Sly and Joan know how I'm feeling.

I've been very guilty in the past at exploiting disagreements for entertainment value. I shouldn't. We're too divided and intolerant in this country. Right now, people are shaking their heads in agreement thinking, "Yes, THEY are," about people who hold an opposing viewpoint. It's not just "them," whoever that might represent to you. We're all guilty.

People used to hold prejudices based on race, creed and nationality. We still do, but we aren't as comfortable admitting it at the office or cocktail parties. Now, we lump together people together by ideology and demonize them. Hate and bigotry is wrong, no matter what the justification or supposed provocation.

I'm not advocating ignoring pathological behavior, or not correcting an erroneous notion. But should it be done in anger? Is that best for our community? For ourselves? We've got to get our lesser impulses under control.

Hey, Todd here. Ubie's back, but she agreed to let me do one more post.

People assume I know Ubie from the internets, but that isn't so. I met her several years ago when I lived in the Chicago area. In fact, I took her sister Double Post to the prom. That's us in the above picture. Weren't we a handsome couple? I've grown since then and put on a few pounds, plus my hair was straightened when I saw the Tonya Harding sex tape.

The night began when I picked Double Post up in my AMC Gremlin. We drove to the location of the prom, the historic Crimespree Hotel and Meth Clinic in downtown Chicago. The prom queen was bitten by a rat and subsequently died of the plague.

I don't remember much about that night, because I drank a half-gallon of boysenberry ripple and smoked a blunt the size of Tommy Lee's cock, but I'll never forget the soulful tunes of the band.

Unfortunately, as a harbinger of things to come, I didn't get any sweet sweet lovin' that night. Double Post left with the guy circled in this picture.

I was crushed, naturally, and fled back to Louisville a bitter, defeated man. Years later, after moving to Las Vegas, I started the Viva Las Vegass blog and was reunited with Ubie via the web. It's not her fault her sister broke my heart.

Dear Sour-Faced Lady I Saw in the Wisconsin Dells:

I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but a Brazilian wax and a crotch-area tatoo do not entitle you to be an unpleasant drain on everyone's fun, no matter how much they might hurt.

Your bikini-ready body may impress your affable, paunchy, ruddy-faced, middle-aged consort, but frankly, you have frizzy hair and a Butter Face. Combine that with the snarl on your face, and you look like a wolverine someone shaved and taught to walk on her hind legs.

Now, I wouldn't be so critical, if, a) you didn't think so highly of yourself; b) you had any other worthwhile qualities. Kindness, for example. A sense of humor, for another. Any noticeable skills. Even a smile.

Alas, no. You treated the paunchy one's children horribly. I take that back; you didn't interact with them at all. Nor with the paunchy one, as he played with his children. Perhaps you are used to being the only child around. However, even someone with your limited capacity for noticing something other than yourself must've noticed you were in a family-oriented area, not a Sandals resort. Couldn't you have tried to make the best of it?

I hope Ruddy Paunchy dumps you for someone better. He seemed very nice, probably over-indulgent toward you, and his children were well-behaved. You, on the other, were a pill and no fun whatsoever. I hope you make some changes before you're the leathery bag in the nursing home that no one visits and the orderlies cringe to talk to.

I'll be back when I'm beautiful.

This picture is so horrible I have a feeling Ubie might have used it before. If so, I apologize, but it's so awful it bears repeating.

Oh, where to begin? These guys are truly the Beatles of Dorkdom; the Rolling Stones of Lame. Even though they are all dressed identically, each brings his own individual brand of awfulness to the table. The guy up front just may be Rosie O'Donnell.

I'm convinced if Santa's elves made anal beads and vibrating fists, this is what they'd look like.

Hey kids, I'm Todd, your substitute blogger for the week. Ubie asked me to fill in periodically while she vacations in scenic Gary, Indiana.

This is my all-time favorite beer ad, because it goes against the common trend of gently caressing the genitalia of the consumer. The people who made this ad actually assume its intended audience has a sense of humor.


Tune in tomorrow for a Don't Wear Wednesday that may make you want to gouge out your own eyes with a dry toothpick.

Talk amongst yourselves.

Sample topics:

1. who on earth watches "October Road?"
2. whatever happened to curly fries?
3. is soccer "gay?"
4. what smells in here?
5. goat cheese: yay or nay?

Also, Todd may post here if he feels like it. I expect you all to treat him with respect and courtesy.

Along with charm, good looks and a keen intellect, Dilf and Dr. Sardonic share the same birthday: Today! March 23.

I purchased some adult entertainment for them to enjoy, jointly. I hope they like it!



I told the agency to send their most experienced girl.

Talk about adding insult to injury...

Little Black Back Pack is painful enough on its own; now add a car full of drunk sorority girls singing it, and you have a YouTube video.

It's one molotov cocktail away from being entertaining.

Don't wear bottoms that ride up your posterior. It's horribly uncomfortable, and it doesn't even look good. Sometimes, comfort and good looks go hand in hand. Or cheek to cheek. Or, something like that. Pants knows what I'm talking about.

Just don't:





I'm getting claustrophobic. I can't breathe...

When spring came, I leapt for joy
the sun shone brightly in my window
I went for a walk
I was happy
Until a bug bit me
Happiness is elusive and fleeting



Sisyphus came
He saw my laundry
He fled in tears



Oh, how brightly shines the sun
It burns like a laser into my eyeballs
It burns! It burns!
My brain is seared by its piercing light
Stupid sun.
My head hurts



I burnt my bagel this morning
It smelled, so I opened my window
I cut off the black parts
There wasn't much left
I ate it anyway
Did I take my vitamins?
I wish I could remember.
Oh, well. I can tell when I pee.
Because it's flourescent green if I did.

If a hippo and a tortoise can find love, it's not too late for Pipewrench

My dearest Dilf, we have a problem with the new coffee grinder.

Please fix it at your earliest convenience. Your earliest convenience had best be before tomorrow morning.

The life you save may be your own.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Yours truly,
ÜberMilf

Truthfully, not much of interest was to be found in this week's slew of coupons. With spring cleaning around the corner, many of them were of the foaming, germ-cleaning, dirt-removing variety.

Also, there was one for a Precious Moments™ bowling figurine.



Since we all know that Precious Moments™ figurines are evil talismans, it shouldn't be surprising that the food items featured were all ... off in some way.


For example, a new mini version of these were introduced this week. Last year, Nick was horrified when they released the full-sized version. He claimed they were an abomination unto the Lord, a perversion of nature that would rain God's ire down upon us. Since that never happened, they expanded the line. Save 50 cents if you dare to mock mother nature, and Nick.



If Nick was offended by squagels, I hope he averts his eyes for the next offering. Or, he could sit in the middle of Wichita in sackcloth and ashes trying to repent for all of mankind. Get ready, Nick: Stouffer's has perverted the pizza.


It is rectangular. They call the crust "flatbread." They put non-pizza toppings on it, like steak fajita and shrimp. Not since the breakfast burrito has such twisted combinations been presented for sale at the local supermarket. You can save one dollar using the coupon.



Finally, we have something from José Olé: Skillet Meals for Two. They are so new, their own website has no information on them. They offer a non-pizza version of steak fajitas, but they decided to hop on the Italian-Mexican bastardization train themselves with two pasta varieties. Hamburger Helper has been doing this for years, but we expect things like that from them -- not from someone named José. He's a real person, right? José Olé? I Googled him and they gave me his picture, so he must be real. José is offering you a dollar to try his new skillet meals.

Let's bypass Double's Posts uncomfortable adolescence for a moment, and enjoy a story from her uncomfortable young adulthood.

Double Post was livin' la vida loca, but she was poor. She had her own apartment and her own car and her own little bachelorette pad set up, but she was supporting this lavish lifestyle on a preschool teacher's salary.

So, when a young suitor invited her out one night and said he'd pick her up at 6:30 p.m., she jumped at the chance even though he didn't make her heart go pitter-patter. A date as early as 6:30 would certainly mean dinner, right? That would help stretch her budget a bit, and who knows? He could turn out to be a diamond in the rough.

He picked her up promptly at 6:30 p.m. When asked where they were headed, he replied, "The Name of Some Disco That I Can't Remember." (That's not what he actually said; he gave the real name. But I don't remember it, so...)

Not only was disco already quite passé, but discos did not serve dinner. At least, this dingy dive of a dying dance club CERTAINLY did not.

What the place lacked in food, it made up for in mirrors. For the rest of the evening, the guy danced with his back to my sister, admiring his own moves in the mirror. I guess SOMEONE had to admire them; the place was nearly empty, and even at full capacity, his moves would not have impressed anyone.

Double Post informed Mr. Wonderful that she had to go home. Not only did she have to work the next day, but she hadn't eaten dinner yet. Not picking up on the subtle clue contained in this piece of information, they got into his car and squealed out of the parking lot.

"Are you sure you want to go home?" he asked, leering at her. "You could come home with me. I was kind of planning on it."

"No," she said firmly and without bothering to hide her disgust. "I want to go home."

He shrugged his polyester-clad shoulders as if to say, "Your loss," and put the car in reverse. Upon reaching her apartment, he reiterated his fabulous offer to have sex with him. Astonishingly, she rebuffed him again, slammed the car door and marched home.

Twenty minutes later, as she sat up in bed eating tomato soup and saltine crackers and reading a novel, her telephone rang. It was Mr. Fabulous, improving his earlier offer.

"You can still change your mind, you know," he murmured lustily into the phone. "I really planned on you spending the night. I bought pork sausages for breakfast..."

Apparently the offer of a breakfast including (then) 79 cent frozen brown and serve sausages proved an irresistable draw for some women. Double Post placed her value somewhat higher. To the great disappointment of the Sausage King, he was turned down again. My sister proved far too difficult to please, much too high maintenance, for him.

So, once again, Double Post failed to find love.

I wonder if the Sausage King ever did?

Depending on how you feel about bagpipes and/or Star Wars, this might not be "bad music" at all.

In fact, it may sum up your lifeview. If you are a maladjusted, terminally-angry plumber, for just one, completely random example, you may wear a "mask" of sorts everyday, pretending to be harmless to society at large, yet on the verge of a major psychotic episode. Additonally, you yearn desperately for someone to blow your bagpipe. Yet, no one ever does. This twists your psyche in ways that normal people shudder to contemplate, and your explosion into violent rage is imminent.

Please enjoy a beloved classic, or get angry for no reason, as some are wont to do:

It's that time of year again. The tired old clichés come out: "Kiss Me I'm Irish" and its endless stream of derivatives ([BLANK] me ...); "Irish Drinking Team" or "I'm so drunk I'm Irish" or whatever adolescent euphamism you can think of; "[BLANK] Me Lucky Charms" or "... Me Shamrock" or "...Me Blarney Stone." They all appear on bright green cotton T-shirts and they're all so tiresome. So ugly. So useless. So... unclever, unfunny, unoriginal.

Sometimes a new one rears its ugly head.



Sigh.

Now, I was tempted to feature this splendid item today, in light of the whole "drunken Irish" stereotype. However, when I read the words "hot chocolate," it gave me pause. That is EXCELLENT for football games.

I am speaking of gas ADDED TO beef packaging, not the gas that results from EATING beef. Of course, if you want to avoid that, too, no one will complain.

Now, this is an old story, but one of which you may be unaware. Even if you ARE aware, I have a tip to help you avoid buying carbon monoxide-treated beef.

If your meat comes packaged on a styrofoam plate wrapped in plastic wrap, or better yet, wrapped in butcher paper, you should be safe. Those aren't completely airtight, and allow nature to give us a sign as to the meat's age.

If it comes in a factory-sealed package, you may be eating the artificially-red, carbon monoxide-treated beef. I'm not saying that ALL beef packaged that way is treated with CO, just that you can't tell. Because the government doesn't think we need to know what we're eating, it won't be labeled. If you want to play it safe, avoid meat packaged this way altogether.

I hope you have found this tip helpful. If not, I will do my best to please you another time, despite the fact you are a jerk with anger issues and an unpleasant disposition.

Use Your Head When Buying Red: It Could Be Passed, It Just Was Gassed!

I had written a beautiful chocolate-themed "This Week in Coupons" post.

My system crashed and erased it before I had a chance to publish it. I am angry and out of time, so now you get nothing.

Double Post may seem to be a good old-fashioned gal to many of you out there in blogland, but I assure you that throughout her life, she has been pursued by a motley array of amusing characters who found her charms irresistible.

For our own amusement, let's recount them here every Friday until I run out of stories. Don't worry, you can count on this being basically a permanent feature.

Let's travel back in time to Double Post's childhood...


Double Post and my eldest sister both attended Catholic school just across from the public school I myself would attend 10 years later than they. The schools were within walking distance; I'd say about three-four blocks from our home.

One day, Double Post was walking to school alone. Why was our eldest not with her, seeing as they are but one year apart in age? I don't know. I do know it was a Thursday, because Thursday is garbage collection day in our childhood neighborhood.

As she walked, the garbage truck loomed up behind her and lurched to a stop in front of a house to empty the cans. A filthy, disheveled trash collector with one yellow tooth dangling in his cavernous maw* spotted my sister and grinned lecherously.

With a menacing chuckle, he asked her, "How's yer ole tomater?" Then he laughed uproariously.

Not understanding the question, my sister continued on her way to school, picking up her pace a bit. Unfortunately, the garbage truck was taking the same route as she was. So, every few feet, as the garbage truck pulled up to the next house, the creepy old man would emerge from the truck to repeat his question: "How's yer ole tomater?" Each time he would laugh as if he delivered the greatest joke in the history of human comedy.

Double Post hurried, but the truck caught up to her each time, and as she heard the brakes squeal to a stop, she knew what she would hear next: "How's yer ole tomater?"

Luckily, there is a dead end at a field when you come to the school, and a bridge over a small creek. He could not follow her once she reached this point, but his voice could. He shouted over and over, "How's yer ole tomater? HOW'S YER OLE TOMATER?" his laughter echoing against the school walls.

She never encountered her first love again, although she's thought of him often since. And thus began Double Post's lifetime as a sex symbol. And my question is, where was my mom's overprotective anxiety at this point? It was as absent as my eldest sister. Poor Double Post.

*Actually, I have no idea what he looked like. I'm guessing.

No, Leo Sayer is no Lady. But for some reason, "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing" was stuck in my head. Since I vaguely recollect posting that before, I picked another astoundingly awful Leo Sayer Song:



I could've picked any of his musical attacks on our senses, really. Take your pick. But this one has him being blown up by a muppet, so I liked it.

Also, I came across a clip of him freaking out on British television. He was on "Big Brother", and he ran out of clean underwear:



So, he's concerned about spreading disease with his soiled undergarments, yet is unconcerned about the tragic legacy of his putrid musical career? Perhaps all of that fuzzy hair has clogged his ears and he doesn't realize the true horror of what he's done to the world.

I would like to say Happy Birthday to Double Post and my eldest sister.

Here's what I sent her:

My hatred of Tweety Bird has already been documented. So, it's unsurprising that I would advise against wearing this garment:



Here's a close-up of the embroidery:



To be on the safe side, don't wear anything Looney Tunes. Of course, Dilf used to have this old, old sweatshirt with Taz on it that he himself never wore, but I wore it whenever I was sick. It was so warm and soft and comforting...

No. I won't weaken. No Looney Tunes. Especially since I've already gotten rid of that sweatshirt.

Now, Mr. Bubble sweatshirts are another story altogether.

I had a post up here earlier that I removed because it didn't quite say what I meant it to say. I'm still not 100 percent sure what I meant to say had an ounce of truth to it anyways; but I've never let that stand in my way before.

I started to talk about what my moniker, Übermilf, means to me. Pipewrench had to jump in and infer that I thought all men were hot for me. That is not at all what I meant to say. But women tend to be categorized into sexy and non-sexy categories, no matter how mundane the circumstance. I think I should be able to shop for graham crackers in the grocery store without male employees putting me into a "do-able" or "not do-able" category. Because when faced with that sort of scrutiny, I think women react subconsciously. It's like being bombarded with advertising; it's just incessant, and it wears you down.

I'd like to draw a parallel here between food and sex for a minute. Food used to be enjoyed with friends, family and/or loved ones. It was simultaneously an occasion to fill a physical need and the need to connect with our fellow human beings. It was to be enjoyed in a relaxed manner.

Now, food is something to be fit into a schedule of more "important" things. While the substances themselves are constantly and incessantly available, the time to consume them leisurely and with people we care about is shrinking, for some people down to nothing. I believe we keep stuffing our faces in some primordial desire to fill our souls with companionship and love, since our bodies have connected the two together for so long. Instead, we are fat and depressed and lonely.

I think it's the same with sex. It's everywhere, screaming from magazine covers and billboards, televisions and computer screens. There are sex clubs, strip joints and one-hour motels just about everywhere. But is that satisfying sex? Is it really leaving us happy and fulfilled, or do we keep trying to up the ante in a vain attempt to fill the void left by a lack of intimacy and love?

I love my husband and my family and my friends and even most strangers I meet. It opens me up to the possibility that someone may hurt me at some point, because I developed a strong attachment. People want to avoid pain at all costs, and put happiness above emotional maturity on the list of things they want in life. It's much easier to group people into catagories like "MILF" than to deal with them as individuals and risk engaging them in a real relationship. It is much easier to put up your own facade with which to make "sexual conquests" instead of opening your real self up to rejection.

Well, I've been hurt and I got over it. The momentary misery is insignificant when compared to the prospect of a joyless, loveless life.

And no amount of pornography or Cheet-ohs can fix that, no matter how hard people try.

It's Tuesday, Dilf's out of town, I have two girlies to get to school and care for, a household to run, a great grandma to visit ...

So this lame post is all you get.

I distrust big corporations in general and food manufacturers in particular. I am convinced they all want to cut corners to make a profit, and that one of those cut corners will someday kill me. Thus, I don't like the sound of this at all.
Adding to my distress about this new product is the fact that I've actually purchased salmon in such a format.

It was not moist, tender and delicious as I was led to believe. No sir. It was slimy, hard in some spots, and foul. I don't hold high hopes for this product, and the offer to save $1 on a "pouch" of chicken does nothing to change my mind. I shall pass on this offer.

More promising were the new Pringles varieties. I was thrilled to discover a site called taquitos.net which reviews new snacks for us so we don't make any unwise purchases.

They reviewed two of the available flavors. The Szechuan Barbecue chips garnered rave reviews, while the Parmesan Garlic flavor were deemed "Pretty good, but not the best of the parm and garlic chips out there." They're certainly worth a try, but I think Proctor and Gamble already knows this; the coupon only saves me 25 cents off a bag. Gamble, my ass!

So there you have it, ladies and gentleman. One winner, one loser from this week's selection of coupons. Happy shopping!

He's feeling exotic this week, I think.

We just had a local election; world events are always churning; many of my fellow Americans are suffering from severe weather damage; my brother is doing his semi-annual idiot dance -- but I can't face any of those things right now, so I'll write about my newest neighbor.

For about a week or so, Dilf and I have been treated to the lovely fragrance of skunk wafting past our windows. This makes sense, because according to this informative and friendly site, it is skunk mating season. Additionally, cats wisely have no problem with skunks, or at least don't confront them about it. So, nobody in my household is going to harrass the little guy as he brings home his love conquests.

This made me think: dogs chase skunks (to the dismay of both parties), but does any creature actually EAT a skunk? It turns out my helpful website had that answer, too: coyotes, foxes, owls, and bobcats will eat the smelly fellow. I've seen coyotes and foxes around here, and I'm sure there are owls, but they have a plethora of other more delicious and less odiferous prey upon which to snack. A plethora of plump, juicy rabbits and rude, obnoxious squirrels and timid, defenseless field mice abound. Why bother with Mr. Stinky?

Luckily, the world's most dangerous predator eats squirrel. Anthony Bourdain, please come get your dinner.