Santa Critically Injured by Jiggsbusters; Myth Sheepishly Declared "Confirmed"

Jiggsbusters did not believe in Santa before, but they do now. Unfortunately, their newfound faith came at a terrible price: they tied up and tortured a man they assumed to be a fake St. Nick, only to find he was very, very real.

"Sorry about that," Jiggs Casey said in a written statement earlier today.

The beloved icon suffered a concussion and a broken leg when he fell down a flight of stairs after breaking free of his bonds and running out of the apartment shared by Jiggs Casey and his Jiggsbusting partner, Tasty MC.

St. Nicholas was found at the foot of the stairs, feebly moaning, "Naughty, naughty..." He was airlifted to his enchanted North Pole castle, where he is being treated by Dr. Malachy Mystic, an expert in the care and treatment of magical beings, and his team of elves.

Mr. Jingles Sugarplum, St. Nick's spokeself, issued the following statement on St. Nick's behalf:

"We expect Santa Claus to make a full and complete recovery, although it looks like he is out for the season. While the elves assure you the toy production schedule will not be affected by Saint Nick's injuries, the distribution of the toys to the world's children is currently in doubt."

When the press erupted in cries of dismay, Sugarplum held up his tiny hand and further announced, "All is not lost. There remains one man who can travel the earth at breakneck speed, and make it across the globe in one night. His name is Nick."

"Excuse me," interrupted one of the reporters, "We know that. But isn't he out of commission?"

"I'm not talking about Saint Nick -- the man we need now is... Cowboy Nick. The problem is, we're not entirely sure where he is right now. This recent photo, sent to us this morning, shows him enjoying himself on vacation."

"We can't pinpoint his exact location," continued Sugarplum, "but we do know that in order to reach the beach from his beach house, you would need to make your way down an unsealed road off the main highway, passing cane fields, grazing goats and cattle, until you come to the ocean. We also received reports he is staying near the staging area for the ocean-kayaking segment of the 2002 Eco-Challenge expedition race.

"Please, if anyone has any information pertaining to the whereabouts of Cowboy Nick, let us know immediately. The hopes and dreams of countless children around the world are at stake. We appreciate any help the general public can give us at this critical time."

Mr. Sugarplum then ended the press conference, tears streaming down his pointy little nose.
Work in Progress
I Always Unearth the Best Treasures by Accident
Funny, or disturbing? You make the call.

The other day, my mother remarked, "If your dad dies, I'll have to buy an electric can opener!"

I turned to my dad and said, "If she walks through the door with a can opener under her arm, you better be careful what she puts in your food."

He replied, "I am anyways."

Happy 69th birthday, Mom.
Want to Give a Gift?
Give it to these people.

If you do, your heart will grow three sizes that day, just like the Grinch.

"... And Said My Name Is Tony!!": Another Heartwarming Thanksgiving Tale

" you know who said...

And said "My name is Tony"

My sister left that comment on my last post. What does it mean? Well, let me tell you!

When the Evil One and I were married, we owned a folding banquet table, which I left behind with him when I left. After all, I had taken the dining set; I couldn't in good conscience leave him without any table at all!

Well, it came to pass that my sister wanted to borrow the banquet table one Thanksgiving, and I had to tell her I had left it behind with Evil.

"What???" she gasped. "Why?? What's he gonna do with it? Have his naked lover stretched out on it with turkey feathers shoved up his ass???"

Automatically, I began to sing to the tune of "Yankee Doodle": "Stuck a feather in his ass and said, 'My name is Tony!'"

From then on, every imaginary male lover of my ex's was named Tony in our minds. When I told my sister about this, she said, "I hope it doesn't blow up Tony! That would might seem like a hate crime." Also, we could never hear the song "Yankee Doodle" without dissolving into giggles.
My Mom and the Turkey Carcass: An ÜberMilf Thanksgiving Classic
Note: This post originally ran May 12 of 2005. I now consider it a Thanksgiving classic to be rerun every year. Also, while I stroll down memory lane here on Übermilf Classic, I will be posting political musings on Übermilf Dark.


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.]
Post 1000: Reader's Choice
The votes are in. By the slimmest of margins and some interpretation on my part ("anything with Nick in it" can be any of dozens of posts.)

So, without further ado, I give the Reader's Choice award to...

Mr. Nickles, Manny

Here it is, as it originally appeared.

I have decided to hire Nick as my manny. He will be responsible for keeping the girlies occupied while I get stuff done, keeping the toy room clean, and watching Willie Wonka over... and over... and over... keeping in mind that Cinderella will be re-released this October and I have already reserved a copy.

Also, when Claire across the street comes over, Nick is responsible for making sure they all play nicely and do not take the sheets off of Ubergirl Elder's bed to make a tent, or hide behind the glass shower doors during hide and seek.

Nick is also in charge of killing spiders, and asking, "Did you flush?" after the children use the toilet.

Nick will receive free room and board and all meals, including pie at least once a week. Nick will also be allowed access to the DSL line and the I-MAC, and may have input into which movies are ordered from NetFlix. No porn allowed.

When can I expect you to report for duty, Mr. Seaman?

Oh, and your manny name will be "Mr. Nickles."

Now, this is not MY favorite. Perhaps I shall stroll down memory lane for the next couple of days...
Post 999 Update: Mystery Photo AND An Open Letter to the Other Room Mom
Have you seen me?

I was last seen in 1974. Give or take. I may have aged a bit. Or a lot.

Now, the letter:

Dear Lazy Ass Room Mom who Never Shows Up to Help Out Ever:

May I ask you a question? Why the fuck did you sign up to be room mom when you had no intention of helping out? Are you putting it on your college transcript? Do you get a dollar from your husband every time he sees your name in print? Is it your first step in your goal of world domination?

Because you live around the corner from me, here are some things I know about you: you don't have other children at home. This first grader is your youngest child, so you're free and clear now for at least a few hours a day. And I know you lied to A's mom when you told her you have a night job which causes you to sleep until 2 p.m. each day.

I live right next to the park, remember? I see you in your shiny workout gear headed for the walking trail nearly every day. I've even chatted with you on occasion. Unless you sleepwalk? Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions.

So let me make this clear: Room Mom C and I are tired of picking up the slack for you. You have yet to chaperone a field trip, plan a party or even make rice krispie treats. You didn't contribute so much as an idea or even help make a phone call for the Halloween party, and you've made it clear you're unwilling to help with the winter holiday (::cough:: Christmas ::cough cough::) party. You refused to help with today's Thanksgiving feast. I'm tired of your shit.

Next time you're out "sleepwalking," beware. I'm going to construct a trip wire across the sidewalk in front of my house. As you sit holding your bony knee in both hands, wailing, "Why? Why?" like Nancy Kerrigan, I'm going to rush out my door and confront you. You're going to the Christmas party planning meeting. You're going to bring brownies or cheese and crackers or those little wreaths made of cornflakes, melted marshmallows and green food coloring to school on the day of the party. Your scrawny ass is showing up in one of your irridescent jogging suits (pick red or green, to be festive) to help out with the party activities. Why will you do this? Because I am not a woman to be messed with.

I'm crazy. You never know what I'll do next.

That's what I'll tell you right before I give you a bandaid and an antibacterial wipe for your knee. I'm not a monster, you know.
Post 998: Let's Try This Again

Please vote for your favorite post or post genre or whatever subject you want me to cover for post number 1000. Thousand. M.

If you don't vote, you'll have to listen to me complain and/or pontificate. Or post naked pictures of Nick.
Post 997 -- Dirty Hippie!
Towel Boy taught my sweet little girls a new twist on an old favorite of theirs: Roshambo, also known as Rock, Paper, Scissors.

His version replaces the "scissors" motion with an outstretched hitch hiker's thumb. It's called Rock, Paper, Dirty Hippie. Thus, throughout our lunch today at Culver's, the ÜberGirls were delightedly shrieking "Dirty Hippie! Dirty Hippie! Dirty Hippie!" Then, they asked their uncle, "What's a dirty hippie?"

"Oh, they're terrible!" said Towel Boy dramatically. "They don't bathe. They don't work. They don't go to school. They don't do anything but sit around."

"And go to Phish concerts," I added helpfully.

Wide-eyed, Elder whispered incredulously, "At the smelly lagoon?"

"Yes," said her uncle, stifling a laugh. "The fish concert at the smelly lagoon."

As a result of my brother-in-law's creative spin on Roshambo, the ÜberGirlies spent the entire ride home saying things like, "Let's play Dirty Hippie! You be Mr. Dirty Hippie and I'll be Mrs. Dirty Hippie!" "You're a dirty hippie!" "No I'm not! You're a dirty hippie!" Then, pointing into passing vehicles, "Is he a dirty hippie? Is HE a dirty hippie?"

Thanks, Towel Boy. I owe you one.
Post 996: 5 Things You Don't Know About Me That Should Probably Remain That Way.

Snot-nosed punk bastard Nick tagged me for a meme. I could tell him to shove his meme up his KFC eatin' ass, but I've got to get to 1000 somehow.

So. Five things you don't know about me that you'd probably rather not know.

1. Ever since I gave birth, I pee just a little if I cough or sneeze really hard. Or, as I discovered last spring when I had the stomach flu, when I throw up.

2. I used to do kegel exercises on the train on my way into work. Actually, this is probably something my fellow Metra riders would rather not know. Actually actually, considering #1, I should probably start doing more Kegels now.

3. Every so often, I get a weird, coarse black hair or two growing above my lip like a whisker. It must be hormonal, because it shows up once a month. It hurts to tweeze.

4. I had a boil once. In a very uncomfortable place. It was purple and plum-shaped and explosive.

5. I tore so much giving birth to ÜberElder that the doctor performed the equivalent of emergency surgery on me and I came close to requiring a blood transfusion. I shook for hours afterward.

If you are disgusted by anything you just read, blame Nick.
Weekend PinUp -- Happy Thanksgiving!
Post 994: My Slippers

Some of you might have read about my harrowing experience yesterday. It's okay now, but for a while there ... I didn't know if I was going to make it. If I never live through those painful hours again, it will be too soon. I was beside myself with grief and anguish.

I lost one of my slippers.

I know many of you sent your prayers and good wishes my way, and for that I will be eternally grateful. Your support helped me through a very difficult time in my life, and I'll never forget it. I could feel your love cradle me as I suffered, lost and confused, wondering what cold, uncertain future I faced -- alone. Slipperless.

Fortunately, my story had a happy ending. When I exhaustedly climbed into bed following my ordeal, I felt something under the sheets at the foot of the bed. Imagine my joy at discovering my lost slipper! I nearly fainted. I couldn't form coherent thoughts, my happiness was so great. In fact, happiness falls far short of what I was feeling. I think I need to coin a new word to describe it... joylicioushappygladphoria.

Although the official holiday lies more than a month away, I would still like to think of this as a Christmas miracle. Or perhaps it was just the Universe's way of making me more thankful at this year's Thanksgiving celebration. No matter what the explanation, I clutched that slipper to my chest and turned my eyes upward, pouring all the gratitude I could into that heartfelt "Thank You" I mouthed wordlessly into the heavens, a single tear of comingled euphoria and relief rolling down my cheek.

I can't say any more than that. Thank you. I will never be careless with my slippers again.
Bad Music Thursday: Hey, Leonardo -- Check out My Sucky Song

Ah, the 1999 Blessid Union of Souls classic. I can smell the nostalgia.

My sister and I used to torture our then-high schooler niece with this song. All we'd have to do is nasally whine, "She likes ME for ME!" and she would convulse. It was great fun.

This song contains some of the worst rhymes ever -- and I know from bad rhymes. My favorite:
She likes me for me
Not because I sing like Pavarotti
Or because I am such a hottie

Now, if I could just get this horror out of my head...
Post 992! Eight More to Go Before I Explode From Joy!
Because I am basically just filling space to get to my magic ONE THOUSANDTH POST, I Googled 992 to post the results here. This was the first image that came up on the screen:

This is the second:

I will leave it to you to decide which you prefer.
Don't Wear Wednesday: Red Hat Society

I know I'm going to sound really nasty in this one, and Nick is going to accuse me of getting angry over stupid little things again, but ... I can't help it. I hate the freakin' Red Hat Society.

Why? Well, for one, Dilf's aunt skipped one of the ÜberGirl's christening because she had a Red Hat Society meeting. But that's not enough. It's the hypocrisy.

How is the Red Hat Society hypocritical? Well, for one, I don't see how you can flaunt your free-spirited individuality by joining an organization of people just like you. It seems counterintuitive.

Two, they want to pretend to be all devil-may-care, in-your-face-society, but in reality they have tons and tons of merchandise targeted to them. How can you be counter culture with musical teddy bears and Madame Alexander dolls manufactured with you in mind? Did you ever see a Johnny Rotten Christmas ornament, or a Sid Vicious teddy bear that vomited when you pressed his tummy? No.

These women aren't brave and sassy. They're big overgrown cheerleaders still trying to form a clique. I'm going to start a Society of One when I'm middle aged (so, basically, in a couple of years). I haven't decided on a look yet, but when I do it will be counter culture, to the point store managers will wonder whether or not to call the police when I stroll through their doors.

I may or may not scream random profanities. It'll depend on what sort of day I'm having at the time.
Still Feeling Glum? Make Cupcakes!

Thanksgiving Cupcakes, that is.

Cupcakes make everything better. Except Nick's face. Of course, I could try to imprint Nick's face onto a cupcake, using colored sugar and some decorating gel. Do you think people would eat them?
Post 989: Here Comes the Glum

It's that Eeyore time of year again. Gloomy, dark, lifeless. Crass Christmas commercialism selling happiness through consumer goods. Cold viruses. Fatigue.

Aren't you glad you stopped by?
Just Remember:
This Week in Coupons: Sugar Subterfuge!

During my weekly perusal of the Sunday paper coupons (and boy howdy were there are lot this week! Thanksgiving, you know) I came across a curious ad campaign.

Promoting sugar as healthy.

Not some raw, brown hippie sugar, mind you. Good old American diabetes-causing white refined sugar. See what I mean?

You see, sugar is fat-free! And only 15 calories a teaspoon! How many teaspoons could be in your food, anyways? Not that they want you to check. In fact, please don't. Let's focus on that nice low 15 calorie number.

While they were at it, they could have said, "Contains no drain cleaner," "strychnine free" and "no hydrogenated oil." All would be true.

So, when Beavis went berserk and turned into Cornholio when he ate too many candy bars, he wasn't experiencing a sugar rush. He was energized from all the good health pouring through his body! Be like Beavis. Eat sugar.
Pay Attention, This Doesn't Happen Often. I'm Going to Talk about Sex

We don't talk about sex much on this blog. I figure you either know how to do it already or you don't feel comfortable discussing it. Also, I'm afraid Nick will rip his eyeballs out in an Oedipal frenzy.

Relax. This isn't about me and sex, this is about sex in general.

The following letter was sent to a Chicago Tribune advice column called Tales from the Front:

If your man bolts after sex, it's time to throw in towel

Published October 30, 2006

Dear Cheryl: What is the protocol for proper behavior after sex? I'm curious about how men treat the women they've just made love to. I'm sure there's a difference if it's love versus lust or committed versus promiscuous.

Let's take the case where the man cares for the woman and is not using her. In that case, what is expected afterward? What is normal behavior?

After being made love to, I like to spend a few minutes snuggled deep in strong arms. I like to kiss, giggle and connect on another level. I like to cuddle, if you will.

However, the guy I've been seeing for the last few months feels the exact opposite. When the deed is done, he gets very antsy. He practically becomes a stranger. All the kissing, stroking and tenderness stop cold.

We're arguing because the last time we made love, he left the room almost immediately after we were done. He tossed me a towel and disappeared into the living room, leaving me alone and naked on the bed. I waited until I realized he wasn't coming back in to lie down next to me, talk to me or at least look at me.

I felt foolish and stormed out of his apartment without saying a word. He didn't call out after me. He didn't even call me until the next day to ask me what was wrong. I was embarrassed, as if I had just delivered a booty call, but he thinks I behaved like a spoiled child.

I tried to stress that after-sex behavior is just as important as before-sex behavior. He claimed his disappearing act wasn't intentional. Then he proceeded to add that "we" just weren't working out and we shouldn't do "this" anymore. I was like, "Fine!" (What else could I say?) What an embarrassing experience!

So, do you think that makes him a jerk, or am I overly sensitive? I'm very curious as to how other women, and men, feel about behavior after sex?

-- Seduced and Abandoned -- Or Was I?

My opinion? After sex, no matter how impersonal, even if money exchanged hands, you should at least be friendly. I'm not saying you need to spout endless romantic bodice-ripping-novel exchanges of undying love, but at a bare minimum, you should show the same level of courtesy you would to, say, a doorman who opens the door for you when it's raining outside.

At that is the bare minimum. That you'd show a toothless $10 hooker with bad acne.

For someone you're dating, a wordless tossing of a towel does not suffice. If you are not a cuddler, and many men are not, you could at least give a friendly head tousle and a "wanna join me on the couch for some Monday Night Football?" This guy's a jerk.

Now, I do have a quibble with this woman, who I'm guessing is young. She shouldn't have stomped off silently and expected him to run after her. She should've mopped up her lady bits with the towel, gotten dressed, taken the towel into the living room, flung it across his face and said, "I hope you enjoy smelling that, asshole! It's the last of me you'll ever have!" And then been happy to be rid of him, instead of questioning herself.
Weekend PinUp -- I Need to Catch up on my Sleep

Dilf's been in Denver all week and I've been holding down the fort on my own again. I haven't been getting sleep.

I also want lingerie like that. Christmas, Dilf, Christmas.
You Like Star Wars? I Hope You Like HELL, Too!
B.A. is on a roll, people.

They have a website here.
I'm Losing It Today. No Blogging. Enjoy this Album Cover.
Don't Touch It! You'll Get Gay!

I stole this from B.A.

"Since when did Nancy stop waxing her facial hair and start driving a truck?" "She caught Lesbianism from a public toilet."

"I didn't know Charlie was into ballet." "His name is 'Charles' now. He caught gay from his college roommate last year. We thought it would clear up, but no."

Dangerous. Contagious. Like smallpox, only invisible.

Be careful. Very careful.
Bad Music Thursday: Survive THIS!!!
Sysm and I were having a conversation the other evening.

You know a Bad Music Thursday is going to be bad, when it starts out with a conversation between Sysm and me.

Somehow we got on the subject of Survivor. I don't know how these things happen; they just do. I think "Eye of the Tiger" was involved somehow. Anyways, the conversation degenerated into yet worse Survivor songs, and even Sysm became confused about which song was which. For instance, take the following two Survivor songs as an example of how easily someone could mistake one song for another:

I Can't Hold Back


High On You

Same sound. Same time period of production. Same subject matter. Same hair. Same bad deconstructed blazers worn by the band. How is a person supposed to tell which was which?

And, they hail from my neck of the woods. I'm not proud of that, folks.
Don't Wear Wednesday: Rotary Club Meeting in Botswana

I am hesitant to make fun of these guys, because they seem to be doing a lot of good in their community.

But really, gentlemen. Did your wives see you before you left the house? Do they know this picture appears to anyone Googling "Bad Outfit" on the internet?

Well, don't tell them. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.
Democracy in Action: Who's an Assface? Vote Here, Now!

Today is election day throughout the United States.

Vote for who you think is the biggest assface alive today. I will post the results sometime later.
A Very Imperfect Christmas

I hate giving Christmas presents to people over the age of 18. I really do. Because I'm cheap? No. Because adults know what they like and buy it for themselves; what the hell am I doing, guessing what a person wants or needs? Now, if someone is struggling financially, I don't mind ... but I like it to be a "secret Santa" thing so no one's embarrassed. But I'm already digressing...

I hate when I sit through two days of non-stop unwrapping of gifts. I'm not a "stuff" person anyways, so it's horribly boring and becomes nauseating for me. Stifling. Overwhelming. Particularly if the gifts are for me, and I'm sitting there dreading bringing all of these things home. I am sending out a plea right now: no mas.

When it comes to my girls, let me make it clear: books get read and re-read; videos get watched and re-watched. Pajamas and clothes are always needed. Items relating to hobbies or developing a skill are good. But so many toys lie fallow in their closets. Please don't feel the need to shower them with gifts. They love you, they really do. They don't need to be bribed with gifts.

I want to play games and socialize and eat cookies and shrimp cocktail. I want to sip champagne and pass the oplatki and drunkenly belt out Christmas carols. I don't want to sit there and sit there and sit there as trash mounds up and I think of how useless it all is.

Also, I'm not going to try to out-decorate anyone or out-bake anyone or out-anything anyone or any past year's celebration. I just want fun and love and imperfect gingerbread houses slapped together by me and the Übergirls. Can we? This year? Just have some fun?
I've Decided Upon a Course of Avoidance
Remember in The Blues Brothers when they were riding in the elevator, listening to "Girl from Ipanema" and enjoying the relative calm? They had just had one daring escape, and were due to face more adversity, but for those brief moments in the elevator, they were safe and serene?

That's how I feel today. Election crap, paying bills, daily grind crap -- I'm deciding to ignore it all and sing "Girl from Ipanema" to myself all day.

Ah, that's better. La la la, I can't hear you.
Yes, I'm Back. And I'm Still a Crabby Bitch.

Lucky for me, Krill and Kelp are about as intelligent as their namesakes. I'm surprised they didn't get distracted by their own shiny pants and spend all day staring at themselves. I told them they needed to milk some killer whales to make cheese for the grilled cheese sandwiches, so they did. What idiots. I hope Orca liked the taste of spandex and hair gel. If you live on the Atlantic coast, look for bits and pieces of them to come floating ashore.

Anyways, after my escape, I came across something that made Krill and Kelp look like geniuses -- advent calendars for dogs. You know how they make advent calendars for kids, with a chocolate behind each door as you count down to Christmas? Well, they make them for dogs, with doggie treats behind each door. For $12.95.

That sounded pretty stupid to me, until I saw this. First, I don't understand why someone would deliberately house and feed something I actively try to keep OUT of my home. Secondly, small rodents are only slightly above amoeba on the brain-power scale; remember that Band-Aid song from the 1980's, "Do They Know It's Christmas?" Well, if "they" are your pet gerbils, "they" certainly do NOT. Third, a card? Really? For a rodent?

I know I sound mean. I like animals. I pet the doggy heads that walk past my house each day on the way to the park. I take good care of Miss Muffin. I put out birdseed in the winter so my feathered friends don't starve. But ANIMALS ARE NOT PEOPLE.

Someone can have a grandson or a granddaughter; he or she cannot have a granddog. It's physically impossible, people. Animals do show emotions, they can perform some mighty helpful tasks, they probably helped our ancestors stay alive by hunting and protecting livestock and stuff. They certainly shouldn't be mistreated or abused or used for unnecessary experiments. You should provide pets with affection, toys, proper food and medical treatments. BUT THEY ARE NOT PEOPLE.

I am not trying to be mean, here. I'm trying to inject some reality. Meanwhile, there are many children who need loving homes. Think human children are treated better than animals? Try typing in "adoption" or "children needing homes" in your search engine.
ba-BOOM! MerManized!
Krill and Kelp's Weekend PinUp
This picture is too good for you lowly land folk, but we share it with you anyways. Because we are generous. Gaze upon what you shall never possess, weakling landmen!

Attention Humans

We have taken the land creature known as Übermilf back to our underwater lair. Although she is shrill and unpleasant, we will keep her until she teaches us to make cupcakes, the delicacy known to you as "grilled cheese," and, if time allows, pudding.

Kelp likes pudding.

We do not know how many of your land-days this will take. First we need to create an underwater oven and grill top. Your perplexing entertainment box presents an outrageously unrealistic portrayal of this arduous undertaking in the "SpongeBob Squarepants" fables.

We will not harm the Übermilf creature, although we are sorely tempted to do so. As we said, we will return her once we have learned what we need to know from her.


Krill and Kelp, Mermen from the Deep
Name: Übermilf
Location: Chicago Area

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

So you want more huh?
Click here!

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

Now, who wants cupcakes?

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