces to help people.

"It's a marriage of cultures," said Fay Jones, 56, of the Evangelicals. "We have thoroughly enjoyed working with these Rainbow people. I think it's expanded our hearts."

"They have been our friends and allies throughout this entire thing," said Aaron Funk (ha!) of the Rainbow Family, in regards to the church volunteers. "There's no reason that anyone's personal opinion or politics entered into this. The needs are so huge that to try to wave your flag at these people would be extremely disrespectful.

"The main story here is cooperation," he added. "It's a beautiful thing."

Shut Up or I'll Crush Your Skull
I read this book with some book club or another years ago.

Here's what I remember: blah, blah, blah bunch of women married to one guy, blah blah blah, dad was a jerk and had some statues, blah blah blah some girl had sex and it caused a big ruckus.

Most importantly, I remember this: when a woman was bleeding and miserable once a month, she got to stay in a tent by herself and the other women had to take over her chores and bring her food. Everyone else had to stay the fuck away.

Now, the author seems to think this was some sort of patriarchal bullshit imposed upon the women. I say it's common sense.

Why the hell should I run around like nothing's different when I'm sore, weak and irritable?

So, I'm going to order pizza for the family and hide in my bedroom. At some point, I may take a bath and have a glass of wine. I no longer watch "That 70's Show," but I do remember this line: "Eric, don't touch that! That's your mother's emergency wine!"

I have more succinct advice: Don't touch mommy.

Addendum:Nausea aggravated by fresh paint smells and 1970's-era Avon perfume threatens to drive me over the edge. Old decorative bottles were unearthed and discovered by girlies 15 minutes ago. And they didn't smell that great 25 years ago when they were new. Overpowering and debilitating. Choking. Gasp.
Hello, This is Dilf!*
When Dilf is stressed out, he sleepwalks and sleeptalks.

He started a new job yesterday, so last night I was awakened by Dilf belting out, in his "businessy" voice, "Hello, this is Dilf!**" into our TV remote control at 2:17 a.m. I know that's what time it was, because I looked at the clock.

Of course, that is better than the time he was trying to clear my paper tray in the middle of the night.

*Dilf does not resemble Urkel in any way, shape or form. I just liked the sleepwalking picture.

**Dilf used his real name during his nocturnal ramblings. I just used "Dilf" so you'd know whom I meant.
Fan Clubs
My recent encounter with a group of rabid fans sparked my curiosity. I wondered who else has fan clubs out there?

The answer? If a person has been on TV, even in bit performances on a soap opera, he or she has a fan club. From the 1950's to the present, I challenge you to think of a TV show or star who isn't represented. Go ahead; if you think of one, I'd love to know.

To name but a few, I found fan clubs for:

William Conrad, "Cannon"

Buddy Ebsen, "Barnaby Jones"
(and don't bother telling me about all the other things Buddy Ebsen did. Believe me, someone already has.)

Square Pegs (20 episodes total in 1982. The only reason I remember it, I was 12 years old and actually watched it.)

and, amazingly

the Solid Gold Dancers

Wow. Really? Solid Gold Dancers? I'm not sure what to say.
I've Been Too Negative Lately.
Pictures of things I like:

Name: Übermilf
Location: Chicago Area

If being easily irritated, impatient and rebellious is sexy, then call me MILF -- Übermilf.

So you want more huh?
Click here!

Perverts, scram. There's nothing for you here.

Now, who wants cupcakes?

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