Lordy, Lordy, I'm friggin' FORTY!

Oh, snap. Today is my fortieth birthday. FORTY! As in, I'm not in my 30's anymore! It's kind of a shock. Isn't that weird? It's like having a clown car sneak up on you - you can see and hear it coming - yet somehow you're still surprised when the clowns start piling out. It's the same thing with my age. I knew I was progressing nicely through the thirties. Yet somehow, I went to bed when I was 39 years and 364 days old and woke as a forty year old. My first thought was, "What the fuck...I'm how old?!"

I've heard that many women have some "work" done in their 40's, believing that little "tweaks" here and there are more natural looking then if you have a major overhaul when you turn 60. When a forty year old gets something done her friends say, "Wow! You look well rested - that vacation did you wonders!" But when a woman of "a certain age" gets it done her friends give each other knowing looks and say, "...ahem...".

Either way, I'm not opposed to a little freshening up, as long as it doesn't look like this:


I think that maybe Donatella means "Cougar" in Italian. She looks like she eats choir boys for breakfast in-between deep drags on her tiperello cigarettes.

Onto the boobs! I've had three children and nursed them all, so it's possible that my rack might need some tuning. I've heard that sometimes women get implants to fill out a sagging chest which I'm guessing is not really what happened here:

On the plus side, I suppose they'd be helpful in a motorcycle wreck. Of course, a motorcycle wreck would most likely be caused by all of the wobbling going on in your shirt. Sadly, I am quite fond of sleeping on my stomach so I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass these puppies up (does anybody else hear my husband sobbing in the next room??).

I've also heard that there are all sorts of neato things they can do to your face to even out your complexion, pull the sagging skin around your eyes up and give your face that sexy, waxy appearance everyone seems to rave about. So I thought I'd look into it.

Sweet fucking niblets. Mickey Rourke - WHY?! You were so hot in 9 1/2 weeks and NOW look at you! You look like you'd melt underneath a 25 watt light bulb. DUDE. Seriously....

Of course, a post on plastic surgery wouldn't be complete without his royal highness, The King Of Oh-My-God-What-The-Fuck-Have-You-Gone-And-Done-To-Yourself-You-Crazy-Nutjob?!

He looks like a Mr. Potato Head that Tim Burton would create. At least he's making himself scarier so that, hopefully, it will become more difficult to entice a child into his boudoir. *shudder* Oh! And nice pubes on your chin. I normally don't like that look, but you can really pull it off....

Last, but not least, is the Poster Child for all that is bad in the plastic surgery arena:

Bless her fugly heart. I really don't even know what to say except that if I lived to be 110 years old - died - and then was buried for three years and then dug up and photographed I would STILL look better than this chick. So at least I've got that going for me.

Feel free to check out humor-blogs for some funny stuff. You could sign up and vote for me, too, while you're there. It wouldn't kill you, you know. They don't even spam! I can't even stake that claim....

Lucky numbers

The Dow Industrials fell today by 777 points. Holy shit. The partisan bickering makes me want to smack a politician or two (or a thousand) in the head with a fucking shovel.

I have no idea whether or not this Bail Out plan is good for us or not. Neither do you. Nobody does.

Is it better than doing nothing?? Maybe. Or, maybe we need to crash in order to wake up. Maybe we need unemployment to skyrocket into double digits to regain a work ethic. Maybe we need to run out of gasoline in order to become truly motivated to find another source of fuel.

Maybe we need to learn this lesson the hard way so that we will remember it and pass it along to future generations. Although, my Grandparents told me lots of stories about the Great Depression. Horrible, sad and desperate stories. I'll bet lots of Grandparents have talked about it. We all learned about it in school. Yet look how arrogant we are. I've laughed at my Grandma for collecting (and then using) fast food packets of salt, pepper and ketchup. It's not going to be quite as funny if one day soon I need some and can't get it.

Maybe this scare is enough to make us change our ways. And maybe the bail out will save our economy and our way of life.

All I know is the news is scaring me. Our markets are crashing. Which causes the whole worlds markets to crash. It's the Democrats fault! No, it's the Republicans! I'm sorry to say, Friends, that it is our own fault. We over extend our credit. We buy more than we can afford. We eat more than we need. We treat our homes like ATM machines, pulling out cash every time there is any value.

As an aside I'd like to add that Nancy Pelosi looks like her head is imploding.

See?



Bless her heart.

Do I like her? No. I actually loathe her. But is this her fault? Nope.

So we are personally causing national and probably international financial disasters. And then there is more bad news. Somehow I heard - on the same day - that the worlds largest magnet was created PLUS a machine was cranked up that is supposed to simulate the Big Bang Theory but opponents were concerned because it might accidentally cause a black hole that would suck up the whole universe. Well! Fan-fucking-tastic!

I'm sure, if we put our heads together, that we could come up with a few more ways to fuck up this country and planet. But just in case we can't, there are, apparently, PIRATES off of the coast of Africa with balls big enough to attack and over-take a freighter carrying dozens of tanks, weapons and ammunition. And they will sell them to the highest bidder, even if he is an extremist nut-job terrorist.

The hits just keep on coming, ladies and gentlemen.

After September 11th our politicians briefly got their shit together enough to take care of some business. It's a real shame that it takes 3,000 people dying to make that happen. Perhaps 3,000 is the number that motivates them. Perhaps, when the Dow falls by 3,000 they'll be ready to get a plan and work together to make it effective. Or maybe our economy will fail and we will be poor and unable to defend ourselves against the next terrorist attack.

Maybe our lucky number is 777 and tomorrow will be a much better day. Incidentally, tomorrow is also my 40th birthday. I can't think of a present I'd love more than for our politicians to pull their heads out of their asses and make a positive difference in the cluster fuck that is, I'm so sorry to say, America.

If anybody needs me, I'll be lying in the fetal position in the corner, sucking my thumb, humming Happy Birthday To You....

Never, EVER eat the bean dip if you plan on drunk driving. Really.

Once upon a time there was a man called Jose A. Cruz who hailed from Clarksburg, West Virginia. He was 34 and, I would guess, funny looking. One evening he went out with the boys and "had a few". Just all in good fun. Boys will be boys, you know....

On the ride home he figured that if he didn't turn his headlights on he wouldn't have to deal with any awkward questions from The Law. It must have been quite a surprise when he was pulled over because of the lack of headlights. The responding officer noticed that he reeked of cheap booze and had slurred speech so they gave him a field sobriety test which he failed not once, not twice, but THRICE. Somewhat predictably, they arrested him.

He was transported to the police station for a breathalyzer test. Not to be outdone, our hero - after what I'm sure was some serious and lucid self-reflection - tilted over to his side, farted loudly and fanned the nastiness into the face of his arresting officer. Did you hear that??? He audibly farted and then hand-grenaded it onto a cop.

The officer, once he had regained consciousness, put him under arrest and charged him with battery. Battery, in case you were wondering, is defined as "a crime consisting of physical contact that is intended to harm someone." That must have been one heinous fart, my friends. We're talking sulfurous death cloud.

The complaint stated, "The gas was very odorous and created contact of an insulting or provoking nature with Patrolman Parsons." Nothing like a ripe been-drinking-cheap-whiskey fart to clear the room, I always say.

Not to be outdone, Cruz responded with the classic line of defense, "I couldn't hold it no more!" He admits farting but has denied sending said fart to the officer in the hand-grenade fashion so many middle school boys are fond of.

This sounds like one classy, sexy man. I wonder if he has all of his teeth. My guess - absolutely not.

Now before you West Virginians start feeling defensive that people are laughing at your state and its general population, I'll admit we have our crazy and unkempt neighbors, too. In fact, for your viewing pleasure, I have the following video of an Atlanta woman who is, shall we say, Coo Coo. This has subtitles, which I think you'll agree makes things a bit easier to understand. Enjoy!



And if you thought that was funny, go to humor-blogs.com. And if you voted for me by clicking on my LOL head, well, that'd be aces.

Just don't bite my ass and we'll be cool.

I hate bugs. A lot. Big, small, doesn't matter. I'm highly suspicious of them all, up to and including the illustrious lady bug. So you would think that the fact that there is a spider in my bathroom would be cause for distress.

Surprisingly I haven't killed it or called in the heavy artillery (aka Mike, the bug guy, with his Can Of Death). I just sit there and watch this little guy build his teeny tiny web. And then I wait with him, joining in the pondering of where the hell the other bugs are. He doesn't know that I've employed a man to spray toxic fumes into every nook and cranny of this house. So he picked a little corner close to the ground, maybe thinking he'd rack up some ants or something. But he got bupkis.

He walks around, inspecting his web with care. And every now and again he'll sprint up to the corner and stay really still. Maybe he's crazy and keeps thinking that he hears bug footsteps or something. It has me wondering how long he can go without any customers. Will he sit there until he starves to death, resulting in a spider skeleton right in time for Halloween or will he finally clue in that he picked a ridiculous spot for a web and move on to greener pastures? Or perhaps he'll just wait until I am no longer entertained by him at which point a trip down the toilet bowl would become imminent. It is a pretty tough call.

When I was a little kid in South Florida I saw a fat, scary looking spider crawling around on the floor. I ran to get my flip flops on and then enthusiastically jumped on it with my full body weight. Suddenly, and without any warning whatsoever, I might add, hundreds of tiny spiders came sprinting out from under my shoe and ran up my leg. If I could have found a knife in all the panic that ensued I'm certain that I would have cut my own leg off.

But I think that I'm going to let this little guy stay for a while, even after taking into account his close proximity to the toilet seat. There is something very unimposing about him. Like he's tipped his hat and stated in a sharp, British accent, "Pardon me, Miss. But if it wouldn't be too much of a bother I'll just skulk around here for a bit...I'll be no bother - none at all. Unless you might have a spot o tea to spare. That would be lovely."

My husband is going to think that I have some kind of intestinal malady, as much time as I've spent in there spying on my spider. I'm not sure which he would consider the less desirable activity. So let's keep it on the DL, ok??

Click here for some other funny blogs. And if you happened to click on my smiley face, well, that wouldn't be a bad thing.

Don't Step In The...OH, SH*T!!!

Kate and Leopold was a movie about some English dude who invented a time machine and then accidentally fell through it to current day New York City. One of the funniest parts of the movie happened when he was walking a dog which then took a dump on the street. A cop came over and instructed him to pick it up and throw it away.

He looked at her incredulously and said, "Are you suggesting that there exists a law compelling gentlemen to lay hold of canine bowel movements?"

This line cracks me up for a variety of reasons. First of all, it is talking about poop, a topic I routinely find hilarious. Second of all, it is a strange obligation and certainly doesn't feel very dignified when you have to turn a baggie inside-out and pick up something warm, wormy and odoriferous that your dog expelled from his ass.

The alternative is just as gross - I don't know anybody who likes to step in dog crap. And I know some total freaks. But the problem is that not everyone picks up their doggie doodies. And step in it we must. Unless...unless someone could come up with a PLAN. A plan so ingenious, so obvious that it just might work.

This guy sure looks worried:



I'm happy to announce, Ladies and Gentlemen (and freaks), that it's already happened. Yep, those crafty Israelis have beaten us to the punch again. They are taking DNA swabs from the mouths of dogs and then when they find an errant shit they will look up the database, hoping for a match. The owner will then receive a fine. BRILLIANT.

They haven't mentioned what, if anything, would happen if it comes back with a human DNA. I suppose they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. (Surely they have wino's too??)

After celebrating this achievement I started to wonder if they didn't create this program simply to have a police job that is less desirable than that of Meter Maid.

Hot Girl - Hey, you're kinda cute...what do you do?

Dude - Well, thanks! I'm a doctor.

Her - A DOCTOR! Wow...are you a plastic surgeon?

Him - Umm, no. I'm actually more of a scientist then an MD.

Her - Oh. Too bad. What kind of scientist?

Him - Uhhh, I, uh, specialize in DNA...and canines....

A look of horror passes on her face because she is very familiar with the program as she has a poodle with irritable bowel syndrome and she has been keeping little Fluffy in the doggie underground to avoid the DNA swab for her dog. She looks at the "doctor" and lets it sink in that he really tests fecal matter for a living. They are totally not going to hook up.

But I've gotta say it - it'd be ok with me if I never stepped in dog shit again. Because then you always get into your car and say, "Jesus. What's that smell?? ...it smells like...oh, shit..." But then it's too late. Bring on the DNA, Big Brother!



Hey...psssstttt...while you're down here...do me a favor and click my HB smiley, will ya??

Just a few piercing questions...

Over the weekend I was introduced to a lovely young woman. Beautiful hair, beautiful, eyes, a nice figure...she really was something. And then she spoke. She said, "Ithss veewwwy nice to meet you, Bexth."

And I thought, "Oh, bless her heart! This pretty little thing has a horrible speech impediment! She sounds like Elmer Fudd, poor thing...." And then I noticed the flash of silver in her mouth. No, not a filling - her tongue was pierced with a metal rod with a ball on the end.

Now I had a friend who did this years ago. She invited me out for margaritas and a discussion of her piercing:

Me: What the fuck did you do that for?!

Her: Oh, Bexth, you don't understand! It's fowrw sex....

Me: ?!

Her: Owal sex - you see, it makes it feel bettewww!

Me: Owal sex? What is that....OH. You mean ORAL! Listen, did it ever occur to you that you were just doing it wrong? Maybe you should have asked somebody for a little help before you went and did something drastic, like shove a metal rod through your tongue.

Her: You just don't get it.

Me: Say Elmer Fudd.

Her: fuck you

Me: Come on!! Say it! Say it...say 'There is a terrific trolley!' Come on....

So she'll put a metal rod in her tongue to make oral sex feel better for her partner but she won't indulge me in trying to pronounce a few words that might sound funny. Whatever. These piercing types are so sensitive. And speaking of sensitive, does this mean that if you put a metal rod through the center of your palm that hand jobs would feel better??? And is that adequate incentive to do it?? Just curious...

What is this chicks excuse? Perhaps she wants to be strummed like a guitar? Or maybe it really turns her on when people look at her with their teeth gritted and their eyebrows squished together in the "holy shit that looks like it hurts" kind of way.

And then there is this guy. I wonder if there is any kind of "master plan" or if he just shoots from the hip when he goes to the Piercing Pagoda.

I think the forehead implants are especially special. Something tells me that he was simply looking for a way to de-emphasize his facial features and this made sense to him at the time. Sorry, Sweetie. You should really go and get your money back because we can still see your zombie eyes and mad scientist eyebrows. In fact, they are remarkably prominent, considering... you know... everything else.

Hey, Everybody! It's Tool Time with Geraldo!

It is my sincerest wish that almost everyone survives Hurricane Ike. Almost. Because, truth-be-told, in the battle between Geraldo Rivera and Ike...well, I'm pretty much pulling for the hurricane.



What's not to like about Geraldo, you ask? Hmmm...is it the fact that he's an attorney? Nah. Is it a case of Former Talk Show Host Rage? Nope.

No, it is because I've begun to strongly suspect that Geraldo Rivera is a fucking tool. My hypothesis began during Hurricane Gustav. I was flipping through the channels on TV when I came across an image of Geraldo running up and down Bourbon Street in a soaked rain coat holding some sort of meteorologist tool that gauges wind speed like this:



The anchor kept trying to ask him questions about flooding, people who were in harms way, etc. But Geraldo couldn't hear and he was zig zagging around with his little wind catcher going, "FIFTY miles an hour! That gust was 50! ....Oh, wait a minute, here comes another....WOW! We've got fifty-TWO!"

I was watching and just hoping that a New Orleans local would come out of their shelter and give him a good, firm slap while screaming into the wind gust, "No shit it's windy. You are in a fucking hurricane, Jackass." And then our New Orleans hero would look into the camera and say, "Back to you, Jane."

But that didn't happen. Because - thankfully - New Orleans was successfully evacuated and there weren't any locals available for slapping overzealous reporters.

Then this afternoon I was curious about how Hurricane Ike was doing and turned on the TV to find Geraldo standing on the coast in Galveston, Texas. This is the place that is supposed to get a 20 foot wall of water. In fact, it's already flooding there, at least 12 hours before the eye of the storm has even arrived. Geraldo was milling about in the flooded water as though he were at a cocktail party, flirting with firemen and probably wishing that he hadn't left his little wind tool back at the Hilton. And then, predictably, he fell down as you can see in the video below:



After his prat dive he became very jumpy and every time a piece of debris hit him in the foot he jumped as though a shark had bitten him. All I could think of was where is a water spout when you really, truly need one.

It's ZUMBA, Baby!

Do you know what I just love? It's embarrassing, but I'll admit it. Ready?? I love, love, LOVE a class taught at my local YMCA. It's called Zumba and it is, essentially a dance class with an emphasis on latin and hip-hop music.

The interesting thing is that this is at the YMCA, so it's not like this is where all the hot girls work out. (Except for me. Obviously.) Real people go here. Some are young and cute. Some are old and wrinkly. But the local Y is like Elis Island. Bring out your fat and ugly. Your skinny and uncoordinated. All are welcome. It's the People's Gym.

There is one instructor, Terri Starnes, who stands out above the rest. She has these amazing dance routines that I just love following. And I'm not the only one. It's a fucking epidemic. You take her class once and you're hooked. The funny thing is that many of her moves seem inspired by belly dancing and, well, stripper moves.

One of my favorite routines that she does is to a song called "Go Girl" by PitBull. Here are some of the lyrics:

I party like a rockstar.
Look like a movie star.
Play like an all-star.
F*ck like a porn star. *

* Because this is the YMCA they blur out the middle of the word so all you hear is "FFF___CCKKK". If you've ever been to the Blog of Bex before you know that if I wanted to say fuck then I'd say it. I'll say it again - fuck. (I just wanted to clear up any confusion for the new kids.) But if I were the YMCA I think I'd probably blur out the "F" and the "CK" of fuck and maybe just leave the "UH" sound. "I uh like a porn star" sounds better then "I f_ck like a porn star".

And by the way, I am pretty sure that f*cking like a porn store requires that you are wearing clear acrylic 8" heels. Your boobs must look like you sliced a cantaloupe in half and glued it to your chest. And every time anybody looks at you your head throws back in ecstasy and scream, "Oh YEAH Baby. RIGHT there!" Anyhoo...

There are people in her class who must be in their 70's but they are getting down to this song. We're talking gyrating. We're talking shimmying. There are even body rolls and maybe a pelvic thrust or two. And it's just so fun I can't stop going. Everybody has a great time - college girls, old farts, soccer moms...doesn't matter.

The bad news - the amazing instructor, Terri - has just left the Y and has started her own studio. I don't blame her. She is beyond talented. The studio is called Fusion Dance Fitness and I'm afraid that I'm going to be sneaking off there (it's in BFE) as often as I can to take her class. Her website is super cool AND they have the most awesome t-shirt ever. It says, "I'm almost SKINNY". I love that.

BUT you can't wear that and f*ck like a porn star. I think. I actually don't have any empirical data to support that claim.


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I Remember.

Seven years ago today I was in my suburban Atlanta home. I had two daughters - the eldest was almost two years old and her sister was a six month old baby. We were playing a game when the phone rang.

It was my baby brother calling from his cell phone. He had been in his Manhattan apartment and said that it sounded like a huge jet had swooped past the building. Everything had rattled loudly and really startled him. He was on his short walk to work and said that he heard sirens and saw smoke but that the buildings were all so high he couldn't see what had happened.

I turned on the tv and saw the building on fire. I told him what they had said, "A small commuter jet hit the world trade center." He wondered out loud if his girlfriend had seen it as she worked two buildings away from the trade center. He arrived at the bank where he worked and said that he had to go on the elevator and would lose our connection so we said goodbye and hung up.

I was watching the Today Show live when the second plane hit. My mind began to race, "Why was the building on fire BEFORE the plane hit it????" I just couldn't understand. Then I heard Katie Couric say that this couldn't have been an accident and that we were obviously under attack.

I frantically tried to reach my brother - his cell phone, his office line - nothing could get through. I called my husband next and asked him to come home as I was terrified. He said that he was going to wait it out, maybe this isn't as bad as it seems. He changed his mind when the Pentagon was hit.

When the first building fell I felt as though I was losing my mind. It was so sudden. So fast. And so complete. I continued trying my brothers cell every minute until my phone went dead. I went upstairs and got another phone so I could continue my fruitless effort. It looked like the entire island was on fire and smoldering. My baby brother and his sweet girlfriend were in it. I felt so helpless. And hopeless.

The phone finally rang and it was my brother. He told me he was safe, for the moment, in his office. I screamed at him to get out of there. He worked in a bank and it was obvious that the financial district was under attack. He said in a very calm and quiet voice, "Bex. Where can I go? I live here."

He asked me to try calling his girlfriend and best friend who were both unaccounted for.

I found out later that as he watched the towers fall he decided that if his girlfriend survived that he would marry her. He loved her.

She is Russian and met my brother met while he worked and studied in Moscow. She was smart, beautiful and kind - he had obviously outshot his coverage. But she loved him anyway.

She was already in her high rise office building when the first plane hit. She and her colleagues were standing in a room with huge windows watching the building burn when the second plane crashed. She said that the heat of the explosion passed through her enormous office building and that it felt like putting your head in a very hot oven. At that point her building was evacuated. She and her co-workers went to the elevators and rode their way down. I still cannot believe that.

She stood at the base of her building waiting for the all-clear to return to work. Then bodies began falling from the sky. How inconceivably bad must have things been in that building for people to choose to plunge 100 stories to their death rather than face it? She stood there, helpless and horrified.

And then the building fell. Jolted into action, she began running in her high heels and short skirt. She ran until she hit the waters edge of the island where she stood - trapped. Suddenly, through the smoke, a boat appeared. She jumped onto it and was amazed when other people refused to get on it because it wasn't going to the part of New Jersey where they lived. The boat was going anywhere but here. That was perfect for her.

When she arrived in New Jersey she began just walking around. Her cell phone was useless - we now know that the cell towers were on top of the World Trade Center. She was ultimately taken in by a family of strangers where she used their computer to send an email to my brother that she was ok and off of the island. He called me repeatedly, relieved but desperately trying to find a way to meet her there.

He did find a way. They weren't allowed back into their apartment for a long time so they stayed outside of the city, waiting.

Almost two years later they were married in a palace in Moscow, Russia. It was the most beautiful wedding I've ever seen.

You know, it's funny. Time does heal wounds. There was a time where I thought I'd never laugh again. I thought life would never, ever be the same. But it is. I also thought that these events would solidify our country as one and it did - for a while. Now we're back to the bi-partisan bullshit that makes we want to scream.

But I haven't forgotten. Every time I get on a plane I think about what those terrifying last moments must have been like. I think about the widows. And the kids who lost parents. The parents who lost kids. It breaks my heart.

Everytime I see a firetruck I am grateful. They make me feel protected. Every September 11th I bake something for my local fire house because I remember. We should all remember. I do not believe in much. This is especially true of religion and politics. But I believe in this country and the people who live here.

Are we screwing stuff up in the Middle East by our war in Iraq? I don't know. Maybe. But I am so grateful for the armed forces. Every time I see a someone in his or her uniform I feel overcome with gratitude. Thank you for volunteering. Thank you for serving. Thank you for all the things you do that we'll never know about it or understand.

As for the people who made this happen - fuck you. We are just fine. You might have knocked us down but you sure as hell didn't knock us out. We are living, prospering and preparing to meet you - on our terms.


PS This blog is usually a humor blog. I know that this post is not funny. But I'm submitting it to humor-blogs anyway because that's the place where most of traffic comes from and I want people to read this and remember. I want us all to remember.

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...MY face, pressed up against a glass wall!

I used to work for a banking operations center. Due to the nature of our business the building was very secure and every port of entry to every department was filmed 24/7 and required, at minimum, a security clearance card and possibly an interaction with an underpaid (yet somehow always overweight) security guard.

One autumn morning I was supposed to give a presentation on my departments' budget and I was nervous. It was my first time being involved in the budgeting process and my presentation would be heard by several senior level folks I didn't know. So I got up early, went through the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and arrived at work an hour or so before anyone else to prepare.

The conference room was down the hall from my office but was separated by a thick glass wall with a revolving glass door in the middle of it. I headed that way about 15 minutes before my presentation with my left arm full of my papers and notes. In my right hand, dangling by my thigh, was the enormous cup of coffee that I had bought but barely touched. As I walked I was re-reading my notes until I reached the security pad at the revolving glass door. My badge was in my back pocket so I turned around (while still reading) and blindly rubbed my backside against the pad. The door beeped in acceptance and began turning and, as I read, I entered it. The door turns automatically so I small stepped (yep, while still reading) until I thought it had stopped and lunged to get out when... Bam! My neck snapped back from the impact. My head swiveled around wildly in the universal "what the fuck was that?!" movement. All I could see were stars and my eyes were filled with the tears that come along with a direct hit to the nose.

My beloved Dunkin Donuts coffee cup squished between my leg and the door, crushing it and spilling it's mellow and sweet goodness all over my leg, the door and the floor.

The automatic door knew that I was still inside of it so it continued it's slow, torturous spin. Finally it stopped revolving right in front of a larger than life face print in the middle of the glass. You could very clearly see the outline of my right eye, my nose (including a well outlined nostril) and my full, squished up mouth - all framed by an outline of hair. My makeup had obviously helped to define some of my features as there was a flesh toned quality to the print and my lips had left a pinkish, kissy smear.

I finally left the confines of the elevator and stood there for a moment. When my sight was restored I slowly looked up and saw a security camera blinking its' little red light at me. Somewhere, somehow, there was a security guy who had just peed in his pants.

My face was there for at least a month before our cracker jack janitorial staff windexed it into oblivion. It served as a constant reminder that I really needed to get my shit together.

A Housewife's Dirty Confession...

I have Vaseline underneath my right index finger nail. No amount of soap and water seems to vanquish it. Sshhhhh. Don't tell anyone, K? Because that could lead to awkward questions. But I'll tell you what - today, just for shits and giggles, let's skip the questions completely and just go to the answers. And, GO.

Projectile vomiting.

One massive pile in the doctor's waiting room. Once in the car. Twice at home.

Yes, that IS a lot of puke for a two year old.

Anal suppositories. TWICE.

No I am not honoring my pledge to lay off of the cosmo's for a while and fuck you for bringing that up after the day I've had.

Did this make you smile?

Or were you just envious that you didn't get to spend the morning pinning down a pissed off and puking two year old long enough to further enrage him by shoving a suppository up his ass? (thought so)

Either way, feel free to click my HB smiley below. And, as always, if you're shopping around for funny blogs this is the place.

My BlackBerry's Big Day Out At The Mall

A couple of weeks ago I got a new phone. It's a BlackBerry and is so shiny and new - I love it. There is no Cheerio crumb/paste mixture stuck in the edges. There has not been any juice, coffee or cosmo spilled on it. It is pristine. For now.

Later that same day I had to pick up a shirt for one of my numerous kids at the mall so I strapped my snazzy phone on the waistband of my pants, grabbed my bag and away I went. I was browsing around when suddenly I felt the unpleasant stomach bubbles that typically preceed horrific diarrhea. I stopped - dead in my tracks - and waited to see what would happen. It went away and I took inventory, "Am I going to crap in my pants?" I felt ok, so I continued shopping.

Suddenly the bubbles were back, coming in waves about every 10 seconds. I ran with my shirt to the register. There was not a store employee in sight. The retail warriors who jumped my ass with offers of "Could I help you find something in particular? Are you sure???" were now nowhere to be seen. Bitches. More stomach bubbles which caused me to say, "UMMM....HELLLLLOOOOO????!"

The sales person came out, rang me up and then asked me if I'd like to buy some socks. That felt totally random. I'm buying a shirt. Who the hell said anything about SOCKS???! Not me, that's for damn sure. I told her I didn't want any and she said, "OK, but they are $6 for 3 and $10 for 6!" I looked at her as my stomach continued to bubble and said through clenched teeth, "Just. The. Shirt. Oh. And where are the toilets? You know, just in case I need to go later...." I don't know why but I never want to admit to anyone when I have to go. I'm sneaky that way, I guess.

Anyway, the loo was ALL the way across the mall so I ignored her offer to save 15% if I opened up a credit card, snatched my bag and ran to the bathroom, frantic with worry that I wouldn't make it. I kicked the door open, dropped my pants and sat down (after wiping the seat, of course!). And ... nothing happened! After a minute or so I heard a vibrating noise and looked down at my pants. My spanking new cell phone was on vibrate. I slowly realized that the vibration was over the same part of my stomach that was "bubbling".

As I sat there, taking in the aroma of a mall toilet, I tried to embrace the idea that I had mistaken a ringing cell phone for impending diarrhea.

What a fucking genius I am. I want to go to graduate school but I can't tell the difference between an internal bodily function and an external business tool. Perhaps I should be lucky that they let me operate heavy machinery and call it a day.

The Idiot's Guide To Colonoscopies

My cyber friend, LeighOnline, is going through an ORDEAL this week. She's cutting back on the margarita's, which I think we can all agree is cause for angst in and of itself. Also? Her husband is going in for a colonoscopy this week.

Some of you may know that I am something of an expert on what I like to call "Ass Trouble". And no, I don't want to talk about it. But I do want to share this post to give her (and you) an idea of what her hubs is in store for this week:

A couple of months ago I went to my twentieth high school reunion. I hadn't seen most of these people since the day I accepted my diploma. One exception was a guy named...well, let's call him "Joe" in case he doesn't want to be discussed on a public blog. Anyway, I bumped into "Joe" several years ago on Bourbon Street in New Orleans around 11:45PM on New Years Eve. I don't know about him but we had been drinking since that morning so I didn't remember much about the encounter.

When I saw him at the reunion I brought up the New Orleans thing and we laughed about it. We started making small talk and he said that he was, in fact, a medical doctor. I thought that was pretty cool. After all, this is someone with whom I'd sit at parties and bang heads with while listening to heavy metal bands. And look how nicely he turned out! I asked him what kind of medicine he practiced and he said, "uh, internal." Well, I'm no doctor (nor did I sleep in a Holiday Inn Express last night) but that seemed...a bit vague. A bit like bullshit. So I asked him to pinpoint it and it turns out that he's a proctologist. For those of you who've never had medical issues requiring this particular expertise, this is someone who checks out your lower intestines. He will, for a fee, drug you and then put a 6 foot long tube with a camera on the end of it into your arse.

I've started thinking about this and I have to say, I'm curious. I wonder at what point he had thought, "Screw cardiology! I think I'd like to give colonoscopies for a living."

What's that you say? You've never had a colonoscopy? Really??? Well let me enlighten you: The first thing that happens is a doctor examines you Down There. And then he delivers The News - "I'd like to get a better look at this." Leaving you to think, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?!" He pats you reassuringly on the shoulder, gives you a prescription to fill and sets an appointment.

So you go to the drugstore to get your prescription. The store clerks give each other Knowing Looks as they try to find a shopping bag big enough to fit the gallon jug into. You can feel beads of sweat appearing on your brow. But hey, you're tough, right? You can do this.

You take your gallon jug home and read the instructions. In the instructions it informs you that this stuff tastes significantly better if it is cold and advises you to put it in the fridge for a couple hours. That's nice, isn't it? Really thoughtful. So you chill it, take a bath and try not to think about tomorrow morning.

It's time to drink the gallon of fluid. You get it out of the fridge and read the label again. "Lemonade Favored". I always did enjoy a nice glass of lemonade...

You take a tentative sip and immediately suspect that those bitches at the drugstore have poisoned you. This shit tastes like battery acid. And you have to drink a shot of it every 10 minutes for HOURS. It makes you wonder what it would have tasted like had it not been chilled. About 45 minutes into this process you hear something boiling. You look around, alarmed by the sounds intensity. Suddenly your alarm grows as you realize that the sound you hear is emanating from your STOMACH. About this time you double over in pain from the stomach cramps. You sprint to the toilet (hopefully) just in time to enjoy the explosive diarrhea.

There will be no sex tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I don't care WHO you are.

The next morning you wake up and look around for diaper cream to put on your ass as it is chafed from expelling water all night. You aren't allowed to eat anything but this really isn't a problem...you are so grossed out from your experiences you think that you may never eat again.

By now you just want to get this thing over with. So you submit to the ridiculous gown they make you wear. You lie on the hospital bed, all prim and proper and wait DESPERATELY for the narcotics to kick in. The door to your room opens and a few professionals walk in. They are at work and happy, discussing the reality TV show they enjoyed the night before as you were shooting foam out of your butt. They smile at you, ask how "it" is going. Some one puts his hand on your shoulder and invites you to roll on your side and grab your knees.

They tell you this won't hurt and start the procedure. The only problem is nobody told you that this procedure blows gas up "there". They do this to inflate the intestines so they can look around. And nobody told you that this feels EXACTLY like you are 2 seconds away from MAJOR - I'm gonna knock the back of the toilet off - styled diarrhea.

Now don't forget, there is a crowd behind you. And they are all looking in the general direction of your ass. So you start out with a polite warning, "Ummm...you guys...yeah....you might want to...umm...yeah, I think I need to go to the restroom...uh-huh...I'll just be a sec...ummmm....please, you guys....I'll be quick...uhmm, you guys????....Doctor! No, it doesn't hurt, but I...really...ummm....I would like to go to the bathroom...nope...this can't wait... could I just, uh...mmm... Uh Oh. Look out! She's gonna blow! Clear out of there! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....SAVE YOURSELVES!! SHE'S GONNA BLOW!!!!"

And right here, in the middle of your personal lifetime low point, you do the unthinkable. You fall asleep. When you wake up you are all tucked in the hospital bed like nothing ever happened. There is no medical personnel carnage on the floor. You haven't sprayed shit all over the wall. Hmmmm. Was it all a dream? The doctor comes in and smiles at you. I'm thinking that keeping a straight face at this point MUST be the most difficult part of his job. He tells you that it was a false alarm and that there is nothing wrong with your intestinal track. You may get dressed and go home. Woohoo! You are a little woozy from the drugs so you don't even realize that you are walking funny, kind of like a drunk cowboy. But at least you don't have that tube up your ass anymore.

Back to my friend Joe, I wonder at what point he decided that this is how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Perhaps he somehow discovered that he was really good at keeping a straight face after someone makes a total idiot out of herself. I guess I'll have to wait for my 25th reunion to find out.

So good luck, husband of Leigh. Here is hoping that you are a perfect asshole.

PS As you might have guessed by this blog, a colonoscopy is not one of my favorite pastimes. BUT guess what, people. It's a hell of a lot better then colon cancer. So if you need one GET one. There. I've met my unsolicited advice quota for the day. Wait. No I haven't. I also strongly recommend that you go visit humor-blogs. There are several perfect assholes over there....

The birth of the IPIQ

I was just watching the hurricane coverage and, somehow, I began to wonder about why some people do the stupid things that they do. And then, after the stupid act, they find themselves in need of rescue personnel so they call 911.

I think that there should be an exit-interview with these "victims". Or at least some kind of post incident questionnaire. We'll call it the IPIQ - the Idiot's Post-Incident Questionnaire! Here are a couple of examples:

Questionnaire for the U-Boat driver:



There was a sign posted back there that screamed "WARNING! THIS STREET IS FLOODED AND IF YOU DRIVE INTO IT YOU AND YOUR CAR WILL FLOAT AWAY IN A RAGING TORRENT!!" Why did you drive onto the shoulder of the road (to pass the sign - without scratching your car), tentatively stick the nose of your car into the water before you gunned it, thereby springing your car, yourself and your children into a dangerous raging river where you were swept along until crashing into a bridge? (please check all that apply)

_ I thought that my car was "different" and that the "regular" rules for "regular" cars do not apply.
_ I did not read the sign because I no speaka da english.
_ I wanted to be seen on CNN with my fat ass trying to climb out of the front window so that I could sit on the hood of my car with a dazed expression to figure out my next brilliant move. I didn't know that my pants would get so soggy that they would then slip around my knees thereby showing the whole world what they are NOT missing out on.
_ My car is an "all wheel drive" so I totally thought I could make it. How was I supposed to know that, at a certain depth of water, my air-filled tires would float the whole fucking car up?!
_ I am incredibly stupid. In fact, the very idea that I've even been able to procreate is an insult to the memory of Charles Darwin.


Questionnaire for the Sexual Adventurer:



Why did you shove gerbil food up your butt to entice a gerbil to climb in there where it became lodged, then died a horrific death, and when you couldn't get it out you had to be taken to the hospital where a surgeon was called in off of the golf course to remove it? (please check all that apply)

_ OH, I didn't put it there, because that would be totally disgusting! No, I must have just sat an on a gerbil with food on the tip of its tongue...yaaahhh, that's the ticket!
_ Well, I got to the point where regular sex became kind of...predictable so I thought that we'd do this to spice things up a bit. How was I supposed to know that my wife wouldn't be that "into" it?
_ It was either the gerbil or the family dog. I just thought this would be more humane. I'm a humanitarian, goddamnit!
_ I was looking for an easy way to meet a surgeon.

So there you have it, folks. I'll expect to see an IPIQ passed out the next time I see firemen rescuing some guy who put his tongue on a frozen flag pole in a failed effort to debunk the Christmas Story movie "myth".

If this was funny (I can never tell), please click my HB smiley guy!