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."

Click:
An early Christmas gift for Calzone

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!

Dilf's Christmas present.

Cool!

My Christmas present.

Hooray.

Oh, when will the skinny reign end? When?

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.

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.

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."

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.

The Popavich Family Singers!



Dancing their way to a pancake breakfast near you!

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.

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.]

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.

I love this thing.

I stole it from B.A. a while ago.

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.

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 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.

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.

I give you The Nutcraker On Horseback.

It's dinner theater ballet.

With horses.

Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus!

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.

I haven't been feeling 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?

Hopefully, when I'm done with it, you'll hardly recognize me.

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.

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

This reminds me of Anthony and Nick fighting.

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.

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."

Indeed.

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.

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.

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.

Pictures of things I like:

I have been rightly accused of lashing out at David Soul without fully considering the scope of his career and his current activities.

I checked up on Mr. Soul, and here’s what I found out*.

Apparently, after the collapse of his performing career, Mr. Soul has kept busy. He gets work where he can, and his accomplishments are dazzling in their diversity.

Most recently, for instance, David took a seasonal job at a grocery store stocking Thanksgiving turkeys. Unfortunately, the position led to a tragic turn of events.

It seems a group of snot-nosed youths unaware of David’s talents and fame insulted him and caused a ruckus.

David was loading some fresh turkeys into a display bin (the frozen ones would’ve aggravated his bad back, you know) when the song “Don’t Give Up on Us Baby” started playing through the store’s Musak system.

One of the ignorant kids (what do they teach in school these days?) asked, “Is that the song Owen Wilson sang in that one dumb movie? God, that was hilarious. That dude rocks!”

This made David angry; but he got it under control. Those “Emotions Anonymous” meetings really paid off!

But then, one of the other disgracefully uneducated teens (really, I blame the parents) said, “Wait, didn’t some old dude sing that, like back in the 60’s or something?”

That was too much for David to bear. He stood up, and in a violent rage, pulled off the turkey wrapper, and shoved the turkey, cavity-side down, onto the shocked youth’s head!

He then began to pummel the kid’s turkey carcass-encased head, roaring, “It was a number one hit, damn you! Number one! How many number one hits have you recorded, you Goddamned punk!”

Quickly, the local police showed up before David could hurt himself further. As they dragged him away, he shouted, “You can’t do this to me! I’m Hutch! I’m a celebrity!”

It was sad to see David treated so shabbily. Is this how this country behaves toward its heroes? I am sickened by this disregard of our nation’s treasures.

Luckily, the boy refused to press charges, because he “felt sorry for the old guy.”

Whew. David does not need another violent offense on his record. He was ordered to take anger management classes. Again.

I will continue to keep tabs on this wonderfully talented individual. I am so glad I became enlightened rather than live in the Soulless darkness.

*Not so much found out, as completely made up. Sorry for any confusion.

I have made fun of many public figures: Carrot Top, The Bush Administration, David Soul, and The Casual Friday guy, to name but a few.

I am qualifed to do so because I myself am stupid and have bad taste. I will enumerate here the many ways I am stupid or the stupid things I like.

I like the GoGo's.


I listened to Depeche Mode in High School, at which time I also had a Duran Duran poster on my bedroom wall


I like Fritos (dipping size) and Dean's unauthentic "guacamole"


I don't like egg nog


I have permed my hair at several junctures in my life


I put my garlic through a garlic press


I don't like beer


I sing along (nay, belt out along) with Cher to "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves"


I dated a guy I met when he prank called my house. I was 16 and he was 21.


I like the movie "Clueless"


I can't work Venetian blinds


I can't parallel park


I suck at sewing


I married a closet homosexual (Not Dilf; the first time)


I like the song "Rock Me Amadeus"


If I think of more later, I'll let you know. Please, people, when I express my opinion it's all in good fun. I hope no one gets hurt. And even the people/songs/politicians I may skewer (okay, not the politicians. They hurt people) I have an affection for. Like an annoying relative.

Excitement faded to disappointment when Nick discovered he could neither ride nor eat this big bird.

Trying to salvage his trip, he asked the local tourist office for advice. The lady told him, "Another nice thing to do here is cast a line into beautiful Town Lake. Just across from the turkey is a great shore fishing spot. Seems to be a pretty popular spot!. Shhhhh...don't tell everyone!"

I want to have a real, honest-to-goodness adult cocktail party. (Remember when "adult" didn't have to mean sex?)

You know, the kind Rob and Laura Petrie used to throw, where Laura would wind up dancing in her capri pants, and Buddy and Sally would sing a comic duet? That's what I want to throw.

I don't really have lampshades for people's heads, though. Do you think people need lampshades?

This is one of those "spot the differences between the two pictures thingies."

Click Here to give it a try.

It takes a while. Trust me.

I just wanted to have my cup of coffee and read the paper. Reading the world and national news upsets me. So, I decided to read my local paper; as long as I avoid the Park District News section, I should be fine. Right?

Wrong. In the most innocuous of papers, in the most innocuous of sections, I read this.

I will highlight the sentences that most made my doughnut stick in my throat:

"Ruth Princess of Western Springs, who runs Princess and Pirate Parties, said old-fashioned birthday parties have 'bitten the dust.'

'They don't exist anymore. It's too much about keeping up with the Joneses. Plus kids have so much stimulation, and the old-fashioned party is just too boring.'"

"Princess, who legally changed her last name to Princess, started her company, Princess and Pirate Parties, about five years ago."

"Princess said pirates are a logical counterpart to the princess parties because 'they are all treasure seekers.'"

"'One mom had a party for a 3-year-old. There were caterers, a bartender, engraved napkins, a moon jump and horses. Everything. I tried to convince them that they should have only one focus, me, and they should try to keep the party to an hour and half for children under 5,' she said."

"Sprandel said one of her customers hired a horse and carriage for more than $800 to take the kids from the house to the party shop."

I cringe to think what "overindulged" means to these people.

Miss Knit clued me into this one.

Apparently, Scooter Libby likes it rough -- or, actually, he likes barely pubescent girls to have it rough. He is re-releasing his previous novel to help defray his defense costs.

"Sales of the new edition will swell the fund Mr Libby's supporters have set up to pay his legal costs. But the publicity it provides might not provide the ideal backdrop to a trial.


The Apprentice is packed with sexual perversion, dwelling on prepubescent girls and their training as prostitutes.

One passage describes a girl being thrown into a cage 'with a bear trained to couple with young girls so the girls would be frigid and not fall in love with their patrons.

'They fed her through the bars and aroused the bear with a stick when it seemed to lose interest. Groups of men paid to watch.'"

Well, now. Isn't that interesting?

Giggety giggety giggety

This is for my new friend, Litotes

I would like to focus today on a band so repugnant that they suck both when they rock out and when they moan out their tiresome love ballads.

I speak, of course, of Foreigner.

I hate Foreigner like Karl Rove hates an ethics investigation. And look at they guy! That's Lou Gramm, lead singer, in the picture. Too bad they didn't get a shot of his gnarly yellow teeth! And yet, apparently, some woman "Urgent"-ly needs to have sex with him.







Urgent lyrics

You’re not shy, you get around
You wanna fly, don’t want your feet on the ground
You stay up, you won’t come down
You wanna live, you wanna move to the sound

Got fire in your veins
Burnin’ hot but you don’t feel the pain
Your desire is insane
You can’t stop until you do it again

But sometimes I wonder as I look in your eyes
Maybe you’re thinking of some other guy
But I know, yes I know, how to treat you right
That’s why you call me in the middle of the night

You say it’s urgent
So urgent, so oh oh urgent
Just wait and see
How urgent my love can be
It’s urgent

You play tricks on my mind
You’re everywhere but you’re so hard to find
You’re not warm or sentimental
You’re so extreme, you can be so temperamental

But I’m not looking for a love that will last
I know what I need and I need it fast
Yeah, there’s one thing in common that we both share
That’s a need for for each other anytime, anywhere

It gets so urgent
So urgent
You know it’s urgent
I wanna tell you it’s the same for me
So oh oh urgent
Just you wait and see
How urgent our love can be
It’s urgent

You say it’s urgent
Make it fast, make it urgent
Do it quick, do it urgent
Gotta rush, make it urgent
Want it quick
Urgent, urgent, emergency
Urgent, urgent, emergency
Urgent, urgent, emergency
Urgent, urgent, emergency
So urgent, emergency
Emer... emer... emer...
It’s urgent

I can think of the following "urgent" needs in regards to Foreigner:

Change the station!


Restraining order


Penicillin shot


Ear plugs


A good, stiff drink, downed in one gulp


An exterminator


This band, I believe, is the worst ever. They are more omni-present than 38 Special. They seem convinced they are talented, unlike Hall and Oates and Lionel Ritchie, who seemed to say, "You people like this crap? Okay, I guess I'll keep churning it out, then." The only contender for the throne is Phil Collins, whose music appears in movies and therefore is more difficult to avoid.

I feel better getting this out of my system. I will now take UberGirlies out for doughnuts. Good day.

I've complained about my milkman before. My usual milkman, that is. He's a hulking whiny bitch in short pants. He has the stench of frustrated failure about him; his figure suggests he played football or wrestled or something sometime in the past and wallows in the memories of glories long past.

He's supposed to pick up the empties, put the new order in the cooler and leave. But he always has some complaint. I put out too many bottles...I didn't put out any bottles...I forgot to put the cooler in the usual place... on and on. It's not that he just happens to mention things, or reminds me to rinse out the bottles or whatever, it's that he takes this wounded tone of personal affront that makes me want to slap the shit out of him. If he REALLY wants something to complain about, I'll give it to him!

Needless to say, I cringe when the doorbell rings on Milk Delivery Day.

So, when I saw the milk truck pull up to my house today, my lip curled into an automatic sneer. My eyes narrowed and I prepared to tell His Highness exactly where he could shove his milk bottle.

But... lo and behold, a different milk man stepped down out of the truck.

A young milk man.

A handsome milk man.

In a crisp, white uniform.

And a pleasant disposition.

I can't wait until next Wednesday.

I turned my coat closet into a pantry today. Which means I must now find a place for my coats...

But I digress. In the course of transferring my boxes, bags, and canned goods from their various cabinets into one centralized, orderly location, the following things came to mind:

Why do I have 6 cans of black olives?

How old is this box of wild rice? Does it go bad?

Have I ever made polenta? Will I ever? Does Polenta go bad?(this "will it go bad" is a recurring theme -- simply add it to the end of every comment)

"Riceland, Riceland Uber Alles..."

Nobody's going to eat this. I'm throwing it away (repeat untold times)

Thank God it's garbage night!

How will I recycle all of this?

I had a bar of semi-sweet Ghiradelli chocolate all this time??!!

I hate healthy soup. I want salt, dammit

Risotto?

So you see, I've had a productive day. I have bags upon bags of donatable clothes from all of us, crib sheets and receiving blankets and things for babies we no longer use (being fresh out of babies and all), and canned goods we'll never use. Like these. Anyway, I'm just taking a break, so... back to the grindstone...

Okay, we all know I surf around the web and find oddities. This movie really takes the cake, and I found it by accident.

I thought it was a joke. Unfortunately, it's not.

"The most shocking and licentious exploitation film of the 1930s, Child Bride is an educational illustration of the illicit ills of child marriage. Down in Appalachia, on Thunderhead Mountain, inbred, uneducated girls, who have yet to ripen into womanhood, are swapped among coarse middle-aged men folk who wed and love their females between the ages of ten and fifteen. After about ten anguishing years of cooking, cleaning, childbearing and gratifying their husbands, these child brides are traditionally beaten to death and a newer, younger bride is taken. As a result of this vicious cycle, the people of Appalachia live in a sequestered world, out of step with modern values and customs.

Child Bride follows the sad story of Jennie Colton (Shirley Miles), forced into the grubby arms of Jake Bolby (Warner Richmond). Already on his second child bride, Jake is a hateful, heartless hillbilly who promises a grim life for sweet Jennie. Jennie's teenage boyfriend, Freddie Nulty (Bob Bollinger) is heartbroken that a much older man has robbed him of the girl he has been saving himself for. Freddie rallies with dwarf sidekick Angelo (Don Barrett, a pseudonym for iconic "little person" Angelo Rossitto) to stop Jennie from becoming Jake's child bride."

His sidekick is a dwarf on top of everything else? Horrors.

Dilf is in San Francisco, undergoing indoctrination into his new job's culture. If he comes back singing, "Leader! Na na na na na na na Leader!" to the tune of the old Batman series theme song, I'll know I have a problem on my hands.

Also, UberGirls are staying with Dilf's mom for the next couple of days. That means I'm home alone. "Ahhhh," I think to myself. "I can sleep in!"

Not if my haunted television has anything to say about it.

I awoke at 6:18 a.m. to the sound of voices coming from the downstairs family room. Soothing, fatherly Mr. Rogers noises. The TV was mysteriously up and running. I thought perhaps that danger kitten Miss Muffin had stepped on the remote or rolled over on it or tried to kill it, as is her habit. I reluctantly get out of bed to turn off the TV

Only the TV is off when I peer down through the banister. Thinking perhaps I was dreaming, I head back to bed. I get halfway down the hallway when i again hear Mr. Rogers, singing this time.

I hastily return to my spot on the stairs to peek into the family room, and sure enough, the TV is on again! And Miss Muffin is weaving through my legs; she was not the responsible party!

I head downstairs, thinking of all those haunted house shows I've been watching on the Discovery Channel lately. Specifically, I'm thinking of the times I scoffed, "That's so fake!"

I begin repeating over and over, Cowardly Lion-style, "I do believe in spooks. I DO BELIEVE IN SPOOKS!" I unplug the TV. Apparently, ghosts run on electricity in my house.

A couple hours later, Dilf calls me from his idoctrination. I tell him what happened. He says, "Oh, yeah. The remote's been shorting out ever since UberGirls poured juice on it. Just take the batteries out."

Mystery solved. Ah, well. Back to cleaning and organizing.

My precious boy toy Anthony wants me to put this meme on my blog, and what Anthony wants, Anthony gets.


What is the best part about not being French? (If you are French, what is the best part about not being German?)

Bathing

If Lou Reed called you an "uglybutt" how would you respond?

I thought you were dead? Aren't you dead?

Which Canadian Conservative is funnier looking, the squirrel-headed Stephen Harper, or the muppet-faced Peter McKay?

I don't know these people.

Have you ever been called a communist or a nazi?

Only when wearing the uniform(s).

Have you ever watched The Antiques Roadshow?

On purpose? No. Because I was too lazy to change the channel? Yes.

Create an original three step plan to solve the impending oil crisis.

1) Round up oil company executives. Put them in "habitats" in zoos around the country.

2) Take all of their money and give it to scientists to develop renewable energy sources.

3) Love.

I could've been a pin-up girl. They liked curves. They had better clothes, bathing suits and underwear -- and by better, of course, I mean flattering to me.

I have a lot of things to do in the UberHousehold to prepare for Dilf's in-home office, so I was going to take a week off and concentrate on that.

I'll start tomorrow.

I opened today's Chicago Tribune to discover that the EPA has cited Blommer Chocolates for violating limits on opacity, or the amount of light blocked by the factory's grinder dust.

One day, this "opacity" occurred for 16 minutes, the next for 10 minutes. The horror, the horror!

Interestingly, our State's Attorney, Lisa Madigan, "has documented more than 7,600 violations since 1999 at six coal plants owned b Midwest Generation, including two in Chicago and three in the suburbs." None of these complaints have been addressed by the EPA.

Blommer has yet to be fined for its heinous violation of temporarily kinda sorta making it a little harder to see the sun for, like, 15 minutes or so. In the meantime, Blommer has vowed to install a new filter system.

Two things:

One: Cocoa powder? Cocoa powder??!! Of all the toxins and pollutants this administration thinks are okay for human consumption, they crack down on cocoa powder? No wonder Willie Wonka became a hermit.

Two: Chicago has already witnessed the closing of big candy factories like Brachs and Fannie May, eliminating thousands of jobs desperately needed by the working class. Of all the industries for whom to make life difficult, they had to pick this one? Is that random or calculated? It's certainly heartless. Pro-business administration? For whom? A select group, it seems. Their pro-business stance doesn't extend to everyone.

When residents were asked about the chocolate factory's "pollution," they said the chocolate smell often masked less desirable urban smells, like storm sewers and bus exhaust. As for the biological effects of cocoa powder, if too much has been emitted (which was not the complaint, the complaint was "opacity") people with asthma or lung disease might be affected. There is nothing cancerous or otherwise disease-causing or environmentally dangerous about cocoa powder.

Please, if you can, buy Blommer chocolate. Those people need those jobs.

Cowboy Nick has gone in search of Ubermilf...all he found was a note tacked to his saddle that said, "Be back in a week. Love, U.M."

What did it mean? Where did she go? No one knows, until she returns...

According to this CNN article, the Bush administration is attempting to stifle America's Finest News Source.

They broke the law by using the Presidential seal in its publication. Clearly, this must be a violation since I had such difficulty obtaining an image of the seal myself, for use in my blog. And I've never seen it used outside of official use before, like on Saturday Night Live, or Mad TV, or... wait, yes I have!

It's not one of our more guarded national treasures, apparently.

But that doesn't give The Onion the right to use it. But I think something else does... hmmm... it's that pesky First Amendment again! No wonder Ann Coulter's not a fan.

Hey, Slappy, when you suggested I bring ham to Thanksgiving, is this what you meant?

A special treat this week: You can click here and hear the nauseating tune that accompanies the nauseating lyrics!

What differentiates this bad song from other insipidly horrible love songs is that it was written and performed by David Soul of Starsky and Hutch fame.

I hated David Soul because I never found him the least bit attractive, but he was marketed and packaged as a sex symbol. I always preferred Starsky. I wish I could remember his name at the moment. Oh yeah: Paul Michael Glazer.

Anyway, David Soul. Ugly. Untalented. Sappy. Stalker.





Don't Give Up On Us
( David Soul )

Don't give up on us, Baby
Don't make our love seem light
The future isn't just one night
It's written in the moonlight
And painted on the stars
We can't change ours
(To me, this has a vaguely threatening tinge to it, like she doesn't have a choice in the matter)

Don't give up on us, Baby
We're still worth one more try
I know we put a last one by
Just for a rainy evening
When maybe stars are few
Don't give up on us, I know
We can still come through

I really lost my head last night (See! I bet he got all scary and violent and stuff.)
You've got a right to start believing
There's still a little love left, even so

Don't give up on us, Baby
Lord knows we've come this far
Can't we stay the way we are?
The angel and the dreamer
Who sometimes play a fool
Don't give up on us, I know
We can still come through

I really lost my head last night
You've got a right to stop believing
There's still a little love left, even so

Just for a rainy evening
When maybe stars are few
Don't give up on us, I know
We can still come through

Don't give up on us, Baby
Don't give up on us, Baby (Or I'll be forced to chase you down in my bitchin' Ford Gran Torino)

Dilf, you have been my lover, my friend, my partner, my everything. I know that this is a public and painful way for you to find out, but... there's someone else.

He's perfect for me. He knows what I want and he gives it to me. He and I share the same goals and needs. And he communicates! He also never finishes before I do. He's a machine!

You had to know I would fall in love with him; after all, you're the one who brought him home.

Try to understand. I still love you, and there are still many things that you and I share that he could never give me. I want you both. Please tell me he can stay. He's even open to, you know, um, letting you join in. Oh, God, that would excite me. You have no idea how much.

I have enough love for both of you. I hope you see it my way.

My beloved, trusted and respected friend SYSM is concerned about the possiblity of an avian flu pandemic.

Should he be? According to the the World Health Organization, the possiblity exists, but nothing is certain yet.

Of course, it doesn't hurt to be prepared. I'm not sure how giving Bush the authority to call in troops against his own citizens or giving a politically-connected drug company immunity from lawsuits accomplishes this, but certainly ensuring an adequate supply of vaccines and preparing medical professionals and facilities is a good idea.

There are two possibilities here:

One, the Bush administration is sincere in its concern, and wants to show it won't let the American public down like it did during this year's hurricane season.

Two, the threat is being deliberately exaggerated so that Donald Rumsfeld can produce assloads of cash. After all, Christmas is coming and those winter heating bills are expected to skyrocket!

Because this administration has cried wolf before (weapons of mass destruction) and has demonstrated a nonchalance toward the health, welfare and safety of American citizens in the past, it makes it difficult to dismiss the second possiblity.

I'm actually hoping that my cynical suspicions are correct, and this is all a big scam to enrich Rumsfeld at the expense of taxpayers. I would far prefer to lose money than the lives of my loved ones. Here's to governmental greed and soulless materialism!

I apologize. I have been remiss. I neglected to inform you of the Turkey Testicle Festival which took place in my very own home state of Illinois a few weeks ago.

They have a theme song, which you can find on the website.

They have a charity "Run for the Nuts."

They spend the afternoon eating what they call "Deep Fried Delights."

And 2005 was their 25th year, their "Silver Anniversary!"

Don't worry; it will come again next year, the second Saturday in October. Mark your calendars.

Yes, November brings Thanksgiving. Usually, I hostess this cooking-intensive holiday.

This year, my mother-in-law is hosting.

While I am grateful I will not be getting out of bed at 5 a.m. to thrust a 25 pound animal carcass into my oven, I have the following complaints:

1. She's serving lamb. I hate lamb. I hate the side dishes that typically accompany lamb. Plus, lambs are born in the spring. Exactly how old is this "lamb?" I hate the spices used with lamb, with the exception of garlic. Mint belongs in my toothpaste, not in my entree. Dilf loves lamb, and will want to kiss me with rancid lamb lips. I am against this plan.

2. My mother in law has many fine qualities. She's a wonderful, knowledgeable medical professional who's always willing to help. She's kind and generous. She knows how to sew and has made clothes and quilts for us and the girls. She knits, too.

She is not a good cook. Sorry.

3. Tradition! Suck it up and have turkey once a year, Poppy! Because don't think I don't know who's behind this crazy scheme. Turkey-hating Poppy, that's who!

I hope I am allowed to bring the dessert. I'll bring something that goes well with the saltine crackers I will have stowed away in my purse for dinner. What wine goes with saltines?