Here is our beloved Miss Kendra:



Here are knicknacks spotted by the lovely Spinning Girl on her recent trip to New York City:



Any questions?

See you all in 2006

Coincidence, or sign that the End Times are here? You decide.

Ever-vigilant newshound B.A. reports that both
Jesus and Satan have reappeared on Earth.

NAKED!























Satan, left, and Jesus, return to do battle, naked. (file photo)
Jesus prounounced this message for the world: "I am ... crazy, and I need a menthol cigarette."

Satan was found "walking with his boxer shorts around his ankles and screaming wildly, according to the report."

Now, while Satan's actions are consistent with his past, "Jesus" seems to be a bit contradictory. Hitting people with a tin trumpet? I don't think it's really him.

Let's eliminate the anal sex talk with an introduction to The King of Cake.



His blog is full of delicious tidbits. Even a Jesus cake!



He has many more terrifying cakes on display, including Laura Bush in her inaugeral ball gown.

"I think that there's never a bad time to let someone know that the ass is off the table."
–Nick Seaman, June 9,2005

That means NOW is a good time to say... constant anal sex references are tiresome. If that's all you've got, you're not very clever or amusing. I don't know about anyone else, but I've had enough.

Poop jokes demand the proper context. For instance, flinging poop at worthy subjects can be funny. Pooping on people or things that deserve it can, as well. But poop descriptions or discussing how or where or when you pooped is as funny as a fart joke. Remember what happened to the fart joke guy?

I'm not trying to say that I haven't run out of material, or never missed the mark with my humor. I'm just pleading for some diversity in bloggertainment.

Whether sung by Bob Seger, or a duet of Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton, "We've Got Tonight" is Bad Music.

ROGERS KENNY, DUET WITH SHEENA EASTON lyrics

We've all heard tales of intrepid travelers and audacious adventurers.

They climb Mount Everest...discover the South Pole...even venture into outer space!

But would they eat raw pork from an outdoor vendor in a foreign country?


Dr. Sardonic would. And DID!

He's a badass.

These are halcyon days for our good friend Sysm.

First, Jiggs Casey declares Sysm is the good kind of douche that helps maintain, rather than disrupt, the Ph balance of the universe.

Then, his blog undergoes a makeover, resulting in a delightful film-noir look to his blog that befits his wry and suspicious nature.

Finally, he goes on a posting rampage yesterday, highlighting his fascination with the macabre, his political insights, his parenting philosophy, his obsession with music, and his ability to see into the future.

Who knows what today will bring in the fascinating, spine-tingling world of Sysm.

Infant dressed as Baby New Year:


Cute!


YOU dressed as Baby New Year:


Not cute. Not even a little.

New Years, like Thanksgiving, gets short shrift because of its proximity to Christmas and its dearth of merchandising opportunities – unless you're selling champagne or noisemakers.

That's a shame, because New Years Eve combines some of my favorite activities: drunken revelry, kissing strangers, and fresh starts. For a fresh start, many of us make resolutions. As we all know, two of the most popular resolutions are to lose weight or to stop smoking. Perhaps both.

This renewed interest in personal responsibility brought about by the clean slate of a New Year reminds me of something I learned in the Psychology of Advertising class I took in college.

Every student in the Marketing Communication program was required to take the class, and I am very grateful that I was. The teacher was a woman with a Masters in Psychology who had used her knowledge on behalf of the advertising industry, then felt so dirty that she decided to do penance teaching college students.

We learned many of the mind games employed by advertisers, both overt and subtle. One of the subtle tactics was one not used in direct advertising, but in "public relations" stories fed to and regurgitated by the media. It was used to avoid corporate clean ups by convincing the public that they were equally to blame.

The example she used was the waste disposal issue of the late 1980's and early 1990's. While the bulk of the refuse was generated by industry, people were urged to recycle, and told about how long it took for disposable diapers to break down, and other ways that we, the people, were to blame for garbage.

Now, of course, what they said was true. But they just left out the part about industrial waste. Think about this for a minute; how many news stories have a familiar ring? Greenhouse gases? If you drive, you're responsible. Obesity? Well, you put the food in your mouth, didn't you? Smoking? Please, idiot. Didn't you read the package?

Of course people should accept personal responsibility for their impact on themselves and on the planet. But if you notice, these pushes for personal responsibility are always followed by quiet changes by corporations. Has anyone besides me noticed that food companies are cutting back on hydrolized fats and corn syrup because they contribute to obesity and adversely affect blood sugar levels? That cigarette companies were found to have made their tobacco more addictive than had Mother Nature? But by the time these stories come out, people have already accepted their part of the blame, and the effect of these stories is blunted. People don't get as angry because they're "partners in crime" at that point.

I'm not suggesting that we forgo holding ourselves accountable and blame all of our ills on the corporate monsters we've created. I'm saying we should be vigilant, and demand more information about we buy and consume, so that when we do act like stupid assholes we do so of our own accord.

For example, we've been told for the last decade that we have created resistant bacteria by washing our hands with anti-bacterial soap and demanding antibiotics from doctors whenever we have a sniffle. Now it turns out that the antibiotics fed to livestock and injected into dairy cows are really to blame for most of the situation. As consumers, we should have the right and responsibility to find out what animals have been treated and whether or not we want to eat them. That's how to create corporate responsibility, by using consumer demand. Without the necessary information available to consumers prior to, not after purchasing, it's not really a free market economy.

I suppose it's appropriate that I'm knocked out. I will blog when I'm up to it.

July
July saw brought two significant debuts:

Flash Fiction Friday began challenging and inspiring us to create great literature, and

Monkey begins flinging feces.

Also, departed bloggers Sandra and Underhill break up, somehow causing me to be called a dumb cunt.


August
Cowboy Nick begins riding and Calzone starts perverting the blogospere.









September



My birthday! All other news or events pale in comparison.

October
I win the title of Yodeling Queen, and also celebrate Halloween:


November
The Blog Affiliates of Justice forms, and takes down chronically unfunny, overrated fart-joker The Casual Friday.

I enrage an army of David Soul Fans and wonder Where is He Now?





Which brings us to December...

December is when I ask, what was your favorite blog memory this year?

Hark, and listen to Holiday Joy.

As this year draws to a close and next year looms ominously ahead, I am going to write a month by month wrap up of great moments in Blogdom.

January
First up, my friend and mentor B.A with his January entry, Religious Groups Target SpongeBob Video as Pro-Homosexual.


February
On Valentines Day, Nick had eggs for breakfast.


March
In March, LoLo Lova starts Telling It Like It Is. Apparently, "it" is like this: "Yes, I have big boobs. They're real. And they're spectacular!"









April
On April 28, Melanie and LoLo pimp someone's rubbermaid cart in an act of retribution.

"One of the other @sshole front desks stole one of our carts. It was clearly marked with the doctor’s name. The whores lied and said that “someone” gave it to them. SOMEONE? They couldn’t even give us a name. Whatever. We let them keep the cart….for awhile. One day not long ago (last Wednesday) we stole that beyotch cart back. I will not go into detail as I am not sure who will be reading this. Anyway, we decided the cart needed a makeover so that the front desk would not try to steal it from us again (they are like that too, they would try). So, we decorated it. We pimped it out. We wrote and drew all over it. We fashioned mini-mud flaps for the wheels. We gave it custom plates, front and back as is the law in the State of Ohio. We printed cool pictures of stuff and permanently taped them to the top of the cart. The cart looks SWEET. We were going to install hydraulics, but simply ran out of time (translation, we had done no work for hours and it was becoming apparent that most of our co-workers and all of our supervisors were getting irritated…..although it could have been our incessant giggling whilst decorating)."




Also on April 28, Miss Lis gets drunk, comes home, and eats frozen burritos.

"Frozen burritos are really rather vile," she reports, "they bear little similarity to actual burritos, and the contents rather resemble cat sick - but MY GOD THEY ARE TASTY."




May

Ubermilf debuts! Granny Fanny appears:



June

I... apologize to NICK for BEING MEAN??? WTF??? I guess "I compared his naked body, which I have not even seen, to a cherub lawn ornament.

I said he could dress as Princess Leia in Jabba's lair by stringing two garbage can lids together to form a bra and sewing two bedsheets together to make a skirt."

Then, I wrote the bastard a haiku:
"Nick, I was cruel
I insulted your physique
That was uncalled for"
Clearly, that was before I got to know him well.

Mrs. Slocum-style. Nobody in particular, for no reason in particular. I just hate when my mind is all wound up.

We rolled some of our cookies in powdered sugar. UberYounger decided the excess should not be put to waste.


Meanwhile, Miss Muffin takes her tree abuse to new levels. Known dead so far: one gingerbread lady and one "Our First Christmas Together 1998" ornament; missing: several velvet crescent-shaped santa heads with jingle bells on their caps. Apparently, they offend her kitty sensibilities.

I Googled "twisted brain" because that's how I feel today. To my surprise, it gave me this movie that I had forgotten about.

I remember I was at Penny Goke's third grade slumber party. It was about 2:30 a.m. or so, and I was really tired. Another girl wanted to stay up to watch "Twisted Brain" on TV, but I said, "YOU'RE a Twisted Brain!" and it made the other girl cry.

That's the first and last I'd ever heard of "The Twisted Brain" until now. In retrospect, I should've watched it:

"A nerdy highschool super whiz experiments with a chemical which will transform his guinea pig "Mr. Mumps" from a gentle pet into a ravenous monster. In a fit of rage against his tormenters at the highschool, Vernon Potts (Pat Cardi) goes on a killing spree, eliminating all of those who ever picked on him - the Gym Coach, the School Jock, The Creepy Janitor(Mr. Griggs)& his hated teacher,Mrs Grindstaff. In the end he gets the jock's girlfriend for himself but his happiness is shortlived as the potion turns him into a monster hunted by the towns lame police Leuitenent..."

It sounds wonderful!

I have a "snow headache." It is a sinus-type headache I ALWAYS get before a snowstorm. My headaches have proven more accurate than meteorological reports. Unless I'm coming down with a cold... no, I think this is a snow headache. So, be prepared is all I'm saying.

The UberGirls and I will be baking and decorating cookies all day. I know I promised Monkey my thesis, but it will have to wait. Cookies take precedence!

Sometimes, the mundane experience of one person can serve as a metaphor for what's ailing an entire society.

For example, I went to the grocery store last night to buy cookie-baking supplies for this week. The store was out of flour. Flour! Well, all-purpose flour, anyways. But they had highly-visible, prominately placed, well-stocked shelves full of plush Chihuahuas in Christmas sweaters who barked out "Feliz Navidad" when you squeezed their tummies.



I also couldn't find cookie tins. Or those little mini-M&M's I wanted to use to decorate my cookies.

Now, it seems that we consumers need to stage a rebellion. Retailers and their evil marketing lackeys have decided that in order to find the things we need, we must navigate through a store full of cheap crap in hopes that we will see it and buy it. As someone who frequents grocery stores and big-box retailers, I can tell you that they also rearrange the store periodically so you can't just find what you need and escape quickly.

In my opinion, it's these little annoyances that wear on a person and cause depression and anxiety. What if we all stopped taking our Zoloft and Paxil and went insane on their asses? What if I abandoned all pretense of socially acceptable behavior, and started ripping open packages and throwing things around the store?

"Where's my fucking flour??!!" I could scream. "What's this? Cornmeal? I can't bake fucking Christmas cookies with cornmeal!!! What's WRONG with you fuckwads??!!"

Then, I could take every last one of those ugly, annoying, useless barking Chihuahuas and put them in the roaster with the rotisserie chickens.

While I was considering my various ape-shit options, a stock boy appeared with a new flour supply. If only they new how close they had come to utter mayhem in their store.

I don't know what to write. Monkey's friend Squid Viscious has intimidated me with his statement "Most blogs are people who whine and bitch about their periods or their spouse or the sky or whatever is happening within their breathing space."

I must respect anyone with a clever pseudonym, so I will not publish until I have written something of value.

SYSM has complained that there is "too much cheesecake" on my blog.

I have no idea what he's talking about. The last recipe I posted was for Peggy's Pig Eggs. I've never posted about cheescake at all! I think SYSM is thinking of someone else.

Anyways, I'm back to my chores.



Ubermilf loves a clean house!

Thank you, thank you Miss Kendra for introducing me to the joys of this:

After reading this again, I sound like I'm sneering snootily at this neighbor. I don't know how to fix that, but really I'm feeling warm affection for him, because he's obviously good at heart. I just find his choice of words... odd and endearing, as Monkey said. I love characters, as this guy certainly is. And I love the fact he's different in a neighborhood of crushing sameness. So, please, read this post with the realization that I'm celebrating him, not making fun of him.

Original post:

Last night, my super-secret Santa mission included my brother-in-law. I travelled to his home, a townhouse in an upper-middle-class Chicago suburb, to help him with ... sorry, I can't say.

While we travelled to the undisclosed location for undisclosed purposes for an undisclosed person, he complained to me about his white trash neighbor.

Now, I have nothing against this neighbor, since his butt-ugly white van with the mismatched doors and his tie-dyed curtains are the only landmarks to indicate which otherwise identical, tasteful townhome belongs to Towel Boy.

But then, I'm not awakened at 6 a.m. by a hillbilly bellowing for his dogs. Said beasts were roaming free when I arrived at my brother-in-laws home last night, as a matter of fact.



So Towel Boy told me about pounding on his redneck neighbor's door in his robe and pajamas to inform him, loudly and angrily, that he had once again roused the entire neighborhood calling for his free-range poochies. The neighbor apologized, saying he didn't realize anyone could hear him, because "It was winter."

Later that day, when Towel Boy came home from work, he found this note on his door:



I especially like the P.S.

I, too, was tagged by the effervescent LoLo. I will avoid mentioning the garden-variety weirdnesses I have already discussed, like my obsessive perfectionism.

Here goes:

1. When setting the table, I try to match everything. That includes the plastic tablewear my daughters use. They have matching vinyl (wipe-off! most necessary) placemats, bowls, plates, plastic utensils, and cups. It is vital to my mental health that the bright, primary-colored ABC set not mingle with the soft, pastel-colored Inchworm in the garden with Butterfly set.

2. When I find a story particularly compelling or a male character particularly attractive, I will cast myself as one of the characters. I am always sassy, powerful, beautiful and have exquisite clothes. Often, I save the day. I am never the villainess.

3. To the dismay of Dilf, I peel my clothes off rather than remove them like a normal person. Thus, my jeans will be put into the hamper with undies and socks inside them, as if I dissolved and left the entire ensemble behind. Often, they are disturbingly inside out, yet still all intact as they were when I wore them. They must be dismantled before laundering.

4. I have a hard time paying my sewer bill. It arrives in the mail sans envelope, on a postcard. They are not set up to accept debit card payments over the phone. I can't handle paperwork under the best of conditions, let alone one requiring all of this effort on my part.

5. I can't poop in public toilets. Well, I don't know if I can, because the prospect horrifies me. I've never really tried.

Oh, and a special bonus weirdness: I can't blog without using a picture.

We gave Miss Knit her birthday present. Great job, everyone!

Now, let's all give a thought to Christmas presents. Tonight, I am going on a secret mission. A super-secret Santalicious mission. One that fills me with joy and excitement. I love surprises!

On this day twenty-three years ago, the wonderfully intelligent, fantastically talented, and undeniably beautiful Miss Knit blessed our Earth with her presence.



Isn't she cute? This isn't a current photo, obviously.

All she asks for her birthday is a comment count that exceeds 100. Please, click, give of your time.

She deserves your love and attention.

I've complained about my perpetually angry milkman before. Today is Wednesday, so that means he lumbered menacingly up my driveway again today.

I usually cringe and hide when he comes, but today I had no need to seek cover, because Dilf ran into him outside as he was taking UberElder to kindergarten.

"Hello!" I heard the ever-friendly Dilf happily greet the burly, surly delivery man.

"Have any bottles today?" grunted Milkman in reply.

I'm telling you people, the man is OBSESSED with bottles!

"Oh, no, I forgot this week. I'll put them out next week," breezily answered Dilf, as he sauntered past.

"It's been six weeks since you've put any out," the sour Milkman countered, sullenly.

Now, I know this is a BIG FAT LIE. I put out the bottles LAST WEEK. Personally. Bear in mind, people, this guy had the nerve to leave the annual "Here's a Christmas Card, but Really It's a Reminder for My Tip" in the milk box last week. So, this must be him in full customer-service mode.

I miss Ernie. Ernie was a good milkman. Oh, Ernie, where are you now?

However, even then it's ridiculous. Not the cause -- he gave $55,000 to the Ronald McDonald House -- a worthy charity.

It's just that the thought of one clownish freak giving money to another clownish freak is just too precious.

And here's Carrot Top winning the "Most Terrifyingly Annoying Corporate Mascot, Red-Haired Division:"



Poor Ronald didn't have a chance, comically-large shoes or no.

Carrot Top has a fan. In this picture, he seems as shocked as the rest of us to hear it.

It seems Carrot Top's fan has been busy visiting the many blogs that mock Mr. Top, and has finally gotten around to commenting on mine.

Ironically, I thought a distaste for Carrot Top was something we could all rally around; a unifying force in a country torn by dissent. Nay, I was wrong. Here's what the fan had to say (anonymously, of course):

"TO YOU WHO DOES NOT REQUEST THAT YOU HEAR FOR CARROT TOP FANS YOU NEED TO DO BETTER RESEARCH. FOR A MAN WHO HAS BEN DOGGED BY THE PUBLIC FOR 15 YEARS HE DOES MORE GOOD THAN YOU COULD DREAM OF DOING YOUR SELF LOOK UP ALL THE CHAIRITYS HE GIVES TO THEN YOU CALL THEM UP AND DOG THE MAN WHO HAS HELPED THEM. AND HEAR WHAT THEY TOO HAVE TO SAY"

I did not correct for grammar or spelling. That would ruin the authenticity.

At first, I thought it was Nick or Calzone or somebody playing a little joke on me. But it's not.

He came here, huffy, from another Carrot Top-mocking blog, where he extolled Mr. Top's fine physique two days ago.

Like the irate David Soul fans, Carrot Top's fan throws up the charitable donations as proof of his worth. How do I know he's not doing it for the tax deductions needed because he is so grossly overcompensated for annoying the general public? No, I will not back down from this fight. Carrot Top is creepier looking and less talented than Howie Mandel. And that, my friends, is saying something.

Yes, dear readers, I missed THE Social Event of the Season.



I have avoided mentioning it out of remorse. Words can't express the despair I felt when I looked out my window and saw snow... a blinding, swirling mass of white, which stood between me and my heart's desire. I will never recover from the disappointment; it will shadow me the rest of my days.

Others braved the weather to attend. I'm assuming they didn't live 30 miles away and didn't have to haul their children over to their crabby older sister's house for babysitting, being admonished by said crabby sister to "Not be too late!" I'm assuming they had fun eating fried things and drinking moonshine. I'm assuming they enjoyed listening to Lynrd Skynyrd's Christmas Album and holiday music performed by power tools. But not me. The weather, distance, and reluctant relatives conspired against me in my quest for fun and excitement.

There's always next year.

I found the perfect gift for Nick and Anthony: Shock Tanks.



THE SHORT DESCRIPTION
"Shock Tanks is a radio controlled tank battle. Each Tank is equipped with an infra-red cannon. Every time you hit your opponent's tank, HE gets a painful electric shock from his controller. The object is to knock his tank out of commission, and make him suffer in the process."

I think all wars and disputes should be decided with Shock Tanks.

I was reading Pirate Monkey Zombie's Narnia post today. It prompted me to recall a deep-seated, long-standing hatred of Tweety Bird.

Now, a normal person might wonder about me. Why a grown woman cares enough to loathe a cartoon bird, for instance. Or, what the hell does Narnia have to do with Tweety Bird? Or, perhaps, "Looney Tunes" pretty much sums up this lady. As usual, I don't give a shit what normal people think. I hate that smug, pampered, baby-talking little yellow bastard and I don't care who knows it.

He's a spoiled little troublemaker. He reminds me of those Eddie Haskell-type kids who used to cause trouble in school, then tattle on his schoolmates with wide, innocent eyes. "Look what the bad widdle kids are doing, Mrs. Schultz," he might say, after throwing erasers across the room and starting a brawl. "I twied to stop them, but they don't want to listen to me. I'm too wholesome, and it makes them angwy."

If it were up to me, Sylvester would get the chance to catch that bratty bird, pull his feathers out, roll him around in lemon juice and Kosher salt, then roast him with a sprig of rosemary stuffed up his ass.

The good news is, when I Googled "I Hate Tweety Bird," I found a soulmate out in the blogging universe. Not only does she hate Tweety Bird, she eloquently sums up my distaste for "Freedom Rock." (Sorry, B.A. You and I just don't like the same music. I still love you and think you're the cat's pajamas.)

I got shivers when I read this, as if someone had reached into my head and formed the clay of my ideas about Classic Rock into a beautiful masterpiece of sculpture:

"It sounds dirty and sweaty and skinny. Clumps of hair stuck together, twined around the neck of a guitar. Long, dirty fingernails flipping through a roll of ones, looking for that one five he knew he had around here somewhere. Girls in tiny shorts with their asses hanging out the back climbing into the back of a truck, pulling a joint out of their bikini tops and then leaning back to fix her spiral perm before Lance goes whipping around the neighborhood so fast she chokes on her gum again.

In my head classic rock has become the anthem of bad stepdads and deadbeat fathers. It's the sound of, 'Are you gonna come down here and say hello to your child or do I have to call the cops again?' It makes me feel like I'm trapped in a Wal-Mart in Mississippi, and I've got to pick between the grey acid-washed peg-legged jeans and the bleach-spotted denim mini-skirt with high top sneakers and pink socks."

God, that's awesome. I think I'm going to cry.

I'm going to mix myself a nice cocktail and relax.

Aah, that's better.

Now that my palate is cleansed...

I wish I could remember the name or even the channel of a program Dilf and I were watching the other night.

It was meant to be an informational health show of some sort, but we turned it off when the guy said that doorways were essentially giant vaginas, so that basically the act of entering a room was sexual.

I couldn't put much faith into any of his science after that. But I'm sure he goes through life with a smile on his face.

I still feel like sulking and hiding. There is something wrong with the blogging energy these days.

Until I can feel the humor without the nasty, I'm hiding. I'll check back later.

This time of year often produces sensory overload for me. As I said on Todd's blog, I want to sit in a corner with a bucket on my head and hope that no one notices me for a while. A mini-vacation, of sorts.

While I do that, please enjoy this photo montage of people with buckets on their heads:

I have been invited to the social event of the season.


This will mark my second appearance at this prestigious event, at which attendees try to out-do each other with their marvelous culinary masterpieces.

Last year, I constructed a Christmas Tree out of Krispy Creme doughnuts, topped by a NASCAR holiday ornament. This year, I will try to stretch my talents. It's a good thing I'm armed with this:


I'm thinking of making "Peggy's Pig Eggs," page 79. I haven't yet decided. What do you guys think?

Peggy's Pig Eggs
6 peeled hard-boiled eggs
2 eggs, beaten
1 lb. loose sausage meat
1 cup breadcrumbs or cornmeal

Basically, you put the sausage meat around the eggs, dip them in the beaten eggs and breadcrumbs, and fry them.

I could arrange them artfully somehow. I don't know, though; do "eggs" scream "Easter" to you? I'll have to work on this some more.

Kenny Loggins (what adult calls himself "Kenny" anyways? Oh, that's right: Kenny G. It must be an annoying musician with scraggly-ass long hair kinda thing) has been publicly flogged for bad music before, but in my opinion, one of his worst transgressions is the wretched Celebrate Me Home.

It seems that "Holiday Music" radio stations believe we tire of the traditional Christmas Carols, so they insert some of these "newer" tunes into the mix.

Please, don't. I beg of you. How about some classical pieces instead? Vivaldi's "Winter" from the "Four Seasons?" Some Beethoven? Jazz? ANYTHING but these dull, sappy, insipid pieces of garbage moaned into a microphone by a has-been desperately trying to sell an album. Between S.A.D. and family angst, aren't we suffering enough at this time? Without further ado, I give you:

Celebrate Me Home
by Kenny Loggins

Home for the holidays,
I believe I’ve missed each and every face,
Come on and play my music,
Let’s turn on the love light in the place

It’s time I found myself,
Totally surrounded in your circles
Whoa, my friends

Please, celebrate me home,
Give me a number,
Please, celebrate me home
Play me one more song,
That I’ll always remember,
And I can recall,
Whenever I find myself too all alone,
I can sing me home.

Uneasy highway,
Traveling where the westerly winds can fly,
Somebody tried to tell me,
But the men forgot to tell me why,

I gotta count on being gone,
Come on woman, come on daddy,
Be what you want from me,
I’m this strong, I’ll be weak

Please, celebrate me home,
Give me a number,
Please, celebrate me home
Play me one more song,
That I’ll always remember,
I can recall,
Whenever I find myself too all alone,
I can make believe I’ve never gone,
I never know where I belong,
Sing me home.

Please, celebrate me home,
Give me a number,
Please, celebrate me home
Play me one more song,

Celebrate, celebrate
Celebrate, celebrate
Celebrate, celebrate
Celebrate me home

Please, celebrate me home,
Please, celebrate me home,
Well I’m finally here,
But I’m bound to roam,
Come on celebrate me home
Well I’m finally here,
But I’m bound to roam,
Come on celebrate me home
Well I’m finally here,
But I’m bound to roam,
Come on celebrate me home
Please, celebrate me home,
Please, celebrate me home,
Please, celebrate me home,
Please, celebrate me home,
Please, celebrate me home,
Please, celebrate me home,
(fade)

Many baby experts will tell you that one sign of potty-training readiness is the ability of the child to carry on a conversation.

UberElder, however, was a talker long before she was ready for the potty.

UberElder was two years old when I was pregnant with her little sister. By Christmas time, I was entering the third trimester and I was tiring easier. Many nights, I would put UberE in the bathtub in the Master bedroom, leave the door open so I could watch her, and lay down on my bed.

I listened while UberE happily splashed and played, until I heard her proudly announce, "Mommy! Come look! I made an ORNAMENT!"

So I waddled into the bathroom to find she had pooped in the bathtub, in a bumpy, conical form that resembled a pine cone.

While any parent will tell you this is a less than ideal circumstance -- you have to remove the poopy, scrub the tub with bleach, and re-bathe your child as quickly as possible -- at least I did so "laughing all the way."

Todd. Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd.

Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd Todd.

Todd lives in Vegas.

Well, lookie here, lookie here -- someone's de-emphasizing the religious aspects of Christmas, and that someone is... THE EVANGELICAL CHURCHES!

That's right, folks, a number of "mega-churches" (I get goosebumps typing that) are cancelling their Christmas services.

"It's more than being family-friendly. It's being lifestyle-friendly for people who are just very, very busy," said Cally Wilkinson, a spokeswoman for Willow Creek Community Church, the biggest in the Chicago area. See, they're not de-emphasizing baby Jesus, they've just got better things to do than visit him on his birthday!

I think I'll take a page from the Evangelical's book and protest loudly outside their stadium-seating arena.



That's an actual photo of the inside of this "church." In my opinion, it's un-American for that many people to agree on religion. Then again, maybe I just don't know the proper way to "market" it.

Last night, I watched a beautiful program -- Rick Steves traveled to seven different European countries to document their Christmas traditions. These traditions were centuries long, and sprang not from some marketer's depiction of what Christmas SHOULD BE, but what this time of year always HAD BEEN.

It made me realize I'm a Christmas moderate. I'm equally sick of both sides. And this is about freedom, fun, and human instinct.

Like I mentioned before, humans don't like the shortened days. We get depressed. So, reasonably, we bake some cookies, drink some booze, sing some songs, light some candles, and have a party. Since we need more of a reason than that, let's say it's for some god or another.

Then, Christianity comes along. They don't have a problem with the party, but they do have a problem with the other gods. So, let's name that big party Christ's feast day.

The Church did that all the time; named feast days for people. For example, September 29 is St. Michael the Archangel's feast day, which used to be celebrated as Michaelmas. He was neither born nor died nor had any particular angelic thing that I know of happen to him that day; they just assigned it to him. So? So, December 25 wasn't Jesus's real birthday. So? We don't know when it was. Does that mean we can't celebrate it, ever?

Who are these people trying to decide who gets to do what, when? I'm talking to both sides here. Why do we care that somebody does things a different way than us, or believes something different?

Why do some Christians care if non-Christians want to break up their cold, long days with a party but downplay the religious aspects because they don't believe in them? So?

Why do some non-Christians think they can decide to cut out the religious parts because they feel "uncomfortable?" Are you really going to faint if you see an angel?

People fight wars over this "my way or the highway" nonsense. Religion isn't a reason for a war, it's an excuse. For some reason, some people want things done THEIR WAY and ONLY THEIR WAY.

If I want to believe a virgin gave birth, what's it to you? If Tom Cruise wants to believe aliens live in his head and jump up and down on a couch, what's it to you? Although his remarks about treating mental illness are irresponsible, but... I digress. Let's quit being a bunch of busybodies and let people have their fun and their celebrations.

I'm still working on my treatise, "Rankin Bass' Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: Propaganda Piece for Right-Wing Extremists;" until I finish, I just have a question.

If Hermy (and it is Hermy, not Herbie) is a misfit because he wants to be a dentist, why isn't this guy a misfit?

He's a foot taller than everyone else, a stringbean while the other elves are roly-poly, and wears dorky glasses.

Anyone?

B.A. found this recipe. Instead of immediately forwarding it to me, he selfishly kept it for himself. And it's the season of giving, too.

I, of course, want as many people as possible to experience the glory that is Spam Cupcakes

You're welcome, everybody.

White Boy Bob fears Blogland is becoming nothing more than a collection of inane chatter. He wants a weightier topic to discuss.

So, let's discuss the secularization of Christmas.

It's always been a concern.

I am of two minds about this. First, I don't believe that the religious aspects of this season should be ignored, but I'm not just talking about Christmas. Many cultures and religions feature a light-related holiday at this time of year, in the northern hemisphere at least, because it's winter and we have less hours of sunlight. So my instinct is to be MORE inclusive of different traditions, rather than to play a stupid game of "let's pretend it's all about sledding and snowmen." It's been proven that American children are woefully ignorant of geography and other people's cultures; I think this would be a wonderful opportunity for them to learn something new.

But I don't think retailers should be forced into anything. I think cashiers should just say "Thank you" after a customer's purchase and avoid the whole issue of "wishing" anyone anything. Stores should be free to decorate how they see fit and sell what products they think will fly off the shelves.

Likewise, customers should shop where they feel most comfortable. If a store offends you with its policies, don't buy anything there. I do it all the time. Especially you, TJ-you get a store credit instead of your money back when you return something-MAXX!

I'm just wondering why Christians are taking such a wounded tone about this. I think it's stupid for retailers or anyone else to ignore the elephant in the room, however, I think certain Christian groups have brought this upon themselves. If they want to politicize their religion or insert themselves into the public schools, they're going to have to accept the consequences when others view them as threatening rather than benign.

I know exactly where to go to hear Christmas carols and the real Christmas Story -- my church! I can tell EVERYONE there Merry Christmas when I shake their hands. Until I can no longer do THOSE THINGS freely, I'm not worried about it.

You can drastically reduce the number and severity of your child's nightmares by NOT inviting Balloonatic to your next party.

I could've written Flash Fiction this week. But I am lazy and unfocused today. Instead, I opted for the Friends of McDougal Mad Libs, because I only had to come up with some words instead of a whole story. Here it is, in all its mediocrity:

The Fiendish Adventure of McDougal and Preppies

I remember this one time, me and McDougal were paddling to Greenland in his kayak. Now the big man was completely blurry out of his mind on Nyquil, so about 25 miles outside Kennebunkport he crashed that kayak right into a cliff. I was in pretty mangled shape, but McDougal was completely unscathed. He just dusted himself off and set out in search of the nearest adult bookstore. I wiggled out of the tattered wreckage and limped after him. After seven minutes of hiking through the touristy terrain we were attacked by a band of L.L. Bean warriors. I cowered and piddled myself in terror, but McDougal nonchalantly reached into his Bermuda short pocket and removed the Sheena Easton mix tape that he always keeps in there. This made short work of the snobbishly armed natives, although McDougal was sorry to see his favorite weapon destroyed in the fray, as it was a gift from Idi Amin, who had been a close personal masseuse. We never did make it to Greenland, instead we spent the next 37 weeks holed up at the hideout of a local Republican politician getting high on a mix of Allegra and Bon Ami.

My daughters requested The Little Match Girl as their bedtime story tonight.

I knew the story. I knew what was coming. I willed myself not to cry... but dammit, I cried.

Quavering voice, streaming tears and all.

"Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New-year’s eve—yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags..."

Stop! I can't stand it!

Chronic busybody and charmless matron Mary Worth tagged me for a meme.

I suppose she won't stop nagging until I do it, so here goes:

3 names I go by:
Ubermilf
Ubes/Ubie
Susie

screen names I have
Ubermilf
Her Milfesty
Ubermilf1

3 physical things I like about myself:
Eyes/eyelashes
Lips
Hourglass-ish shape

physical things I don't like about myself:
I can't run very fast
I get bad PMS
I could lose a few pounds

3 parts of my heritage:
Irish
Polish
French

3 things that scare me:
Greedy, soulless politicians
Pedophiles
Tainted food

3 of my everyday essentials:
Coffee
Zoloft/Bupisarone
Deodorant

3 of my favorite musicians:
Billie Holiday
Social Distortion
They Might Be Giants

3 of my favorite songs:
Big Time Sensuality
Love Rollercoaster
Fanny Shake Polka

3 things I want in a relationship:
Laughter
Integrity
Sense of Adventure

3 lies I tell:
"You'll get sick if you eat that."
"I don't mind."
"If I see it at the store, I'll buy it for you."

3 physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to me:
broad shoulders
bravery
strategic command

of my hobbies:
crossword puzzles
writing
baking cupcakes


3 things I want to do really badly right now with a special person:
Clean out the garage
Put up the Christmas tree
Go see new Harry Potter movie

3 careers I've considered:
Psychologist
Journalist
Teacher

3 places I'd like to go on vacation:
France
Ireland
Italy

3 kids names I like:
Maura
Meghan
Sophie

3 things I'd like to do before I die:
Bring the Downers Grove Park District Board to justice
See my daughters graduate college
See my grandchildren

3 ways I'm stereotypically a guy:
I like watching sports.
I hate shopping.
I tell a person when I'm pissed, why I'm pissed, and what he/she can do about it.

3 ways I'm stereotypically a girl:
I look like one.
I can't parallel park.
I put the "homemaker" is "Susie Homemaker."

I know, they're a little overdressed. They've been pretty good this year, but there was that incident with the toilet, so... I thought I'd err on the side of caution. You know, make them look cute so the Big Guy overlooks their transgressions?

Yeah, I'm showing them off. You gotta problem with that?

I need coffee to get started.

The sink is full of dirty dishes that must be removed before I can make coffee.

The dishwasher is full of clean dishes.

In order to get started cleaning, I need coffee.

The sink is full of dirty dishes that must be removed before I can make coffee.

The dishwasher is full of clean dishes.

In order to get started cleaning, I need coffee.

I could go on, but I think you get the picture.

I Googled "worst Christmas card" in hopes of conducting a poll, similar to my Worst Halloween Costumes poll.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), there was only one entry. Here it is:

For my mental health, I haven't been keeping as close an eye on the news as I used to. Today, I learned about a Chinese chemical plant explosion which took place on November 13 and is now threatening Russian cities. It seems the Chinese plant dumped a buttload of Benzene into the river upon which it was located, and that river fed into another river which flows into Russia.

Now, a city of 600,000 Russian people is facing a polluted water supply.

Right now, China is donating water testing equipment. Otherwise, they haven't done or promised anything more concrete than that.

I won't bore you with the details; you can look them up yourselves if you're interested. But this was a preventable accident. China is culpable. They better get off their asses and do something about it.

Here's a Christmas decorating idea. Have we no shame, America? Really.

Wouldn't it be great if you could just smear something on yourself and start over from scratch?

Something is wrong with me, and if there's a psychologist or psychiatrist reading this right now, I'd appreciate a diagnosis.

For as long as I can remember, I couldn't bear making mistakes. Do you know what a shape sorter is? The thing you give to an infant with shapes and shape-sized holes into which you're supposed to put them? Well, as an infant, I would throw it across the room when I put the wrong shape in the wrong hole. My mother says it was quite startling, because in general I was an easy-going, happy baby who never made a fuss.

Then, when I was older, I would immediately abandon a page in the coloring book when I colored outside the lines. My life was full of half-finished pages in half-finished coloring books.

I LOVED the start of school. It meant a fresh start. Up until the day I forgot an assignment, got a bad grade, or some other mishap -- then I hated school and wished I could stay home every day. I would lay awake for hours and hours dreading the next school day.

It would get quite self-destructive. In high school chemistry class, for example, I failed to turn in a lab. So I didn't turn in another lab. Ever. It was the same with math; if I missed a homework assignment, I gave up. What was the point? My record was ruined.

I hated when the mail man would walk across the snow-covered lawn, marring it with his dirty boot prints.

I still battle this tendency to this day. When we were first married, I would withdraw from Dilf after the mildest of disagreements -- to my mind, I was "ruined" in his eyes, and it was all downhill from there. I was mentally barricading myself against an imaginary enemy that didn't exist.

I'm better about that, I think (right, Dilf?), but my brain can still paralyze me. A sink full of dirty dishes and a dishwasher full of clean ones, for example, puts my stomach in knots. I hate the dirty dishes! I want them gone! But those clean dishes are in the way... it just seems overwhelmingly complicated to my brain and it freezes up. I'm fine once I get started, but it's hard for me to GET started.

It's not laziness; I want to do the work. I stare at the work, willing myself to do it. I'm not doing anything else more fun or interesting.

It's not a dislike of the chore itself; I love cleaning. And organizing. And conquering chaos.

So, what is it? What makes it so difficult to start? I want to start. Why can't I?

When I was younger, I used to think I had a brain tumor or some other disease that kept my body frozen in place while my mind was urging, "Come on! Do it! Move!" Now, I don't think it's that dire, but I still don't know what the hell's wrong with me.

I'm starting to feel this way about blogging. It's not good enough. I want to start over from scratch, with a new pseudonym, because of yesterday. I still think the premise of reassuring lonely bloggers that people read and appreciate their stuff is a good one. But not if they feel attacked. I don't like that I was part of a bad thing. And I want to erase it.

When Santa heard the news that Hillary Duff had produced a cover of Sir Paul McCartney's already dismal "Wonderful Christmas Time," he went on a bender that obviously did not end well.Has Christmas not suffered enough?

What, you've never heard of "Wonderful Christmas Time?" Well, pull up an ice block and lend an ear! (That's from Rankin Bass's "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," a topic we will later cover at lenth.)

Click here to listen.

Now, Hillary put her own stamp on this abomination, but I don't have the mp3 available for you. I do, however, have a written accounting of the horror, which goes like this:

[Girl:]
simply having a wonderful christmas time

[Choir:]
a wonderful christmas time
(wonderful christmas time)
a wonderful christmas time
(wonderful christmas time)

[Hilary:]
Mood is right
Spirits up
we're here tonight
and thats enough

Simply having a wonderful christmas time
Simply having a wonderful christmas time

The party's on
The feeling here
It's all because
It's time of year

Simply having a wonderful christmas time
Simply having a wonderful christmas time

[Choir:]
a wonderful christmas time
(a wonderful christmas time)
a wonderful christmas time
(a wonderful christmas time)

[Hilary:]
The choir of children sing their song

[Choir:]
Ding Dong
Ding Dong
Ding dong
ding dong

[Hilary:]
They practice all night long

[Choir:]
Ding Dong
Ding Dong
Ding dong
ding dong

[Hilary:]
the word is out
about the town
to lick your glass
I dont doubt

Simply having a wonderful christmas time
simply having a wonderful christmas time

Mood is right
Spirits up
we're here tonight
and thats enough

Simply having a wonderful christmas time
simply having a wonderful christmas time
Simply having a wonderful christmas time
simply having a wonderful christmas time

[Choir:]
simply having a wonderful christmas time

[Hilary:]
Simply having a wondeful christmas time

[Choir:]
Simply having a wonderful christmas time
[laughing]