I'm Getting Desperate for that 750th Post.
I had no idea what to write about, so I asked Brooke to tell me the very first word that popped into her head. She must be as filled with inspiration as me today, because she said "word."

Here's an image that pops up on lucky page 7 of Google Images for the word "word."

This cartoon is quite interesting to me. First, how can Atheists hate the word of God when they don't believe God exists? They can only hate words written by people who mistakenly think they are jotting down the words of God. But I'm not an Atheist; you'd have to ask one.

Two, I had no idea Atheism had so much in common with professional wrestling. Or adult diapers.

Three, aren't Atheists in the minority? How can they be big bullies? I've never seen a big muscle-bound, scantily-clad man or woman menace people inside a church. "Hand over the Word of God!" they could say. "We HATE it!" But that doesn't happen.

I think the cartoon should read "Carnival Workers Hate Clothes" or "Mr. Clean Hates Sun in His Eyes" or something. I don't know. If I had any insight into anything, I wouldn't be writing about the word "word."
Tonight's Dinner. I've Got to Reach 750 Somehow, People.

Tonight I'm making enchiladas. I am filling them with the roasted, shredded flesh of despicable cowards.
I Think I Can Solve the Gay Marriage Debate. Maybe. I Mean, I'll Give It a Shot.
How about this: other parts of the world, like Mexico and France (maybe more but those were the only two I looked up because I'm lazy), only officially recognize civil unions. You can have a religious ceremony, too, but that must be in addition to the legal commitment.

So, why don't we do the same: have everyone, gay or straight, have the exact same "civil union" with the exact same privileges and responsibilities attached? Then, the couple may or may not undergo the religious sacrament at their and their religion's discretion. Let government determine issues like property rights and legal obligations, and religion determine spiritual issues.

Gays would get what they are looking for, which is equality; religions will retain their right to define their own rituals.

But then, a compromise would rob zealots of their chance to froth at the mouth and raise lots of money by fear mongering and demonizing their opposition. So, it probably would never pass.
Weekend PinUp -- Le Sigh. Les Chores.

I'll still find time for fun, I hope.
What I Learned at the YMCA Last Night
I had my first aqua aerobics class last night. As I sized up my fellow classmates, I felt pretty smug. "This is going to be easy!" I said to myself. "Obviously, this class is geared toward the ancient and the morbidly obese. I shall breeze through this hour with nary breaking a sweat."

Ha! I was brutally mistaken. True, water helps cushion the joints and is very good for people for whom traditional exercise programs may prove too jarring. And the sadistic pixie who teaches the class recognizes that almost everyone in the class is benefitting merely from suiting up and moving in the water. She allows them to modify movements and exercises that might prove too taxing.

But when she saw me, an evil gleam came to her eye. She showed me no mercy.

I was in her direct line of sight the entire hour. I begged my classmates to switch places with me, but they just laughed at me. Cruel, mocking laughter at my pain. Thus, I learned some things last night:

• Aqua aerobics is much, much harder than it looks;
• If you take a class for less able-bodied folks but are, in fact, able-bodied yourself, the teacher will ride you like a crack whore looking for a fix;
• Don't put yourself in the aerobic instructor's field of vision;
• Some, nay most women, should never appear naked in public;
• Some adolescent boy was mooning people on the basketball court. (I learned that piece of information while I was checking in.)

I will be back. Monday is Deep Water Exercise. I don't give up easily. Even when I wake up in pain in the middle of the night and take Ibuprofen.
I Know Something About Cowards.
Cowards are angry. Cowards would like to think their anger makes them tough. But they know, deep down, that they are weak and childish. That makes them even angrier.

Many cowards are abusive. They try to make themselves feel big by tearing others down. It doesn't work. Then, they get angry again.

They have all kind of excuses for why they can be lazy and weak, while other people should take care of them. They are too afraid to take chances to actually do something themselves.

Cowards often obsessively need attention, to reassure them constantly. When someone else gets attention, they often lash out in envy.

Cowards lie. Cowards cheat. Cowards are immature. Cowards are glib and smugly break promises, even the most solemn of oaths. Cowards are unreliable. Cowards are mean and sadistic. Cowards hide. Cowards blame others for their mistakes. Cowards have temper tantrums when they don't get what they want.

Cowards want more than anyone else has, and are still unhappy even when they get it. Cowards know that no one likes them any better than they like themselves. But they're too scared to change.

I don't know whether to despise cowards, or pity them. So, generally, I do both.
If I'm going to reach 750 or 1,000...

I'm going to have to talk about every mundane detail in my miserably inconsequential existence. Take my laundry. Please! (yuck yuck yuck)

Anyway. It's perfectly understandable that I could lose one of the 534,938 thousand pairs of little pink socks that come into my household, get worn once, and then mysteriously disappear. Well, one of each pair disappears. I then descend deeper and deeper into madness as I try to match each almost identical sock to a mate, only to be met with defeat at every turn. But I can understand missing socks; especially since the cat steals them.

But sheets? Bedsheets? How in God's good name can bedsheets disappear?

We have (had?) several sets of twin-sized sheets for the girls' beds. Four of them are Disney Princess-related. We also have one Hello Kitty, one non-branded fairy princess themed, and one aqua with blue and yellow flowers.

I am down to one fitted Cinderella sheet, some flat sheets and assorted pillowcases.

They aren't in the dirty laundry. They aren't in the linen closet. They aren't in the chest where I store spare items like holiday-themed tablecloths. They aren't in the girls' dresser drawers, their closet or their desk drawers.

They aren't in the side table drawer in my bedroom where I store the Übersheets.

I am at a loss. If a ghost came rummaging through the linen closet, one would think he'd steal the flat sheets. Also, he'd be a pretty harmless-looking ghost covered in pink dotted with smiling princesses.

I don't hang them out on a line to dry, so it's doubtful they flew away. Did they disintegrate? Spontaneously combust? What the hell could've happened?
26 Posts a Day, You Say?

Oh, HELL no.
In order to reach 1000 posts by my one-year blog-o-versary...
I must post 26 times a day for 11 days.

Can I do it?

More importantly, does anyone WANT me to?
Bad Music Thursday

Special guest Bad Music Critic - your friend, Sysm

From 80smusiclyrics.com
A little something about Matthew Wilder
The feel-good tune "Break My Stride" from 1984 made Matthew Wilder an overnight star. The native New Yorker got his start as a folk musician in the early '70s, strumming his guitar in Greenwich Village as half of a duo called Matthew & Peter. In 1978 he moved to Los Angeles to pursue his music career and eventually became a jingle singer, crooning on ads for Maxwell House and Honda and doing backup work for artists such as Rickie Lee Jones and Bette Midler. It wasn't until the radio-friendly "Break My Stride" (which was on his 1984 debut album, I Don't Speak the Language) that Wilder became a star in his own right. "It was a time when I was just trying to dig up as much perseverance as I could," Wilder told PEOPLE in 1984 about the inspiration for the Top 5-charting "Stride." "The song was a gift to myself. I didn't have the support of anyone in the business." But fame was fleeting and his follow-up album flunked. Content with working behind the scenes, Wilder is now an award-winning music producer. Wilder, who's married with two sons, spent the late 1980s and early '90s writing songs and doing production work.

In 1984, nothing would've made me happier than finding this man, hitting him with a stick, and screaming "Yay! A piñata!"
Don't Wear Wednesday: Skinny Leg Jeans

Okay, this week's entry may cause some controversy, but as someone who survived the dreaded stirrup-pants and leggings of the mid- to late-eighties, I must warn against this trend.

In fact, I think the skinny jeans are even worse, because they have less give than the more forgiving stretchy fabric of yore. I'm not a doctor, but I think wearing these pants could kill you.

Also, the only people I have ever seen with legs this skinny have been under the age of 18, in the hospital, or married to my friend Mrs. Kathy. Thus, if you are more than 5 years past puberty, healthy, or not named Jeff, you shouldn't wear these. For your own good.

I'm only trying to help.
No Debates, No Questions: Let's Elect Officials Based on Size

I was thinking of taking a few days off, due to general boredom. But Anonymous clearly needs me around, so here I am.

I read an interesting article about the upcoming Mexican elections. It seems the electing public cares deeply about the size of the candidates' cojones. I think that's fantastic! We should elect our politicians solely based on the penis size (male) or breast size (female) of the person running for office – any surgically-enhanced candidates will be automatically disqualified. Voters will have one decision to make: who has the more fantastically porportioned body part(s)?

Chicks with Dicks will be automatically elected to the Senate.

Just think -- no more arguments or tiresome debates about policy. Imagine how drastically the voting percentage will go up! I think this idea has real potential. I think it should be the standard throughout the world.
Taking another break
Today Is My Brother's Birthday

You remember my brother, right? I'm still processing the whole situation, and his birthday is forcing me to think about him today.

I'm not a psychologist, but it seems my family is going through the Stages of Grief as we come to terms (or not) with the fact he isn't the same person he once was. Here are the 5 stages:

1.Denial and Isolation. At first, we tend to deny the loss has taken place, and may withdraw from our usual social contacts. This stage may last a few moments, or longer.
2. Anger. The grieving person may then be furious at the person who inflicted the hurt (even if she's dead), or at the world, for letting it happen. He may be angry with himself for letting the event take place, even if, realistically, nothing could have stopped it.
3. Bargaining. Now the grieving person may make bargains with God, asking, "If I do this, will you take away the loss?"
4. Depression. The person feels numb, although anger and sadness may remain underneath.
5. Acceptance. This is when the anger, sadness and mourning have tapered off. The person simply accepts the reality of the loss.

I would love to say I have reached stage 5, but realistically, I am stuck on 4. My parents are stuck on stage 1, and my sisters are stuck at stage 3 with forays into stage 4.

I'm not more spiritually aware than my other family members; I've just been burned much more directly by my brother than they were.

When I got divorced in 1996, I borrowed $3,000 from my brother. He said he had taken the money from a home equity account on his condo, so I naturally agreed to pay the interest on the money, as well. I set up a $200 monthly payment with him, which I dutifully paid to him at the beginning of each month.

For three years. I foolishly didn't figure out when the payments should stop myself; I trusted my brother. I didn't think about it until my brother's marriage to Cuntzilla, at which point my parents paid off all of my brother's debts for him and informed me that the "$1,000 remaining balance I owed to my brother would now be owed to them, but I didn't have to pay every month, just whenever I could."

That puzzled me. How could I still owe $1,000 dollars on a $3,000 loan when I'd already paid $3,600? I approached my parents with this information. They told me to consider my debt paid, but they never confronted him about it. That was the first of many times they bailed him out with significant amounts of money.

No one has ever called him to explain himself. Not when he lied and said he leant me $10,000. Not when he makes almost as much as Dilf, yet is constantly in huge debt while our family lives comfortably within our means. Not when he is bailed out year after year after year and suspiciously gets a new job year after year after year. Mysteriously, each and every one of these employers "rips him off" even though each and every new beginning offers such promise.

Nobody wants to know the truth, because deep down they know the truth will hurt and will likely require some action on their parts -- whether that action is getting involved in helping him solve whatever problem he has, cutting him loose so as not to enable him to remain sick any longer, or facing the fact he's not the morally upright person we all thought he was.

I don't know the truth, but I know it can't be pretty. Gambling? Fraud? I doubt it's drugs, just from his lack of physical symptoms. Help me out here, people who have handled a situation like this before -- do I need to know the real truth before I reach Stage 5? Or will I be able to let it go without knowing for sure? Because I don't like Stage 4.
Weekend PinUp -- Dilf, This is for You

Dilf, this is for your drunken midnight call from New York.

Ladies, the man in this pictures is not a doctor; do not let him fondle your breasts. He went door to door in Florida masquerading as a doctor so he could cop a feel.

A 76-year-old man claiming to be a doctor went door-to-door in a Florida neighborhood offering free breast exams, and was charged with sexually assaulting two women who accepted the offer, police said on Thursday.

One woman became suspicious after the man asked her to remove all her clothes and began conducting a purported genital exam without donning rubber gloves, investigators said.

Really? Up until the rubber gloves, nothing seemed strange to this woman?

At least two women, both in their 30s, let him into their homes and he fondled and sexually assaulted them, the investigators said.

Winikoff was not a doctor, [sheriff's spokesman Hugh] Graf said. He worked as a shuttle driver for an auto dealership.

He found two women that stupid in the same neighborhood? Under retirement age, in Florida?

This story gets freakier by the moment.

Of course, I don't know what's more newsworthy: the guy's creepiness, or the women's colossal stupidity. Do these women take those idiots in the "Bikini Inspector" T-shirts seriously, too?

Hillbilly Übermilf

Thanks to Dr. Sardonic's friend.
Bad Music Thursday Returns Next Week. If Übermilf Finds Her Head by Then.
Ever since Daylight Savings Time reared its ugly head, my lovely Übergirlies have had trouble falling asleep. When they don't fall asleep when they should, Übermilf's private pampering time is interrupted. When Übermilf's private pampering time is interrupted, she gets annoyed. No one wants an annoyed Übermilf.

Also, the Girlies get cranky and whiny when they don't get their accustomed amount of sleep.

I turned to science for answers on how to get them to sleep on time. They gave me beautifully illustrated diagrams of Sleep Tips:

And Sleep Traps:

The problem is, I've tried ALL of the sleep tips and avoided ALL of the sleep traps – including not mounting a cuckoo clock in their room.

I'm considering finding some sort of child-safe sleeping gas – perhaps administered by umbrella, slipped under the crack of the door. If only the Penguin had been good instead of evil...

I must soldier on bravely, at least until Dilf gets back from New York tomorrow night. At which point I may abandon house.
Don't Wear Wednesday: Prom Edition
Prom season is upon us, and to the lovely young ladies out shopping for dresses, I have a word of advice: Don't Shop Here.

A small sampling of the dresses available from the Little Shop of Horrors include:

The slutty

The unflattering

The ugly

The inexplicable

I found worse "prom" dresses online, including this one:

but that store seemed to have a high concentration of ugliness.

I'm just trying my best to serve the public.
Übermilf's Baby Care Tips

Last week, I also helped Mrs. Kathy with new baby John. Are we calling him JJ? Dy-No-Mite! While there, I learned that aging punk rockers and aged hippies don't interact well. Let's just say I think I harshed Mrs. K's mother-in-law's mellow.

My primary mission, however, was undoing the damage done to my dear friend in the maternity ward. What damage, you ask? Countless experts marching in and out of the new mother's room with dire warnings issued at a time when she's at her most vulnerable. Breastfeed, or your baby will not survive and will never understand advanced algebra! Wait, your milk's not coming in fast enough -- give him formula or he will shrivel and die! Don't get his umbilical stump wet, or his skin will rot away! There is only ONE CORRECT WAY to bathe him -- feed him -- play with him, and that is OUR WAY! If you don't listen to us with our scientifically-proven baby care advice, your child will die -- or be a serial killer -- or never learn to read!

Worst of all is the "lactation counselor." How our cave-dwelling ancestors managed to feed and care for their children without these Nipple Nazis harassing them is beyond me. Switch sides! Switch positions! Chart your nursing sessions! Do it MY WAY or your child will be puny and your mastitis will be huge and painful!

Now, all of this is terrifying to the first-time parent. It is also totally unnecessary. Here are my baby care tips, in no particular order:
• Do not drop the baby on the floor.

• Do not poke the baby with sharp items, nor allow him/her to poke him/herself with sharp items.

• Your baby will survive being fed formula, whether it is occasionally or all the time. Professionals greatly exaggerate the risk of "nipple confusion." Your baby will NOT survive being fed poison. Do not feed your baby poison.

• Try to limit your baby's contact with fecal matter. Be advised, however, that at some point your baby will reach into his/her diaper and will play with and/or eat his/her own feces.

• Whiskey is not good for babies. It can, however, be very helpful to parents.

• Don't sit on your baby.

• Contrary to what Peter Pan may have taught you, do not use your dog as a babysitter. At least when the child is under age 3. No, never. Dogs are too easily bribed.

• Don't shake your baby. That one's true.

A baby will survive crying for 10 minutes if he/she wakes up while you're in the shower. A baby will survive if it takes you a few minutes to warm a bottle. You will quickly learn what your baby's cries mean -- hunger, discomfort, tired, etc. Don't expect to know the first week. It takes time. When reading baby books, mentally insert the phrase "This might or might not work:" in front of all advice you glean from books. Every child is different; the suggestions are worth a try, but don't beat yourself up if they don't work. You'll be fine, even if you make a mistake.

That concludes Übie's baby care advice segment.
Brother Trouble

Jimmy Carter had them. George Bush has them. Even my local weatherman has one. This Easter, I have two Brother Trouble stories of my own.

First, the Evangelicals didn't show up to my house for Easter dinner. My sister-in-law called me on Saturday to tell me that, while they had originally planned on coming, their plans had changed.

It appears the answer to "WWJD" is "attempt to avoid subpoenas by crossing state lines because your son is filing a fraudulent lawsuit and if you were called to the stand, you'd have to tell the truth and that would ruin his case."

Thus, Evangelical Mother-in-Law high-tailed it down to Florida while Evangelical Father-in-Law escaped to their Lake Geneva summer condo. So, carrying on the enabling tradition so entrenched in the family, my sister-in-law and her husband were spending Easter with him in Wisconsin so he wouldn't be alone. Is that aiding and abetting a fugitive, I wonder?

Now, exactly what this lawsuit entails is unclear. I'm not even sure which brother is involved. I do know that these holy, upright people have been allowing one of their sons to live with them while he avoids paying child support, claiming "they don't know where he is" whenever someone comes looking for him. Yes, they make Jesus proud, don't they?

Then, my brother is in financial trouble again and is lying about it. I can't be any more specific than that, because he's a big fucking liar. Is he gambling? Committing fraud like an Evangelical? A drug addict? We don't know. We do know that my mother can NOT be exposed to stressful situations at this time. Whatever his problem is, he's got to be honest about it or else stop asking us for money. Yeah, he didn't show up for Easter, either.

He really makes me angry. He's in his forties with a wife and kid. He's not disabled in any way. What's his fucking problem? Whatever it is, he's the one who's got to fix it. I'm tired of his bullshit.

Don't get me started on his wife, Cuntzilla. She's a big part of it, too. Grow the fuck up, people.

ADDENDUM: As today goes on, it seems painfully clear that I have to let my brother go. My parents are continuing to fund him, and both he and his wife are still talking about buying a new car and a new house. They have a sickness that I will not feed. My sisters won't feed it, either -- we've all been ripped off by him in the past. My parents won't acknowledge his lying and cheating and lack of accountability; that's sad. But I refuse to discuss him with them any longer. If the brother I remember from my childhood ever comes back, I'll be happy to see him. But this guy -- this scam artist, self-entitled loser -- I don't know him and I don't like him.
I'm Awake.

I feel refreshed.
I'll report on my week off tomorrow.
I'm Tired.

I'm taking a break.
Take a Stand: No More Cruise
Scientology is an evil con game. Tom Cruise is Scientology's tool of deception.

Avoid him and his brainwashing.

He's not all that cute anymore, anyways.

Join Todd's fight against Tom Cruise and his evil cohorts. Together, we can make a difference.
Mrs. Kathy Had the Baby!
Welcome John to the world. All 9 pounds 13 ounces of him.
Weekend PinUp -- As Much as I'd Like to Stay and Gossip...

We've got chores to do around the ÜberHouse this weekend.
I hope the rest of you find time for some fun!
News from my Mother's Stomach

While we're still waiting to hear from Mrs. Kathy's abdominal region, my mother appears to be doing okay.

They scoped her this morning, and while the full results haven't been made available, it seems that some sort of bacterial infection caused her previous ulcer to erupt. This is easily treatable with antibiotics. So, of all the scary things it might have been, it turned out to be a very treatable and non-life-threatening one.

My two sisters, my brother and I all visited her in the hospital last night. As my sister was driving me home from the greasy spoon we visited post-hospital, she said, "You know, I dreamt about meat last night."

To normal people, this would mean nothing. But this is my family we're talking about. To us, dreaming about meat is bad news. And the bloodiness of the meat determines the severity of the problem.

Which explains my follow-up question: "Was it raw or cooked?"

"Well, I kept trying to cook it, but it was too rare. Not bloody, though. Just red," she replied.

"I don't know how to interpret that," I said, "But I dreamt about meat, too. Mine was cooked, but cold." I couldn't interpret my own dream, either.

See, I really wish I could debunk this one. But truth be told, I have the meat dreams, too. And afterwards, something always happens. Car trouble. Illness. George Bush getting re-elected. Somehow, the women in my family have a psychic link -- my mom, my grandma when she was alive, my aunt, my great-aunts, my sisters, my cousin, and I. That link, inexplicably, involves meat. We always know when another of us is troubled when we dream about meat.

So, apparently, kinda red, kinda cooked meat means a trip to the hospital, but nothing too serious. Maybe I should develop a chart or pictorial of some kind.
We Interrupt This Program...

My mom's being taken to the hospital. She has some sort of internal bleeding (she had a bleeding ulcer repaired in 1977). I will be reporting back when there is any news; also, Mrs. Kathy is being induced at another area hospital. So, like I said, news bulletins later.
Bad Music Thursday: Bad Music Movie

I Hate When I Feel Like This
I'm usually a lot of fun to live with. I really am. I'm jovial, funny, helpful, kind, thoughtful... until...

I turn into an easily irritated bitch once a month for roughly a week to 10 days. Now, part of my brain continues to operate normally, and that part tells me not to lash out, that nothing's out of the ordinary, that my brain is just inundated with some sort of hormones that make me crazy. "See," it says, soothingly. "Dilf friend! Calm down, monster! ÜberGirls loud because ÜberGirls little! Breathe... breathe..."

But it just sits there and seethes, and churns, and reacts to the littlest stimulus. Like the extra loud landscapers at my neighbor's house. Überfriend Claire. Lint. Anything and everything.

I wish this didn't happen, or that I could control it. With something nice. That was magically delivered to my door by an incredibly gentle guy with broad shoulders and kind eyes. "Oh, you know what cures PMS? Buttercream icing! Here, I brought you a bowl of it. Don't forget the spoon! All set? There you go! Have a nice day now! What? Take off my shirt? Oh, those hormones again! Behave yourself!"

Instead, I just try to keep the beast chained up where it can't hurt anyone.
CARTOPIA: Auto Show, Art Show, Freak Show

It's rare when I steal from my own husband, but this was too good to pass up.

First, it's located in the delightfully unpretentious town of Berwyn, where you can find not only the impressive car spire sculpture pictured here (where Cartopia will take place!) but also damn fine potato pancakes.

Then, just look at the cornucopia of craziness! Think of the people-watching possibilities! White trash meets demented art folk! A clash of the titans!

I will be there. With my camera. So I can share this monumental occasion with you.

I am so excited.
Don't Wear Wednesday: For Mrs. Kathy. Let Me Explain.

Tomorrow, my dear friend Mrs. Kathy will be induced. Baby John is getting evicted.

I was going to post adorable baby boy clothes for her, but when I googled "boy baby clothes" this is one of the images that popped up.

Why? The mystery of Google. Regardless, Mrs. Kathy, this smelly hippie picture is for you. Enjoy, and may none of the hospital staff reek of patchouli.
Point + Counterpoint: Miss Muffin v. Squirrel

Squirrel: Who the hell are you and what're you doing on my porch?

Miss Muffin: Piss off, vermin.

Squirrel: Fuck you, cat! Where's my damn crackers?

Miss Muffin: C'mere. I'll show you.

Squirrel: Right. You think I got so old and fat bein' stupid? Get off my damn porch.

Miss Muffin: Come down and make me, you fleabag crumb-beggin' mother fucker.

Squirrel: Oh no you didn't!

Miss Muffin: That's right. Come teach me a lesson, or else shut your nut hole and get lost.

Squirrel: I ain't goin' nowhere. I was here first! I was born in this tree.

Miss Muffin: You're gonna die in that tree.

Squirrel: Big talk from a little cat on a porch.

Miss Muffin: I'm gonna kick your mangy ass!

Squirrel: That's not what the mouse says.

Miss Muffin: Screw you!

Squirrel: No, screw you!

Miss Muffin: Screw you!

Squirrel: No, screw you!

(continue for an hour.)

Opinions expressed by today's editorialists may not reflect the views of Übermilf.
I Bash Bush When Bush Needs Bashing

Yes, I am a Bush Basher. That is, I refuse to turn a blind eye as he commits offense after offense. I offered this story to Grand Moff, but he told me to do it. So, here's today's Bush Bashing.

I don't see why Republicans continue to stick up for this guy. He intentionally avoids doing the right thing -- things that every Republican and/or Democratic president before him did. Today's example: failure to fill appointments on the Intelligence Oversight Board.

"Bush didn't make appointments to the board until March 17, 2003, well after his administration had begun an aggressive post-Sept. 11, 2001, expansion of intelligence-related activity."

Well, what is this Commie-Pinko "oversight board" anyway? Some sort of socialist FDR invention, no doubt. Right?

"First set up by President Gerald Ford, the board has been used by every president since to flag possible wrongdoing in the intelligence community, providing an additional layer of review above in-house watchdogs in such agencies as the FBI, CIA and National Security Agency."

Maybe these guys are just window dressing. What if there aren't any problems to investigate?

"Last month, the Justice Department's inspector general reported that the FBI had referred 108 possible violations of intelligence regulations to the oversight board in 2004 and 2005, ranging in severity "from relatively minor to significant."

A few heavily censored reports that have been made public suggest that the more serious cases involve surveillance of U.S. residents without proper supervision.

The total does not take into account any alleged violations that might have been reported from the other 15 agencies that make up the U.S. intelligence community."

How can America claim to stand for freedom and opportunity if we allow our president to smirk at our rights? What kind of idiots are we when we allow our leaders to lie to us, even when we have their original misstatements on tape? We need to make our voices heard. Perhaps the palsy-twatted* Democrats in Congress and the Republicans who already have started to question this administration will grow a pair and start doing the right thing if they knew the American people were standing behind them.

Are we a brave people committed to rights and equal opportunity, or are we a bunch of weak sheep who readily submit to authority?

*Thanks to Todd
An Ugly Cat for an Ugly Person.

The bitch who spawned my evil ex-husband had the world's ugliest cat. (note: That's not him in the picture) Temperment-wise, he was fine; I think he was trying to kill himself to get away from her, and his suicide attempts had left him maimed and deformed.

First, he tried escaping. He'd run out, filling his lungs with the blissful air of freedom, only to be dragged back kicking and screaming into his private hell. Once he tried to kill himself by launching himself at a raccoon -- kind of like when people commit suicide by standing in front of a bus. Unfortunately for him, he survived -- minus one eye. It stayed in his head, clouded over with a sickly blue cataract, but at least the socket wasn't empty.

Then, he licked all the fur off his back legs and rear. The vet said cats do that to themselves when they have a "nervous condition" -- code for "bat-shit crazy", I guess. So his ass end was bald.

Finally, he tried to choke himself on something called Caramel Nips, which his doting, smothering owner purchased for him by the bagful. Try as he might, he never managed to clog his airway -- but he did manage to rot his teeth away.

So, there he was, one bulbous, useless, milky eye hanging by a thread; naked from the waist down; one bedraggled tooth left in his gaping maw; still hurling himself out the door at every possible opportunity. I felt for the little guy, I really did. Lucky for me, I managed to escape before he did. This was many years ago, so I'm sure the welcome embrace of death has come to claim him by now.

Rest in peace, Chewbacca.
Ah, Sunday. Perfect Day for a Meme
Here's that one where you Google Image fellow bloggers and see what comes up. I picked the very first image presented, not the one I thought suited that person the best. Although I do think Nick is really a sexy broad in a man's body.

I picked the first four people I met through blogging. They weren't my first links; those are some of my flesh-and-blood friends.

Anyway, here they are.

Dash Bradley:



Weekend Pinup -- Saucy!
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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My site was nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger!

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My blog is worth $40,646.88.
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